Weird Tales volume 36 number 02

by McIlwraith, Dorothy

  "I have been told," revealed Jacques, flinging his hands about in adolescent earnestness, "that the wolf is the beast-soul of one who has been stricken by the moon-demons. By day he is as other men, but by night, though he has the qualities of a saint he cannot help himself. Perhaps he is one with whom we walk and talk, little guessing his dreadful affliction."

  "Silence!" roared Monsieur Delacroix. One of his clenched fists struck the desk a powerful blow and the sons were immediately quieted. "Must I listen to the ranting and raving and driveling of fools and imbeciles? Am I not still the master of the Chateau Dore? I will tend to the accursed matter as I have always, will I not? I have always seen to the welfare of the dwellers in the shadow of the Chateau Dore! And with the help of the good God I shall continue to do so, until the last drop of my blood has dried away from my bones. You comprehend?"

  In a quieter tone, after the enforced silence, he continued: "I have given orders to both the foreman and Monsieur the mayor that this night, the night of the full moon by which we may detect the marauder, all the people of the vineyards and of the town beyond must remain behind locked windows and barred doors. If they have obeyed my orders—and may the

  THE WEREWOLF HOWLS

  39

  good God look after those who have not— they are even now secure in the safety of their respective homes. Let me discover but one demented idiot peeking from behind his shutter and I promise you he shall have cause to remember his disobedience!"

  TJIERRE nodded without speaking, ■*- knowing he was being instructed to punish a possible, but improbable, offender. "Now, we are four intelligent men, I trust," said Monsieur Delacroix, pretending not to notice the glow of pleasure which suffused Jacques' features at being included in their number. "We are the Delacroix's, which is sufficient. And as leaders we must, from time to time, grant certain concessions to the inferior mentalities of the unfortunate who dwell in ignorance; so I have this day promised the good foremen, who petitioned me regarding the activities of this wolf, to perform certain things. They firmly believe the gray wolf is a demon, an inhuman atrocity visited upon us by the Evil One. And also., according to their ancient but childish witch-lore, that it may only be destroyed by a silver weapon."

  Monsieur Delacroix reached beneath his chair and drew forth a small, but apparently heavy, sack. Upending it on the surface of the desk, he scattered in every direction a double dozen glittering cylindrical objects.

  "Bullets!" exclaimed Jacques.

  "Silver bullets!" amended Pierre.

  "Yes, my son. Bullets of silver which I molded myself in the cellars, and which I have shown to the men, with the promise that they will be put to use."

  "Expensive weapons," commented the thrifty Francois.

  "It is the poor peasant's belief. If we slew tills wolf with mere lead or iron they would still be frightened of their own 4vdows and consequently worthless at their work, as they have been for the past

  month. Here are the guns. Tonight you will go forth, my sons, and slay this fabulous werewolf, and cast its carcass upon the cart-load of dry wood I have had piled by the vineyard road, and burn it until there is nothing left but the ash, for all to see and know."

  "Yes, papa," Assented Pierre and Francois as one, but the boy Jacques cried: "What? So fine a skin? I would like it for the wall of my room! These who have seen the wolf say its pelt is like silver

  shaded into gray "

  "Jacques!"' Etienne Delacroix's anger flooded his face with a great surge of red and bulging veins, and Pierre and Francois were stricken with awe at the sight of their father's wrath.

  "If you do not burn this beast as I say, immediately after slaying it, I will forget you are my son, and almost a man! I

  will "

  His own temper choked him into inco-herency.

  "I crave your pardon, father," begged Jacques, humbled and alarmed. "I forgot myself."

  "We will obey, papa, as always," said Frangois, quickly, and Pierre gravely nodded.

