by Robert Bloch
“Thank you, Doctor. I certainly hope so.”
And with a grateful smile and a farewell wiggle, she was gone.
Gone, but not forgotten. During the next two days Dr. Degradian couldn’t put the girl out of his mind. What a shame that so lovely a young lady should have these grotesque fantasies! And they were fantasies, he had no doubt of that—she was hallucinating about a mythical creature out of medieval legend. It was obviously a classic case of sexual frustration, but the dosage he’d prescribed would put an end to her nightmares. Once they disappeared he’d have no need to explain she’d been imagining things; it would all be self-evident. And as Wednesday neared he found himself happily anticipating her arrival.
Promptly at three she swept in, trailing a cloud of perfume, and settled herself on the couch.
“Well,” he said. “How did everything work out?”
“Don’t talk to me about work-outs!” Her full lips formed a provocative pout. “Did you ever try doing it when you were half-asleep?”
Dr. Degradian blinked. “You mean you still have these dreams?”
Angela’s eyes flashed blue fire. “I told you it’s not a dream! There really is an incubus. Please, Doctor, isn’t there something you can do?”
“Certainly.” The psychiatrist nodded. “There are several ways. Normally we might rid you of this obsession by using electro-shock therapy, but that’s not practical, now that electricity-bills are so high. Perhaps we should opt for more orthodox methods. If you can arrange to come in five days a week for the next three years—”
“Three years?” She stared at him incredulously.
“You don’t understand. A thorough analysis takes that much time to talk things out.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Angela said. “This thing isn’t going to be talked out of it. No matter what I say he just keeps bamming away.” She rose, sighing. “Obviously you can’t help me. I should have gone to Father O’Flannery in the first place.”
“Father O’Flannery?”
“The priest at the church down the street. I’m going to ask him to perform an exorcism.”
Dr. Degradian frowned. “Surely you’re not serious? Nobody believes in such nonsense nowadays.”
“Father O’Flannery does.” Angela nodded. “Just last Sunday he preached a sermon about casting out demons. He even told us how it’s done. First they open all the windows, then they start with the ceremony. Plenty of fresh air and exorcise, that’s the cure.”
Dr. Degradian bit his lip. No sense arguing; of course he had no faith in exorcism or in incubi either, but she did. And that was the point. If this superstitious ritual could rid her of her fixation, so be it.
“I wish you luck,” he said.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Then she was gone, leaving a scent of perfume behind.
In the days that passed the scent vanished, but not the memories—memories of her perfume, and her behind. Dr. Degradian lost a little sleep himself wondering about the girl. Could it be that he had more than a professional interest in her? Here he was, just thirty years old, a reputable psychiatrist with an established practise and already the owner of his first condominium. He should be thinking of his career, maybe buying a second couch, but instead he found himself mooning over a patient. He remembered the last words of his sainted mother on her deathbed.
“Promise me just one thing,” she whispered. “Don’t ever get mixed up with a Nutsy Fagan.”
Over the weekend Dr. Degradian recalled her plea and made a firm resolution. But on Monday afternoon, when Angela came in, his resolution turned to flab. One look at her and he knew the truth—he had fallen in love with a flake.
“Surprised to see me?” she said.
“Yes, I am.” He ventured a wary smile. “Changed your mind, did you?”
“What do you mean? Father O’Flannery performed the exorcism Friday night.”
“How did it go?”
“Very quickly. So quickly that Father never even had a chance to see it.”
“But you’re sure the incubus was exorcised?”
“Positive.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Father O’Flannery.” She fluttered her eyelashes nervously. “You see, once the incubus was gone, that left just the two of us. There I was, lying naked on the bed, and there was Father O’Flannery standing over me with that big font in his hand, and—well, it just happened—”
Dr. Degradian’s eyes widened. “You seduced a priest?”
“It wasn’t a seduction.” She reddened. “Like I told you, he had this perfectly enormous font, and the next thing you know—”
“Bam.”
“Several bams.” Angela sighed. “It was then I realized I still had a problem.”
“And what about Father O’Flannery?”
“I’m afraid the poor man took it very hard, if you’ll pardon the expression. When we talked afterwards he said he’d decided to leave the priesthood and enter a convent.”
“You mean a monastery.”
“No, a convent. He’s not gay, you know.”
“These things happen.” Dr. Degradian nodded. “You mustn’t burden yourself by feeling guilty.”
“That’s just it,” Angela said. “I don’t feel guilty. I feel—neglected.”
“Neglected?”
“Well, I mean, all this happened on Friday night. Saturday and Sunday night I slept like a baby.”
“So?”
“I’m not a baby! I’m a woman, and I haven’t had sex for two whole nights in a row.”
Dr. Degradian took a deep breath. “You really do need help.”
“Exactly.” Angela dropped onto the couch and lay back, smiling. “I knew I could count on you. But would you mind locking the door first?”
Now it was Dr. Degradian’s turn to redden. “None of that, young lady,” he said. “If you really want help, just sit up and pay attention. Get into this chair and let me run a Rorschach on you.”
“In a chair? Oh, neat—”
“It’s a test,” the psychiatrist told her. “I want you to look at these ink-blots and tell me what you see.”
