mysterious THE traveler OCTOBER 2008 ... - Three Investigators · THIS is The Mysterious Traveler speaking, asking you to join me on yet another trip into the sinister shadows of

THEmysterioustravelerMAGAZINE


OCTOBER 200835 cents

GREAT STORIES OF MYSTERY, TERROR AND SUSPENSEGREAT STORIES OF MYSTERY, TERROR AND SUSPENSE

SpecialHalloween

Edition!

SpecialHalloween

Edition!

DARRELL PITT

WILLIAM A. HALL

CHRISTOPHER BURDETT

LANNY GILBERT

MARK ZAHN

DARRELL PITT

WILLIAM A. HALL

CHRISTOPHER BURDETT

LANNY GILBERT

MARK ZAHN

THIS is The Mysterious Traveler speaking, asking you to join me onyet another trip into the sinister shadows of the twisted and thebizarre. You should know that we will be accompanied on tonight’sride by a few dear friends of mine. I do hope you find the travelingarrangements agreeable.

To mystery lovers searching for a detour into the odd,I am delighted to say that this very magazine is a perfectvehicle. The eerie narratives found within were scrawled bysome of the finest wordsmiths of the weird that I have comeacross in my many years of traveling.

Like always, the collection of titles found in this sixthissue of THE MYSTERIOUS TRAVELER MAGAZINE are of thevery highest quality I can bind together for your readingpleasure. Each has the ability to ‘thrill and chill’ – and, asalways, I think they make for quite good reading.

I do sincerely hope that you will be satisfied with thisspecial Hallowe’en edition of our magazine. Once again, Ifeel it needs to be said, that if this should be the very lasttime we share each other’s presence, I would like to thinkthat we remained faithful comrades to the last.

And now, without any further introductions, I ask youto join me as we depart on our trip with a chilling tale oflove and loss – and love again – which begins on page four.Good reading, and goodbye.

Sincerely,The Mysterious Traveler

THE MACABRETHE RETURNING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Darrell Pitt 4

SUSPENSEA HALLOWEEN STORY . . . . . . . . . . . . . .William A. Hall 11

STRANGE STORIESEDNA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Christopher Burdett 19

CRIMELET’S MAKE A DEAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lanny Gilbert 21

MYSTERYGRAMMA & THE MOVIE BOY . . . . .Christopher Burdett 24

SHORT SHOCKERDANCE MACABRE . . . . . . . . . . .The Mysterious Traveler 31

SPECIAL FEATURESA WORD ABOUT THE MYSTERIOUS TRAVELER . . . . . . . . . .33

All copyrights are held by their respective authors.

SETH T. SMOLINSKE, Publisher MARK ZAHN, Managing Editor

Dedicated to Robert Arthur & David P. Kogan

FALL 2008

G R E AT S T O R I E S O F M Y S T E RY, T E R R O R , A N D S U S P E N S E


Richard Blackman felt a shiver of fearas he killed the engine and turned tohis wife. The smell from her was ter-rible. Unbearable. He had fought thedesire to put the window down thewhole way home from the cemetery.

Richard looked into her blue eyes.He had always loved her eyes, butnow a white fog shrouded them as if aghost resided within.

"I'm scared," she said thickly, as ifshe had a cold.

He took her cold hand. "It will beall right."

She tried to smile, but the actionresembled a snarl; receding lips baredher teeth like an angry dog.

They exited the car and the neigh-bours drew back, staring in horror athis wife. Someone gasped. Theunknown man at the back pumped abullet into the chamber of the shot-gun. Gary Smith - good ol' reliableGary who had brought their bins offthe path every Tuesday morning forthe last four years - stepped forward,hands clenched as if about to speak ata funeral.

"Richard. We've got to talk.""Yeah?" Richard's heart was bang-

ing a drum in his chest. "What do wehave to talk about?"

Gary's eyes jerked towardsMichelle. "Her."

Richard was terrified, but under-neath the fear dwelt cold anger. "You

In all civilizations since the dawn ofman, respect for the dead has been acommon trait linking us all together, atrait inherent in each human being. Butwhat happens when the laws of naturehave been reversed and the dead riseand come knocking on your door? Theanswer might surprise you...

THE RETURNINGBy DARRELL PITT

Dusk had arrived by the time RichardBlackman arrived home with his wifeto find a crowd had gathered on theirfront lawn. Richard recognised someof them - Renee Jones and her hus-band Bob, Gary Smith, John andBarbara Simmonds - but most of themhe knew only by sight. They werenameless faces from up and down theblock, and some of them were peoplehe did not recognise at all.

He pulled his car slowly into thedriveway of his two-storey white tim-ber home, keeping an eye on thecrowd the whole time. They were notlike a mob of peasants in some oldFrankenstein film, carrying burningtorches and shrieking murder whilethey charged on towards the castle,but he noticed one of them held acrowbar. Another carried a petrol can.A guy near the back of the group nes-tled a sawn off shotgun in his arms.

4 THE MYSTERIOUS TRAVELER MAGAZINE

mean Michelle. My wife. You've beento dinner at our house." He felt theanger bubbling over into rage."There’s nothing to talk about."

A man he did not recognise calledout from the back of the crowd. "Wedon't want her kind on our block."

Richard felt like he had beenslapped.

"We just want to be left alone."Richard said loudly, but he heard athin whine in his voice. “If you leaveus alone there’ll be no trouble.”

No one said anything. A dogbarked further up the street. A car dis-tantly turned a corner, tyres squealing.Canned laughter spilled from some-one’s television.

Richard sucked in the cool subur-ban air and focused on Gary. "Get outof the way."

His neighbour looked arounduncertainly.

"Move," Richard said, taking astep forward.

Gary Smith hesitated a momentbefore slowly moving aside. Severalof the others moved away from them,not from fear, but from revulsion,their eyes riveted towards Michellethe whole time. No one said anything.They simply stared in horror.

Richard understood their silentfascination. It was one thing to hearabout the dead rising from mortuarytables, to see dead people being inter-

viewed on television about theirreturn from the grave. To experiencethe resurrected in person was quite adifferent experience.

Richard's eyes settled momentari-ly upon Renee Jones. She had toldRichard that the talk up and down thestreet was that no one wanted him tobring his wife home. She had talkedabout Michelle in the same way thatsome people talked about homosexu-als or inter-racial couples.

"It's unnatural." That was herexplanation. “God created people tolive and die and move onto the nextworld. Not to be reborn here.”

"Maybe he’s changed his mind,"he told her. "That's natural enough forme."

Seven days. That was how long ittook. God or the Earth or – as somescientists had speculated - a virus cre-ated in some laboratory – was return-ing the dead to life and there was nogood reason for it, or none that any-one could divine. Richard could careless. Michelle had been taken awayfrom him one week ago today; shehad been standing at the kitchen sinkwhen a brain aneurism had killed herdead.

In some countries burials werealready outlawed - cremation wasmandatory - but not here in the good'ol US of A. No siree, even the deadhave rights, they do and everyone has

THE RETURNING 5

a right to walk the streets. No matter how bad they smell. After a year their bodies decom-

posed to the point where there wasnothing left. Only ivory white bones,rotting flesh and putrefying muscle.Michelle would die – again – and thenshe would be finally gone.

But until then she was still hiswife.

Richard looked around at them,daring them with his eyes. He wassuddenly aware of how he andMichelle must look to them. He wasdressed as if ready for a Sunday drive,except for the telltale graveyard dirtstaining his hands and the knees of hisjeans. Michelle was more conspicu-ous. She wore her burial dress, herwedding gown, made from taffeta andsilk and beaded with fake pink pearls.The outfit was now ruined by dirt andmuck. Her distended stomach, preg-nant with death, pushed obscenelyagainst the waistline. Shattered veinsstood out against her grey skin likecracks in granite.

He had driven to the cemetery.Dug up her coffin. Crowbarred openthe lid and released her. She hadalready been scraping at the lid of thecoffin, eyes open and yearning.Despite the rotting stench emanatingfrom her decomposing body, he hadkissed her gently on her lips andhelped her from the pit.