  "The moon will soon be up," said Monsieur Delacroix, after a short silence. The room had grown dark while they talked; receiving a wordless signal from his father, Pierre struck a match and lit the blackened lamp on the desk. With the startling transition, as light leaped forth to dispel the murky shadows of the room, Pierre came near to exclaiming aloud at sight of (he haggard lines in his father's face. For the first time in his life he realized thai what his parent had said earlier in the evening about aging was not spoken jocularly, not the repeated jest Monsieur Delacroix had always allowed himself, but the truth. His father was old.

  "You had better go," said Etienne Dela-

  WEIRD TALES

  croix, as his keen eyes caught the fleeting expression on his son's face. His fingers drummed a muffled tattoo upon the fine edge of his desk, the only sign of his nervous condition that he could not entirely control. "Monsieur the Mayor's opinion is that the wolf is stronger when the moon is full. But it is mine that tonight it will be easier to discover."

  rjTHE three turned to the door, but as -■- they reached the threshold Monsieur Delacroix beckoned to the eldest. "An instant, Pierre. I speak to you alone."

  The young man closed the door on his brothers' backs and returned to the desk, his steady eyes directed at his father.

  Monsieur Delacroix, for the moment, seemed to have forgotten what he intended to say. His head was bowed on his chest and the long locks of his ashen hair had fallen forward over his brow. Suddenly he sat erect, as if it took an immense effort of his will to perform the simple action, and again Pierre was startled to perceive the emotions which twisted his father's features.

  It was the first time he had ever seen tenderness there, or beheld love in the eyes he had sometimes, in secret, thought a little cruel.

  "Have you a pocket crucifix, my son?"

  "In my room."

  "Take it with you tonight. And—you will stay close to Jacques, will you not?" His voice was hoarse with unaccustomed anxiety. "He is young, confident, and— careless. I would not wish to endanger your good mother's last child."

  Pierre was amazed. It had been fifteen years since he had last heard his father mention his mother.

  "You have been a good son, Pierre. Obey me now. Do not let the three of you separate, for I hear this beast is a savage one and unafraid even of armed men. Take care of yourself, and see to your brothers."

  "Will you remain in the chateau for safety, papa? You are not armed."

  "I am armed by my faith in the good God and the walls of Chateau Dore. When you have lit the fire under the wolf's body ■—I will be there."

  He lowered the leonine head once more, and Pierre, not without another curious look, departed.

  For a long while Monsieur Delacroix sat immobile, his elbows resting on the padded arras of the chair, the palms of his hands pressing into his cheeks. Then he abruptly arose and, approaching the open casement, drew the curtains wide. Outside, the long, rolling slopes fell away toward a dim horizon already blanketed by the dragons of night, whose tiny, flickering eyes were winking into view one by one in the dark void above. Hurrying cloudlets scurried in little groups across the sky.

  Lamps were being lit in the jumble of cottages that were the abodes of Monsieur Delacroix's workmen, but at the moment the sky was illuminated better than the earth; for the gathering darkness seemed to ding like an animate thing to the fields and meadows, and stretch ebony claws across the ribbon of the roadway.

  It was time for the moon to rise.

  Monsieur Delacroix turned away from the casement and with swift, certain steps went to the door, opening it. The hall was still, but from the direction of the dining room there came a clatter of dishes as the servants cleared the table. Quickly, with an unusual alacrity for a man of his years, he silently traversed the floor of the huge hall and passed through its outer portals. A narrow gravel lane led him along the side of the chateau until he reached the building's extreme corner, where he abandoned it to strike off across the cl
osely clipped sward in the direction of a small clump of beech trees.

  The night was warm and peaceful, with no threat of rain. A teasing zephyr tugged

  THE WEREWOLF HOWLS

  41

  at the thick locks on his uncovered head; from somewhere near his feet came the chirp of a cricket.

  In the grove it was darker until he came to its center, wending through and past the entangled thickets like one who had traveled the same path many times, and found the small glade that opened beneath the stars. Here there was more light again but no breeze at all. In the center of the glade was an oblong, grassy mound, and at one end of it a white stone, and on the stone the name of his wife.

