Beware The Beasts

by Vic Ghidalia

  It was maddening, but from that evening, everything seemed to go wrong. The bishop took him to task for opening the tomb without first investigating every other avenue of raising money and without having the parish convinced of the right to open it. "A form of desecration all the more to be deprecated since it was done purely for material gain," wrote the bishop. There went the Reverend Mr. Webly's chance for immediate advancement. Before noon, his gardener quit, coming into the study and putting his case very stolidly.

  "Seein' as how the dogs do bark, and you know what that means, Reverend Zur."

  "Why, no, what does it mean?" demanded the vicar truculently.

  "Strange dogs about, there be, zur."

  "Indeed!"

  The vicar paid him and sent him off, not without rancor. It was being borne in upon him painfully that a man even of his standing could not educate people hidebound by all manner of legend and lore simply by denying the existence of their beliefs.

  And before the day was out, there was, as might have been expected, old Hether. The vicar was obviously in no mood to see him, but there he was, coming as if he expected to be welcomed by open arms.

  "Hear the dogs last night?" asked Hether.

  "Who didn't?"

  "Thought you might have heard 'em. So did I. Thought it might put you to thinking a bit."

  "What fools these mortals be!" quoted the vicar pointedly.

  "Quite so," agreed Sir Basil cheerfully, producing an old leather book. "Brought you a book I thought you'd like to see. Picture of old Millham in it."

  The vicar took the book, glancing at its title: South Country Demonology. He opened it to the picture and gazed at the countenance of Nicholas Millham. He had instantly the singular sensation of looking upon someone familiar, but he could not place him. He frowned briefly before handing the book back.

  "That black dog beside him was supposed to be his familiar. Of course you're aware of the legend about practitioners of the black arts and their demon companions, who took odd forms, but quite often that of a black dog," old Hether went on.

  "I've seen that face somewhere before," said the vicar.

  "Then you've seen the book, too, eh?"

  "Oh, no."

  "Must have. This is the only place Millham's portrait occurs. Never been reprinted, as far as I know, and the book's rare."

  Their conversation was not pleasant.

  It was not until Sir Basil had gone that the vicar remembered where he had seen that strange gaunt face before - it was the face of the nocturnal watcher under the streetlight in the lane!

  "What a curious coincidence!" he thought. It was a pity that the vicar was conditioned to think in platitudes.

  That evening he made the mistake of working late in the church; though the work he had to do there could have been done any time, it was possible that the vicar obstinately pursued this course because Sir Basil Hether had none too subtly hinted that it might be well if the vicar stayed inside after dark.

  When he came out, on his way to the vicarage, he was immediately aware of the wild barking of the Millham dogs, the same mad volume of sound which had assaulted the usually quiet country darkness on the previous night. He was also uncomfortably conscious of being under surveillance and, looking around him from the comparative security of the church steps, he made out a figure standing at the entry to the churchyard just beyond. Because of what the vicar felt must be an optical illusion, it seemed to him that he could see the gate to the churchyard and an edge of one of the gravestones beyond showing directly through the figure of the man standing there. He thought briefly of old Hether's ridiculous hints, and reflected that in any case, it was rather late to be considering them.

  He went down the steps and up the lane to where the lights of the vicarage shone out. A man's voice was raised in a shout behind him, and he thought with a warm glowing how pleasant it was to hear the familiar voices of countrymen in the deepening darkness of nights - men in the fields, men on their way home, men with lanterns looking for lost lambs or calves. Even as he thought this, he was aware suddenly of the words that reached his consciousness. He could not believe the evidence of his own ears - a man's voice calling insistently, with a strangely ominous quality: "Here, Daemos! Here, Daemos!"

  Frightened now, he turned.

  He had a fleeting glimpse of a great black hound with red eyes bouncing toward him, its mouth slavering, its outline no less distinct than the aspect of earth seen dimly through its dark body - and behind it, coming, swiftly as the wind, the tall, black-cloaked stranger, his face demoniac in its saturninity, the face of the dead Nicholas Millham. Then the hound was upon him, and he went down with the furious wild barking of the village dogs still ringing in his ears.

