Complete Short Fiction, page 70
“Revenge! Yes, I have it in the only way that a decent human being could desire it. I ask any reasonable being how else these murderers could be wiped from the face of the earth, except by other nations, who would never act until they had acted first?
“I have only the vaguest idea what the machine will do with me—it matters not—but I should like to ask you, my great Fuehrer, one question: Where now will you obtain your raw materials?”
He must have timed it exactly. For, as he finished, his figure dimmed.
Dimmed! How else describe the blur that his body became?
And he was gone, merged with the matter with which, he claimed, his life force was attuned.
The madman had one more devastating surprise for us. The dark planet, from which the city had disappeared, was abruptly gone from the orifice. In its place appeared another dark world. As our vision grew accustomed to this new night, we saw that this was a world of restless water; to the remote, dim horizon was a blue-black, heaving sea. Abruptly, the machine switched below the surface, at least ten hellish miles below it must have been, judging from the pressure, I have since been informed.
There was a roar that seemed to shake the earth.
Only those who were with the Fuehrer in the steel room succeeded in escaping. Twenty feet to a great army truck that stood with engines churning—it was not the first time that I was thankful that some car engines are always left running wherever the Fuehrer is present.
The water swelled and surged around our wheels as we raced up the new-paved road, straight up out of the valley. It was touch and go.
We looked back in sheer horror. Never in the world has there been such a titanic torrent, such a whirlpool.
The water rose four hundred feet in minutes, threatened to overflow the valley sides, and then struck a balance. The great new river is still there, raging toward the Eastern Sea.
Author’s Note: This is not quite the end of the file. A few more letters exist, but it is unwise to print more, as it might be possible for Geheime Staats Polizei to trace the individual who actually removed the file Secret Six from its cabinet by ascertaining which was the last letter filed.
It is scarcely necessary to point out that we have seen the answer that Hitler made to Professor Kenrube’s question: “Where now will you obtain your raw materials?”
On June 22nd, three months almost to the day after the destruction of Gribe Schloss, the Nazis began their desperate invasion of Russia.
THE END.
THE GHOST
One of the most unusual tales of haunting and ghosts we’ve seen—and one that might explain what ghosts really are—
“Four miles,” Kent thought, “four miles from, the main-line town of Kempster to the railwayless, village of Agan.” At least, he remembered that much.
He remembered the hill, too, and the farm at the foot of it. Only it hadn’t been deserted when he saw it last.
He stared at the place as the hotel car edged down the long hill. The buildings showed with a curious, stark bleakness. All the visible windows of the farmhouse itself were boarded up. And great planks had been nailed across the barn door.
The yard was a wilderness of weeds and—Kent experienced an odd sense of shock—the tall, dignified old man who emerged abruptly from behind the house, seemed as out of place in that desolate yard as . . . as life itself.
Kent was aware of the driver leaning toward him, heard him say above the roar of the ancient engine:
“I was wondering if we’d see the ghost, as we bypassed; and yep, there he is, taking his morning walk.”
“The ghost!” Kent echoed.
It was as if he had spoken a key word. The sun burst brilliantly from behind an array of dark clouds and flooded the valley with warm light. The blaze of it illuminated the drab old buildings—and wrought changes. The over-all grayness of the house showed in that bright illumination as a faded green.
The old man walked slowly toward the gate that led to the main highway. Nearer now, he seemed taller, thinner, a gaunt caricature of a human being; his black frock coat glinted in the sun.
Kent found his voice. “Ghost!” he said again. “Why, that’s old Mr. Wainwright. He doesn’t look a day older than when I left this part of the world fifteen years ago.”
The old, square-fronted car ground queasily to a stop before the farm gate. The driver turned. It struck Kent that the man was smugly enjoying the moment.
“See that gate?” the fellow asked. “Not the big one; the little one. It’s padlocked, eh?”
Kent nodded. “What about it?”
“Watch!”
