Having Toffee the "dream-girl" around
was bad enough for Marc, but a ghost
named George was just too much.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Adventures November 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
As a rule, in moments of acute peril, most faces can be relied upon to
arrange themselves into the traditional expressions of open-mouthed,
pop-eyed terror. Not so, however, the willful countenance of Marc
Pillsworth. The lean Pillsworth phiz, openly disdainful of the accepted
manifestations of fear, regally side-stepped into something that looked
curiously like tight-lipped primness. At the moment it had tied
itself into such a knot of horror as to appear downright priggish.
As the sidewalk split under Marc's feet, throwing him against the
unforgiving granite of the Regent Building, the only expletive vigorous
enough to force its way through his tightly pursed lips was a sadly
depleted, but nonetheless determined "damn."
What had just transpired was extremely upsetting, also quite
impossible. Now, if Marc had been careless about looking where he
was going. But he hadn't. He had been fully aware of the suspended
safe ... an object of considerable tonnage by the look of it ... and
its precarious position outside the sixth story window. Dangling
threateningly out over the street like that, how could he have missed
it? He had even taken special care to keep well outside the roped-off
safety area. And yet, when the pulley had slipped, and the safe begun
to fall, it was as though the great hand of Satan, himself, had taken
hold of it and hurled it directly at Marc. It had missed him not by
inches, but by the merest fraction of an inch. It was impossible that
it should have happened that way; all the laws of physics forbade
it. However, for Marc, the morning was already fairly bristling with
impossibilities, and while this was not the least of them, neither was
it the greatest. Staring apprehensively at the great black lump, now
embedded in the sidewalk, he wondered if it were going to leap from its
resting place and crush him against the wall. He wouldn't have been
the least bit surprised if it had. In the last few hours he'd come to
expect almost anything.
"Damn," he repeated breathlessly.
"You hurt, Bud?"
Marc directed bewildered eyes toward the entrance of the building
and saw a workman running swiftly toward him. "No," he said weakly.
"It missed me. I'm all right ... I think. If you want me to sign a
statement to that effect, I'll be glad to." He leaned down to flick
a bit of cement dust from his trouser cuff and, because of a hand
that was trembling badly, did a more complete job than was strictly
necessary.
If there was a hand, though, that had every right to tremble, it was
the hand of Marc Pillsworth. Actually, it was a wonder the thing wasn't
thrashing about like a hooked tuna. His nerves, by now, were as taut
and as prickly as the strands on a barbed wire fence.
* * * * *
It had all started early that morning when absenteeism had reared its
unlovely head among the ranks of his shirt buttons, thereby making
him miss his bus. But Marc, long since hardened to life's minor
misfortunes, had waited for a replacement, kissed Julie goodbye at
the completion of repairs, and gone in search of a taxi with a certain
amount of equanimity. And he had even managed not to be too dismayed
when, after going to some lengths to snare a cab, the perverse vehicle
had had a flat only two blocks from the apartment. It was not until,
upon stepping out of the cab to inquire about the delay, he had looked
up to see a truck, out of control, heading directly for him ... it was
not until then that he finally came to the bitter realization that the
routineness of the morning had been irrevocably shattered.
After picking himself stiffly out of a nearby hedge, into which he had
hastily retreated for safety, and making sure that no one was injured,
Marc had signed an injury waiver, shaken the dust from his soiled
dignity and gone quietly in search of other transportation. Even then,
all things being equal, the morning might still have resolved itself
into a fair semblance of normalcy. Only all things were just about as
equal as a private and a general on pay day. If Marc had only known it,
further disaster, just three blocks distant, was already rushing toward
him in the person of a bundle-laden, middle-aged woman, hurriedly
returning home from an early-morning expedition to the neighborhood
market.
The woman had walked sightlessly into Marc just as he stepped from
the curb. Ordinarily, such an incident would have meant only a hasty
exchange of insincerities. It would have, that is, if it hadn't
happened on the very brink of a workman's ditch where some new and
very iron pipe was being laid. Catapulted head-first into the trench,
Marc would certainly have died of assorted abrasions and fractures if
a beefy workman hadn't been standing in precisely the right spot to
cushion his fall.
He had signed two waivers that time.
After that, it had only been the negligible journey of five blocks to
the incident of the falling safe. It would seem that the fates, gotten
up on the murderous side of the bed, were going a bit out of their way
to give Marc an untimely nudge into the hereafter.
