She stopped in front of a display window of Everly's department store, standing back from the glow. She stood there looking in.
I remembered we'd done a big photograph of her for Everly's, to make a flat model for a lingerie display. That was what she was looking at.
At the time it seemed all right to me that she should adore herself, if that was what she was doing.
When people passed she'd turn away a little or drift back farther into the shadows.
Then a man came by alone. I couldn't see his face very well, but he looked middle-aged. He stopped and stood looking in the window.
She came out of the shadows and stepped up beside him.
How would you boys feel if you were looking at a poster of the Girl and suddenly she was there beside you, her arm linked with yours?
This fellow's reaction showed plain as day. A crazy dream had come to life for him.
They talked for a moment. Then he waved a taxi to the curb. They got in and drove off.
I got drunk that night. It was almost as if she'd known I was following her and had picked that way to hurt me. Maybe she had. Maybe this was the finish.
But the next morning she turned up at the usual time and I was back in the delirium, only now with some new angles added.
That night when I followed her she picked a spot under a street lamp, opposite one of the Munsch Girl billboards.
Now it frightens me to think of her lurking that way.
After about twenty minutes a convertible slowed down going past her, backed up, swung in to the curb.
I was closer this time. I got a good look at the fellow's face. He was a little younger, about my age.
Next morning the same face looked up at me from the front page of the paper. The convertible had been found parked on a side street. He had been in it. As in the other maybe-murders, the cause of death was uncertain.
All kinds of thoughts were spinning in my head that day, but there were only two things I knew for sure. That I'd got the first real offer from a national advertiser, and that I was going to take the Girl's arm and walk down the stairs with her when we quit work.
She didn't seem surprised. "You know what you're doing?" she said.
"I know."
She smiled. "I was wondering when you'd get around to it."
I began to feel good. I was kissing everything good-bye, but I had my arm around hers.
It was another of those warm fall evenings. We cut across into Ardleigh Park. It was dark there, but all around the sky was a sallow pink from the advertising signs.
We walked for a long time in the park. She didn't say anything and she didn't look at me, but I could see her lips twitching and after a while her hand tightened on my arm.
We stopped. We'd been walking across the grass. She dropped down and pulled me after her. She put her hands on my shoulders. I was looking down at her face. It was the faintest sallow pink from the glow in the sky. The hungry eyes were dark smudges.
I was fumbling with her blouse. She took my hand away, not like she had in the studio. "I don't want that," she said.
First I'll tell you what I did afterwards. Then I'll tell you why I did it. Then I'll tell you what she said.
What I did was run away. I don't remember all of that because I was dizzy, and the pink sky was swinging against the dark trees. But after a while I staggered into the lights of the street. The next day I closed up the studio. The telephone was ringing when I locked the door and there were unopened letters on the floor. I never saw the Girl again in the flesh, if that's the right word.
I did it because I didn't want to die. I didn't want the life drawn out of me. There are vampires and vampires, and the ones that suck blood aren't the worst. If it hadn't been for the warning of those dizzy flashes, and Papa Munsch and the face in the morning paper, I'd have gone the way the others did. But I realized what I was up against while there was still time to tear myself away. I realized that wherever she came from, whatever shaped her, she's the quintessence of the horror behind the bright billboard. She's the smile that tricks you into throwing away your money and your life. She's the eyes that lead you on and on, and then show you death. She's the creature you give everything for and never really get. She's the being that takes everything you've got and gives nothing in return. When you yearn towards her face on the billboards, remember that. She's the lure. She's the bait. She's the Girl.
And this is what she said, "I want you. I want your high spots. I want everything that's made you happy and everything that's hurt you bad. I want your first girl. I want that shiny bicycle. I want that licking. I want that pinhole camera. I want Betty's legs. I want the blue sky filled with stars. I want your mother's death. I want your blood on the cobblestones. I want Mildred's mouth. I want the first picture you sold. I want the lights of Chicago. I want the gin. I want Gwen's hands. I want your wanting me. I want your life. Feed me, baby, feed me."