The old man stood fumbling at the gate less than ten feet away. It was like gazing at a pantomime, Kent thought; for the man paid no attention to the padlock, but seemed absorbed with some simpler catch.
Abruptly, the patriarch straightened, and pushed at the gate. Kent had no real sense of alienness. Without having given the matter any thought, he believed it was the gate that was going to open, and that it was some unusual aspect of the opening that he had been admonished to watch.
The gate didn’t. It did not so much as stir; not a creak came from its rusty hinges. It remained solid, held in position by the uncompromising padlock.
The old man walked through it.
Through it! Then he turned, seemed to push at some invisible counterpart of the gate and, once again, stood there, as if manipulating a hidden catch.
Finally, apparently satisfied, he faced the car again; and, for the first time, saw it and its occupants. His long, finely wrinkled face lighted.
“Hello, there!” he said.
Kent hadn’t expected speech. The words caught him like a blow. He felt a chill; his mind whirled with a queer, twisting motion that momentarily wrecked the coherence of his thought. He half leaned, half fell back against the seat because his muscles wouldn’t support him.
“Ghost,” he thought finally, dizzily. Good heavens, what was going on here?
The world began to right itself. The land and the horizon straightened; and there was the house and the barn, an almost colorless, utterly lifeless background to the beanpole of an old, old man and the magic gate through which he had stepped.
“Hello!” Kent said shakily. “Hello!”
The old man came nearer, peered; and an expression of surprise flitted across his face. “Why, it’s Mr. Kent. I thought you’d left the Agan Hotel.”
“Eh!” Kent began.
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the driver make a sharp movement with one hand. The man whispered hastily:
“Don’t act surprised at anything the ghost says. It confuses him.”
Ghost! There it was again. Kent swallowed hard. “Am I mad?” he thought. “The last time I saw this old fellow was when I was twenty. He didn’t know my name then. How—”
The old man was speaking again, in bewilderment: “I distinctly remember Mr. Jenkins, the proprietor, informing me that you had found it necessary to leave at once. He said something about a prophecy coming out exactly to the day, August 17th. People are always talking to me about prophecies. But that was the date he said it was, August 17th.”
He looked up, unscrewing the frown from his thin, worn face. “I beg your pardon, young sir. It is very remiss of me to stand here mumbling to myself. May I say that I am glad that the report was untrue, as I have very much enjoyed our several conversations.”
He raised his hat. “I would invite you in for tea, but Mrs. Carmody is not in the best of moods this morning. Poor woman! Looking after an old man must be a great trial; and I dare not add to her afflictions. Good morning to you, Mr. Kent. Good morning, Tom.”
Kent nodded, unable to speak. He heard the driver say:
“S’long, Mr. Wainwright.”
Kent watched, as the tall, frail figure walked slowly across the road behind the car, and moved unhurriedly across the open pasture land to the south. His mind and gaze came back to the car, as the driver, Tom, said:
“Well, Mr. Kent, you’re lucky. You know how long you’re staying at the Agan Hotel.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Jenkins will have your bill ready for you August 17th.”
Kent stared at him, uncertain whether he ought to laugh, or—what! “You’re not trying to tell me that the ghost also tells the future. Why, today’s only July 8th, and I intend to stay till the end of Septem—”
He stopped. The eyes that were staring into his were utterly earnest, humorless: “Mr. Kent, there never was anyone like Mr. Wainwright in the world before. When he tells the future, it happens; it was that way when he was alive, and it’s the same now that he’s dead.
“The only thing is that he’s old. He’s over ninety, and weak in the head. He gets confused; he always mixes the future with the past. To him it is the past, and it’s all equally blurred. But when he says anything as clear as a date, it’s so. You wait and see.”
There were too many words; and the concreteness of them, the colloquial twang of them on the still air, built an oddly insubstantial picture. Kent began to feel less startled. He knew these country folk; and the conviction was suddenly strong in him that, in some obscure way, he was being made the victim of a practical joke.