Dead or alive, he still loved her. Now he was home. Now he was

going to walk into the house with hiswife. Nothing was going to stop him.Not some damn redneck, hillbillyneighbours. He took another step for-ward and the crowd parted and he feltmomentarily like Moses parting thesea. He reached back and tookMichelle's cold hand. Squeezed ittightly and they walked across thegrass to the front door.

Someone said something at theback of the crowd.

He could not make out the words. He took out his house keys and

had the key in the lock by the time arock hit the veranda and reboundedinto a flowerbed.

"Burn her." The same voiceemanated from somewhere in thecrowd. He recognised it this time. JimSparrow. He managed the fruit marketat the corner. An all around good guy,generally, except he had a bad habit ofusing racial epithets.

Richard had called his attention toit once. "They prefer to be calledAfrican Americans."

Jim, missing two teeth at the front,had grinned toothlessly at him. "Surethey do."

Richard pushed open the frontdoor as another rock skipped off thefront porch and a chorus started attheir backs. Michelle hurried in after


him and he pushed the door shut. Thedoor was solid oak with a deadlockand he had never felt more thankfulfor it than he did at that moment.Something slammed against the door- louder than a rock – it sounded likea brick.

He stepped back from the door,staring at it in a kind of disbelief.

"They're mad," he said. He wasshaking again and he felt ashamed ofhis fear, but he was a computer pro-grammer, for godsake.

Michelle took his hand. "They don't understand," she said."What's to understand? You're my

wife." As he stood looking at her, hespied a maggot epileptically workingits way through her hair. "I'm getting aweapon. A knife from the kitchen.Just in case."

Something smashed through theirliving room window at that momentas if in response.

"My God," he said.He stumbled down the hallway

past photos tiling the walls; their mar-riage, standing under palm trees inFiji, the flickering ocean in the back-ground, their first date, a snapshottaken by someone whose name hecould never remember. A holiday inVirginia. Another holiday atDisneyland.

He raced into the kitchen, rifledthrough one of the drawers with shak-

ing hands and dragged out the largestknife he could find. He almostlaughed at it because it was so funny,really, the concept of him using thisagainst this mob outside and that'sexactly what they were. A mob.Because now they had begun to chantsomething.

Burn.Burn. Burn. Burn.Another window broke and he ran

back to the hallway feeling terriblyafraid. Michelle was standing in frontof the door, staring at it with the sameghost filled eyes.

She said something and he did notunderstand her. Only when she spokeagain did the words make sense."They're our neighbours. Friends.How can they do this?"

"It would be different if it hap-pened to them." Tears were in hiseyes. He was shaking badly and heknew that Michelle could see his fearbut that couldn't be helped. He wasafraid. Absolutely terrified. Then heinhaled and sucked in something thatmade time stand still for him.

Smoke. God, they were burning down the

house! A crackling sound came from the

living room. He hurried to the living room with

Michelle behind him. Judging by thebroken glass on the floor, a makeshift

THE RETURNING 7

Molotov cocktail had broken acrossthe living room floor. The settee wason fire. Richard glanced through thewindow. He could see Gary, his armsspread, talking to some people, look-ing ineffectual as he tried to commu-nicate with the crowd.

Richard stamped at the burningcouch, flipping it over backwards sothat the fire was smothered. Clouds ofsmoke billowed from under it.

He hurried over to the window. "What can you see?" Michelle

asked."Most of them are gone." He was

about to suggest they make a break forthe car when he heard an enormouswhoosh. Jamming his head throughthe broken glass of the front window,he saw their Ford sedan go up inflames.

Someone he had never seen beforehad set their vehicle alight. The guyshot a venomous look in his directionbefore racing away from the vehicleand out of sight. Some of the peopleon the lawn looked in his direction.He saw something approaching pityon the face of Renee Jones.

"This is our home," Richardscreamed. "Get the hell –"

Something hit his face so hard hewas thrown backwards and the backof his head hit the broken glass. Hefell back and hit the carpeted floor, asmuch from shock as from pain.

Michelle screamed. A brick. Someonehad thrown a brick at him.He lay on the floor, shaking with ter-ror. These people meant business.They were going to burn the housedown with them inside. Some of themhad guns. They might even shootthem if they tried to escape.

"I'm calling the cops," Richardsaid.

He raced back to the hall table andsnatched up the phone. Dialling nine-one-one, he wondered how the policewould respond. The law was still thelaw, and no matter how people feltabout –

"No!" Michelle screamed.A barrel of a rifle was jammed

through the break in the living roomwindow. It pointed directly at him.Richard tried to jump back from theaim of the weapon, but there was notime. A roar filled the room and thehandset of the telephone exploded andjerked out of his hand.

"Oh God no –"He gripped his hand. His ring fin-

ger, just above his wedding ring, wasmissing.

Michelle grabbed the barrel of theweapon as it fired again. Putrefyingorgans and stinking flesh explodedfrom her shoulder as she was thrownbackwards. Somehow she stayed onher feet. Richard cried out, but out ofinstinct. Michelle could not be hurt.


She twisted the gun out of the handsof the shooter and dragged theweapon into the living room.

Blood was oozing from his sev-ered finger, but Richard ignored thethudding pain. He stumbled to hiswife’s side. "We've got to get out ofhere."

He jammed his bloody handagainst his shirt, grabbed Michellewith his other hand and dragged herfrom the room. Still clenching therifle, she tried to speak as he led themup the stairs. Only when they were intheir bedroom did he realise she wasresisting his grip.

"What?" he asked.She said in a throaty voice, "We

should get out of the house. They'retrying to burn it down. We'll betrapped up here."

Michelle was right, he thought.This was stupid. They would betrapped like rats in a cage.

He crossed the room to the win-dow overlooking the back yard. Theentire back wall of the house wasalight. Smoke was everywhere. Acouple of guys were running aroundtheir yard as if they owned it, sprayingpetrol against the side of the building.

Richard felt a terrible sense ofimpotency. They could not exit thehouse. They could not stay where theywere. There seemed to be only twochoices. Stay here and wait until the

flames consumed them or make abreak for it. Run. Try to fight theirway through the crowd.

He sat down heavily on their bed.The air within the room was hazy. Ithad been a mistake to bring Michelleback to the house. He should havecollected her and driven away. Lefttheir home. Left their lives behindthem.

The mattress moved underMichelle's weight as she sat on thebed next to him.

She took his hand. The skin hadreceded from her fingernails, lookinggrey and bloated.

This is my wife's hand, he thought.He looked into her face and drank inher features; her fog-filled eyes, hermottled grey pallor, the rips in herface. She was falling apart in front ofhim and he did not care.

"I love you," he said. "I love you," she said. "I will love

you till the end of time." And upon saying these words, she

stood, raised the rifle and brought itsbutt straight down hard upon the topof his head.

Richard opened his mouth toprotest, but no sound escaped. Shelooked at him with an expression ofpure love as she fell away from him,fell into darkness as he found himselfswimming in a well deeper than thedeepest ocean. Sounds come distantly

THE RETURNING 9


to him from the entrance to the well.Men's voices. Women screaming inhorror. He heard the crackling of firemorph into laughter. He was very hot,then so freezing cold that he struggledto breathe.

The well closed above him and heslept.

When he awoke, he found himselfstaring up at a blank, grey ceiling, anendless horizon. His eyes shifted andhe saw the edge where the ceiling metthe walls. His eyes angled downwardsuntil he saw electronic gadgets thatmonitored his vital signs, an emptybed covered with impossibly starchedsheets and a man sitting in a chairwith a glum look on his face.

Gary Smith. This was a hospital. Fire. He remembered burning.

Then he remembered –"Michelle," Richard tried sitting

up, but realised that his entire bodywas in pain. He fell back onto the pil-low. "Michelle. What happened –"

"Take it easy Richard. You've beenout of it for two whole days."