THE FISHING SEASON
by Robert Sheckley
Robert Sheckley. who is one of the new lights of the imaginative story-telling ranks, has made his mark as one who possesses a unique capacity for unearthly perception. In a recent survey of fantasy editors, not less than three selected him as their choice for anthology inclusion. In this story, apparently the story of just plain people in just an ordinary hometown place, his peculiar talent for the unexpected is clearly manifested.
THEY had been living in the housing project only a week, and this was their first invitation. They arrived on the dot of eight-thirty. The Carmichaels were obviously prepared for them, for the porch light was on, the front door partially open, and the living room a blaze of light.
"Do I look all right?" Phyllis asked at the door. "Seams straight, hair curly?"
"You're a vision in a red hat," her husband assured her. "Just don't spoil the effect by leading aces." She made a small face at him and rang the doorbell. Soft chimes sounded inside.
Mallen straightened his tie while they waited. He pulled out his breast handkerchief a microscopic fraction further.
"They must be making gin in the sub-cellar," he told his wife. "Shall I ring again?"
"No - wait a moment!" They waited, and he rang again. Again the chimes sounded.
"That's very strange," Phyllis said a few minutes later. "It was for tonight, wasn't it?" Her husband nodded. The Carmichaels had left their windows open to the warm spring weather. Through the Venetian blinds they could see a table set for bridge, chairs drawn up, candy dishes out, everything in readiness. But no one answered the door.
"Could they have stepped out?" Phyllis Mallen asked. Her husband walked quickly across the lawn to the driveway.
"Their car's in." He came back and pushed the front door farther open.
"Jimmy - don't go in."
"I'm not." He put his head in the door. "Hello! anybody home?"
Silence in the house.
"Hello!" he shouted, and listened intently. He could hear Friday-night noises next-door people talking, laughing. A car passed in the street. He listened. A board creaked, somewhere in the house, then silence again.
"They wouldn't go away and leave their house open like this," he told Phyllis. "Something might have happened." He stepped inside. She followed, but stood uncertainly in the living room while he went into the kitchen. She heard him open the cellar door, call out, "Anyone home?" And close it again. He came back to the living room, frowned, and went upstairs.
In a little while Mallen came down with a puzzled expression on his face. "There's no one there," he said.
"Let's get out of here," Phyllis said, suddenly nervous in the bright, empty house. They debated leaving a note, decided against it, and started down the walk.
"Shouldn't we close the front door?" Jim Mallen asked, stopping.
"What good will it do? All the windows are open."
"Still -" He went back and closed it. They walked home slowly, looking back over their shoulders at the house. Mallen half-expected the Carmichaels to come r
unning after them, shouting, "Surprise!"
But the bright house remained silent.
Their home was only a block away, a brick bungalow just like two hundred others in the development. Inside, Mr. Carter was making artificial trout flies on the card table. Working slowly and surely, his deft fingers guided the coloured threads with loving care. He was so intent on his work that he didn't hear the Mallens enter.
"We're home, dad," Phyllis said.
"Ah," Mr. Carter murmured. "Look at this beauty." He held up a finished fly. It was an almost exact replica of a hornet. The hook was cleverly concealed by overhanging yellow and black threads.
"The Carmichaels were out - we think," Mallen said, hanging up his jacket.
"I'm going to try Old Creek in the morning," Mr. Carter said. "Something tells me the elusive trout may be there." Mallen grinned to himself. It was difficult talking with Phyllis' father. Nowadays he never discussed anything except fishing. The old man had retired from a highly successful business on his seventieth birthday to devote himself wholeheartedly to his favourite sport.
Now, nearing eighty, Mr. Carter looked wonderful. It was amazing, Mallen thought. His skin was rosy, his eyes clear and untroubled, his pure white hair neatly combed back. He was in full possession of his senses, too - as long as you talked about fishing.
