I took the camera from my briefcase with shaking hands, and brought out the tape recorder, too. It was as near a moment to pure fantasy as I’d ever experienced, and I had to remind myself over and over that it was really happening. This was no pot-induced dream or movie shocker. It was happening, and to me.
“Go ahead,” I said, moving as far back as I could to fit the sleeping monster in my lens. Minerva raised the movie camera and turned on her lights.
Sir Richard checked the wiring and then twisted his dials. There was a sudden thrashing of the serpent’s tail that threatened to overturn a table. “Stop it!” Minerva warned. “You’re giving him too much.”
The old head lifted then from the floor, and the eyes seemed to stare into Sir Richard’s eyes. He stepped backward and cut the power. I could see the little beads of sweat on his brow. “You see?” he asked me. “Everything I have told you is true.”
Minerva took a sudden step forward. “It’s still moving, Richard!”
“Of course. It’s alive, after all.”
“Let’s go upstairs.”
“Doesn’t it need water?” I asked, still somewhat shaken by what I’d seen.
“The loch is its natural home, but it is an air-breathing creature.” He turned out the lights and closed the drape over the serpent. Then we followed Minerva upstairs. “Is that worth a cover story?” he asked.
“I’ll get you on the cover. I’ll do better than that—I’ll get you on the front page of every newspaper in the world!”
“Fine!”
“I’ll phone our London office in the morning and have them send a photographic team up here. This is too big a story to handle by myself.”
But when Sir Richard left us alone Minerva expressed misgivings. “I’m worried about him,” she admitted. “And now I’m worried about that thing in the basement too. Richard is never satisfied. He’s always striving to top himself. He found the earthen pyramid but that wasn’t enough. He had to dig into it until he found the mummy, but that wasn’t enough either. Then he found the coiled mummy of that sea serpent and I thought surely this would satisfy him. It did, for about a week. Then he was back up here on the weekend, talking about carbon dating and radiation doses. He brought the thing back to life, for God’s sake, and I still don’t think he’s satisfied!”
“Well, the publicity he’ll get should certainly satisfy him.”
“I wonder.”
Though I went to bed early I found I couldn’t sleep. The excitement of the story I was about to break kept me tossing and turning in the big old bed, composing new leads and even picture captions. And through it all one question kept on bothering me. When the truth was out, when the world knew what Sir Richard Forbish had done on his weekends, would they give him the Nobel Prize or destroy him as a satanic sorcerer?
* * * *
I must have finally dozed, because Minerva had to shake me awake. “Come quickly,” she urged. “There are terrible noises from the basement.”
I pulled on a robe and followed her downstairs, wishing I’d brought some sort of weapon. But when we reached the laboratory all was quiet, and it wasn’t until I felt the cool night mist on my face that I realized the big double doors were standing open. The mummy of Satni still rested on its table, but there was no sign of the serpent Gavia. The wires which had coupled it to the various electrical devices lay in a tangle on the floor.
“Richard!” she cried out.
But there was no answer.
We searched through the darkness outside the doors and by the first light of dawn we could make out the track in the dirt where Gavia had slithered down the hill to the waiting waters of Loch Awe. “We have to face it,” I told her finally. “The serpent must have attacked and killed Sir Richard, then carried his body into the loch. There’s no other explanation.”
She thought about it for a long time, and when we returned to the big house she said, “There is one other explanation. Remember that drawing he found in the pyramid? Rich was never satisfied. He was always trying for something more. I believe he might have urged the serpent down that hill to the water, making the noises I heard to frighten it. Certainly Gavia didn’t open that double door by itself.”
“But why—?”
“Don’t you see? I think Richard wanted to ride it, just as Satni had done all those centuries ago.”
* * * *
We didn’t find either of them, and though I still had the mummy of Satni for my story, somehow it wasn’t enough—not with what I could have had. So I haven’t written it yet, but I keep waiting. Sooner or later Sir Richard’s body will wash up on the shore of Loch Awe, or Gavia will come to the surface once more.
I’ve gotten myself transferred to the magazine’s London bureau, and every weekend I go up to Scotland and join Minerva at the big house. The police have given up trying to explain Sir Richard’s disappearance, but the two of us still search. We know what we’re looking for, and sooner or later we’ll find it. Then I’ll have the biggest news break of the century.
It should certainly bring me a Pulitzer Prize.
ABOUT “JUST ONE MORE”
The most common form of shapeshifter in horror literature is the Lycanthrope—or werewolf. This is not a werewolf story per se. But it is a story of, as the title suggests, a hunger and obsession.
First publication—Mike Shayne’s Mystery Magazine, August 1980.
JUST ONE MORE
Once he had the lights just right, Art Mueller checked the art director’s layout one last time. Then he moved quickly with the small motorized camera, snapping pictures with the speed and efficiency of a top fashion photographer.
“That’s it! Look this way, look this way! One more, one more!”