"My wife –" He tried to speak, butthe words would not come. His headhurt. As did his hand. He looked downand saw the bandaged finger.Someone had shot off his finger andthe remainder of the digit waswrapped in a mile of bandage.Richard wondered briefly if he still

wore his wedding ring. There were tears in Gary Smith's

eyes. "I'm sorry about what happened.Truly sorry. They were –" He correct-ed himself. "We were out of control.We did it out of fear. We were..."

"Monsters," Richard said. Gary nodded stiffly.Richard asked, "Where is my

wife?" "She's gone," Gary said. "She

saved you, partner. She carried youout of that house. Laid you out on thelawn."

"And then?" Richard's mind wasfilled with a terrible image ofMichelle being dragged to the ground.Beaten like an animal. Set alight.

"She walked back into the house,"Gary said. "As God is my saviour,

she walked back into the house. Shesaved you. She sacrificed herself foryou."

Tears gathered at Richard’s eyes asthe two sat in silence. Finally he said,“There’s one thing I’ll never under-stand.”

Gary Smith leaned forward."What's that, Richard?"

"I don’t understand,” Richardsaid,“if the dead can respect life somuch, why can't the living?"

A HALLOWEEN STORY 11

Think back – can you remember yourfirst true love? Can you recollect thepalpitating heartbeat, the sweaty hands,the exhuberant, frenzied emotions?Now if you will, multiply those emotionsby a thousand and you’ll have some-what of an idea just how Richie is feel-ing right now...

A HALLOWEEN STORYBy WILLIAM A. HALL

Her name was Lucy Devlin and shewas the first girl I had ever met thatstirred any feeling that might bethought of as true affection. Lovewas too strong a word for a thirteen-year-old boy but what I did feel forher was as close to that emotion asmy young mind could master. Shewas beautiful; no doubt about that,and the day she came into our class atschool seemed to change everything– especially for the boys. There wassomething unseen that passedbetween her and the rest of us, and itwas something electric and powerfuland full of an indefinable texture thatwas almost akin to passion.

Her parents had moved here fromsomeplace back in the East and thatwas as definite a location as I everremember being told. Her father wasreported to be a doctor although, to

my knowledge, no one ever reallymet him. She told us her mother hadwhat was described as a “nervouscondition” and she and her fathermoved to our little town to “startover”, an explanation that wasaccepted without any reservation.

On the first day she was intro-duced to her classmates our teacher,Miss White, assigned her a desk thatwas catty-cornered to my own. Shetook her seat and for the remainder ofthe day I found my eyes straying overto glance at her, a lingering glancethat soon became a persistent stare.She had long jet-black hair, dark eyesthat seemed to reach into a bottom-less universe, and I was attracted toher hands. They were smooth olivecolored skin with sleek nimble fin-gers ending in shiny painted finger-nails. On her left hand she wore agold ring which held a smooth roundblack stone she later told me was pol-ished pearl. But stranger to me wasthat I felt about her a kind of energy,something that held me like a tangi-ble force, luring me to watch heralmost as if pulling against my ownwill.

At the end of that first day thefinal bell rang in the late afternoon. Ihurriedly gathered up all of my booksbefore stuffing them into my back-pack and when I turned toward the


doorway Lucy had disappeared. Iwas swallowed up in the group ofdeparting students as I made my waydown the crowded hallway and out-side to freedom.

The days of September were stillwarm but the long slant of afternoonlight promised the change of autumnwas soon coming. As I shuffleddown the sidewalk in the direction ofhome I inexplicably found myselfdisappointed at having had the newgirl slip away so quickly. I was cer-tainly not in the habit of spendingtime with female classmates but therewas still something about her thatheld my curiosity, something thatdemanded my attention. I was lost inthese thoughts while meanderingdown Sycamore Street, a tree shroud-ed and mostly deserted lane that wasthe favorite part of my daily walkhome. It was cooler here and eerilyquiet and while walking my imagina-tion was afforded a peaceful solitudein which to wander. It was a longstretch that extended for almost a halfmile along a cracked sidewalk litteredwith fallen leaves as well as the occa-sional gum wrapper or discarded sodacan which was always a ready targetfor a swift kick. I was randomlycounting the deep cracks separatingthe sections of the sidewalk when Iwas suddenly startled by a low voice.

“It’s very deserted here, isn’t it?”I caught my breath in a short gasp

looking over toward the line of treesbordering the walkway and therestood Lucy. She was holding a shortstack of books clutched close to herchest peering over them as thoughthey were a sort of shield. Her eyesthat fastened upon mine as if theywere searching for some secretimmediately struck me. They weredeep pools of darkness and yetseemed to hold a strange light insidespilling over from another place.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean tofrighten you.”

I opened my mouth and when Ispoke it came out in a stammer. “I-Iwasn’t, well, what I mean is that Ididn’t see you and you surprised me,that’s all.”

I was suddenly aware it seemedunusually quiet as she moved closerin my direction her eyes never leav-ing mine. “Would you mind walkingme to my house, Richard? I think it’sso lonely to walk alone, don’t you?”

I gave a hesitant nod and in amoment she fell in step beside me.“I…well, everybody calls me Richie.Miss White uses everyone’s realname when she introduces people inclass.”

She smiled. “Okay, Richie, and Ireally do appreciate you walking with


me.”We walked in silence until I said.

“Hey, I didn’t even ask you whereyou live. Are we even going in theright direction?”

She nodded her head in the direc-tion we were walking. “I live in thehouse at the end of Dedman Street.It’s the very last house on the rightnext to that tall iron fence with all theivy covering it.”

I slowed my step thinking aboutwhat she had said while glancing inher direction and saw a lingeringsmile on her lips. I recognized thehouse she was referring to and knewit had been vacant for a very longtime. The place was dark and shut-tered while the yard was a tangledmass of weeds as well as runawayvines and tangled tree roots ripplingthe sprawling yard.

I gave a shallow cough. “That’sthe old Cambridge house. No one haslived there as long as I can remem-ber.”

She said nothing as we continuedwalking eventually turning ontoDedmon. In minutes we were stand-ing in front of the house and I gaspedin puzzled astonishment.

“It’s…what happened? It looks sodifferent!”

“My father bought it and hiredcarpenters and a landscaping firm to

remodel everything.”She stared at me and although her

manner was calm there seemed a noteof challenge in her dark eyes. “Don’tyou like it?”

I opened my mouth before paus-ing. “Yes. I can’t believe it. I’ve justnever seen anything like it.It’s…beautiful.”

She stepped in front of me so nearthat I could feel the soft warmth ofher breath against my face. Her voicewas low and soothing almost like amother patiently calming a frightenedchild. “Why don’t you come inside,Richie? My parents will both be outuntil later in the evening but I knowthey would love to meet you. I couldshow you around. We could go intomy room upstairs and talk. Wouldn’tyou like that, Ritchie? Wouldn’tyou?”

Her voice was soft as a whisperwhile she stared into my eyes with agreat intensity. She was not touchingme and yet I could feel an almostphysical control as if she were willingme to listen, to hold her gaze, to fol-low her like a puppy following itsmaster. I felt suddenly warm and thefeeling grew until it was almost afever as though I were standing infront of a furnace or the mouth of anoven. Without knowing why I sensedslow movement before I felt her hand


slowly close around my wrist. Hergrip was firm and tight like the feel ofsteel shackles yet there was pleasant-ness about it, almost a feeling ofsecurity, protective, while at the sametime desperate. Her grip tightenedpulling me near her before I was sud-denly awash in a strange aroma. Itwas a mixture of chemical heat,something almost toxic like melting–

“Hey! Hey, guys wait up!”I jumped and felt her release me

as I pulled away and hurriedly turnedto see Jimmy Dolan, one of my oldclassmates hurrying up the sidewalkin our direction. I turned away feel-ing momentary embarrassment atbeing seen with this girl. Jimmyapproached while his eyes darteddown the street before I stepped in hisdirection abruptly turning my back onLucy. He hurried past me running inthe direction of a pick-up game offootball being quickly assembled in anearby vacant lot. I wistfully staredinto his face my eyes eagerly follow-ing his excited pursuit of the otherboys. I stood feeling helpless thenglanced back over my shoulder to seeLucy was gone, vanished to insidethe house, as though she had neverbeen there at all. I shrugged off afeeling of unease and hesitant confu-sion before walking alone along thenow empty sidewalk.