  ***

  One of the vestrymen found him shortly after midnight. The vicar was not a pleasant sight, with his throat torn out, and many lacerations apart from the severing of his jugular. At the inquest, the coroner's jury decided that the Reverend Mr. Webly had come to his death in an unfortunate encounter with a stray dog, "of some considerable size," and recommended that a large fine be levied upon any householder who wantonly allowed his dog to run loose at night.

  Sir Basil Hether, however, took no chances. Having satisfied himself that the curse on the Millham tomb applied only to the opening of the tomb itself, and not to the removal of the jewels, he nevertheless repaired to the proper quarters and had an elderly gentleman publicly in very bad odor as the practitioner of certain unmentionable arts come down from London and seal the tomb again, with incantations and exorcisms.

  Being a man with healthy regard for country lore, he did not forget to have the Millham curse put back upon the tomb for any future Webly who might dare to show his scorn for the beliefs of the local yokelry.

  FRITZ LEIBER

  The Hound

  David Lashley huddled the skimpy blankets around him and dully watched the cold light of morning seep through the window and stiffen in his room. He could not recall the exact nature of the terror against which he had fought his way to wakefulness, except that it had been in some way gigantic and had brought back to him the fear-ridden helplessness of childhood. It had lurked near him all night and finally it had crouched over him and thrust down toward his face.

  The radiator whined dismally with the first push of steam from the basement, and he shivered in response. He thought that his shivering was an ironically humorous recognition of the fact that his room was never warm except when he was out of it. But there was more to it than that. The penetrating whine had touched something in his mind without being quite able to dislodge it into consciousness. The mounting rumble of city traffic, together with the hoarse panting of a locomotive in the railroad yards, mingled themselves with the nearer sound, intensifying its disturbing tug at hidden fears. For a few moments he lay inert, listening. There was an unpleasant stench too in the room, he noticed, but that was nothing to be surprised at. He had experienced more than once the strange olfactory illusions that are part of the aftermath of flu. Then he heard his mother moving around laboriously in the kitchen, and that stung him into action.

  "Have you another cold?" she asked, watching him anxiously as he hurriedly spooned in a boiled egg before its heat should be entirely lost in the chilly plate. "Are you sure?" she persisted. "I heard someone sniffling all night."

  "Perhaps Father - " he began. She shook her head. "No, he's all right. His side was giving him a lot of pain yesterday evening, but he slept quietly enough. That's why I thought it must be you, David. I got up twice to see, but" - her voice became a little doleful - "I know you don't like me to come poking into your room at all hours."

  "That's not true!" He contradicted. She looked so frail and little and worn, standing there in front of the stove with one of Father's shapeless bathrobes hugged around her, so like a sick sparrow trying to appear chipper, that a futile irritation, an indignation that he couldn't help her more, welled up within him, choking his voice a little. "It's that I don't
want you getting up all the time and missing your sleep. You have enough to do taking care of Father all day long. And I've told you a dozen times that you mustn't make breakfast for me. You know the doctor says you need all the rest you can get."

  "Oh, I'm all right," she answered quickly, "but I was sure you'd caught another cold. All night long I kept hearing it - a sniffling and a snuffling - "

  Coffee spilled over into the saucer as David set down the half-raised cup. His mother's words had reawakened the elusive memory, and now that it had come back he did not want to look it in the face.

  "It's late, I'll have to rush," he said.

  She accompanied him to the door, so accustomed to his hastiness that she saw in it nothing unusual. Her wan voice followed him down the dark apartment stair: "I hope a rat hasn't died in the walls. Did you notice the nasty smell?"

  And then he was out of the door and had lost himself and his memories in the early morning rush of the city. Tires singing on asphalt. Cold engines coughing, then starting with a roar. Heels clicking on the sidewalk, hurrying, trotting, converging on street car intersections and elevated stations. Low heels, high heels, heels of stenographers bound down town, and of war workers headed for the outlying factories. Shouts of newsboys and glimpses of headlines: "AIR BLITZ ON ... BATTLESHIP SUNK ... BLACKOUT EXPECTED HERE ... DRIVEN BACK."