Mueller always talked while he worked, even though his subjects rarely paid attention. He’d convinced himself long ago that the sound of his voice was soothing to his models. Whether or not that was true, his constant motion and talking never failed to impress the visiting art directors who paid the bills.
“Think you’ve got enough?” Jeanne asked. She was his assistant, handling everything from accounting to darkroom chores. Occasionally she slept with Mueller too, but he didn’t consider that one of her office duties.
“Maybe just one more. I’d like to move that dish a little to the left.”
“That’s not the way the layout is,” she told him.
“I know, I know.” He turned to a gray-haired man standing behind the lights. “Felix, get the mutt’s nose out of the dish for a minute, will you?”
Felix Trenton stepped forward, unsmiling. “I’d hardly call the highest-paid dog in the country a mutt, Art. Rainbow probably makes as much in a year as you do.”
“But you keep the cash and he gets the dog biscuits—right, Felix?”
“What’s wrong with that? I taught him everything he knows.” He pulled Rainbow back from the dish of Frisky-Pups while Mueller bent to move it.
“Yeah, Felix. You’re starting to look a little like him, you know? A bit long in the tooth.”
The agency’s art director, a tight little man named Jenkins, hurried over. “What’s all this? Why are you moving the dish?”
“Get more light on the food. Make it look better.”
“That’s not the way my layout shows it.”
“Let’s give it a try.”
“They bought the ad from my layout, you know.”
“Sure, sure.” Mueller glanced over at Jeanne. “Get me another roll of film, will you?”
She opened the refrigerator door and took out a box, opening it as she brought it to him. He snapped it into the camera and closed the back. But the pause had made Rainbow restless and Trenton was having trouble with him. Mueller put down the camera, “Let me do it, Felix. I’ve got a way with animals.”
The older man snorted and stepped aside. He was one of the best trainers around, but Mueller never credited him with much knowledge of what went on inside an animal’s head.
“Settle down, boy! Settle down now! Just one more. I’m only going to take one more and then you can forget this crap and have some real bones. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, boy?” He nuzzled the big furry dog for a moment and then released him, going back to his camera.
As he was about to start shooting he heard the bell on the studio door tinkle. “Damn! See who that is, will you, Jeanne?” Then he bent to his task. “All right, boy! Look this way! One more! That’s it, that’s it! One more!”
The art director sighed with relief when he’d finished. “Is that it, Art?”
“That’s it. I’ll have a sheet of contact prints for you in the morning.”
He unloaded the camera and placed the exposed film in Jeanne’s darkroom tray for developing. Then he went out to see who their visitor was.
“Art, this gentleman wants to hire you, if you’re available.”
Mueller looked the man over. He was middle-aged, with a neatly trimmed beard and piercing eyes. Jeanne handed over a card that announced him as Professor John Hasty. Mueller tapped the card and said, “I’m an animal photographer, you understand. Mainly commercial work for ad agencies and such.”
“I know you’re an animal photographer,” Professor Hasty said. “That’s why I’ve come to you.”
“What sort of animal would you like me to photograph?”
The bearded man hesitated and then said, “A werewolf.”
“Oh, come on now!”
“I’m quite serious.”
Mueller turned back to Jeanne. “Help them pack up their dog food, will you? I’ll speak with the Professor in my office.” He led the way into the cork-lined room where he could be surrounded by blow-ups of dogs and cats and horses. Behind the desk, over his chair, there was even his favorite picture of an elephant standing on the roof of a little imported car.
“Very impressive,” Hasty said. “Your reputation is well deserved.”
“Not a werewolf among them, you’ll notice.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mr. Mueller.”
“Oh?”
“That’s exactly why I’ve come to you. I’ve devoted most of my adult life to a study of lycanthropy in all its guises. I can tell you that werewolves do exist!”
“I’m sure,” Mueller responded, already growing bored with the bearded man.
“But they have not been fully understood until now. Humans are not the only species capable of transforming themselves into wolves. I believe that certain forms of coyote, hyena, and the like also have the power.”
“Probably any animal with a y in its name,” Mueller muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
“I also believe that the physical changes brought about during metamorphosis may be visible in their early stages—visible to the camera, if not to the naked eye.”
“Look,” Mueller interrupted. “I’ve given you enough of my time. Exactly what do you want me to do?”
“Please be patient. I can sense you’re skeptical.”
“You might say that.”
“Animals are instinctive creatures—far more so than humans. When I’m near a creature capable of changing into a werewolf, the metamorphosis often begins in its early stages before the animal can control it. The teeth grow longer, the ears more pointed. The process is usually arrested before becoming noticeable, but a skilled photographer could capture it on film. I’d like to begin out at the Bronx zoo, visiting the cages while you snap away.”
“You don’t need me for this. Take along an Instamatic or a Polaroid and do it yourself.”
“I’ve tried that,” Professor Hasty insisted. “The pictures aren’t sharp enough, or close enough. I need a professional photographer using a telephoto lens to get me a closeup of the animal’s head.”
“Sorry, I’m not your man.”
“I have research funds available—”
“Sorry.”