That next day was a Friday and Idid not see Lucy again until the fol-lowing Monday at school. I intendedto avoid her but could not and foundmyself staring in her direction. MissWhite rambled on about some forgot-ten subject and suddenly Lucy hadhalf-turned in her chair while westared deeply into each other’s eyes.It was a feeling unlike any other asthough I were no longer in the class-room at all. Everything and everyoneelse had ceased to exist until the bellsignaling the end of class broke thespell. Without thought or remem-brance I found myself walking alonga deserted street in a part of the townI did not recognize while Lucystrolled next to me. Her handbrushed mine until without thought Ireached and held it in my own. Wewalked without speaking althoughsomehow it did not seem necessaryand soon we sat together on a wornwooden picnic table under a leaflessoak tree in a deserted park.

For a time we did not speak aword. I stared at her but she wouldnot meet my gaze instead staring atsome unseen image in the distance.In the next instant she stirred andlooked at me with a tentative smile.

“Last week.” She paused asthough to gather stray thoughts.“Last week, you were afraid to come


inside the house with me. Why?”“I wasn’t afraid. Why do you

think so?”“I could sense it. Do I make you

uncomfortable?”I hesitated. “I think I was so sur-

prised at everything. That old househas been abandoned as long as I canremember.” I smiled. “I alwaysthought it was…haunted.”

“She shrugged. “It’s only a newcoat of paint, some work in the yard,everything cleaned and polished andmade to look new again. Why wouldthat make you afraid?”

I stopped and looked at her sud-denly feeling unsure. “I…I reallywasn’t afraid just confused. I wantedto come inside, I really did, so muchlike some place I needed to comeinside but…”

“But what, Richie?”She was staring at me again, her

eyes holding me, drawing me to herlike the unerring pull of a moth towhite light. She touched my handand hers was ice cold as though it hadbeen buried in snow. She leanedcloser to speak and her voice was lilt-ing almost like a detached melody.

“Friday is Halloween, did youremember? I’m having a party at myhouse. Will you come?” She smiledand gave a low laugh. “If you comeinside for a party then you can see for

yourself it isn’t haunted.”That night I was in my bed as

soon as the light had faded from theday. I was so very tired, so exhaust-ed in fact, that I felt as though I couldnot stay awake another moment. Myeyes closed instantly and although Ifell into sleep I did not rest, insteadmy sleep being dominated by an end-less dream. It was a dream brokeninto randomly attached segments likethe panels of a cartoon in the newspa-per. Each was different and yet thesame, because each was a dreamabout Lucy, and Lucy was pulling mecloser and closer to be near her, sap-ping my emotions and ever ounce ofstrength from inside me. She was soexotically intoxicating, so demandingof every part of me, but my strengthwas something I gave to her willing-ly and without thought.

The next morning I went to schoolfeeling almost as though I resided inmy slumber, my day out of focus andhazy with the only thing seeming realthe presence of Lucy in the class-room. After school I walked herhome without a second thoughtremaining oblivious to the calls frommy male classmates inviting me toother after school activities. Wewalked until we arrived in front ofher house and I stood for a moment tostare at it and oddly felt it was the


most beautiful and appealing place Ihad ever seen in my life. She remind-ed me again of the Halloween partyon Friday and before I left she leanedagainst my face before placing herlips against mine. They were cooland moist like sweet nectar and Iinhaled her breath as it bathed myface in the strength and power of hernearness.

The next night and the night afterand every night until Friday mythoughts were filled with her andnothing else. In the darkness shecame to me in a series of endlessdreams, always drawing me to her,pulling my mind and spirit deeperinside of her until it was as though Ino longer existed, as though I was somuch a part of her as to have becomeonly a ghost of myself and no longerreal. It was as though I was nowwithout form, was now instead onlypart of her being.

Friday and Halloween arrived butI did not go to school. I live alonewith my mother who works longhours and after a morning of cursoryattention she left me for the day. Iwas not so much sick but simplymore tired than I had ever been. Irested in my bed before drifting tosleep; a heavy troubled sleep asthough I were at times suffocatingbefore falling again into dreams of

Lucy, until I awoke to find that mostof the light of day had melted fromthe sky. As darkness descended Istood in front of a long mirror in mytiny bedroom surprised at myself fornot wondering until this very momentwhat I should wear on this night ofcostumes and revelry. In the end Idressed in my normal clothes thenstared with curious fascination at howpale I appeared to be. Soon I waswalking expectantly in the directionof Lucy’s house.

When I arrived darkness had fall-en and there was now a steady coldwind. The night touched me asthough it were cold fingers caressingmy shivering body until I hurried upon to the porch of the house. I couldsee a stream of pale light hidingbehind long parted drapes that hungin the front windows and yet therewas an air of emptiness that hungabout the house. Suddenly the doorsoundlessly opened and there stoodLucy dressed in a black shimmeringgown. Bright red lips and the dark-ness of her deep eyes contrasted herpale skin and I felt her hand reach formy own. I followed her withoutquestion inside until we stood in thecenter of an empty room. She pulledme in the direction of a staircasewhile I paused to stare upward at astone statue that stood against the


wall. It was such a strange form thatI could not make myself look away.There was something familiar aboutit and yet like nothing I had ever seen.It appeared to be the form of a largewoman endowed with wings thathovered about its face and the exag-gerated features of its torso. I strug-gled to find my voice until Lucyspoke.

“It’s a symbol, Richie. It isancient. It is a memento to mark thejourney; your journey, Richie. It isour journey that we will share. It isthe journey to fulfill, to satisfy thedesire you are feeling, the hunger, theneed that calls for your very breath.”

I quickly turned away movedalong by the urgency of Lucy’s guid-ing hand.

The staircase was a series of widehighly polished wood steps, so shinyas to reflect our forms as we climbedtogether. I stared at our muted reflec-tions all the while climbing upwardfeeling Lucy’s body pressing withundisguised urgency against my own.All the while I felt myself becomingfatigued again and could feel thatstrange pressure upon my chest asthough I were somehow being slowlysmothered. We reached a wide land-ing and I abruptly looked up to face ahuge painting hanging against thewall. The frame glimmered as

though it were endowed with someunseen source of light. I focused onthe painting itself hearing the sharpintake of my own breath. The formwas the most beautiful woman I hadever seen, her body emitting sharpfeatures glowing with life. The eyesheld me while the parted lips of themouth seemed to reach for me as ifthey had somehow come alive totouch me, kiss me, to taste me. Thefingers of her hands were long, slen-der, perfectly formed extensionsreaching in my direction until I couldsomehow feel their touch as she long-ingly, lovingly, cradled my face in herhands. Her touch was like fire, hereyes hypnotic, and I once again feltthe pressure in my chest as though Icould barely breathe. I wanted noth-ing more except to hold her---.

“She is Lilith.”Lucy’s mouth was close to my ear

and her breath a hot sweetness. “Hername is Lilith and she is my… moth-er.”

I slowly leaned forward in thedirection of the painting until Lucypulled me away quickly pushing meupward along the stairs until we stoodin front of a tall oak doorway. Thehandle turned of its own accord andthe door swung inward on silenthinges revealing a cavernous roombathed in shadows and shimmers of


light like the reflected colors of aprism. There was a huge bed, fourround smooth mahogany posts sup-porting a glowing canopy of rich silkfabric.

Without even a sense of move-ment we were suddenly upon the bedtogether, Lucy and I, motionless, sideby side. I closed my eyes again feel-ing the weight of pressure against mychest like an invisible weight. I feltmyself being enveloped by blue-black darkness that slowly deepenedbefore feeling Lucy’s moist lipsagainst my ear.

“It will only take the night,Richie. Soon you will rest and youwill at last escape into eternal peacewhile I consume you.”

I struggled to move but insteadwas paralyzed by uneasy fear and thepersistent weight upon my chest. Iopened my mouth to speak but thewarmth of Lucy’s desperate out-stretched hand covered it.