  But sitting in the stuffy solemnity of the street car, it was impossible to keep from thinking of it any longer. Besides, the stale medicinal smell of the yellow woodwork immediately brought back the memory of that other smell. David Lashley clenched his hands in his overcoat pockets and asked himself how it was possible for a grown man to be so suddenly overwhelmed by a fear from childhood. Yet in the same instant he knew with acute certainty that this was no childhood fear, this thing that had pursued him up the years, growing ever more vast and menacing, until, like the demon wolf Fenris at Ragnorak, its gaping jaws scraped heaven and earth, seeking to open wider. This thing that had dogged his footsteps, sometimes so far behind that he forget its existence, but now so close that he could feel its cold sick breath on his neck. Werewolves? He had read up on such things at the library, fingering dusty books in uneasy fascination, but what he had read made them seem innocuous and without significance - dead superstitions - in comparison with this thing that was part and parcel of the great sprawling cities and chaotic peoples of the Twentieth Century, so much a part that he, David Lashley, winced at the endlessly varying howls and growls of traffic and industry - sounds at once animal and mechanical; shrank back with a start from the sight of headlights at night - those dazzling unwinking eyes; trembled uncontrollably if he heard the scuffling of rats in an alley or caught sight in the evenings of the shadowy forms of lean mongrel dogs looking for food in vacant lots. "Sniffling and snuffling," his mother had said. What better words could you want to describe the inquisitive, persistent pryings of the beast that had crouched outside the bedroom door all night, in his dreams and then finally pushed through to plant its dirty paws on his chest. For a moment he saw, superimposed on the yellow ceiling and garish advertising placards of the streetcar, its malformed muzzle ... the red eyes like thickly scummed molten metal ... the jaws slavered with thick black oil....

  Wildly he looked around at his fellow passengers, seeking to blot out that vision, but it seemed to have slipped down into all of them, infecting them, giving their features an ugly canine cast - the slack, receding jaw of an otherwise pretty blond, the narrow head and wide-set eyes of an unshaven mechanic returning from the night shift. He sought refuge in the open newspaper of the man sitting beside him, studying it intently without regard for the impression of rudeness he was creating. But there was a wolf in the cartoon and he quickly turned away to stare through the dusty pane at the stores sliding by. Gradually the sense of oppressive menace lifted a little. But the cartoon had established another contact in his brain - the memory of a cartoon from the First World War. What the wolf or hound in that earlier cartoon had represented - war, famine, or the ruthlessness of the enemy - he could not say, but it had haunted his dreams for weeks, crouched in corners, and waited for him at the head of the stairs. Later he had tried to explain to friends the horrors that may lie in the concrete symbolisms and personifications of a cartoon if interpreted naively by a child, but had been unable to get his idea across.

  The conductor growled out the name of a downtown street, and once again he lost himself in the crowd, finding relief in the never-ceasing movement, the brushing of shoulders against his own. But as the time-clock emitted its delayed musical bong! and he turned to stick his card in the rack, the girl at the desk looked up and remarked, "Aren't you going to punch in for your dog, too?"

  "My dog?"

  "Well, it was there just a second ago. Came in right behind you, looking as if it owned you - I mean you owned it." She giggled briefly through her nose. "One of Mrs. Montmorency's mastiffs come to inspect conditions among the working class, I presume."

  He continued to stare at her blankly. "A joke," she explained patiently, and returned to her work.

  "I've got to get a grip on myself," he found himself muttering tritely as the elevator lowered him noiselessly to the basement.

  He kept repeating it as he hurried to the locker room, left his coat and lunch, gave his hair a quick careful brushing, hurried again through the still-empty aisles, and slipped in behind the socks-and-handkerchiefs counter. "It's just nerves. I'm not crazy. But I've got to get a grip on myself."

