Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  He lighted a candle and turned, gun lifted in a shaking hand. There was no living man in the room except himself. But his distended eyes focused themselves on the mantelpiece — and the object on it.

  He stood frozen, his brain at first refusing to register what his eyes revealed. Then he croaked inhumanly and the gun crashed on the hearth as it slipped through his numb fingers.

  John Wilkinson was dead, with a bullet through his heart. It had been three days since Saul had seen his body nailed into the crude coffin and lowered into the grave in the old Wilkinson family graveyard. For three days the hard clay soil had baked in the hot sun above the coffined form of John Wilkinson.

  Yet from the mantel John Wilkinson’s face leered at him — white and cold and dead.

  It was no nightmare, no dream of madness. There, on the mantelpiece rested John Wilkinson’s severed head.

  And before the fireplace, up and down, up and down, scampered a creature with red eyes, that squeaked and squealed — a great grey rat, maddened by its failure to reach the flesh its ghoulish hunger craved.

  Saul Wilkinson began to laugh — horrible, soul-shaking shrieks that mingled with the squealing of the grey ghoul. Saul’s body rocked to and fro, and the laughter turned to insane weeping, that gave way in turn to hideous screams that echoed through the old house and brought the sleepers out of their sleep.

  They were the screams of a madman. The horror of what he had seen had blasted Saul Wilkinson’s reason like a blown-out candle flame.

  * * *

  2. — MADMAN’S HATE

  IT WAS those screams which roused Steve Harrison, sleeping in an upstairs chamber. Before he was fully awake he was on his way down the unlighted stairs, pistol in one hand and flashlight in the other.

  Down in the hallway he saw light streaming from under a closed door, and made for it. But another was before him. Just as Harrison reached the landing, he saw a figure rushing across the hall, and flashed his beam on it.

  It was Peter Wilkinson, tall and gaunt, with a poker in his hand. He yelled something incoherent, threw open the door and rushed in.

  Harrison heard him exclaim: “Saul! What’s the matter? What are you looking at—” Then a terrible cry: “My God!”

  The poker clanged on the floor, and then the screams of the maniac rose to a crescendo of fury.

  It was at this instant that Harrison reached the door and took in the scene with one startled glance. He saw two men in nightshirts grappling in the candlelight, while from the mantel a cold, dead, white face looked blindly down on them, and a grey rat ran in mad circles about their feet.

  Into that scene of horror and madness Harrison propelled his powerful, thick-set body. Peter Wilkinson was in sore straits. He had dropped his poker and now, with blood streaming from a wound in his head, he was vainly striving to tear Saul’s lean fingers from his throat.

  The glare in Saul’s eyes told Harrison the man was mad. Crooking one massive arm about the maniac’s neck, he tore him loose from his victim with an exertion of sheer strength that not even the abnormal energy of insanity could resist.

  The madman’s stringy muscles were like steel wires under the detective’s hands, and Saul twisted about in his grasp, his teeth snapping, beastlike, for Harrison’s bull-throat. The detective shoved the clawing, frothing fury away from him and smashed a fist to the madman’s jaw. Saul crashed to the floor and lay still, eyes glazed and limbs quivering.

  Peter reeled back against a table, purple-faced and gagging.

  “Get cords, quick!” snapped Harrison, heaving the limp figure off the floor and letting it slump into a great arm-chair. “Tear that sheet in strips. We’ve got to tie him up before he comes to. Hell’s fire!”

  The rat had made a ravening attack on the senseless man’s bare feet. Harrison kicked it away, but it squeaked furiously and came charging back with ghoulish persistence. Harrison crushed it under his foot, cutting short its maddened squeal.

  Peter, gasping convulsively, thrust into the detective’s hands the strips he had torn from the sheet, and Harrison bound the limp limbs with professional efficiency. In the midst of his task he looked up to see Richard, the youngest brother, standing in the doorway, his face like chalk.

  “Richard!” choked Peter. “Look! My God! John’s head!”

  “I see!” Richard licked his lips. “But why are you tying up Saul?”

  “He’s crazy,” snapped Harrison. “Get me some whiskey, will you?”