  MONSIEUR DELACROIX stood for an instant beside the grave with lowered head, and then he sank to his knees and began to pray.

  In the east the sky began to brighten as though some torch-bearing giant drew near, walking with great strides beyond the edge of the earth. The stars struggled feebly against the superior illumination, but their strength diminished as a narrow band of encroaching yellow fire appeared on the rim of the world.

  With its arrival the low monotone of prayer was checked, to continue afterward with what seemed to be some difficulty. Monsieur Delacroix's throat was choked, either with grief for the unchangeable past or an indefinable apprehension for the inevitable future. His breath came in struggling gasps and tiny beads of perspiration formed on his face and hands. His prayers became mumbled, jerky utterances, holding no recognizable phrases of speech. Whispers, and they ceased altogether.

  A small dark cloud danced across a far-off mountain-top, slid furtively over the border of the land, and for a minute erased

  the yellow gleam from the horizon. Then, as if in terror, shaken by its own temerity, it fled frantically into oblivion, and the great golden platter of the full moon issued from behind the darkness it had left to deluge the landscape with a ceaseless shower of illusive atoms; tiny motes that danced the pathways of space.

  Monsieur Delacroix gave a low cry like a child in pain. His agonized eyes were fixed on the backs of his two hands as he held them pressed against the dew-dampened sward. His fingers had begun to stiffen and curl at their tips; he could see the long, coarse hairs sprouting from the pores of his flesh—as he had many times within the past month since the night he had fallen asleep by the grave of his wife and slept throughout the night under the baleful beams of the moon.

  He flung back his head, whimpering because of the terrible pressure he could feel upon his skull, and its shape appeared to alter so that it seemed curiously elongated. His eyes were bloodshot, and as they sank into their sockets his lips began to twitch over the fangs in his mouth.

  The three brothers, crouching nervously in the shadows of the vineyards, started violently.

  Jacques, the younger, almost lost his grasp on the gun with the silver bullets which his father had given him.

  From somewhere nearby there had arisen a great volume of sound, swirling and twisting and climbing to shatter itself into a hundred echoes against the vault of the heavens, rushing and dipping and sinking into the cores of all living hearts and the very souls of men—the hunting-cry of the werewolf.

  UPERGTlftONS

  K.

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  days would therefore consider utmself debarred from passing through tuis 5acred arch. Should one be compellei to pass under a ladder. all mia be well if the fm6e.qs adech035ed,

  Natives of Dutch New Guinea

  PLACE A SPADE UPON THE GRAVE OF OF A DEPARTED FRIEND OR RELATIVE, , SO WAT IF THE CORPSE GE6MNS

  m soul and comes to life

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  A blinding rivet of fire spiffed out of tlie sky!

  7Jie ystery of Uncle Alfred

  By MINDRET LORD

  He was devoted to those pigs — absolutely devoted; perhaps that had something to do with his sudden, fantastic disappearance. ...

  WHEN the estate of my uncle, Alfred Fry, is finally settled, I shall give the farm to George Harris. I would not spend another night in the house for all creation. But Harris

  is a strange, elemental sort of man; he hated Uncle Alfred while he worked for him, and now that my uncle is gone, he hates him, still. I think it actually amuses him—and as a matter of fact, I am almost

  THE MYSTERY OF UNCLE ALFRED

  45

  certain that I heard him laugh aloud and shout, "Peeeeg!" in a mocking falsetto, on that last, amazing nigrit that I spent at the farmhouse. There was the clatter of sharp hooves on the bare floor of the hall, and the unmistakable grunting snuffle of a hog. The incongruous sound passed along the corridor to the end where Harris' cubbyhole of a room was. I strode to my door and flung it open—and it was at that moment I heard Harris' roar of mirth and the malicious, "Peeeeg!"—as if he were calling the swine to dinner. I accused him of it later, but he denied it. If that had been all I might have been able to persuade myself that my imagination was responsible, but it was not ail—not by any means.