  "Of course you're crazy. Don't you know that talking to yourself and not noticing anybody is the first symptom of insanity?"

  Gertrude Rees had stopped on her way over to neckties. Light brown hair, painstakingly waved and ordered, framed a serious not-too-pretty face.

  "Sorry," he murmured. "I'm jittery." What else could you say? Even to Gertrude.

  She grimaced sympathetically. Her hand slipped across the counter to squeeze his for a moment.

  But even as he watched her walk away, his hands automatically setting out the display boxes, the new question was furiously hammering in his brain. What else could you say? What words could you use to explain it? Above all, to whom could you tell it? A dozen names printed themselves in his mind and were as quickly discarded.

  One remained. Tom Goodsell. He would tell Tom. Tonight, after the first-aid class.

  Stoppers were already filtering into the basement. "He wears size eleven, Madam? Yes, we have some new patterns. These are silk and lisle." But their ever-increasing numbers gave him no sense of security. Crowding the aisles, they became shapes behind which something might hide. He was continually peering past them. A little child who wandered behind the counter and pushed at his knee, gave him a sudden fright.

  Lunch came early for him. He arrived at the locker room in time, to catch hold of Gertrude Rees as she retreated uncertainly from the dark doorway.

  "Dog," she gasped. "Huge one. Gave me an awful start. Talk about jitters! Wonder where he could have come from? Watch out. He looked nasty."

  But David, impelled by sudden recklessness born of fear and shock, was already inside and switching on the light.

  "No dog in sight," he told her.

  "You're crazy. It must be there." Her face, gingerly poked through the doorway, lengthened in surprise. "But I tell you I - Oh, I guess it must have pushed out through the other door."

  He did not tell her that the other door was bolted.

  "I suppose a customer brought it in," she rattled on nervously. "Some of them can't seem to shop unless they've got a pair of Russian wolfhounds. Though that kind usually keeps out of the bargain basement. I suppose we ought to find it before we eat lunch. It looked dangerous."

  But he hardly heard her. He had just noticed that his locker was open and his overcoat dragged down on the floor. The brown paper bag containing his lunch had been torn open and the contents rummaged through, as if an animal had been nosing at it. As he stooped, he saw that there were greasy, black stains on the sandwiches, an
d a familiar stale stench rose to his nostrils.

  That night he found Tom Goodsell in a nervous, expansive mood. The latter had been called up and would start for camp in a week. As they sipped coffee in the empty little resaturant, Tom poured out a flood of talk about old times. David would have been able to listen better, had not the uncertain, shadowy shapes outside the window been continually distracting his attention. Eventually he found an appropriate opportunity to turn the conversation down the channels which absorbed his mind.

  "The supernatural beings of a modem city?" Tom answered, seeming to find nothing out of the way in the question. "Sure, they'd be different from the ghosts of yesterday. Each culture creates its own ghosts. Look, the Middle Ages built cathedrals, and pretty soon there were little gray shapes gliding around at night to talk with the gargoyles. Same thing ought to happen to us, with our skyscrapers and factories." He spoke eagerly, with all his old poetic flare, as if he'd just been meaning to discuss this very matter. He would talk about anything tonight. "I'll tell you how it works, Dave. We begin by denying all the old haunts and superstitions. Why shouldn't we? They belong to the era of cottage and castle. They can't take root in the new environment. Science goes materialistic, proving that there isn't anything in the universe except tiny bundles of energy. As if, for that matter, a tiny bundle of energy mightn't mean anything.

  "But wait, that's just the beginning. We go on inventing and discovering and organizing. We cover the earth with huge structures. We pile them together in great heaps that make old Rome and Alexandria and Babylon seem almost toy-towns by comparison. The new environment, you see, is forming."

  David stared at him with incredulous fascination, profoundly disturbed. This was not at all what he had expected or hoped for - this almost telepathic prying into his most hidden fears. He had wanted to talk about these things - yes - but in a skeptical reassuring way. Instead, Tom sounded almost serious. David started to speak, but Tom held up his finger for silence, aping the gesture of a schoolteacher.