Now, after quaveringly signing papers for the Regent people, he hurried
away from the building and started down the sidewalk. With a rather
harassed expression replacing the one of prim fright, he moved toward
the corner bus stop. After all, he thought, even if it was only a few
more blocks to the office, he would probably do better to play it safe
and put himself in the mechanized hands of the city bus company. They'd
always taken good care of him before. Besides, his knees were feeling a
trifle unhinged.
A small group had already assembled at the corner to await the arrival
of the bus, and Marc drew close to it. He wanted to dispel the uneasy
feeling that he alone had been singled out and set apart for disaster.
He wanted the feeling of safety that is always inherent in any human
gathering, no matter how small. It was unfortunate that this gregarious
impulse only led to the brutal trampling of a delicate foot, the
property of the most attractive lady in the assemblage.
"Ouch!" yelled Marc's diminutive victim. "You crazy ox!" She glanced
significantly at Marc's feet. "Why don'tcha look where you're puttin'
them big hooves? You could cripple a girl fer life!"
"Sorry," Marc murmured embarrassedly. "Terribly sorry."
"I should think _so_!" The girl turned away, still mumbling fretfully.
Edging back, Marc continued to stare at the girl. She reminded him
of someone. But who was it? The angry flash of her green eyes, the
flaming red of her hair, even the arrogant, curving lines of her supple
young body were strongly reminiscent of someone he had once known. His
wife? He immediately vetoed the idea. Julie was a stately blonde, and
her eyes were blue.
Who then? Someone he'd dreamed? Marc's heart suddenly did a quick
backflip. Why Toffee, of course. Toffee!
* * * * *
Marc glanced nervously at the people about him. For a moment he was
almost afraid that he'd called out aloud. But apparently he hadn't,
for no one was looking at him. Wasn't it odd, he thought, how Toffee
faded from his memory almost the moment she was out of sight. Maybe
it was because her existence sprang from so strange a source ... from
the depths of his own subconscious mind. Maybe it was because she
was really a part of him that he thought of her so seldom; it would
be almost like keeping constantly in mind one's liver or kidneys.
His smile was almost wistful as his memory returned to that hectic
morning when he'd seen Toffee for the first time outside his dreams.
Titian-haired mistress of his subconscious, it had been quite a shock
when she had decided to materialize from his dreams, assume physical
proportions and step full-blown, as it were, right into the center of
his waking hours. Her penchant for building the quietest situation into
an affair of raging insanity had made itself distressingly apparent
right from the start. And yet, Marc had to admit it, she also possessed
a rather endearing aptitude for clearing up the snarls in his life ...
even if her methods were somewhat devious at times. Yes, Toffee was
sweet in her way ... sweet, like a sugar-coated time bomb. Almost
affectionately, Marc wondered what she was doing in his subconscious
this morning. Probably seething with anger that he hadn't admitted her
to his dreams last night so that she might have a hand in the morning's
mishaps. Falling into ditches, being nearly crushed under safes or
run down by trucks would be her notion of a real frolic; such was her
disposition toward peril and threats of sudden death. Small matters in
her gladsome existence. Marc's smile broadened, then vanished as he saw
the bus approaching the corner.
Waiting his turn, he absently watched the well-turned ankle of the
outraged redhead as its owner moved smartly up the steps, into the bus.
That hazard out of the way, he reached for the gleaming handrail and
drew himself up to the first step, a little surprised to find that he
was still a bit shaky from the morning's excitement. Inside the bus,
he steadied himself and reached quickly into his pocket and drew out a
handful of change. He searched hastily for the correct fare, found it,
and held it out toward the shining collection box. It was just as his
hand drew even with the box that the red sedan suddenly came careening
across the intersection and headed directly for the bus. It came
head-on, for all the world as though its prime purpose in the scheme of
things was to demolish the big vehicle. There was a rending, crashing
sound, and suddenly all the air was filled with splintering glass and
noise. The sound of Marc's fare falling to the floor was lost in the
din of the crash.
* * * * *
Marc's thirty-two years seemed almost to have doubled as he climbed
feebly out of the taxi and paid the driver. Turning, he gazed
gratefully at the stairs leading to the Pillsworth Advertising Agency
and started uncertainly toward them. Actually, though, for a man who
had just suffered four consecutive escapes from lacerated death, he was
in comparatively good shape. Nevertheless, having one's head wedged
into the baggage rack of an interurban bus for over fifteen minutes
is an experience that is bound to take its toll. Moving up the steps,
Marc weaved and groped his way like a man in a drunken stupor. Finally
reaching the door to the outer office, he threw his weight against it,
wedged it open, and stumbled inside in a manner sharply reminiscent of
the entrance of Dan McGrew into the Malamute Saloon. For a moment he
just stood there, his arms dangling lifelessly at his sides, staring
stupidly at his employees, who returned the compliment by remaining
rigidly spellbound at their desks. Dazed as he was, Marc didn't see the
girl coming down the aisle between the desks. And she didn't see him.
