HEARTTHROB Read online

  It took no tune at all for Albert's clientele to grow — in terms of number and of influence and wealth. Preparatory to each courtroom confrontation, from each of which he emerged the clear victor, he would pay a visit to the seller of special fish. Each time the price went up, but not considerably, and after all Albert Able was fast becoming a man of means who could afford to spend a bit on the delights of the stomach. So he did not balk at the prices, not until that fateful day when the price quoted was no less than five thousand dollars! Albert gaped at the fish seller, hardly believing his ears. Then he stepped back from his counter and his face took on his courtroom demeanor. No, he would not pay the price. As a matter of fact, he really didn't believe that he required the services of the fish seller any longer. Really, it had been nothing more than some sort of hallucination anyway — yes, that was it. Really, it had been Albert's talents alone that had given him his successes.

  The man in the white apron nodded and smiled at Albert's little speech. He said that he understood fully and that, if such was the gentleman's decision, so be it. But there was one thing. Without Albert's support, he'd have to find another customer. It might not be too hard to do that, considering — well, this special item he had for sale.

  It took only a moment for the gasping Albert Able to decide. He took the original fish offered, writing out a hasty check for five thousand dollars. He also took the second, the one which the fish seller gave him for nothing, the one which made Albert realize that he'd be coming here again and again... the one with Albert's own face...

  I think of Albert Able often... as often as I am served fish. His story, I find, is... well... food for thought...

  DARK SECRET

  The story of the Knights of Hell

  There are places in this world where darkness rules undisputed, places where the light of the sun is an unwelcome foreigner, places such as the catacombs under ancient cities and the tombs of the dead, or the depths of steaming jungles closed from light by thick growths above... To places such as these the dwellers of the Dark are drawn, for it is there they can adapt best, they can dwell without distraction... and grow... But there is darkness among man's civilized dwellings as well, and sometimes when conditions are right — when the dark, the dank, the fetid and the foul are found in the precise measures — the trappings of modern civilization are but a veneer, a mask which for a time hides the existence of something primeval... a creeping something...

  The Knights of Hell ranged in age from twelve to seventeen, but among the gangs of the streets in Spanish Harlem they were known for their swift brand of brutal justice which involved discriminate use of flesh-rending blades, bone-crushing pipes, face-maiming chains and other implements of similar delicacy. In the two-block tenement area where the Knights held sway, young boys between the ages of twelve and seventeen found it wise at least to render due obedience to the gang; the ideal, of course, was to be an actual member. But membership was not all that freely bestowed. One had to be invited. Big Juan was invited, but he turned the offer down. That was the beginning of the end for the Knights of Hell.

  It was a thing unheard of — turning down membership. Big Juan himself was not considered to be all that valuable to the gang. He was in fact considered to be quite stupid for a boy of thirteen. Slow in speech, slow in movement, he was assessed to have the mental power of a lad half of his age. The only assets he offered were his size and his strength, both of which were considerable. For, stupid as he might be, no one had quite enough nerve to pick on Big Juan — certainly not on a one-to-one basis. His explanation for not wishing to join the gang was as unnerving as the refusal itself. The Knights of Hell had meetings in the late afternoon, he said. He was busy in the late afternoon, and that was that.

  Except, of course, that it wasn't. What was Big Juan up to? The question became the main topic of conversation among the Knights. There were some who suspected that he had a girl friend, but most agreed that no girl would bother with the big hulking idiot. There were others who thought that he might have taken up with a rival gang, but that too seemed unlikely. The question, however, had to be resolved. A watch therefore would be kept on Big Juan and his movements duly reported.

  It was not long before the reports were assessed. Every day at about four in the afternoon, Big Juan went to an area, which contained a block of condemned buildings. He would enter one building in particular and stay there, sometimes till six. Then he would go home. The secret, obviously, was in that building. And so it was that on one particular Tuesday, the Knights of Hell watched as Big Juan entered the cankerous shell of what had once been an apartment house. Silently they followed, listening in the darkness. Ah! There was a basement see the stairs there! And yes they could hear Big Juan down there, whispering to someone. Someone was living here perhaps, or perhaps the someone had slipped in earlier, through another way. In any case, the Knights soon would know.

  "Juan!" they called out. "We're coming down!

  "No!" Big Juan shouted back. "Wait!" And with speed no one had ever seen before, the large boy came bounding up the stairs. "No — please! You cannot go down there!"

  But of course there was no way Big Juan was going to stop them. His brute force, even he realized, was no match for the sharp knives and razors, the chains and bludgeons, and — yes — the small, pearl-handled pistol, which one of the Knights now was aiming directly at Big Juan's chest. "We will go down, Juan," the leader said. "We will go down and we will see."