He held up the first card. “What does this look like?”
“That’s easy. It’s a whale.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. It’s a sperm whale.”
Dr. Degradian gulped and reached for a second card. Angela stared at it, nodding. “This one is a bird.”
“A bird?”
“Yes. A cockatoo.”
He held up a third card. “And this?”
Angela studied the squiggles. “A man and a woman, twisting each other’s necks around.”
“And what does that mean?”
“They’re screwing their heads off.”
The psychiatrist threw the rest of the cards in the wastebasket. “Angela, let me speak frankly. You are suffering from a severe case of sexual fixation.”
“Is it contagious?”
“I certainly hope not. And there may be a remedy, if you’ll permit me to suggest it.”
“Go ahead.” Angela smiled in happy anticipation. “Be as suggestive as you like.”
Dr. Degradian leaned forward. “Last year I had a patient with a complaint very similar to your own. Her obsession with sex reached the point where she was taking obscene phone-calls even when they were collect.”
“You cured her?”
“No, but a gynecologist did.” He nodded. “I came to the conclusion that her mental condition was linked to a physical disturbance. So I sent her to a gynecologist and sure enough, he discovered she had a chronic inflammation of the uterus. A few days of medication and her troubles were over.”
“Do you think something like that is wrong with me?”
“Let’s find out.” Dr. Degradian buzzed his receptionist on the intercom. “Miss Carriage? Get me Mount Sinus Hospital. I want to refer a patient to Dr. Pruritis. That’s right, the specialist—eye, ear, nose a
nd vagina—”
Angela listened as he set up an appointment for her the following morning.
“Let me see you tomorrow afternoon when it’s over,” he told her. “With any luck, this could be the solution to your sexual problems.”
She rose and wiggled to the door. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
“Good idea,” Dr. Degradian said. “Also your legs.”
It was already five o’clock next afternoon when Angela appeared at Dr. Degradian’s office.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I got waylaid.”
“I know.” The psychiatrist frowned. “Dr. Pruritis just called me.” He shook his head. “It’s unbelievable—an old man like that—how could you do such a thing?”
“It was easy. All I did was—”
“Spare me the details.” He sat back, sighing. “Poor old Pruritis! You have just ruined one of the profession’s finest and most upstanding members.”
“But I didn’t ruin it,” the girl protested. “As a matter of fact, he told me it had never felt better in years.”
“Incredible.” Dr. Degradian shook his head. “And here I thought we were making progress.”
“But we are. Didn’t he tell you the results of the examination?”
“That’s just it. He said you were in perfect physical condition. No inflammation, infection or abnormality whatsoever. Which means the trouble is all in your mind. If you’d just consent to analysis and put your trust in me and Medicare—”
“I can’t wait three years.” The blue eyes clouded with tears. “The way I feel now I can’t wait three minutes. I need him now.”
“Who?”
“The incubus. I want him back.”
“But my dear young lady—”
“I’m not your dear young lady!” Angela began to sob quietly. “And if you won’t help me I won’t be your patient, either.” She started for the door and Dr. Degradian raised his hand hastily.
“Let’s talk this over—”
“Talking doesn’t work. I’ve had enough of that, Dr. Degradian.” She paused abruptly. “You’re Armenian, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“And is it true most Armenian names end in ‘ian’?”
“Yes. That means ‘son of.’ ”
“Then you ought to call yourself Dr. Bitchian!”
“Now see here—”
“I’m sorry.” Angela’s voice softened. “It’s just that I’m so uptight. I thought the incubus was bad, but now that he’s gone this hangup is ten times worse. I don’t want to go through the rest of my life coming on with every man I meet. If there was only some way to get the incubus back again—”
Once more her sobs began, and Dr. Degradian’s heart melted in her tears.
“Stop sniffling,” he told her. “Perhaps there is a way.”
“You mean you could do it?”
“Give me a chance to think. This is Friday. Suppose you come in on Monday afternoon.”
Angela stared at him, new hope in her eyes. “Can you really bring the incubus back for me?”
“I’ll try,” said Dr. Degradian.
Alone in his office, he pondered the problem. Removing a patient’s hallucinations was part of his job, but restoring them would be quite another matter. Nothing in psychiatric procedure offered any precedent, and he’d have to start from square one.
Suppose Angela had been right and he’d been wrong? Suppose there actually was such a thing as an incubus? She thought so, and so did the priest who’d exorcised it. And since the exorcism had worked, maybe the incubus did exist.
But if so, how could he find it? You just don’t look up an incubus in the Yellow Pages—
Stung by inspiration, he reached for the phone-book, then riffled through it as he searched for the proper heading.
Obstetricians, Ophthalmologists, Opticians—nothing there. He turned back a few pages and suddenly he found it.
Occultists.
The list was long and the accompanying display advertisements were of little help. He couldn’t use a palmist, a spirit medium, or a team of fortune-tellers who promised to work their crystal balls off for you.
For a moment he was tempted by a necromancer who proclaimed “You Raise the Cash—We Raise the Dead! Contact the corpse of your choice without paying a stiff price! All Major Credit Cards Accepted.”
