Fear and Trembling

by Robert Bloch

  But life was unbearable no longer and he needn’t be spending it here. Which meant that now the potion would be final for somebody else.

  Ross stared at the colorless contents swirling silently. Then he put the vial away and the swirling ceased. Now it was only his thoughts that swirled; poisonous thoughts which could not be put away any longer.

  Tossing and turning through the night, he pondered. It must be done quickly—but to whom?

  He had no enemies here. And bitter experience had taught him revenge was a meaningless motive. Ross remembered his resolve—no innocent would suffer.

  “But who is innocent?” Death’s words again. “All must die sooner or later. A life for a life.”

  Questions in the dark, awaiting an answer. Then, just before dawn, Ross heard his own voice whispering a name.

  “Mrs. Endicott.”

  There was his answer. Mrs. Endicott, the oldest resident here at the home. Ninety-three years old, blind and bedridden; she never ventured from her room down the hall but everyone knew about her. Sheer longevity made her an institution in the institution. “Imagine that—been here over twenty years and she still hangs on. Got to hand it to the old girl, having such a will to live.”

  Ross grimaced at the thought. Didn’t the fools realize the truth? Couldn’t they at least imagine what it must be like to lie sightless and helpless year after year without hope? Nobody had a will to live under such conditions; it was just that the poor blind body refused to obey the will to die. “Got to hand it to the old girl,” they said. Well, he would hand it to her—hand her the release she longed for. It wouldn’t be murder. This was euthanasia, an act of mercy.

  Ross rose on Saturday morning strangely refreshed despite his lack of sleep. Now he knew what to do; better still, he knew he wanted to do it. The rest was just a matter of ways and means.

  This was Sheila’s day off, which made things even easier. She stopped by his room before leaving and told him she was going into town to consult with some rental agencies. “Don’t worry, I’m going to stick to it until I find the right place for us. In case I get back late, I’ll see you first thing in the morning. Oh darling, I’m so excited—”

  Her smile and embrace told him even more than her words, and Ross rejoiced as she went on her way.

  As for him, he went to work.

  He asked questions: careful, casual, unobtrusive questions. Mrs. Endicott’s room was 409, halfway down the corridor to the left on this floor. Meals were brought to her at regular serving-times; staff members looked in at intervals during the day. At nine the lights went off—not that it made any difference to the poor old lady. Bed-checks came at three-hour intervals during the night, routine inspections by whoever was on floor duty at the opposite end of the hall. Tonight the orderly in charge was Bill Hawthorne, a nice enough young man but a bit on the lazy side. He tended to spend much of his time at the desk reading comic books between his appointed rounds. So much the better for all concerned, Ross thought. Be patient, Mrs. Endicott. Help is on the way.

  It was he who had to be patient as the day dragged on. By evening he was really uptight. Sheila hadn’t returned and the final hours seemed endless.

  The first bed-check came at midnight. When Hawthorne looked in on him Ross was under the covers, apparently fast asleep. But moments later, after Hawthorne closed the door, Ross rose and groped his way through darkness to the closet. Once he procured the vial, he carried it back to bed and waited. In half an hour Bill Hawthorne would be back at his desk in the alcove at the far end of the hall. From there the orderly had no view of the corridor itself and only sounds would summon him forth to investigate their source.

  But there would be no sounds.

  Ross’s door swung open silently at twelve-thirty. Ross’s footsteps were noiseless as he started off slowly to the left. Hawthorne couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart.

  Quietly he made his way to room 409. Quietly he opened the door. Quietly he entered, closed the door behind him, then tiptoed to the bed.

  At first he saw only a blurred outline of the form nestled beneath the blankets. Gradually his eyes grew accustomed to the deep darkness. The room was cold, smelling faintly of disinfectant mingled with a sour scent, the odor of age. It emanated from the half-open mouth of the old woman as Ross gazed down at the wrinkled ruin of her face, the white wisps of hair which framed it. She wasn’t sleeping, for the blind eyes were open in a sightless stare.