  As Richard reached for a bottle on a curtained shelf, booted feet hit the porch outside, and a voice yelled: “Hey, there! Dick! What’s wrong?”

  “That’s our neighbor, Jim Allison,” muttered Peter.

  He stepped to the door opposite the one that opened into the hall and turned the key in the ancient lock. That door opened upon a side porch. A tousle-headed man with his pants pulled on over his nightshirt came blundering in.

  “What’s the matter?” he demanded. “I heard somebody hollerin’, and run over quick as I could. What you doin’ to Saul — good God Almighty!”

  He had seen the head on the mantel, and his face went ashen.

  “Go get the marshal, Jim!” croaked Peter. “This is Joel Middleton’s work!”

  Allison hurried out, stumbling as he peered back over his shoulder in morbid fascination.

  Harrison had managed to spill some liquor between Saul’s livid lips. He handed the bottle to Peter and stepped to the mantel. He touched the grisly object, shivering slightly as he did so. His eyes narrowed suddenly.

  “You think Middleton dug up your brother’s grave and cut off his head?” he asked.

  “Who else?” Peter stared blankly at him.

  “Saul’s mad. Madmen do strange things. Maybe Saul did this.”

  “No! No!” exclaimed Peter, shuddering. “Saul hasn’t left the house all day. John’s grave was undisturbed this morning, when I stopped by the old graveyard on my way to the farm. Saul was sane when he went to bed. It was seeing John’s head that drove him mad. Joel Middleton has been here, to take this horrible revenge!” He sprang up suddenly, shrilling, “My God, he may still be hiding in the house somewhere!”

  “We’ll search it,” snapped Harrison. “Richard, you stay here with Saul. You might come with me, Peter.”

  In the hall outside the detective directed a beam of light on the heavy front door. The key was turned in the massive lock. He turned and strode down the hall, asking: “Which door is farthest from any sleeping chamber?”

  “The back kitchen door!” Peter answered, and led the way. A few moments later they were standing before it. It stood partly open, framing a crack of starlit sky.

  “He must have come and gone this way,” muttered Harrison. “You’re sure this door was locked?”

  “I locked all outer doors myself,” asserted Peter. “Look at those scratches on the outer side! And there’s the key lying on the floor inside.”

  “Old-fashioned lock,” grunted Harrison. “A man could work the key out with a wire from the outer side and force the lock easily. And this is the logical lock to force, because the noise of breaking it wouldn’t likely be heard by anybody in the house.”

  He stepped out onto the deep back porch. The broad back yard was without trees or brushes, separated by a barbed-wire fence from a pasture lot, which ran to a wood-lot thickly grown with post oaks, part of the woods which hemmed in the village of Lost Knob on all sides.

  Peter stared toward that woodland, a low, black rampart in the faint starlight, and he shivered.

  “He’s out there, somewhere!” he whispered. “I never suspected he’d dare strike at us in our own house. I brought you here to hunt him down. I never thought we’d need you to protect us!”

  Without replying, Harrison stepped down into the yard. Peter cringed back from the starlight, and remained crouching at the edge of the porch.

  Harrison crossed the narrow pasture and paused at the ancient rail fence which separated it from the woods. They were black as
only post oak thickets can be.

  No rustle of leaves, no scrape of branches betrayed a lurking presence. If Joel Middleton had been there, he must have already sought refuge in the rugged hills that surrounded Lost Knob.

  Harrison turned back toward the house. He had arrived at Lost Knob late the preceding evening. It was now somewhat past midnight. But the grisly news was spreading, even in the dead of night.

  The Wilkinson house stood at the western edge of the town, and the Allison house was the only one within a hundred yards of it. But Harrison saw lights springing up in distant windows.

  Peter stood on the porch, head out-thrust on his long, buzzard-like neck.

  “Find anything?” he called anxiously.

  “Tracks wouldn’t show on this hard-baked ground,” grunted the detective. “Just what did you see when you ran into Saul’s room?”

  “Saul standing before the mantelboard, screaming with his mouth wide open,” answered Peter. “When I saw — what he saw, I must have cried out and dropped the poker. Then Saul leaped on me like a wild beast.”

