HEARTTHROB (4 page)

Until that one night...

It was to be a special soup, something the cook never had prepared
before. The basic ingredients of the new effort are unknown today,
because whenever the old cook created something new, he allowed no
one else in the kitchen with him. Whatever those ingredients were,
however, this much is known: One of the elements to be stirred into
the broth required some extra fine chopping. And it was while
performing this operation that the old cook inadvertently placed his
left index finger just a bit too close to the flashing blade of his
chopping knife. It was a reflexive motion that caused the painful
hand to jerk up from the cutting board and stop at a point directly
over the cooking pot of boiling broth. And into the pot something
fell. Three drops of blood.

At first the cook thought his effort had been
ruined, and he was considering whether he should begin
the entire process again. But it was growing close to the time when
the Rajah and his guests would be sitting down to eat. The cook's
mind frantically thought of alternatives, which he could hurriedly
prepare, but at last he decided that there was nothing, he could do.
Nothing except to serve the tainted soup as it was. He added the
final ingredients, then tasted it He was satisfied that no one would
suspect that there was something in his creation which should not be
there.

How terrifyingly wrong he was! And how horrified he became when, the
next day, the Rajah himself came into the kitchen. He had loved the
soup, he said. He had tasted nothing like it — ever. So much did he
crave the delicacy that he wanted more this evening. And then he
added two specific instructions. The first was that although the same
amount of the soup was to be prepared, it was to be served to himself
alone, to consume within his own apartment. The second instruction
was that more of the special ingredient should be added.

The cook was shocked. "Special ingredient?" he asked.

"Yes," the Rajah replied, wetting his lips. "Whatever
it is, you know the element I mean. Is that not true?"

The Rajah's eyes held the look of ice in them. The poor cook, knowing
well that the penalty for displeasing his employer was an agonizing
torture and a merciless death, could not but admit that he knew the
special ingredient of which the Rajah spoke, the ingredient of which
he himself dared not to speak. And so that night he followed his
instructions, cutting gently into his finger and adding his blood to
the broth — but this time six drops — and then carrying the bowl
through the halls of the palace to the darkened apartment of the
Rajah.

The next day the ruler again visited his kitchen. The cook dreaded
hearing the words of his master, yet he knew what they would be. The
soup was even more delicious than before. It obviously was the effect
of that special something, thus its quantity again was to be
increased.

And so it went for more than a full cycle of the moon. Night after
night the old cook prepared the same meal for his master, night after
night adding increased amounts of his own blood into the broth, and
night after night carrying his preparation to the darkened rooms of
the Rajah. And then one morning word came from the servants' quarters
that the old cook was dead. The entire household had recognized that
he had become quite pale as of late, and his final end had not gone
unanticipated. Thus it was with some alarm that the household heard
their master scream hysterically at the news. And then came the
further news that he had shut himself up into his rooms with the
order that none should enter — none except those bringing his meals
to him at the appointed time of day.

It was not until three days thereafter that the whispers among the
servants came to the ears of the eldest of the Rajah's daughters, who
with her husband was visiting her father's palace. Two young serving
girls were nowhere to be found within the palatial halls. Both of
them had been those assigned to bring to the cloistered Rajah his
evening meals on the two previous days. The daughter was incensed at
the veiled accusation against her father. She instructed the kitchen
that, on this night, she herself would bring the tray to the ruler.
And thus it was that she did so, knocking gently upon his door at the
appointed time, hearing his voice —- but a strange voice it seemed
— instructing her to enter, and then entering.

Her father stood in a dark corner of the room, his back to the door.
"Enter, please," he said, indicating a table near where he
stood as the place the tray should be deposited. It was not until the
girl had done as she was directed that her father turned. She
screamed with all her strength as he stepped from the shadows and she
saw his face... the wild black hair... the sharp red-stained fangs...

Fortunately for the girl, her husband had not felt comfortable
allowing her to complete her mission by herself. Unknown to her he
had followed. And now it was his sword, which flashed and took from
the Rajah's shoulders in one sweep the horrible monster-head. It
rolled to a high lacquered cabinet which, when opened, was found to
contain the bodies of the two servant girls... their blood-drained
bodies.

Ah! A hideous
story, I admit... not one, which perhaps should be told over dinner.
And I have been remiss on not mentioning the excellence of your
salad, my dear. The dressing, especially. There is something... well,
different
about it.

 

 

 

I
see the way your child plays with his pet. A warm, homey scene, isn't
it? And it teaches the child affection as well as a sense of
responsibility, true? Of course, there might be such a thing as a
child becoming a little too attached to an animal — yes, there might
be. The Fletcher family just might be a case in point...

The Fletcher farm was located in New Hampshire,
in a rather isolated area of that state. Gareth, age eight, and
Libby, age six, had to walk for more than forty-five minutes to get
to school. That was, of course, when they walked fast and didn't
linger along the way. The point was that recently their parents had
been getting reports from the school that the children were showing
up very late, and there were one or two days when they did not come
to school at all, days when there was no excuse to be made such as
sickness. The parents had a rather firm idea of what was
behind it all. It was the black lamb.

Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher had given it to the
children as a pet. In the beginning it had been an extremely sickly
creature, but Gareth and Libby cared for it so well that its black
coat turned full and its overall energy level surpassed the norm for
such animals at its age. Yet there was a disturbing quality about the
little creature. Not only did Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher feel, well,
uncomfortable
about the black lamb, but the other animals on
the farm seemed to shun it. The two dogs, for example, would go
nowhere near the lamb, and whenever it came near one of them, the dog
would promptly disappear. The children, however, loved
their little black lamb and wanted it to go with them everywhere,
even to school. The famous nursery rhyme to the contrary, schools are
no place for little lambs, regardless of how much the children might
enjoy their presence, so the practice was put to a halt. That was, of
course, the time that Gareth and Libby began to attend classes with
less regularity than before.

The decision was a difficult one, but it had to be made. Mr. Fletcher
announced it gravely: the lamb had to go. There were tears and
pleadings, but both parents stood firm. Before the end of the week,
the lamb would be gone from the farm. It was then that Gareth told
his father that several times they had been asked by an old woman if
they wanted to sell their pet and, since she had said that they could
visit the animal at her place, this might be a solution. Mr. Fletcher
did not comment at that point, but the next day, when a thin old
crone presented herself at their door, he decided it might well
provide the best solution. For one thing, she lived quite far from
the Fletcher farm, far enough that the children would soon tire of
the long walk to see their former pet. He was sure of it.

But, he was less sure; a week after the lamb
had been sold. It was a dark night in October when Mrs. Fletcher
reported that the children's beds were empty, and that earlier she
had heard them whispering about the lamb. She definitely had heard
the word
party
mentioned. So it was that the Fletchers drove
their truck to the place where the old woman lived. The house itself
was dilapidated and dark, but from the barn there appeared to be some
light... and the sound of voices singing softly. A strange song it
was and, as Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher came nearer, the sound of the
melody, somewhat off key, and the strange foreign words chilled them
to the marrow of their bones. But it was not until they stepped up to
the open door that icy hands of fear clutched their hearts.

Most of the people inside were dressed in long black robes, all but
three of them. The old woman, standing by what looked to be an altar
of some kind, wore a white flowing gown. The two Fletcher children
wore their normal clothing as they stood, one on each side of the
altar. Upon the altar was the black lamb which, suddenly now, began
bleating. The singing abruptly stopped and all eyes turned toward the
entrance and to the two intruders. It was little Libby who spoke
first:

"Daddy, Mommy! They want to kill our little lamb. They say they
have to for their — "

She couldn't think of the word. "Ceremony," Gareth
supplied. Then he added. "They said that they must kill our lamb
— unless we find them a substitute... something for them to kill. We
couldn't think of any substitute... not until now..."

It took a moment before Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher
grasped the boy's meaning. By that time they themselves were being
grasped, by several pairs of strong hands... hands which now were
shoving them forward... toward the altar. They saw the long sharp
knife on the altar then, just as Gareth said,
with a childish smile, "We love our lamb, Father... we want him
with us... always..."

A rather disquieting tale, don't you
think? But look there — when you just now reprimanded your child's
pet for chewing on the carpet — did you see how your child
reacted... the look in his eyes?...

 

 

 

You
can't judge a book by its cover. How often we've all heard that sage
old proverb, one in which Constable Rufus Steed firmly believed. He
believed it right up till the grisly end, when the truth of the
proverb was put to a rather crucial test...

The little English hamlet in which Rufus Steed was constable was used
to quiet times. But when the horrible murders took place it was
anything but quiet — not in the daylight hours, that is. At night,
all was quiet as death itself. The door of every house was locked up
tight. The only sound was that of some lonely dog... or wolf. Indeed,
the daytime noise the citizenry made, either in the hamlet's single
pub or in Constable Steed's office, had much to do with wolves.
Because, you see, the first two murders occurred on the first nights
of the full moon. Both victims were young damsels and their throats
had been torn out... as if by the fangs of some... wolf.

"A werewolf!" was the cry raised on the morning of the
third day, but the cry was not directed at something whose daylight
whereabouts and identity were unknown. No, all accusatory eyes lifted
to the high hill overlooking the hamlet, and to the dark-walled
baronial manor which loomed upward from the heights.

Constable Steed did not have to be told why that was the place where
suspicion rested. Less than a week previous, young Hilliard Drew had
returned from many years in London. A nice, clean young man, Hilliard
Drew seemed, and it was not himself whom the people of the hamlet
suspected. No, it was his older brother Giles, whom Hilliard had
brought back with him... Giles, whose very face was a study of
twisted evil, whose body was bent over forward as if his sins weighed
down his stooping shoulders, whose cold, clouded right eye looked as
if transfixed on the sight of Hell itself. But it was not the way
Giles looked, not that alone, which struck terror in the hearts of
the people. It was also the fact that, prior to the brothers* return,
Giles had been cloistered in a sanitarium. For a few days after their
taking up the old family residence, conversation in the hamlet
expressed real pity for young Mr. Hilliard — such a pity that his
work or his studies or whatever he was up to in London had to be
interrupted so that he could care, bless him, for his demented
brother.

And then came the murders. So it was that, on
the day after the second of the two deaths, Constable Steed visited
Drew Manor. Young Hilliard Drew who, upon learning of the two poor
girls’ end, expressed his view that he thought it was shocking,
“really shockingâ€