  In a way the milky whiteness of the cataracts covering her pupils confirmed his conclusions; surely here was someone who would welcome the promise of relief, even though she’d never know how it came. Ross knew what to do now.

  He would identify himself as Dr. Morgan, the new resident physician, come to bring her a sedative. All he need do was to pour the contents of the vial into the half-filled water glass on the nightstand and help guide it to her shrivelled lips.

  Softly, he spoke. “Mrs. Endicott?”

  No response. Hearing isn’t keen at ninety-three, Ross reminded himself, and he bent closer. “Mrs. Endicott—”

  Still no answer. Gently he reached down and placed his hand on the bony brow. The cold brow—the icy brow that turned at his touch as the face pivotted on the pillow and the mouth yawned wide. No breath issued from it, only a telltale stench, and then he knew.

  Mrs. Endicott was dead.

  Somehow he managed to turn, leave, retrace his way along the corridor to the safety of his room. But there control ceased and he sank down upon the bed, still holding the useless vial he’d carried on a useless mission. Ross lay shuddering in silence as the vial slipped from trembling fingers and he closed his eyes in despair.

  When he opened them again he had a visitor.

  Despair gave way to horror, for this time Ross knew he wasn’t dreaming. The fleshless figure beyond the end of his bed was quite real—either that, or he’d gone mad. He shut his eyes once more, willing mind and vision to clear.

  But when he blinked the figure was still there; it had moved closer, standing now at the side of his bed.

  “You!” he whispered.

  The skull bobbed slightly.

  “What are you doing here?” Ross said.

  “I had a call to pay down the hall.”

  Ross read mockery in the reply, read it in the ghastly grin. “You knew what I was going to do,” he muttered. “You could have waited—”

  “Her hour had come.”

  “You cheated me!”

  “I do not cheat,” Death said. “Remember, I warned you to act quickly. But what’s done is done.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Death shrugged. “I think you already know the answer.”

  The skull was coming closer. Now Ross could see the greenish splotches of mould rotting in the yellowed cranial ridges. He could see the bloodstained edge of the scythe-blade directly above him, see the hourglass clutched closely to the hollow rib-cage, its upper half still packed with sand.

  He shook his head. “It isn’t time!”

  “That’s for me to decide,” Death told him. “Your time is up.”

  “But we made a bargain—”

  “A bargain you couldn’t keep. I’ll take no risk of further failure.”

  “I won’t fail!” Ross’s words came in a rush. “Give me a chance and I’ll prove it. You make the choice—I don’t care who’s the victim as long as I stay alive.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “I promise. Tell me who to kill, just give me the name.”

  “Very well.” Death nodded. “The name is Sheila.”

  “Oh no!” Ross gasped. “Not Sheila—I can’t—”

  The grinning skull bent closer. “You see? Your promise is worthless.” Death raised his scythe. “And so are you!”

  Suddenly the blade came down, slashing at Ross’s throat.

  Frantic with fear, Ross jerked his head aside as the scythe descended, ripping into the pillow only an inch away from his neck. Blind instinct sen
t his hands forward, grasping the bony wrist as Death tugged to free the blade. In desperation Ross tightened his hold, twisting with all his might until the wrist-bones crunched under the squeezing pressure.

  Then Death’s grip loosened and the scythe fell free. As it dropped, Ross released his hold and his fingers closed around the handle of the weapon.

  Clutching it, he felt the sudden surge of strength coursing up his arm. The power was in the scythe, and he possessed it now.

  Death’s soundless voice rose in a wail. “Give it back!”

  Ross shook his head. “No. It’s mine now.”

  “But you have no right—”

  “This is my right.” Ross waved the scythe.

  The skeletal figure retreated and a wordless whisper came. “You fool—do you really think you can trick me so easily?”

  “But I have tricked you!” Ross cried. Rising from the bed he swirled the weapon and Death fell back.

  Death’s jaws opened and closed convulsively. “Give me my scythe!”