  “Was his door locked?”

  “Closed, but not locked. The lock got broken accidentally a few days ago.”

  “One more question: has Middleton ever been in this house before?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” replied Peter grimly. “Our families have hated each other for twenty-five years. Joel’s the last of his name.”

  Harrison re-entered the house. Allison had returned with the marshal, McVey, a tall, taciturn man who plainly resented the detective’s presence. Men were gathering on the side porch and in the yard. They talked in low mutters, except for Jim Allison, who was vociferous in his indignation.

  “This finishes Joel Middleton!” he proclaimed loudly. “Some folks sided with him when he killed John. I wonder what they think now? Diggin’ up a dead man and cuttin’ his head off! That’s Injun work! I reckon folks won’t wait for no jury to tell ’em what to do with Joel Middleton!”

  “Better catch him before you start lynchin’ him,” grunted McVey. “Peter, I’m takin’ Saul to the county seat.”

  Peter nodded mutely. Saul was recovering consciousness, but the mad glaze of his eyes was unaltered. Harrison spoke:

  “Suppose we go to the Wilkinson graveyard and see what we can find? We might be able to track Middleton from there.”

  “They brought you in here to do the job they didn’t think I was good enough to do,” snarled McVey. “All right. Go ahead and do it — alone. I’m takin’ Saul to the county seat.”

  With the aid of his deputies he lifted the bound maniac and strode out. Neither Peter nor Richard offered to accompany him. A tall, gangling man stepped from among his fellows and awkwardly addressed Harrison:

  “What the marshal does is his own business, but all of us here are ready to help all we can, if you want to git a posse together and comb the country.”

  “Thanks, no.” Harrison was unintentionally abrupt. “You can help me by all clearing out, right now. I’ll work this thing out alone, in my own way, as the marshal suggested.”

  The men moved off at once, silent and resentful, and Jim Allison followed them, after a moment’s hesitation. When all had gone, Harrison closed the door and turned to Peter.

  “Will you take me to the graveyard?”

  Peter shuddered. “Isn’t it a terrible risk? Middleton has shown he’ll stop at nothing.”

  “Why should he?” Richard laughed savagely. His mouth was bitter, his eyes alive with harsh mockery, and lines of suffering were carven deep in his face.

  “We never stopped hounding him,” said he. “John cheated him out of his last bit of land — that’s why Middleton killed him. For which you were devoutly thankful!”

  “You’re talking wild!” exclaimed Peter.

  Richard laughed bitterly. “You old hypocrite! We’re all beasts of prey, we Wilkinsons — like this thing!” He kicked the dead rat viciously. “We all hated each other. You’re glad Saul’s crazy! You’re glad John’s dead. Only me left now, and I have a heart disease. Oh, stare if you like! I’m no fool. I’ve seen you poring over Aaron’s lines in ‘Titus Andronicus’:

  “Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves, and set them upright at their dear friends’ doors!”

  “You’re mad yourself!” Peter sprang up, livid.

  “Oh, am I?” Richard had lashed himself almost into a frenzy. “What proof have we that you didn’t cut off John’s head? You knew Saul was a neurotic, that a shock like that might drive him mad! And you visited the graveyard yesterday!”

  Peter’s contorted face was a mask of fury. Then, with an effort of iron control, he relaxed and said quietly: “You are over-wrought, Richard.”

  “Saul and John hated you,” snarled Richard. “I know why. It was because you wouldn’t agree to leasing our farm on Wild River to that oil company. But for your stubbornness we might all be wealthy.”

  “You know why I wouldn’t lease,” snapped Peter. “Drilling there would ruin the agricultural value of the land — certain profit, not a risky gamble like oil.”

  “So you say,” sneered Richard. “But suppose that’s just a smoke screen? Suppose you dream of being the sole, surviving heir, and becoming an oil millionaire all by yourself, with no brothers to share—”

  Harrison broke in: “Are we going the chew the rag all night?”

  “No!” Peter turned his back on his brother. “I’ll take you to the graveyard. I’d rather face Joel Middleton in the night than listen to the ravings of this lunatic any longer.”

