Horror Trio

The hypnotic throb of drums filled the room together with the sound of weird, rhythmic chanting and occasional bloodcurdling shrieks. It was easy to imagine some huge barbaric fire flickering on fat tropical leaves, and making the eyes of wild things gleam red and wicked as they crouched watching in the dark. Mingling surrealistically but pleasantly with the drums and chanting, the faint purr of busy traffic rose from Fifth Avenue 30 stories below. When the drums broke off in midvibration, Brett Yardley rose from the couch, conscious that he moved with the lazy grace of a tiger, and turned off his high-fidelity tape machine. Then he smiled with benign manliness at the devastating blonde whose side he had just quit.

"Well, Laura Mae, my dear," he said, his voice deep and resonant, "what did you think of it?"

For an answer she fluttered the lids of her breathtakingly beautiful eyes; little dimples of sensual joy appeared on either side of her delicious lips. Yardley set his firm square jaw a little firmer. By God, he thought exultantly, the magic's working again. Just like it always worked. He always wondered if it would and, By God, it always did. He began to freshen their drinks.

"It is remarkable that so savage a people," he said, observing the sweet trim of Laura Mae's ankles as he bent over the Scotch, "could produce music so subtle and profound." And it was true. He always marveled that the backward louts had hit upon it.

He handed Laura Mae her glass, letting their fingertips touch for a held breath, and then he toasted her with earnest, sincere-type admiration showing in his big brown eyes.

"I recorded what we have just heard," he said only barely missing the tone of a travelog narrator, "in the very heart of an almost impenetrable South American jungle. I was crouched in the concealing undergrowth, in constant fear for my life." Which was the solemn truth. He had been absolutely stoned when he had made the bet with Fenton in camp, and then there was that blanked-out period after he set out alone, and then there he was like Tom Swift and his electric tape recorder with those maniacs doing their horrible business within smelling distance of him. Jesus, had he ever sweat blood! But they hadn't spotted him. And so here he was with Laura Mae, as he had been with Maxine, and Joan, and Dot, and all the lovely, lovely others. With the never-fail spell of the recording and the sure-fire pitch.

He glanced over at Laura Mae and was pleased to see the expected look of wonderment and awe appearing right on schedule. Her tiny nose, he noticed, tilted up just a fraction when her mouth made a soft O. A charming effect. But he kept his expression grim.

"Yes, my dear," he said, putting his hand on her forearm reassuringly, "they would have killed me if they'd found me."

Her eyes grew bigger than he would have thought possible. He looked away from them and gazed firmly into the middle distance, taking a stolid sip of his drink. All guts, that was him! But restrained.

"Killed me after hideous tortures, my dear," he carried on, putting his glass on the table before him with a sure and gentle motion. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Killed me," he said, "and then eaten me."

Laura Mae gave a marvelous little gasp and he took her hands in his. Sure enough, she had the glazed look.

"Yes, Laura Mae," he said, "they were cannibals. And that music, that strangely haunting sound of drums and chanting voices, was recorded by me as they were in the actual act of roasting their victim!"

Sometimes he wondered why the hell the thing always worked, then he figured it was better, maybe, to leave it alone and not bother. I mean, just go ahead and let the voodoo do its stuff, you know?

He stood, tall and strong, and she stood with him, leaning against him dazedly. Together they walked to the player and then, after a long pause during which they exchanged searching looks and reached unspoken agreement, he reached out a bronzed hand to flip the switch and activate the magic music.

She listened, fascinated, as the drumbeats set the air to pounding hypnotically about her, making her skin feel warm and stroked, causing her blood to simmer in her veins. She thrilled at the eerie chantings which caused her breath to come in small, excited gasps, and made her feel alive and truly wakened for the first time in her life.