  The power Ross held infused his arm and his voice. He lunged forward, shouting. “No—get out—”

  The skeleton shape shrank to one side, hourglass clutched tightly to its bony breast. Once more Ross struck out, but the blade missed its mark.

  For a moment there was silence; then the skull bobbed and its rotted teeth parted in a rustling reply. “I warn you. No one cheats Death.”

  Ross shook his head. “I am Death now!”

  Ross raised the scythe, slashing at empty air, then blinked. The figure was gone.

  He blinked again, eyes widening. Or was he merely opening them for the first time? Had he been talking and walking in his sleep again, was it another dream?

  Then he glanced down at what he held in his hand. Death had disappeared but the scythe remained, and it was real. Death’s weapon was here, its power pulsing from the bloodstained blade. His power, now.

  As he stared at it, elation gave way to apprehension. Ross didn’t want such power. All he’d meant to do was save himself, but he could never play the role of the Reaper, never wield the scythe. His power was useless.

  Or was it?

  As long as he possessed the weapon Death couldn’t strike down his victims; he was vanquished. For an instant Ross warmed to the thought, but then warmth gave way to a wave of cold fear.

  He stared at the blade again as the questions came. Suppose Death returned to claim the scythe while Ross slept? He couldn’t stay awake forever, couldn’t guard it night and day from now on. And what would happen if others saw the weapon; how could he explain its presence?

  There was only one answer. He had to hide it. Hide it from others, hide it from Death.

  Ross glanced at the bedside clock. Ten after two. In less than an hour the orderly would be making his rounds again. Whatever must be done had to be done quickly.

  Gripping the handle of the scythe he moved to the door, opened it, peered down the deserted hall. The orderly would be at his desk in the alcove at the far right and there was no way of passing him unnoticed. But to the left the hall ended in a back stairway.

  It was to that stairway Ross tiptoed now, then descended silently to the first floor and the rear door leading to the grounds outside.

  At the far end of the grounds was the garden, and in the garden roses bloomed, petals closed in protection against the night.

  Ross inhaled their scent in darkness as he neared, knelt, then scraped away moist earth with the blade of the scythe. He dug deeply until the opening yawned clear. Taking a deep breath he smashed the handle of the weapon down across his bended knee. The worn wood splintered and broke under the impact. His groping fingers found a rock. Raising it, he hammered at the scythe-blade, hammered again and again until the metal twisted and bent, then sheared into shards. Gathering up the fragments, he thrust them into the depths of the hole. Covering it with loose dirt, he patted the soil flat so that no disturbance was detectable.

  Panting, Ross rose to his feet. It was finished now. Not even Death would know where his weapon had been buried. And even if he found the hiding-place it didn’t matter, for the scythe was destroyed.

  As he walked back across the garden, relief returned. Mounting the stairs, gliding silently down the hall to his room, Ross felt the possession of a power even greater than that of the scythe he’d stolen. No one could stop him now. Tomorrow, when he saw Sheila, they’d carry out their plans, find their future.

  Tired but triumphant, Ross sank back across his bed. He stared into the darkness but he no longer feared it. No need to fear, for the Grim Reaper was no longer grim. The King of Terrors had been toppled from his throne.

  Ross realized he’d erred in imagining Death as a child—perhaps the real truth was that Death was old. Wrenching away his scythe had been unexpectedly easy, for the old lack strength to resist. Hiding the weapon had been easy too, for wits are dimmed with age.

  “No one cheats Death.” Ross smiled at the memory of the threat, for it was feeble too. The passage of countless centuries had taken its toll; Death’s only remaining power lay in his scythe, and now that power was broken and buried.

  There was still another possibility which Ross, thinking clearly now, did not totally discount. Perhaps his vision of Death had been a dream after all; a recurrent dream born of vivid imagination. Maybe everything was part of nocturnal illusion; even his trip to the garden could be the product of a somnambulistic fugue in which he broke and buried something which didn’t exist. But whatever the truth, he was free of it forever. Whether in nightmare or reality, the scythe would never strike him down, and he was safe at last.