  They did. From upstairs Big Juan heard it all. The shouts, the screams, the firing of two shots from the small pearl-handled pistol, and then silence. He went down the stairs sobbing, knowing full well, what he would see at the bottom, in the dark, cold cellar. The smell of death was everywhere. All the boys who perhaps were not his friends but were not his enemies, either. But they weren't the important things. His face wet with tears, he called out a name in a whisper, and then called out the same name louder. Finally he shouted the name, a strange name that was not English and wasn't Spanish, a name that the Thing had told him. It was when the echo of his own voice came back into his brain that Big Juan knew. The Thing, which was his friend, was gone. But perhaps... yes, perhaps... perhaps it would come back... after a time, when it knew only Juan was here.

  And so Big Juan sat down in the cold dark cellar. He sat down among the remains of the Knights of Hell... to wait for a friend...

  A sad ending? Perhaps so, but Juan's despair need not be yours. No, not if in your neighborhood there is a damp place, which always is shrouded in darkness... Why not visit there some night? You may meet a friend... a lifelong friend...

  THE MASKED DOLLS

  The story of Stanton Fry

  Do you believe in the powers of voodoo? There are many, many people who do, you know. Ah yes, it is quite true that the majority of these believers are not what you might call educated people, and so I suppose that you, with your superior knowledge, might have a case for saying that voodoo — and the effects which have been ascribed to it — well, they're not much more than silly superstition. Stanton Fry and his friends would have agreed with you completely, you know. But let us consider what happened to Stanton Fry, shall we?

  A wealthy young man was Stanton Fry. Excellent Bostonian family, Harvard educated, thinking in fact of running for a Congressional seat. His yacht in the summers always was a setting for what we have come to call the "beautiful people." This particular summer the yacht and its people were meandering about the Caribbean. It was, of course, in Haiti that the subject of voodoo came to the forefront of the group's conversation.

  Stanton Fry was a disbeliever, a scoffer, if you will. Whether or not everyone else in his entourage shared his views in reality, the fact was that all of them voiced agreement. One does not, after all, purposely challenge the strongly felt views of one's host, especially when that host had the power of wealth and family behind him. However, even though there were no dissenters with regard to his stated views, Stanton Fry insisted upon demonstrating
the correctness of those views. Besides, the group was running just a bit dry on new entertainment ideas.

  It was arranged, through a local official — who, it must be said, did his best to warn against the whole thing — that an accepted practitioner of the voodoo art put on a show aboard the yacht. During the afternoon prior to the evening selected, a small rowboat delivered an old white-haired black man who, when he confronted Stanton Fry, said that he had been asked to perform before Mr. Fry and his friends. He wished to know exactly what kind of performance was requested. Stanton Fry, his eyes twinkling, responded, "Proof." He then elaborated. "Whatever you do tonight, everyone on board will be looking for your tricks. We'll find them, believe me. You're supposed to be an expert — see if you can fool us!"

  The black man replied that voodoo did not attempt to fool anyone, which it was nothing to laugh at, to treat lightly. Nonetheless, he would do his best to prove his powers — and the power inherent in the thing, which was called voodoo.

  There was a bit of drinking that night before the old man appeared, and it took Stanton Fry more than a few minutes to get his guests quiet. When he had center stage, Stanton Fry introduced the old man who was going to "perform wonders before their very eyes." He laughed at his own words, and then stood aside as the old man smiled at the group.

  "You do not believe," he said, "but look upon these." The these he referred to were dolls, quite a few of them, which he took out of an old battered basket. Each of the dolls had its face hidden, a tiny scarf-like cloth tied around its head. The old man handed a doll to each of the guests. The last to receive one was Stanton Fry. As the final exchange took place, the old man's eyes narrowed, then he turned again to the group as a whole. "Here," he said, "are steel pins, long and sharp. If you would know the power of voodoo, merely take a pin and pass it through the doll you hold."

  Eagerly Stanton Fry's guests grabbed for the pins, holding them poised for a thrust, but none making a further move. They all understood that it was Stanton Fry's party. It was up to him to act first. With a laugh of derision Stanton Fry sent his pin into the torso of the masked doll he had been given. With echoing laughs, other pins followed into the other dolls — in their arms and legs, into their heads. It was all accomplished before the sound of the sudden shriek of horror reached the guests' ears. And by that tune, it was much too late.

  The silence was broken only by the dipping oars of the boat which rowed the old man toward the shoreline as the guests of Stanton Fry looked from the unmasked dolls they clutched — dolls which all wore the face of their host — to the mangled, bloodied body of Stanton Fry himself, twisted and torn on the deck of his very expensive yacht...

  Needless to say, that night there were those who changed their minds about the powers of voodoo.

  How about you? Do you believe — oh, not just in what is known as voodoo, but in any of the Black Arts? Careful, now... don't answer until you're sure that no one else is listening...