Yardley felt the ecstatic trembles running through her luscious frame and gloated. Don't tell me there isn't one hell of a lot to this magic bit, he crowed to himself, happily gathering the woman's eager body into his arms. What I mean is those natives weren't just sitting around while that victim roasted, buddy. Not on your sweet life they weren't. Not with that ever-loving music goading their glands, making the thick, sweet lust in them glow and roar, and--

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Laura Mae jerked like a hooked fish. Yardley opened his eyes in amazement just in time to see her head loll loosely back. Abruptly she became limp and too heavy for him to hold. She slid from him to thump in a crazy heap on the floor.

It took him a beat before he really saw the dark man who had been standing behind her and another before he could make any sense out of the mean-looking club the man was swinging at him. Then there was a wild splotch of pain which stopped almost before it started, and then bright lights everywhere, and then nothing.

The dark man pocketed his club, which was carved to represent one of his gods, and knelt to tie Laura Mae and Yardley with lengths of rope which he had thoughtfully brought along. He was rough with Yardley, but gentle with the woman. It was not her fault, after all, that this long pig had stolen and misused the music of his people. He locked her in Yardley's wardrobe closet only after making sure she would have sufficient ventilation.

Then he went to the phone and dialed. While he waited he adjusted the lapel of his Ivy League jacket and brushed some lint off one of its sleeves. The local costumes were interesting, he reflected, but awkward to wear. He scratched absent-mindedly at a scarification mark on his cheek. When he heard the answering click he spoke without preamble:

"He's the man, all right, and he had the music, so we've tracked it down at last. But it seems a shame," the dark man said, "not to use it just one more time before we burn the tape. What say you bring the girls over? I'll have things ready."

Then he put the receiver back on its hook, eyed Yardley's meaty bulk in a speculative way, and headed for the kitchen to check on the size of the oven.

Doren's fingers found the black book before the rest of him. They had cruised, almost independently, hopping, groping, from book to book after the manner of the fingers of collectors the world over, touching each book tentatively, but with skill, and when they felt the odd, almost furry spine of the black book they had stopped quickly as an owl's gaze halts on a mouse. He looked down at the book his fingers had discovered for him and carefully concealed any outward signs of the electric thrill which ran through him. Casually, studiously so, he took the black book from its place and languidly began to turn its pages.

His eyes and fingers worked together now; taking in the peculiar softness of the skin pages, noting the heavy black type deeply indented into its sienna-splotched, ocher background, touching and seeing the barbaric woodcuts of astrological signs and magic circles and imps and dark angels.

Doren's heart began to beat with a thudding intensity which frightened him. He almost believed it might be audible to others. He could imagine its thumping carrying across the empty shop where the ears of old Steiner would perk and listen. But Steiner's back remained solidly turned and Doren gave a strained smile at the fantasy.

He closed the book and carefully slipped it back where he had found it. His head buzzed with schemes and confusion. A large black cat jumped soundlessly onto the stall and Doren stroked it, thankful for the interruption. He felt the cat's back arch under his hand and he attempted to consider his situation coolly.

It was the sort of situation which never happened. People who didn't collect books, or who collected them only a little, always felt that they really might come across a Shakespearean folio, or a Gutenberg Bible, or, Doren swallowed, a black book such as this. But it never happened. Old Steiner and his fellow bookdealers saw to that.

He glanced down at the book again, tore his eyes from it, and selected another one at random. The cat mewed pettishly and he stroked it again to silence it.

It wouldn't take a Steiner to spot the black book, thought Doren. This was no subtlety, no delicately flawed wonder, no first edition panted after only by certain esoterics. There was nothing obscure about this treasure. Its feel, its look, even the smell of it broadcast its singularity. The most ignorant clerk would have been sophisticated enough to at least strongly suspect the black book's value.

He put down the book he'd been toying with, he couldn't even remember its title, and risked another inspection of his find. Its absurd, its altogether ridiculous price was lightly penciled on its end page: one dollar and 75 cents. He almost gasped when he recognized Steiner's European seven with its crossbar. That eliminated the idea of a blunder by a part-time assistant. The old man had priced it himself.

Had he been drunk? It wasn't in character. But how on earth could the old man have come to make such a gigantic error? How could he have given the black book its grotesque price and condemned it to a common stall?