  Still smiling, Ross drifted into sleep.

  It was some time later that the orderly made his rounds and entered the room. He was smiling too, but not for long. What he saw there sent him stumbling out into the hall, summoning others with his screams. Others came to stare and search, but discovered no evidence of forced entry, or any intruder.

  What they did find, and could never explain, were the broken fragments of an empty hourglass on the floor at the bedside. And Ross, lying dead in the bed above, with his mouth wide open—and the sand stuffed down his throat.

  The Shrink and the Mink

  Angela was adorable. Tall, blonde and twenty, she had more curves than a roller-coaster and much better seating-accommodations.

  Young Dr. Degradian was no fool. Five minutes after she entered the office he had her on the couch.

  So much for the joys of psychiatry.

  Now it was time to begin the process known as case-entry. And this was one case Dr. Degradian felt sorely tempted to enter—until she began to talk.

  Notebook in hand, he seated himself in a chair beside her, pencil poised. “What’s the first thing that comes into your mind?” he asked.

  “Milton.”

  “Who?”

  “My husband.”

  Dr. Degradian frowned. “You didn’t tell me you were married.”

  “I’m not. He died last Thursday.”

  Dr. Degradian made a note. “How did it happen?”

  “He fell off a ladder.”

  “Was he a painter?”

  “No—a voyeur. He was looking through this second-storey window at a motel when the ladder broke.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s what he used to say all the time—‘I see.’ ” Angela shrugged. “Our marriage was never consummated, you know. He died on our wedding night, and now I’m just a poor widow. All he left me was the broken ladder and a pair of binoculars.”

  “Did you know he was a voyeur when you married him?”

  “I should have guessed. He kept telling me I was a sight for sore eyes.” Angela smiled coquettishly. “Do you find me attractive?”

  Dr. Degradian shook his head. “This is a psychiatric examination, not a beauty contest. We are here to find the source of your mental disturbance—”

  “Not mental. Physical.”

  “You are physically disturbed?”


  “Constantly.” Angela nodded. “I’m no expert on the subject, but it doesn’t seem possible that anyone could keep up such a pace—sometimes ten, even fifteen times a night.”

  “You’re sleeping with somebody?”

  “Who sleeps?” Angela sighed.

  Dr. Degradian made another note. “Tell me about this man.”

  “He isn’t a man. He’s an incubus.”

  “A what?”

  “An incubus.” She blushed, tossing her golden curls. “A demon who has carnal relations with women in their sleep. Look it up in your dictionary if you don’t believe me.”

  “I know what an incubus is,” Dr. Degradian said. “And I do believe you. You have these dreams—”

  “It’s not a dream!” Angela sat up, eyes flashing. “I told you I don’t sleep. The minute I turn out the light and climb into bed he shows up out of nowhere and starts fooling around. At first I tried to stall him—I said I had a headache, but he didn’t listen, just ripped off my nightie and bam!”

  “Bam? What does that mean?”

  For the next fifteen minutes she explained what it meant; explained in such detail that Dr. Degradian found himself trying to make notes long after there was no more lead in his pencil.

  “Good Lord!” The young psychiatrist stared at her. “I’ve never heard such graphic porno! And you say this is only the foreplay?”

  “Two-play,” Angela murmured. “I don’t think I could stand it if there was another couple involved.”

  “And this goes on every evening? He comes in and rips off your nightie—”

  “Not any more. I ran out of nighties so now I just go to bed in the nude.” Angela gazed at him imploringly. “That’s why I’m here, Doctor. You’ve got to help me, before I catch my death of cold.”

  “Of course.” Dr. Degradian reached for a fresh pencil and scribbled out several prescriptions. “Here, get these filled at the pharmacy downstairs.”

  “What are they for?”

  “Tranquilizers and a sedative.”

  “It’s no use. I’m sure he won’t take them.”

  “They’re for you. To help you sleep.” Dr. Degradian smiled reassuringly. “I want to see you again on Wednesday, same time. I think I can promise you that by then your incubus will have disappeared.”