It sounded good, but he wasn’t looking for a chance to palaver with a cadaver. The incubus, if such a thing existed, was very much alive. He needed someone specializing in witchcraft or black magic.
Suddenly his eyes strayed to the bottom of the listings. “Malcolm Hex, M.D. Practising witchdoctor. Call anytime—midnight til dawn.”
He reached for the phone.
Promptly at the stroke of twelve, Dr. Degradian entered the witch-doctor’s office in a rundown section of town and seated himself in the shabby little reception-room. He picked up a tattered copy of Who’s Who in Hoodoo but before he could start reading it in the guttering candlelight Malcolm Hex appeared and ushered him into his private office.
The office looked encouraging; its walls were covered with magical spells scrawled in chicken-blood and there was a goat-skeleton hanging at one corner. Malcolm Hex was obviously a black magician, black as the ace of spades.
It seemed a little strange to see this tall man in a conventional business suit seated behind his desk while he stirred the contents of a bubbling cauldron, and Dr. Degradian couldn’t control his curiosity.
“What’s in the pot?” he inquired.
“Just the usual voodoo goo.” Malcolm Hex smiled. “Bat brains, human entrails, lizard eyes, that sort of thing.”
“Toadstools?”
“No. My toads are all constipated.”
Dr. Degradian stared uneasily at a shrunken head dangling from the ceiling; it reminded him of his congressman. “Your ad said you’re an M.D.,” he said.
“And so I am.” Malcolm Hex nodded. “Master of Demonology. Graduated from Miskatonic University back in ’78.”
“Can you conjure up a demon?”
“Evocation is my vocation. Just say the word and I’ll say the spell.”
“What about an incubus?”
“No problem.” The black man rose, stripping off his jacket and shirt. He stood there, naked to the waist, his body glistening in the candlelight as he rubbed a pungent ointment into his gleaming torso. “I always scrub before an operation,” he said.
Reaching into a desk-drawer he pulled out a jar of newt’s blood and smeared its contents over his face, then stuck a gleaming white object in his nose.
“What’s that?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Just a baby’s femur. I’ve got to bone up for the occasion.”
Malcolm Hex began to stir the cauldron again, using a rooster’s claw, and a hiss of steam arose. “Now about this incubus of yours,” he said. “Are you quite sure that’s what you want? Most of my male clients prefer a succubus.”
Dr. Degradian reddened. “This isn’t for me. It’s for a young lady I know.”
“I see. Suppose you tell me about her.”
“Well to begin with, she’s a widow—”
Malcolm Hex frowned and stopped stirring. Then he took the bone out of his nose and dropped it into the pot.
“Sorry,” the black man said. “I don’t do widows.”
Sunday arrived, and with it came a call from Dr. Degradian’s answering-service. He dialed the number given to him and Angela’s voice greeted him.
“Any luck?” she murmured.
“Not yet. But I’m still trying.”
“You’d better come up with something,” she told him. “If not, I’m leaving town tomorrow.”
The psychiatrist’s heart skipped a beat. “Where on earth are you going?”
“Bangkok. I like the name.”
She hung up, leaving him speechless. Poor girl—he knew he couldn’t bear to lose her now, but how could he prevent it?
Desperately, Dr. Degradian wres
tled with his problem and lost. If the witch-doctor wouldn’t help, he’d have to do the job himself.
Way to go—and he went. The psychiatrist spent the entire morning racing from one bookstore to another. Most of them were closed, and the few remaining open couldn’t supply him with what he needed.
It was late afternoon when he stumbled into a dingy second-hand shop and unearthed the proper volume from behind a dusty stack in the rear of the establishment, wedged beside an autographed copy of the Bible.
Back at home he spent the entire evening hours feverishly scanning the crumbling yellowed pages of the ancient iron-bound grimoire, translating the Latin text as he did so. Just before midnight he found the right incantation, and another hour passed before he finished drawing the pentagram on the kitchen floor, set the tall candles in place, and began to utter the spell aloud.
As he did so he was still conscious of his own doubts. Here he was, the member of an illustrious profession that included such historic figures as Sigmund Freud and Dr. Joyce Brothers, resorting to sorcery! But he had no choice, and if it worked—
A rumbling sound arose. Suddenly his nostrils were assailed with the noxious odor of sulphur and brimstone, like rush-hour on the freeway.
Then, just beyond the chalk-drawn outline of the pentagram, a towering spiral of smoke whirled and coalesced into solid shape.
Dr. Degradian stared at the incubus in horror as it squatted before him.
The naked body was manlike, but its skin was green and purple; no man ever wore such horns or looked so horny. It was an incubus, no doubt of that, for now its grinning countenance changed into the face of Burt Reynolds.
“Jesus Christ!” the psychiatrist muttered.
“Sorry—you must have the wrong spell,” the creature told him. “I’m an incubus.” He gestured towards his thighs.
“I can see that, all right,” Dr. Degradian said. “You certainly are well-organized.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” the creature growled. “Why did you summon me?”
“I have a task for you.”
The incubus blinked its scaly eyelids. “What sort of task?”