Would he give challenge when Doren went over to buy the book? It seemed likely. The hideous mistake would be seen at once, a plausible explanation would be hastily presented, and the book would be out of Doren's hands forever. Forever -- because Doren knew he would never be able to afford anything like its true cost. It was an item only for richly endowed libraries and millionaire collectors. The thing must be practically priceless.

Doren turned to a carefully cut magic circle. Each minute detail was sharp and clear. It was important, he reflected wryly, not to make mistakes when you drew a magic circle. He had seen plenty of them before, of course. Every grimoire, every warlock's spell book, contained at least one of them. The idea of the circle was central to the diabolist's art. But this one was, in some tingling way, different from any of the others. This one looked as if it might actually work.

He closed his eyes and opened them again, like a man with a bad headache, and the shop seemed to rush in at him. It was as if he had been away in some far-off place for an immeasurable time and only just returned. He looked down dazedly at the cat and it looked up at him with green expectation in its eyes.

Doren felt suddenly tired. He could not cope with the plots and plans which flashed through his mind. He saw himself gathering an armful of books and taking them up to Steiner, shuffling them before the old man's eyes like a magician with a pack of cards, burying the black book in a flurry of unimportant others. He imagined himself waiting until a rush of customers were at the dealer's desk, and then shoving the book hurriedly into view, giving him money and going before the old man could properly take in what had happened. He seriously considered just slipping the book into his pocket and leaving without paying.

He sighed. He could do any of these things, but in his present peculiar state of exhaustion he felt he wouldn't be up to the simplest of them. For the first time in his life he found himself a convinced fatalist. If it was to happen, it would happen, he decided; if it wasn't, then it wouldn't.

He walked up to Steiner's desk with the black book in his hand. Doren noticed that he looked thin and haggard, as if he had been through a bad illness. Perhaps the dealer was sick. That might explain it.

"Well, Mr. Doren? You found something you want?"

"Yes," said Doren. He put the book on the desk and pushed it toward the old man.

Steiner opened it without curiosity and noted the price. "One dollar and 75 cents, please," he said, and when Doren had given him the exact change, he said, "Thank you, Mr. Doren."

Doren took the black book, knew it was now his, and was torn between the impulse to shout in triumph and, oddly, to cry in sorrow. He nodded at the old man and walked unsteadily through the shop. He paused at the door and blinked at the sunlight. It was too bright. It seemed unfriendly. He hunched his shoulders and went down the street, patting and stroking the book with his hands.

Steiner watched him leave. When Doren had passed out of sight the old man turned to look at the cat which perched calmly on the stall where the black book had been.

"All right," said Steiner wretchedly. "It's gone. Now you go."

The cat smiled broadly at the old man. It was a horrible smile. It was bigger by half than the cat's small head. The teeth were thick, white, and pointed like a shark's. The cat leaped gracefully to the floor and, still grinning hugely, left the shop in stalk of Doren.

Then the old man sagged in his chair, alone, completely alone, with his bleak awareness that he had gained no reprieve, after all.

After this nice gentleman catches my eye in the bar mirror a couple of times and sees I don't flinch away in spite of he's giving me The Look, he comes over, kind of unsteady, and asks me would I mind if he bought me a drink, Miss, and I tell him It's a free country and I will have a double Scotch, thank you. So pretty soon we're talking away like anything you could want to mention and in spite of what we are talking about is not concerned with sex, directly, his hand keeps brushing my knee. But I don't jerk away, only sort of shift over so as to let him know I am not stuck-up but I am not the kind of girl with which you can rush things, if you know what I mean.

It turns out his name is Eddie and he is a salesman in from Chicago here for the convention. He says as how they usually have the convention in Chicago but he is just as glad they are having it here this year as it gives him a chance to get away.

After we have a few more drinks he asks me do I live around here and I tell him I live just next door in the third-floor back with Phyllis. He says he wouldn't think a pretty girl like me would want to bother with a roommate and I tell him there is no bother at all with Phyllis and we have been together ever since Daddy died.