  “I’m not going,” snarled Richard. “Out there in the black night there’s too many chances for you to remove the remaining heir. I’ll go and stay the rest of the night with Jim Allison.”

  He opened the door and vanished in the darkness.

  Peter picked up the head and wrapped it in a cloth, shivering lightly as he did so.

  “Did you notice how well preserved the face is?” he muttered. “One would think that after three days — Come on. I’ll take it and put it back in the grave where it belongs.”

  “I’ll kick this dead rat outdoors,” Harrison began, turning — and then stopped short. “The damned thing’s gone!”

  Peter Wilkinson paled as his eyes swept the empty floor.

  “It was there!” he whispered. “It was dead. You smashed it! It couldn’t come to life and run away.”

  “We’ll, what about it?” Harrison did not mean to waste time on this minor mystery.

  Peter’s eyes gleamed wearily in the candlelight.

  “It was a graveyard rat!” he whispered. “I never saw one in an inhabited house, in town, before! The Indians used to tell strange tales about them! They said they were not beasts at all, but evil, cannibal demons, into which entered the spirits of wicked, dead men at whose corpses they gnawed!”

  “Hell’s fire!” Harrison snorted, blowing out the candle. But his flesh crawled. After all, a dead rat could not crawl away by itself.

  * * *

  3. — THE FEATHERED SHADOW

  CLOUDS had rolled across the stars. The air was hot and stifling. The narrow, rutty road that wound westward into the hills was atrocious. But Peter Wilkinson piloted his ancient Model T Ford skillfully, and the village was quickly lost to sight behind them. They passed no more houses. On each side the dense post oak thickets crowded close to the barbed-wire fences.

  Peter broke the silence suddenly:

  “How did that rat come into our house? They overrun the woods along the creeks, and swarm in every country graveyard in the hills. But I never saw one in the village before. It must have followed Joel Middleton when he brought the head—”

  A lurch and a monotonous bumping brought a curse from Harrison. The car came to a stop with a grind of brakes.

  “Flat,” muttered Peter. “Won’t take me long to change tires. You watch the woods. Joel Middleton might be hiding anywhere.”

  That seemed good advice. While Peter wrestled with rusty metal
and stubborn rubber, Harrison stood between him and the nearest clump of trees, with his hand on his revolver. The night wind blew fitfully through the leaves, and once he thought he caught the gleam of tiny eyes among the stems.

  “That’s got it,” announced Peter at last, turning to let down the jack. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

  “Listen!” Harrison started, tensed. Off to the west had sounded a sudden scream of pain or fear. Then there came the impact of racing feet on the hard ground, the crackling of brush, as if someone fled blindly through the bushes within a few hundred yards of the road. In an instant Harrison was over the fence and running toward the sounds.

  “Help! Help!” it was the voice of dire terror. “Almighty God! Help!”

  “This way!” yelled Harrison, bursting into an open flat. The unseen fugitive evidently altered his course in response, for the heavy footfalls grew louder, and then there rang out a terrible shriek, and a figure staggered from the bushes on the opposite side of the glade and fell headlong.

  The dim starlight showed a vague writhing shape, with a darker figure on its back. Harrison caught the glint of steel, heard the sound of a blow. He threw up his gun and fired at a venture. At the crack of the shot, the darker figure rolled free, leaped up and vanished in the bushes. Harrison ran on, a queer chill crawling along his spine because of what he had seen in the flash of the shot.

  He crouched at the edge of the bushes and peered into them. The shadowy figure had come and gone, leaving no trace except the man who lay groaning in the glade.

  Harrison bent over him, snapping on his flashlight. He was an old man, a wild, unkempt figure with matted white hair and beard. That beard was stained with red now, and blood oozed from a deep stab in his back.

  “Who did this?” demanded Harrison, seeing that it was useless to try to stanch the flow of blood. The old man was dying. “Joel Middleton?”

  “It couldn’t have been!” Peter had followed the detective. “That’s old Joash Sullivan, a friend of Joel’s. He’s half crazy, but I’ve suspected that he’s been keeping in touch with Joel and giving his tips—”