  As a child, I have a vague memory of a tremendously fat man attending the funeral for my mother and father. This I think must have been the first time that ever I saw him, but I am sure that I did not set eyes on him again for over fifteen years. Although, there is much of my unhappy childhood that I have forgotten, Uncle Alfred's grotesque figure must have stood out in my memory in all its terrifying bulk.

  After all those years, I met Uncle Alfred as the result of a rather uncomfortable coincidence. Having left the university with an excellently engraved but otherwise worthless degree, I was at length fortunate enough to obtain a job in New York City as a process server. In most cases, to serve a defendant with a summons requires little more skill than that which might be expected of an errand boy, but it does occasionally happen that considerable ingenuity is necessary. Such a case was that of Uncle Alfred.

  When my employer gave me the summons for Alfred Fry, he told me that he had been trying to serve it for months and that he had exhausted every dodge in his head. "Try anything you can think of," he said. "I'm beginning to believe the man doesn't exist,"

  I said, "If he's the man I think he is, the job's as good as done!" And I left the office with a vision of my triumph in my mind. "It was easy," I would say on my return. "Why, there was nothing to it, at all!"

  Alfred Fry lived in a big graystone house, just off Fifth Avenue — a town house—a residence—the stately, ugly, dignified sort of dwelling that millionaires inhabit. The front doors were plate glass and wrought iron, and as I rang the bell it occurred to me that it would be far from safe to put my foot in the crack when the door was opened.

  "PRESENTLY a haggard, sickly-looking -"- butler asked me my business. "Is Mr. Alfred Fry at home?" I asked. The butler believed that Mr. Fry was not at home. I said, "If you should happen to find him somewhere in there, would you tell him that his nephew, Julian Barrow, would like to pay his respects?" The butler stared at me doubtfully, and I repeated, "Julian Barrow."

  The butler said, "I'll see if Mr. Fry is in," and started to close the door. Before the latch clicked, I said, "Tell him I don't want to borrow any money!" He disappeared into the interior darkness without makin
g any sign of having heard. After what seemed a long time, he returned and said, "Mr. Fry will see you."

  I followed the butler through a long, gloomy hall that was draped and carpetted in dark red and gold. There were several massive pieces of carved furniture, the sort of thing that seems to have been made far the lobbies of hotels whose guests are giants: chairs too large for one person, but too small for two—tables too high for convenience—mirrors too large for comfort. We came to a broad oak door where the butler stopped. Murmuring, "Mr. Fry is in the study," he swung it open, and I went in.

  WEIRD TALES

  FROM behind his enormous desk, my uncle peered at me. "So!" he said in a high, thin voice, "you are Julian!"

  "And you," I said, "are Uncle Alfred. I remember you." And the odd thing is tiiat I did actually remember him. Seeing him again, I wondered how his memory could ever have grown so dim. It was like seeing a motion picture, or a play, for the second time, inadvertently; though apparently you had forgotten everything about it, with the first sequence the whole thiqg comes back in complete detail. I suppose he had changed—he must have changed in fifteen years!—but it seemed to me that I remembered him exactly as I saw him now.

  The man was a hog: that is the most accurate, if not the most charitable way to put it. Not having seen him, you may conclude that Uncle Alfred was merely a sufferer from some such disease as dropsy or elephantiasis. But he was no invalid. On the contrary, he appeared to be in the best of health and spirits—like a vigorous hog. His head was huge and bald except for a few long strands of straight, black hair on the crown; the bulging jowls began just below the rounded brow and descended in a sweeping curve that cradled the chin; the nose was short, the tip raised in such a way that it seemed to be lifting the upper lip, also; the eyes were small, closely-set, and so deeply imbedded that the lids were not visible. They were keen, restless eyes that darted from object to object as if in hungry search for something. (I caught myself wondering what he was looking for: a carrot? An ear of corn?)