Eddie says we sound like a regular team and I say we are, kind of, but we each live our own lives. He asks me Is she like you? and I say Oh heavens no, we are altogether different and in fact it would be hard to imagine two girls who are more different than Phyllis and me. Take like I am always going around all the time, like in bars and like this, but Phyllis she just stays up in the apartment practically for all day.

He asks me What does she do up there? and I say Oh, she just sits up in her corner all the time and knits. Eddie asks me What does she knit? and I say Oh, she just knits, is all.

We have a couple of more drinks and Eddie asks how about we buy a bottle and go up to my place and sort of talk where it's private, if Phyllis wouldn't mind, and I say Sure, why not?

So he gets a bottle and we head up the stairs with him all the time asking me You sure Phyllis won't mind? and me telling him she doesn't mind at all. We get into the living room and I take off my hat and Eddie fixes a couple of drinks at the sink and then he sits down on the sofa beside me and hands me my drink but I put it on the table and say I have had enough for awhile and he looks at me and he guesses so has he and puts his drink on the table next to mine and we start doing this and that on the sofa.

Well we have hardly got started when he gets this worried expression on his face and says No offense, Honey, but what is that funny musty smell? I tell him Oh, it isn't anything, and put my arms around his neck, but he still looks worried and asks me No, but what is it? So I say For Pete's sake, it is only Phyllis, and he sits up and says What do you mean?

Well what can I do but sit up and tell him Well that is the way she smells, is all, and it isn't that she isn't clean or anything and we even tried perfume once but it only made it worse. It is not her fault that Phyllis smells that way.

Eddie has some of his drink and asks me Is she sick or something? and I say No she has been that way ever since I met her when Daddy died and left me an orphan and without her I honestly don't know what would have happened to me so if she smells a little it is hardly for me to complain.

I can see it will be No Go for a while so I turn on the radio with some nice quiet music and Eddie fixes a couple more drinks and eventually we get back to fooling around on the sofa again but we haven't hardly more than just got going when so help me up he sits with that worried expression on his face all over.

Well what is the matter now? I ask him, and he says What was that noise for cryeye? Boy I am getting more than just a little tired with him but I say Forget the noise and come back to Mama, but he says It came from over there, and he points to Phyllis' door.

I can tell you I am getting plenty exasperated with him but I sit up and say It is only Phyllis so ignore her. He says It sounded like somebody scratching on the door with a bunch of dry twigs for cryeye, what is she doing scratching on the damn door? I tell him How should I know? And it certainly doesn't take much to get your mind off of certain things after all the big eyes down at the bar. He says Don't get mad, Baby, it's only that it kind of startled me is all.

So I tell him All right, then, just forget it and come back here and let's have some fun, but he says he thinks he could use another drink and he goes over and fixes one but all the time he keeps his eyes on Phyllis' door. Then he starts to come back to the sofa but then he stops by the end table and looks down and points to the floor and asks What the hell is that?

What the hell is what? I say, and I am by now feeling very irritated with him altogether. That stuff, he says, still pointing at the floor. So I lean over the arm of the sofa, and look down and say Oh that is only some of Phyllis' knitting.

He says It don't look like any knitting I ever saw. He says It looks like a bunch of fluffed-up dirty Kleenex. Then he bends down and touches it and when he straightens up it has all stuck to him except where it's still stuck to the floor.

For God's sake, he says, It's all sticky! I tell him Of course it is, you dope, if it wasn't sticky it wouldn't work. He looks at me and his face goes pale and he drops his drink and begins to pull at Phyllis' knitting to try to get it off him but it won't break and he just gets himself more tangled up.

Well, I say to him, I had hoped we could have had some fun but have it your way, and I walk over to Phyllis' door and open it and out she comes.

I am hardly ready for bed by the time she is all done with Eddie and there is only that mummy thing she leaves. Well, I say to her, I hope you enjoyed him as he was a complete waste of time as far as I'm concerned. But I can tell from the bored way she cleans her forelegs with her fangs that she also considers he was pretty much a washout.