It wouldn’t do, of course, to say so. Besides, there was the unaccountable episode of the gate.
“This Mrs. Carmody,” he said finally. “I don’t recall her. Who is she?”
“She came to look after the farm when her sister-in-law, the old man’s granddaughter, died.
No blood relation, but—” The driver drew a deep breath, tried hard to look casual, and said: “She’s the one, you know, who murdered old Wainwright five years ago. They put her in the crazy house at Peerton for doing it.”
“Murdered!” Kent said. “What is this—the local ghost story?” He paused; then: “Just a minute. He talked as if he was still living with her.”
“Look, Mr. Kent”—the man was pitying—“let’s not go into why the ghost says what he says. People have tried figuring out what’s going on, and have ended with their brains twisted into seventeen knots.”
“There must be a natural explanation.”
The driver shrugged. “Well, then, you find it.” He added: “I was the one who drove Mrs. Carmody and her two kids from Kempster to the farm here. Maybe you’d like to hear as much of the story as I can tell you the rest of the way to the hotel.”
Kent sat quietly as gears shifted; and the machine moved heavily off. He turned finally to look at the farm. It was just passing out of sight behind a long spread of trees.
That last look showed—desolation, deadness. He shuddered involuntarily, and did not look again. He said: “This story . . . what about it?”
The woman saw the farm as the car slowed at the lip of the hill. She was dimly aware that the car was in low gear, with brakes on, slithering down the loose gravel of the steep incline.
The farm, she thought with a greedy intensity that shook her heavy body; safety at long, long last. And only a senile old man and a girl standing between her and possession.
Between her—and the hard, sordid years that stretched behind her. Years of being a widow with two children in a tenement house, with only an occasional job to eke out the income from the relief department.
Years of hell!
And here was heaven for the taking. Her hard blue eyes narrowed; her plump, hard body grew taut—if she couldn’t take the treasure of security that was here, she’d better—
The thought faded. Fascinated, she stared at the valley farm below, a green farmhouse, a great red barn and half a dozen outhouses. In the near distance a vast field of wheat spread; tiny wheat, bright green with a mid-spring greenness.
The car came down to the level of the valley; and trees hid the distant, rolling glory of the land. The automobile came to a stop, its shiny front pointed at the gate; and, beside her, the heavily built boy said:
“This it, ma?”
“Yes, Bill!” The woman looked at him anxiously. All her ultimate plans about this farm centered around him. For a moment she was preternaturally aware of his defects, his sullen, heavy, yet not strong face. There was a clumsiness of build in his chunky, sixteen-year-old body that made him something less than attractive.
She threw off that brief pattern of doubt; she ventured: “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Naw!” The thick lips twisted. “I’d rather be in the city.” He shrugged. “But I guess I know what’s good for us.”
“That’s right.” She felt relieved. “In this world it’s what you get, not what you want. Remember that, Bill . . . what is it, Pearl?”
She spoke impatiently. It was the way her daughter always affected her. What good was a pasty-faced, twelve-year-old, too plump, too plain, and without the faintest promise of ever being pretty. With an even sharper annoyance, the woman repeated:
“What is it?”
“There’s a skinny old man coming across the field. Is that Mr. Wainwright, ma?”
Mrs. Carmody turned slowly and stared in the direction Pearl was pointing. And, after a moment, a current of relief surged through her. Until this instant she had felt a sharp edge of worry about the old man. Old, her sister-in-law had written in her occasional letter. But she hadn’t imagined he’d be this old. Why, he must be ninety, a hundred; utterly no danger to her at all.
She saw that the driver had opened the gate, and was coming back to drive the car through. With a new confidence she raised her voice at him:
“Wait!” she said, “wait for the old man. He’s been out for a walk, and he’ll be tired. Give him a lift to the house.”