“Lilith wanted you but I said no.You are for me, Richie, and in eterni-ty only I alone will be fulfilled.”

I struggled to open my eyes to doanything to escape her voice but Iwas without a true sense of will.

“It is the way, Richie. It isancient; it is timeless. It is the waysof legends come true. Tonight youwill at last become and cease to be a

man, and yet it will be only a shortjourney into the pleasures of obliv-ion. You will know joy that only oneas me can bring you. It is the way ofthe legend, Richie, it is the way of ourkind, the way of the succubus.”

She moved closer to me, nearer tomy face, licked my mouth, until I wascovered by her form. My mindmoved in slow, measured graspssearching to decipher her words untilat last I remembered.

Succubus. In the words and thelegend. Succubus. The most ancientof demons.

It was then I felt her move aboveme, the oneness of her body. Ireached for her and pulled her near, atlast longing for her nearness, feelingher move inside the length of me likethe eternal warmth of a summer windspreading its fire. I shuddered inmuted cries against the fire of thatlingering blanket, feeling shame,before insatiable hunger, until at lastthe end, which was to become mymoment of ageless submission.

EDNA 19

Kevin is a curious man. Maybe too curi-ous, one could say. He has his eye onhis strange neighbor lady that he heardis a witch. Are you familiar with thephrase ‘curiosity killed the cat?’ Well,in this strange poem, perhaps youwould be lucky to be the cat...

EDNABy CHRISTOPHER BURDETT

Clad in black T-shir t and graysweats ,Kevin sneaks out af ter mid-night ,s teals in the shadows to theedgeof his neighbor 's dr ivewayto open up her mai lboxand peer inside.

Kevin has not seen his neigh-bor--an elder ly woman with thename Edna, whom his ex-wife thought was a witch--for more than a week, has not iced that herwindow shades are a lwaysshut , her garage door a lways down,fears her dead inside,

lying bloated in the tub or decomposing in her easy chairin f ront of the te levis ion.

Since his ex-wife moved inwith her boyfr iend, Kevin has bus-ied himselfwith neighbor-watching:he knows the l i t t le gir l wholivesnext-door joined a sof tbal lteam,has s tood peeking throughdrawn shadesas her fa ther coaches her.He suspects that the man twohouses down has lost his job.He knows the woman threehouses far theris having an affair ;he 's seen the black BMW inthe dr ivewayafternoons when her husbandis a t work.But there 's been no s ign of Edna.If her mai lbox is empty, hereasons,she 's had someone pick up hermail


or has s topped del iveryand she is l ikely away vis i t -ing family,perhaps for her granddaugh-ter ' s graduat ion or her son 's surpr ise bir thdaybash.

Peering in , Kevin sees thatthe mailboxis s tuffed near ly ful l with cat-alogs,bi l ls , postcards , more than aweek 's worthof del iver ies .

He reaches in , pul ls out thepostcard on top, reads i tunder the yel low l ight of the s t reetlamp:

Granddaughter ' s graduat ionwonderful ;enjoying the Virginia spr ing.Kevin, why are you readingmy mail?

Star t led, he thrusts the post-card back

in the black mailbox, c loses i twith a c lang,shakes his head, opens themailbox back up.The s tack of mai l has disap-peared.

Back in his house, exchanging his sweats for his PJs ,he sl ips pul l ing off a sock and his head crashes into thedresser ; Kevin tumbles to the f loor,l ies there motionless ,the l i fe s lowly seeping out of him.

A week la ter, his mai lbox is f i l led to capaci ty.No one sneaks outto peer into his mai lbox.No one knowsto check on Kevin.

LET’S MAKE A DEAL 21

junk folks made up about RobertJohnson because they couldn't play asgood as he could."

"Believe it or not, that's how himand lots of them other boys got to thebig-time. You wanna play the bigtime; here's what you do. Carry yourguitar to the old crossroads just out-side of town at midnight on a fullmoon. Ol' Scratch hisself will comeout and sign you to a deal that'll makeyou world famous."

"Sounds pretty good to me, man"said Johnny.

Well, there's a little catch I haven'ttold you about," the old man chuck-led. "You see, Ol' Scratch wants yoursoul in exchange. Think hard about it,Johnny. Forever without your soul is along, long time." With that, the oldman packed up his harp and left.

Johnny thought about this for awhile, and finally decided to give it ashot. "There might just be somethingto it," he thought. "And besides, evenif there ain't nothin' to it, being out bymyself at midnight on a full moonmight give me a good idea for asong."

Johnny showed up at the cross-roads at about two minutes beforemidnight on the next night. He stoodaround and looked up at the moon,paced around a little, and looked outat the huge cotton field growing nextto the road.

At exactly 12:00 midnight, Johnnyheard a rustling noise in the cottonfield. He was quite scared until he saw

Think back – can you remember yourfirst true love? Can you recollect thepalpitating heartbeat, the sweaty hands,the exhuberant, frenzied emotions?Now if you will, multiply those emotionsby a thousand and you’ll have some-what of an idea just how Richie is feel-ing right now...

LET’S MAKE A DEALBy LANNY GILBERT

Johnny K. was playing all the hotjuke joints up and down theMississippi. People from milesaround would come just to hear hissoulful voice, and the sweet, stinginglicks from his big red guitar. Menwould shout and clap and the womenwould swoon whenever Johnny K.came in town to play a show.

But for some reason, Johnny K.never was able to break into the bigtime, like some of the otherMississippi bluesmen. He couldn'tfigure out why until a grizzled oldharp player explained it to him onenight after a jam session in a littleshack deep in the Delta.

"Johnny,” the old man said, "yougonna have to make a deal with thedevil to play like them boys. Yougonna play them second-rate jukejoints till you die 'less you do it."

Johnny told the old man that hedidn't believe in none of that devilstuff. "Old man, that's just a bunch of


a short, balding man dressed in a suitcoming out of the field and walkingtoward him.

"Hello, son" the man said. "Waitin'on somebody?"

Johnny managed to stammer out,"Are you the… um…ahh... devil?"

"That's a good one," the manlaughed. "Ha, ha, ha. I'm just a poortalent scout looking for good bluestalent, Johnny."

"How do you know my name? "Johnny asked.

"Well", the man said, "I've beenfollowing your career for quite awhile. You are quite the bluesman,Johnny. Them women go crazy whenyou start playing that guitar and jump-ing around on stage. What you need issomebody to guide your career so youcan get out of these small town divesand get to the big time."

"So, how come you was hiding inthe cotton field?" Johnny asked.

"Well," the man said with a laugh,"it's a little trick I thought up. I'veheard the legend about the devil meet-ing with aspiring bluesmen at thiscrossroads, so I hide in the cottonfield before midnight on every fullmoon. If anybody walks up and I rec-ognize 'em as a good blues player, Icome out and try to sign 'em to a con-tract. It works just about every time.By the way, my name is Star and hereis my card. Go ahead and take one,Johnny."

Johnny checked out the card. Itread:

F. Allen StarTalent Agent and ManagerSpecializing in Bluesmen

"Pleased to make your acquain-tance, Mr. Star" Johnny said and heldout his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Johnny"said Mr. Star, returning the hand-shake. "So, do you want to sign amanagement contract with me? I cangive you references of several topplayers that I've signed."

"No, that won't be necessary," saidJohnny. "Just let me read over thecontract and if I got no problem withit, I'll sign it."

"No problem. I've got one righthere. If you'll just read it over and…"With that, Mr. Star suddenly grabbedJohnny and roughly pulled him intothe cotton field.

"Hey. What was that all about, Mr.Star?" Johnny asked.

"Shhh. Keep your voice down.There is somebody walking up to thecrossroads and I didn't want him tosee us. Now, just sign right here."

"Well, Mr. Star. I sure would liketo read this thing before I sign. If Icould just carry it home and read it,then maybe bring it to your office,that would be great."