"Let's have a snack," Phyllis said. Regretfully she took off the red hat, smoothed out the veil and put it down on a coffee table. Mr. Carter added another thread to his trout fly, examined it closely, then put it down and followed them into the kitchen.
While Phyllis made coffee, Mallen told the old man what had happened. Mr. Carter's answer was typical.
"Try some fishing tomorrow and get it off your mind. Fishing, Jim, is more than a sport. Fishing is a way of fife, and a philosophy as well. I like to find a quiet pool, and sit on the banks of it. I figure, if there's fish anywhere, they might as well be there."
Phyllis smiled, watching Jim twist uncomfortably on his chair. There was no stopping her father, once he got started. And anything would start him.
"Consider," Mr. Carter went on, "A young executive. Someone like yourself, Jim - dashing through a hall. Common enough? But at the end of the last long corridor is a trout stream. Consider a politician. You certainly see enough of them in Albany. Brief case in hand, worried -?"
"That's strange," Pliyllis said, stopping her father in mid-flight. She was holding an unopened bottle of milk in her hand.
"Look." Their milk came from Stannerton Dairies. The green label on this bottle read: Stanneron Daries.
"And look." She pointed. Under that, it read: lisensed by the new yoRk Bord of healthh. It looked like a clumsy imitation of the legitimate label.
"Where did you get this?" Mallen asked.
"Why, I suppose from Mr. Elger's store. Could it be an advertising stunt?"
"I despise the man who would fish with a worm," Mr. Carter intoned gravely. "A fly - a fly is a work of art. But the man who'd use a worm would rob orphans and burn churches."
"Don't drink it," Mallen said. "Let's look over the rest of the food."
There were three more counterfeited items. A candy bar which purported to be a Mello-Bite had an orange label instead of the familiar crimson. There was a jar of Amerrican ChEEse, almost a third larger than the usual jars of that brand, and a bottle of SPArkling Watr.
"That's very odd," Mallen said, rubbing his jaw.
"I always throw the little one back," Mr. Carter said. "It's not sporting to keep them, and that's part of a fisherman's code. Let them grow, let them ripen, let them gain experience. It's the old, crafty ones I want, the ones who skulk under logs, who dart away at the first sight of the angler. Those are the lads who put up a fight!"
"I'm going to take this stuff back to Elger," Mallen said, putting the items into a paper bag. "If you see anything else like it, save it."
"Old Creek is the place," Mr. Carter said. "That's where they hide out."
Saturday morning was bright and beautiful. Mr. Carter ate an early breakfast and left for Old Creek, stepping lightly as a boy, his battered fly-decked hat set at a jaunty angle. Jim Mallen finished coffee and went over to the Carmichael house.
The car was still in the garage. The windows were still open, the bridge table set, and every light was on, exactly as it had been the night before. It reminded Mallen of a story he had read once about a ship under full sail, with everything in order - but not a soul on board.
"I wonder if there's anyone we can call?" Phyllis asked when he returned home. "I'm sure there's something wrong."
"Sure. But who?" They were strangers in the project. They had a nodding acquaintance with three or four families, but no idea who might know the Carmichaels.
The problem was settled by the ringing of the telephone.
"If it's anyone from around here," Jim said as Phyllis answered it, "Ask them."
"Hello?"
"Hello. I don't believe you know me. I'm Marian Carpenter, from down the block. I was just wondering - has my husband dropped over there?" The metallic telephone voice managed to convey worry, fear.
"Why, no. No one's been in this morning."
"I see." The thin voice hesitated.
"Is there anything I can do?" Phyllis asked.
"I don't understand it," Mrs. Carpenter said. "George - my husband - had breakfast with me this morning. Then he went upstairs for his jacket. That was the last I saw of him."