Might as well make a good first impression, she thought. Politeness was the watchword. Iron hands within velvet gloves.
It struck her that the driver was staring at her peculiarly; the man said: “I wouldn’t count on him driving with us. He’s a queer old duck, Mr. Wainwright is. Sometimes he’s deaf and blind, and he don’t pay attention to no one. And he does a lot of queer things.”
The woman frowned. “For instance?”
The man sighed. “Well, ma’am, it’s no use trying to explain. You might as well start learning by experience, now as later. Watch him.”
The long, thin figure came at an even, slow pace across the pasture to the south. He crossed the road, passing the car less than three feet from the fenders, seemingly completely blind to its presence. He headed straight for the gate.
Not the open gate, wide enough for the car to go through, but the narrow, solidly constructed wooden gate for human beings. He seemed to fumble at some hidden catch. And then—
The gate did not open, but he stepped through as if it had.
Stepped through the solid wooden gate.
For a long second Mrs. Carmody was aware of a harsh woman’s voice screaming. With a terrible shock, she realized it was her own voice.
The effort to choke that wild cry was so horrible that she fell back against the seat, the blood hammering at her temples. She sagged there, sick, cold as ice, her vision blurred, her throat ash dry, every muscle in her body jumping with tiny, painful surges of nervous convulsion; and, for a long moment, her mind wouldn’t hold thoughts.
“Just a minute!” Kent interrupted the driver. “I thought you told me the old man was alive at this time. How come he walked through the gate?”
His narrator stared at him strangely: “Mr. Kent, the only reason that old man hasn’t made us all crazy these past twelve years is that he’s harmless. He walked through gates when he was alive just as he does now. And not only gates. The difference is that we know we buried him. Maybe he’s always been a ghost, and killing him don’t do no good. All we know is, he’s harmless. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
Kent nodded, but there was a world of doubt in his voice as he said:
“I suppose so; anyway, go on.”
The dark blur of fear in the woman’s mind yielded to an awareness of tugging at her arm; and then she realized that the driver was speaking:
“It’s all right, ma’am, he’s just a queer, harmless old man. Nothing to get excited about.”
It was not the driver, but the boy beside her, whose words pulled her together; the boy saying rather scornfully:
“Gee, ma, you sure take on. I seen a trick like that on the stage last year, only it was better than that. It don’t mean a thing.”
The woman began to feel better. Bill was such a solid, practical boy, she thought gratefully. And of course he was right. Some trick, of course, and—what was that stupid little fool of a girl saying. She found herself repeating the question out loud:
“What did you say, Pearl?”
“He sees us, ma—look!” the girl said.
The woman saw that the old man was peering at her over the gate. A thin, long, gentle, wrinkled face it was, bright with gathering interest. He said with an astonishingly crisp voice for one so old: “You’re back from town rather early, Mrs. Carmody. Does that mean an early dinner?”
He paused politely; then: “I have no objection naturally. I am only too happy to fit myself into any routine you desire.”
The deadly thought that came to her was that she was being made ridiculous in some way. Her face grew taut, her eyes narrowed, then she mustered an uncertain smile, and tried to force her mind past his words. The fierce whisper of the driver rescued her from that developing confusion:
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the man said hurriedly, “don’t let on you’re new here. He’s got the gift of seeing, and he’s been acting for months as if you were already living here, and, if you contradict him, it only puzzles him. Toward the end, he was actually calling Mrs. Wainwright by your name. He’s just a queer old man.”
Mrs. Carmody sat very still, her blue eyes brighter, wide with abrupt calculation. The thrill that came was warm along her nerves. Expected!
One of the several things she had feared was this moment of her arrival; but now—expected!
All her careful preparation would go over smoothly. The letter she had forged so painstakingly, in which the dead woman, the old man’s granddaughter, asked her to come to look after her daughter, Phyllis—that prize letter would merely be a confirmation of something which had already been accepted as inevitable. Though how—