Mr. Star replied sternly, "Johnny,this is the only opportunity I'm givingyou. I bet that guy walking up to thecrossroads now is a bluesman lookingto hit the big time. If you don't sign,I'll have to go and talk with him. Here,

LET’S MAKE A DEAL 23

take this pen and sign, please.""Well.. OK," Johnny said a bit

cautiously and reached for the pen.As Johnny started to sign, he felt a

sharp pain in his right index finger."Ow" he said. "I must've stuck my fin-ger on a brier or something when youdrug me in here, Mr. Star. Now it'sbleeding. Well, let me sign this con-tract and get it over with."

Johnny signed the contract andhanded it to Mr. Star. After givingJohnny his copy of the contract, Mr.Star said, "Come on out to the road,Johnny. Let's talk about next steps."

"What about that guy who waswalking up to the crossroad and hid-ing from him and all that?" Johnnyasked, looking around and seeing noone.

"Oh, him. I...saw him leave just asecond ago," said Mr. Star. "We're allalone out here now."

Johnny followed Mr. Star out tothe road. Since the moonlight wasbrighter in the road than in the cottonfield, Johnny began reading over thecontract. He immediately felt coldshivers coming over his body.

"Mr. Star" Johnny said in a shakyvoice. "This says you own my soul.What does that mean?"

Johnny looked up to see not asmall, business suited man, but a largegrotesque being in a black cloak witha dark, evil face. Mr. Star also seemedto have grown a rather long tail thatprotruded from underneath his cloak.

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. " Mr.

Star said. "Didn't you read the card? F.Allen Star? As in Fallen Star? As inLucifer?"

"Now, wait a minute Mr. Star, orwhoever you are. I can just tear upthat contract and won't owe you athing."

"Go ahead, Johnny," Mr. Star saidwith a chilling laugh. "Try to tear itup. It's impossible, because I made it.Also, you signed with your blood.Remember the pricking on your fin-ger. That wasn't a brier. I did that.You're mine. Now, do you want to bea famous bluesman or not? I've gotyour soul either way. It's your choice."

"I guess that I might as well playthe blues," Johnny said with tears inhis eyes. "You've already got my soul,might as well have something to singabout."

"Good, good," said Mr. Star. "Firstof all, let's change your name. Howabout..."

Well, I guess you'd like to knowJohnny K.'s stage name. I'm sure thatyou'd recognize it. Sorry but it's atrade secret.

However, for your own good, ifyou are going to sign a deal with ashort, balding man wearing a suit, youbetter read it over carefully beforeyou put pen to paper. And make surenot to prick your finger.


For some, movies are a way of life. Inthis gripping tale, Chris Burdett offersup the notion that movies can also be away to come to life...

GRAMMA & THEMOVIE BOYBy CHRISTOPHER BURDETT

“Ohhhh,” Dad groaned, holding hisstomach. He pushed himself backfrom the table. “Why did you let meeat so much?”

“You say that every Sunday,” Momsaid, and swatted him on the arm withher cloth napkin.

“I take it as a compliment that hestill likes my cooking that much,”Gramma said, and winked at me andLisa.

Every Sunday we had lunch afterchurch at my grandmother’s house,and every Sunday went pretty muchlike this. In a few minutes we wouldprompt Dad for a story (he always toldus a story from his childhood afterlunch), he would tell us he was toofull, we would beg, and he would givein.

“Hey, Dad,” Lisa said, “what was itlike going to the movies when youwere a kid?”

“Oh, Lisa,” Dad said, his hand stillresting on his belly, “I’m just too fullto tell you a story right now.” He letout a little groan to show us howstuffed he was.

“Oh, come on, Dad!” Lisa protest-ed. My theory is that Dad uses thetime between when we ask for a storyand when he finally tells us one toremember a story worth telling. Or, Ioften suspect, to make one up.

Dad blew out a gust of air. “I needto let my food digest for a while. Boy,was that a good lunch, Mom!”

Gramma smiled. She put down thespoon she’d been stirring her coffeewith and said to us, “I’ll tell you astory.”

For a few seconds nobody saidanything. This had never happenedbefore. It was always Dad who told usa story while Mom and Grammacleared the table and did the dishes.Dad cleared his throat. “Well, I doremember one time when me andMilton Lester wanted to see the newTarzan movie, but we didn’t have anymoney, so—”

“You’ve told that one before,”Gramma said.

“No, I haven’t,” he said.“You got caught sneaking in,” Lisa

said, “and had to work on the manag-er’s farm for an entire Saturday.”

“Oh,” Dad said. “Well, there wasthis other time when they were havinga contest—”

“Until I was nine years old,”Gramma said, cutting Dad off, “allmovies were silent. Once or twice amonth Daddy would take us toAtlanta, and we would see a Saturdaymatinee at the Fox. Since there wasn’tany sound, most movies were accom-

GRAMMA & THE MOVIE BOY 25

panied by an organ player. He wouldplay fast, exciting music during chasescenes, or slow music during emotion-al scenes. The pipe organ at the Foxwas one of the biggest ones in thecountry. It had pipes that went all theway to the ceiling, and it could be soloud sometimes I would put my fin-gers in my ears.” Gramma smiled,blew on her coffee, and took a sip.

“I remember when Daddy took usto see King Kong,” she continued. “Iwas about thirteen, and we were stillgetting used to talking movies, andsuddenly we had to get used to thisgiant gorilla on the screen! We didn’tknow anything about special effectslike you kids today do. We thought itwas a real gorilla, forty feet tall!” Sheshook her head.“That’s interesting, Mom,” Dad said.“It reminds me of when I saw TheSeven Voyages of—”

“But way before King Kong,”Gramma told us, ignoring our father,“there was a movie called ThePhantom of the Opera. It didn’t haveany giant apes in it, and it didn’t haveany talking, either, but it was about thescariest thing I’d ever seen. Myfavorite part was the organ music thatwent along with it. I managed to con-vince Dad to take me to see it againthe next day, and I learned that themusic wasn’t the same every time!The organist wasn’t exactly just mak-ing it up as he went along, but he var-ied it throughout the movie, so that itwas a little different than it had been

the day before. I guess he would havegotten bored, playing the same thingevery day.

“A couple of weeks later, Daddytook me to see another movie, a cow-boy movie. Tommy was sick andcouldn’t go, so it was just Daddy andme. Well, about halfway through themovie, which I wasn’t enjoying toomuch—let me tell you, organ musicjust doesn’t go with cowboys andIndians!—I looked over, and Daddywas sound asleep!

“Well, I decided I wanted to goexploring, so I snuck out of my seat,and I went down the stairs to the floorlevel. We nearly always sat in the bal-cony because the seats were cheaper.”

Dad was smiling. “That remindsme of one time when—”“Jimmy,” Mom said, “why don’t youclear the table while your mother istelling her story?”

Gramma smiled. “That’s a goodidea, Mary,” she said, and put her sil-verware on her plate and pushed ittowards Dad.

“What did you do when you gotdownstairs, Gramma?” Lisa asked.

“I made my way towards a velvetcurtain off to the side of the theater,”she told us. “There was a sign aboveit that said ‘Private.’ I didn’t knowexactly what that meant, but I knew itwent somewhere that I wasn’t sup-posed to go, and that made me all themore eager to go there. I went slowly,hoping that no one would notice me,and I guess nobody did, because when


I got to the curtain, I pushed it to theside and went right through and no onetried to stop me.

“It led to a long hallway, with afew doors along the side. The doorsall opened to closets and storagerooms, but at the end of the hall therewas a big room with a lot of furniturein it. I couldn’t see very well becauseit was pretty dark, but I could tell therewere tables and chairs and sofas, andtapestries on the walls, and rugs on thefloors, and the ceiling was high, atleast thirty feet, with at least one chan-delier, and with wooden beams cross-ing from one side to the other.”

“Why did a theater have a roomlike that?” Lisa asked.

“The Fox isn’t just a movie the-ater,” Dad said. “They also have playsand magic shows and even operasthere. It has several rooms like that forparties and receptions and things. Weshould take you there sometime. It’sso beautiful; I remember one time—”

“Yes, Jimmy, you should take themthere,” Gramma said with a smile.“Anyway, as I stood there looking upat the ceiling of that great room, I sawsomething dark fly across it and disap-pear in a corner.”