  THE EMPTY CLOSET

  The story of Josiah Ward

  Have you noticed that sometimes the most frightening occurrences take place directly as a result of someone's curiosity? "Curiosity killed the cat," we say, and we add, "Let well enough alone." Indeed, several of my tales which you have listened to already have dealt with the theme, but even if they had not, surely there are few among us who are not familiar with the tragedy which the mythical Pandora's curiosity set upon the world simply because she was curious as to what was in a closed box. And yet, we do not learn from others' examples, do we? Josiah Ward really should have known better, but... well, let us speak of Josiah Ward and the curiosity which killed him... Or perhaps it didn't kill him. I can't really say... A young man of twenty-six was Josiah Ward when he was left, through the death of some grand-uncle of whom he'd never heard, a manor in the gray northlands of upper Scotland. Although some way travel from Edinburgh, the manor became such a source of curiosity to its new owner that he took an immediate holiday from his business, a solicitor firm, and presented himself on the doorstep of the old place. Only a caretaker remained of what must have been a sizable household staff, and this man would not be around much longer, if Josiah Ward had his say.

  The man was tall and strongly built, but he had a lazy way of moving and, more important, a rather surly way of replying to questions posed by the new young master on his initial tour of the house. Several of the questions were such, of course, that the man might not be expected to know the answers — such as the identities of the people in some of the old portraits, exactly how many rooms were in the manor, the cost of maintenance — but the new owner became increasingly impatient as question after question was met with the reply that the caretaker had no idea. But it was not until they came to the end of the second-floor corridor and the door, which was held fast by three strong but rusted, bolts that Josiah Ward's temper really flared.

  "That room, sir?" the caretaker asked. "It's a closet of some sort, I think. Empty, it is — bolted and empty. Always has been, I think. A room to be avoided."

  As to why the room was to be avoided, the caretaker merely repeated that such was the case. No, he didn't know why, he just knew that those bolts had been in place for a long time before he came to the manor, and from what the other staff had said at the time he figured it was for a good reason. "But it is empty, sir. They say it always has been," he repeated. He then moved on, an exasperated Josiah Ward following along for the remainder of his tour of the manor.

  It took little more than an hour for his curiosity to bring him back to that door, the proper tools with him to deal with the three bolts. There had to be something on the other side of that door, something worth hiding. A treasure perhaps? Josiah Ward didn't think so. No, it more than likely would be the evidence of some dark family secret. Perhaps it had been within the room that an insane member of the family had been kept, perhaps chained to the wall, his or her hysterical screams cutting through the dark night. Or perhaps the room had been used, long ago, for some dark rituals, the symbols of a trafficking in the Black Arts still upon the walls and floors. But perhaps wasn't good enough, of course. One simply had to know...

  First he tried to hammer the bolts back from their positions, not even bothering about the fact that such noise might bring the caretaker to the scene. The noise didn't, but neither did the hammer have much of an effect on the bolts. They were rusted too fast. The bolts would have to be pried from the wood. The task only took twenty minutes, but when it was done, Josiah Ward's clothing was soaked from the effort. As he opened the door, his heart was beating frantically with excitement. Then he scowled. The caretaker had been right. The room was small; it seemed to be nothing more than a closet, as the man had said. And it was empty. Completely empty, empty even of dust.

  But why would an empty room be locked? There must be some explanation, Josiah Ward decided. And making that decision, he stepped into the room to investigate. After he did so...

  The room was empty. Within the confines of its clean white walls there was nothing... and no one Completely empty except for one instant there who there was a sound... something which might in been the initial stage of a young man's shriek of terror...

  No, there is no trapdoor or any other mechanical trick device which "explains'* this tale. As a matter of fact there's a house not far from your own in which there is a similar room, I'm told. You could, I suppose, investigate the matter yourself... if you're curious...

  IN THE GRAVEYARD ONE NIGHT

  The story of Murphy and O'Toole

  There are things that happen to people that are so disturbing that the story never gets told. What happened to Murphy and O'Toole, for example, happened many years before Murphy told the tale to his eldest son. By that tune O'Toole had been dead for ten years, buried in the graveyard just outside their little village in County Cork. The same graveyard, but an older section, figures prominently in Murphy's tale...

  Both were young lads then, husky and strong, and both had young wives waiting at home
while, on the night of this story, Murphy and O'Toole were drinking with enthusiasm at The Green Inn. The inn and the grog were warm, but the night was quite the opposite. It was a horrible night, the whistling wind whipping ice-chilled rain in all directions so that it stabbed through even the thickest of clothing. Nonetheless, the time came when Murphy and O'Toole decided they had better leave the indoor warmth and get themselves home like the respectable husbands they were. But, just a door or two down from the inn, they stopped their homeward progress as, their faces huddled inside their jackets and caps, they almost collided with a large coal-black steed hitched to an open wagon.

  The horse and wagon were not in motion. There appeared to be something lying down in the rear of the wagon, but no driver was nearby. At least, that is what they thought until a tall man in a black cloak appeared at their side. He, like Murphy and O'Toole, had his face hidden from the weather, but somehow the state of his clothing suggested that he'd been out in the rain for a far longer time than they. He looked to be drenched to the bone as he spoke to them.