“Will you at least think about it?” He seemed to be almost pleading. “Could I phone you tomorrow?”
“You can phone me if you want, but I doubt if I’ll change my mind.”
“Think about it. That’s all I ask. One photograph—the right photograph—could make us both famous.”
Mueller saw him to the door. “If they can sense you’re after them, you’d better watch your step, Professor.”
“I have been. I never leave the house unarmed.”
Mueller closed the door behind his visitor and shook his head. One never knew what was coming next. He walked back into the studio and saw that the agency people were gone. Felix Trenton had the leash on Rainbow and was leading him out. He smiled when he saw Mueller.
“Did I hear that man say he wanted you to photograph werewolves?”
“You heard right. Damned crazy world.”
“You get them all.” Trenton tugged on Rainbow’s leash. “Shake hands with Art and thank him like a good dog.”
Mueller smiled as he accepted Rainbow’s paw and arf. “Good boy. Give him an extra bone tonight, Felix, from your bank account.”
After they’d gone, Mueller went in search of Jeanne. She was just coming out of the darkroom. “Can you make the contact prints tonight, Art? I’ve got a heavy date.”
“Someone besides me?”
“Are you kidding? This is a guy who doesn’t want to take pictures of me in bed.”
He swatted her rear. “Go on. I’ll finish up here.”
When he was alone, he switched the telephone to the answering machine and went into the darkroom. Before long he’d printed two sheets of the contacts and they looked good. That damned dog was a real star!
He was especially interested in the last set of pictures, using the camera angle he’d devised, with the food dish up front. The Frisky-Pups looked better, all right, but for some reason Rainbow wasn’t quite so photogenic.
He put them under the magnifier to look closer.
Odd.
Why did his teeth look longer in those final pictures?
And his ears—
Then he remembered what had happened while he was shooting those last photos. Professor Hasty had entered the studio.
It wasn’t possible, was it?
Was it?
He heard the tinkle of the bell again and knew that someone had entered the studio. “Who is it?” he called out from the darkroom door. When no one answered he sighed and started out to the office.
That was when he saw Rainbow.
Rainbow, the highest-paid dog in America.
Rainbow, who could turn a doorknob with his teeth.
But he was different now—larger, uglier.
Mueller felt his heart thudding as he made for the extra camera on his filing cabinet. If he could get a picture of this—
“Down boy! Down! One more picture! Just one more!”
His fingers reached the camera in the same instant that Rainbow’s jaws reached his throat.
ABOUT “BIGFISH”
This fish story with a shocking twist is reprinted here for the first time since its initial publication.
First publication—A Treasury of American Horror Stories, ed. Frank D. McSherry, Jr., Charles G. Waugh & Martin H. Greenberg; Bonanza Books, 1985.
BIGFISH
After I took an early retirement from the aircraft industry, my wife, Matty, and I decided we liked the area around Puget Sound too much to move south as we’d always planned. California beckoned—we had a married daughter in Santa Barbara, after all—but our hearts were in the forests and mountains and waterways of Washington. We were even willin
g to put up with the dreary, rainy winters in order to revel in the sheer delights of the rest of the year.
Our retirement home was the vacation cabin on the western edge of the Sound that I’d added to so diligently over the years. It was not far from a state park, in a wooded area that seemed infinitely remote—even though a half-hour’s drive would have taken us into Winslow or Bremerton, where the ferry to Seattle left several times each day.
Matty and I were both in our mid-fifties, but we jogged every morning and kept in good shape. One of the reasons I’d retired early was to spend more time with Matty, and here in our wooded retreat we were away from the city’s tensions and temptations. Our few neighbors, retired people like ourselves, were out of sight down the road. If we stayed around the cabin we were unlikely to see anyone except the mailman passing during the course of the day.
“I do miss Ellen,” Matty would say occasionally, referring to our daughter in California. “And our grandchild. I wish we could go visit them.”
“Now, Matty, you know that’s impossible right now. We’re just relaxing, enjoying our retirement. Maybe in the winter we can take a trip down.”
“That’s what you said last year, but we never went.”
This day, a warm August afternoon when it felt good to be alive, we were walking back to the house after strolling a fair distance when a little Japanese car with Oregon plates appeared suddenly over the crest of the hill. A man and woman and two children were crowded into it with suitcases and other vacation gear. As they reached us the car paused and the woman stuck her head out the window. “We’re looking for Bigfish,” she announced. “This the way to see Bigfish?”
“What?” Matty and I looked at each other, uncomprehending.
“Bigfish—you know, that giant salmon they’re exhibiting in a van.”
“Haven’t heard about it,” I admitted. “Once in a while there’s talk of Bigfoot, but never Bigfish.” Bigfoot, the legendary Yeti of the Himalayas or the Sasquatch of the Canadian Rockies, had been sighted and even photographed in several northwestern states. A great furry creature that walked upright like a man, Bigfoot was always good for newspaper space on days when the news was slow. But Bigfish was a new one on me.
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