Lisa let out a little gasp and leanedtoward Gramma. I had my elbowsresting on the table and was listeningintently. Even Dad stopped where hewas, headed towards the kitchen withhis arms loaded down with plates, tolisten.

“The first thing I thought, of

course, was that it was a bat. The ideafrightened me a little, but I was alsocurious. So I stood there, looking up,and let my eyes adjust to the light. Icould just barely hear the organ musicplaying through the walls; it was a fastmelody, so I knew there must havebeen a chase scene going on. I won-dered if it was near the end of themovie, and if maybe I’d better getback before my father noticed I wasmissing.

“I was a little distracted, thinkingabout that, when the shape flew acrossagain. I could see it well enough totell it was probably not a bat, though.For one thing, I couldn’t see anythinglike wings flapping, and it didn’t seemto be the right shape. And if it hadbeen a bat, it would have been huge,almost as big as me!

“I couldn’t see exactly where itlanded, so I just stood there lookingup, waiting for any movement. I don’tknow how long I stood there, staringup, barely blinking, before I becameaware of a quiet sound coming downfrom that corner. I could just barelyhear it above the muffled organ music.It took me a minute to tell what it was.

“But then I realized, it was the softsound of someone crying.”Lisa’s eyes were wide open. “Whowas it, Gramma?” she asked in a whis-per.

“I couldn’t tell, of course. I wasfrightened, but the crying sounded likeit was coming from someone who washurt, so I gathered up my courage and


walked toward the sound. I stoodthere for a minute, just looking up intothe dark corner of the huge room,before I got the nerve to call softly,‘Hello? Who’s up there? Are you allright?’

“Nothing happened for a few sec-onds. I almost gave up and left theroom; in fact, all my instincts told meto run away quickly and go back toDaddy right away. But if somebody,or something, was hurt, I thought itwas my duty to make sure they gothelp.”

Gramma paused and took a sip ofher coffee. Nobody said anything.Dad put the dishes down on thekitchen counter and returned to hischair at the table.

“After a minute,” she continued,her voice quieter and softer now, “Isaw a figure walk out onto one of thebeams and look down at me. It lookedlike a little boy, younger than I was,only...well, it was more like the imageof a little boy projected up there likethe movies on the screen than it was areal boy. He was sort of in black andwhite, like the movies all were inthose days, and I could see throughhim a little.

“I almost screamed, and I took astep back, and he took a step back tooso I couldn’t see him anymore.“Neither of us moved. As I stoodthere, I could hear my own heart beat-ing rapidly in my chest more clearlythan I could hear the organ musicthrough the walls.

“Finally, I found my courageagain, and I stepped forward andcalled up, ‘Hello? I’m not going tohurt you. Do you need help?’

“He stepped forward again andlooked down at me. Then, he leanedforward and jumped!

“He floated down as slowly andlightly as a feather, and came to a restright in front of me. And do you knowwho it was?”

Nobody said anything.“It was the little boy from the west-

ern movie!“But it wasn’t the actor who played

the boy standing there, it really wasthe boy from the screen—black andwhite, flat like a sheet of paper, andflickering slightly. And silent: heopened his mouth to speak, but noth-ing came out.”

“But you said you heard him cry-ing,” Dad said.

Gramma nodded. “Yes, I did. Ithink his sorrow and pain werestronger than the silence of themovies.

“I just stood there and looked athim, my mouth open. I asked himhow he’d gotten there, but of coursehe couldn’t answer. I asked him if hewas lost, and he nodded sadly.

“I reached out to touch him and heshrank back. I assured him I wasn’tgoing to hurt him. He looked at me fora minute, chewing on his lip. Then hetook a step forward and allowed me totouch him. He felt like thick, roughcloth, like what I imagine the movie


screen would have felt like.“I walked around him a little bit.

As I walked to the side, I saw that hewas, from that angle, literally flat, likea bed sheet!

“Finally I said to him, ‘Did youescape from the movie?’ He noddedvigorously. ‘And now you don’t knowhow to get back?’ He nodded slowly,sadly. ‘Then I’ll help you get back,’ Itold him.

“I took his hand in mine, which felta little like holding a rolled up news-paper, and led him into the hall. Ilooked back at him. He looked scaredand uncertain.

“‘Is this the way you came?’ Iasked him. He shook his head, andlooked back into the big room.

“We stood in the doorway of theroom, and I asked him where he hadcome from. He looked up at the ceil-ing of the room, looking from one cor-ner to the next, and then he turned andlooked into the hallway, lookingsearchingly at the ceiling, and then heshook his head and began weeping,and again I heard the sound of hissobs.

“Of course, I didn’t know where togo either, but I gripped his hand confi-dently in mine and said, ‘This way.’ Iled him down the hall to the first door,hoping that it would lead up to thestage. It was locked. So was the sec-ond.

“But the third door, which was onthe opposite side of the hall, wasn’tlocked. I opened it slowly and peeked

in.“‘Hey, what are you doing?’ a

rough voice demanded. I heard foot-steps coming towards me. ‘You kidsare always sneaking into my theater!I’ll teach you!’ I saw a very large manin a wrinkled brown suit comingtowards me.

“I pulled the door shut and beganrunning down the hall back toward thelobby, pulling the little boy behind me.

“Before we made it through thecurtain back into the lobby, the doorwas flung open and the man called,‘Hey, you kid, come back here!’ I puton a burst of speed and zipped throughthe velvet curtain; I looked behind meand saw that the film boy was flyingout behind me from my hand asthough he were a coat I was carryingby the sleeve. I guess that’s why theman didn’t see him.

“I ran on, and, without thinkingabout it, charged out the front door andonto the sidewalk of Peachtree Street.It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, andwhen I looked behind me I could justbarely make out the shape of the littleboy. I could still feel his stiff, clothyhand in mine, though.

“I looked all around for the bestway to go, and decided to go aroundthe building to see if I could find a sideor a back entrance. I had just turnedthe corner when I heard the voice call,‘Come back here, kid!’

“The quickest getaway route Icould see was the fire escape.”

“What’s a fire escape?” Lisa asked,


almost in a whisper.“It’s a big metal ladder they put on

the side of a tall building so that ifthere’s a fire and you’re trapped uphigh, you can escape by climbingdown the outside of the building.

“I stood there for a second, lookingup, before I heard the sound of foot-steps and the huffing and puffing ofthe manager approaching. So Istepped onto the first rung of the lad-der, dragging the boy behind me, andthen...do you know what I did?”

We shook our heads.“I rolled up the little film boy like

a rug and tucked him under my arm! Ithought it would be easier to carry himthat way.

“So I went up the fire escape asquickly as I could, and was soon onthe roof. I looked over the edge downto the street, and I saw the managerlooking up and shaking his fist at me.‘I’m going to call the cops!’ hehollered. I guess he was afraid to fol-low me up, though, since he was so...”She let the words trail off and gave usa guilty grin.

“Fat,” Lisa said, and giggled.Gramma nodded. “Well, I

unfurled the boy on the roof, and, eventhough I could barely see him in thesunlight, I could tell he was laughing.I think it tickled to be rolled up likethat!

“On the center of the roof therewas a little building with a door in it. Isaid a silent prayer as I tried the doorhandle, and was relieved to find it

unlocked. There were stairs on theinside, which led down to anotherdoor in a brick wall. I opened it, andwe stepped out onto a ledge rightabove the screen! I don’t think theaudience could see us, though; wewere pretty high up.

“I walked as quietly and carefullyas I could across the ledge and turneda corner so that we were over the sideof the stage, above where the organistsat and a little lower than the top of thescreen. I looked back, and saw thatthe boy was looking down at thescreen. He looked sad.

“I looked at the screen, and sawthat it showed the main cowboy,kneeling down, holding his hat in hishand, and looking up and talking. Butthere wasn’t anyone standing in thespace he seemed to be talking to!

“The subtitle came up, which ishow they showed you what peoplewere saying back during silentmovies, and it said, ‘I reckon you’venoticed how much your mother andme have been seein’ each other lately.’