"I'm sure he didn't come back downstairs. I went up to see what was holding him - we were going for a drive - and he wasn't there. I searched the whole house. I thought he might be playing a practical joke, although George never joked in his life - so I looked under beds and in the closets. Then I looked in the cellar, and I asked next door, but no one's seen him. I thought he might have visited you - he was speaking about it -"
Phyllis explained to her about the Carmichaels' disappearance. They talked for a few seconds longer, then hung up.
"Jim," Phyllis said, "I don't like it. You'd better tell the police about the Carmichaels."
"We'll look pretty foolish when they turn up visiting friends in Albany."
"We'll have to chance it."
Jim found the number and dialled, but the line was busy.
"I'll go down."
"And take this stuff with you." She handed him the paper bag.
Police-Captain Lesner was a patient, ruddy-faced man who had been listening to an unending stream of complaints all night and most of the morning. His patrolmen were tired, his sergeants were tired, and he was the tiredest of all. Nevertheless, he ushered Mr. Mallen into his office and listened to his story.
"I want you to write down everything you've told me," Lesner said when he was through. "We got a call on the Carmichaels from a neighbour late last night. Been trying to locate them. Counting Mrs. Carpenter's husband that makes ten in two days."
"Then what?"
"Disappearances."
"My Lord," Mallen breathed softly. He shifted the paper bag. "All from this town?"
"Every one," Captain Lesner said harshly, "from the Vainsville housing project in this town.
As a matter of fact, from four square blocks in that project." He named the streets.
"I live in there," Mallen said.
"So do I."
"Have you any idea who the - the kidnapper could be?" Mallen asked.
"We don't think it's a kidnapper," Lesner said, lighting his twentieth cigarette for the day. "No ransom notes. No selection. A good many of the missing persons wouldn't be worth a nickel to a kidnapper. And wholesale like that - not a chance!"
"A maniac then?"
"Sure. But how has he grabbed whole families? Or grown men, big as you? And where has he hidden them, or their bodies?" Lesner ground out the cigarette viciously. "I've got men searching every inch of this town. Every cop within twenty miles of here is looking. The state police are stopping cars. And we haven't found a thing."
"Oh, and here's something el
se." Mallen showed him the counterfeited items.
"Again, I don't know," Captain Lesner confessed sourly. "I haven't had much time for this stuff. We've had other complaints -" The telephone rang, but Lesner ignored it.
"It looks like a black market scheme. I've sent some stuff like it to Albany for analysis. I'm trying to trace outlets. Might be foreign. As a matter of fact, the F.B.I. might - damn that
'phone!"
He yanked it out of its cradle.
"Lesner speaking. Yes.... yes. You're sure? Of course, Mary. I'll be right over." He hung up. His red face was suddenly drained of colour.
"That was my wife's sister," he announced. "My wife's missing!"
Mallen drove home at breakneck speed. He slammed on the brakes, almost cracking his head against the windshield, and ran into the house.
"Phyllis!" he shouted. Where was she? Oh God, he thought. If she's gone
"Anything wrong?" Phyllis asked, coming out of the kitchen.
"I thought -" He grabbed her and hugged until she squealed.
"Really," she said, smiling. "We're not newlyweds. Why. we've been married a whole year and a half -"
He told her what he'd found out in the police station.
Phyllis looked around the living room. It had seemed so warm and cheerful a week ago.
Now, a shadow under the couch frightened her, an open closet door was something to shudder at. She knew it would never be the same.
There was a knock at the door.
"Don't go," Phyllis said.
"Who's there?" Mallen asked.
"Joe Dutton, from down the block. I suppose you've heard the news?"
"Yes," Mallen said, standing beside the closed door.
"We're barricading the streets," Dutton said. "Going to look over anyone going in or out. We're going to put a stop to this, even if the police can't. Want to join us?"
"You bet," Mallen said, and opened the door. The short, swarthy man on the other side was wearing an old army jacket. He was gripping a two foot chunk of wood.
Terror in the Modern Vein Page 6