“The boy, standing beside me, nod-ded, his eyes open wide. The cowboyon the screen moved his mouth a littlemore, and the screen said, ‘Your momis one special lady.’ The boy noddedvigorously beside me.

“‘And you’re one special boy,’ thescreen read. The boy nodded slowly.

“I looked ahead, and as my eyesadjusted to the darkness I saw a stair-case that led down to the stage. Ipulled the boy’s hand to lead him to it;


at first he resisted, wanting to stay andwatch, but then he saw the stairs.

“We hurried down the stairs andhopped down on the stage. I stoodthere, out of view of the audience, butthe boy took off running towards thescreen. As he crossed the stage, theaudience gasped. On the screen, thecowboy had his arm up, his hand rest-ing in the air like it was on some-body’s shoulder, only there wasn’tanyone there. The screen flashed thewords, ‘And, well, I’m gonna be yourdaddy.’

“Just then the boy reached thescreen, leaped up, there was a littleflash, and suddenly he was on thescreen, his arms around the cowboy’sneck giving him a great big hug! Theaudience exploded with applause.

“I stood there at the edge of thestage and watched. After a minute theboy looked up—I would swear he waslooking at me—and the screen flashedthe words, ‘Thank you.’

“A tear trickled down my face as Isaid a quiet, ‘You’re welcome.’ Istood there for a minute before goingdown to the floor level seats, and thenmaking my way back up to the bal-cony.

“Believe it or not, Daddy was stillasleep when I got back to my seat. Inudged him and whispered, ‘It’salmost over.’

“He nodded and smacked his lips,looking around sleepily. ‘Was it agood movie?’ he asked. ‘I know youdon’t like westerns.’

“I smiled at him. ‘I liked this one,Daddy,’ I said, and leaned over to givehim a great big hug.

“We left a few minutes later. Themanager was in the lobby, frowningand scanning the crowd as we walkedout. I think he might have recognizedme, but I was holding Daddy’s hand sohe only frowned. I smiled and wavedat him.

“Over the years I began to doubtwhether it had ever happened. As youget older, you stop believing in thingslike that.” Gramma smiled at us. “Butnow I’m old enough to know that itdid happen. Nobody in the audienceknew what was going on, of course;we weren’t used to special effectsback then, and accepted nearly any-thing that happened as the magic ofthe movies. But I know what the truthwas.”

Gramma leaned back in her chairand let out a big sigh. Then sheclasped her hands before her andsmiled towards Dad. “Now, Jimmy,why don’t you get the pie out of therefrigerator?”

Dad rolled his eyes and got up togo to the kitchen.

“Gramma,” Lisa said, “while we’rehaving dessert, do you think you couldtell us another story?”

“Maybe,” Gramma said, and Ithink I saw a twinkle in her eye.“We’ll see.”

DANCE MACABRE 31

Gulping with terror andtrembling inside, I trudged upthe foggy lane. When some-thing quite queer caught myeye and sent alarms off in mybrain!

There were skeletonsleaping between the graves, ahorrifying sight to see. Theyrattled and shook as theywaltzed about, dancing ‘rounda willow tree!

Their band was madeout of ribs and skulls – andeven a thigh bone or two.They sang a weird song I’llnever forget, I swear everyword is true!

“Cli t ter-clat ter- thun-der-and-shake, Halloween iswhen we wake! Rattle-tattle-jibbery-snook, tinkle-and-fin-kle-and-doo-doo-crook!

Blamedy-bloo-and-fid-dle-dee-dee, and a zambidy-zombidy-zook! Snooker-stink-t r e m b l e - a n d - q u a k e ,Halloween is when we wake!”

In this portion of The MysteriousTraveler Magazine, it is usually mydistinct honor to offer our dearreaders a short tale of suspenseand intrigue. However, asHallowe’en is upon us once again,I’ve arranged something special inhonor of the witching season...

DANCE MACABREBy THE MYSTERIOUS TRAVELERAs told by Mark Zahn

The harvest moon glowedbig and orange on a blusteryHalloween night. I had onelast house to trick-or-treat onthis evening of fun and fright.

The spooky old man-sion at the end of the block,you know the one I mean:with black cats, cobwebs anddying trees – the scariesthouse you’ve ever seen!

But the worst thingabout that creepy place werethe neighbors buried nextdoor; for the house was nextto a graveyard – with a hun-dred tombstones or more!


I decided right then toring the bell – I would just getmy candy and go. I didn’twant to hear that sinisterverse, or the chorus of theirskeleton show!

“ F e e t e r - f a t t e r - s k i p -and-prance, Halloween iswhen we dance! Snotzen-free-bley-flim-flam-boo, and a din-gley-dangley-doo!

Bla tzen-howdy- ju- ju-phizz, and quiddily-quaddily-quoo! Hagsnort-acorn-boil-and-lance, Halloween is whenwe dance!”

The door opened slow-ly and I held out my bag, thengot the biggest surprise ofthem all! A skeleton stoodthere grinning at me, its boneswere seven feet tall!

He grabbed my bag andheld it over his head, openinghis mouth very wide. Thetreats fell through his ribcage, not a piece remainedinside!

I ran as fast as I couldall the way home, my feet did-n’t touch the ground, Islammed the front door andlistened, then I heard a horri-ble sound!

The dancing skeletonshad followed me home, theywere singing that crazy song!I jumped under the covers ofmy bed – I knew it wouldn’t belong!

Now they are inside myroom! I hear them beside mybed! They’re shaking me andmoaning, they want me to jointheir dancing dead!

The covers are pulledback - I let out a shriek –mom wakes me from a sleep-ing fright...

“That’s what you get,”she says to me, “for eating allyour candy tonight!”

FOLLOW THE MYSTERIOUS TRAVELERON THE WORLD WIDE WEB

EXCLUSIVELY AT:www.threeinvestigatorsbooks.com

For a taut and thrilling evening of entertainment, journey into the realm ofmystery and the unknown with THE MYSTERIOUS TRAVELER MAGAZINE!Simply type the address above into the browser of your choice and prepareyour nerves for spellbinding suspense!

...Wherever the lonesome train whistle can be heard, The MysteriousTraveler cannot be far behind. Be on the lookout for more exciting issueswith some of today’s finest new voices of the macabre, exclusively atwww.threeinvestigatorsbooks.com!

A Word On The Mysterious TravelerA joint venture of Robert Arthur and David P. Kogan, "The Mysterious TravelerMagazine" was based on their radio program of the same name. This digest-sized magazine was published bi-monthly by Grace Publishing Co., Inc. of NewYork City at 35 cents a copy – annual subscriptions could be had for $2.00.David Kogan was credited as the Publisher and Robert Arthur was credited asthe Managing Editor. The cover of each issue featured stunning artwork byNorman B. Saunders.

Each issue consisted of twelve stories classified into various genres and sub-gen-res including crime, suspense, detection, mystery, strange stories, science fiction,terror, macabre, short shockers, etc. Some issues contained special features likecontests and movie/book suggestions. Each issue featured at least one story bythe Mysterious Traveler himself (Robert Arthur) plus stories by some of the mostwell-known writers of the day including Ray Bradbury, Dorothy L. Sayers, JohnDickson Carr, Craig Rice, Sax Rohmer, Agatha Christie, Cornell Woolrich,August Derleth, Brett Halliday and others. As many as seven stories in each issuewere penned by Robert Arthur, most under various pseudonyms. The MysteriousTraveler (Robert Arthur) also introduced each story with a paragraph or two.

Each issue began with a little introduction (or sales pitch!) by the MysteriousTraveler (except Issue #5). These introductions usually told a few tidbits about theauthors or the stories in the issue, encouraged readers to spread the word aboutthe magazine, let the reader know that back issues were available, and finally,tantalized the reader with information about the upcoming issue. Consisting offive issues, this short-lived magazine ended at about the same time that the radioprogram finished its nine year run in September of 1952.

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mysterious THE traveler OCTOBER 2008 ... - Three Investigators · THIS is The Mysterious Traveler speaking, asking you to join me on yet another trip into the sinister shadows of