A racing cloud of disheveled hair and apparel, she stormed toward Marc
in what was obviously a blind rage. The tap of her high heels sounded
against the floor with the rapidity of a riveting machine, and an
enormous handbag flapped angrily against her slender thigh. It wasn't
until she was nearly abreast of Marc that she finally noticed him.
At the sight of Marc, the girl came to a sudden, jerking halt, as
though she had run full-tilt against the face of a brick wall. More
than that, she looked just as stunned. Going tensely rigid, like a
cardboard cut-out of her self, she drew her arms stiffly to her sides,
closed her eyes and screamed till it seemed that her vocal chords would
snap under the strain. True and strong, her voice shrilled through the
office ripping the silence to shreds. Finally completing this awful
recital with a flourish right out of the Lucia mad scene, she opened
her eyes and pointed a commanding finger at Marc.
"Stay where you are, Mr. Pillsworth!" she bleated. "One step and I'll
scream!"
"You've already screamed," Marc reminded her thickly. "And you really
mustn't do it any more."
"If you move," the girl replied vehemently, "I'll not only do it some
more, but louder!"
Marc's blood ran cold at the thought. "Oh, don't," he pleaded, "Please.
Whatever the trouble is, I'm sure we can...." Holding out a placating
hand, he swayed toward her.
"Get away!" the girl yelped with honest terror. "Get away, you ... you
wolf!" And grasping her handbag firmly by its straps, she took hasty
aim at Marc's head and arranged a resounding introduction of the two.
Under the impact of the bag, which seemed to be harboring at least a
couple of flat irons, Marc sat down heavily on the floor, like a sack
of soggy meal. In the blurred starlit confusion that followed, he was
vaguely aware of tapping heels and the thunderous slam of a door.
* * * * *
After a moment, in which the spinning universe settled down to a more
reasonable pace, Marc prodded his head with a cautious finger and,
finding it still where he'd remembered it, looked up. "What happened?"
he asked.
He waited for a reply that was not forthcoming. The agency employees,
still rigid at their desks, merely stared back at him with what
appeared to be only faintly disguised contempt. Then a door slammed
somewhere at the far end of the office and Memphis McGuire, Marc's
current secretary, big as the city for which she was named and twice as
colorful, swung heavily into view. Just barely avoiding a collision
with a desk, she started down the aisle.
Angrily waving a sheaf of papers over her head, her multi-colored dress
flapping loosely about her hammy legs, Memphis looked like nothing so
much as a circus tent, flag unfurled, being blown along in a typhoon.
Reaching Marc, she stopped in front of him, her weight settling itself
around her with a sudden shake. She bent down and waved the papers
accusingly under his nose.
"You louse!" she bellowed. "You utter, ring-tailed louse!"
Marc stared up into her scowling face like a bewildered child who had
just been spanked for saying her prayers. It didn't make sense. None
of it. Everyone ... the world, itself ... had chosen this day to turn
on him. That Memphis, too, should enlist in the ranks of his demented
attackers was just too much. He felt like crying. Always, from the very
first day of her employment, Memphis had been his staunchest supporter.
She had championed his every cause. It was inconceivable that, now, on
this mad morning of meaningless outrage, she should turn against him.
What had happened? Had she ... and everyone else in the world ... gone
stark, raving mad?
"Wha ... what's going on here?" Marc stammered. "Has everyone gone
crazy?"
"Crazy is the word!" Memphis thundered. "I must have been clear out of
my mind to stay up half the night typing these reports! There's just
one thing I want to know. When I sent Miss Hicks into your office with
these papers, did you or did you not tell her to go hang them in the
lavatory? Just answer me that! That's all!" She straightened up and
glowered down at him, a trembling tower of fury. Marc only stared back
at her in silent disbelief. "Well, did you!" Her voice pounded against
the walls like the beat of a bass drum. "And did you leap at Miss Dugan
when she went in with the mail? And chase her around the room! Deny
it! I dare you! Just you try and I'll smash the ears right off your
two-faced head!"
Marc winced. It didn't seem she was leaving him a very attractive
alternative. His ears, though a bit large perhaps, had served him well
and faithfully so far, and he was anxious to continue the association.
Besides, even if the invitation to rebuttal had been made without
threat of disfiguration, he was beginning to doubt his physical ability
to accept it. The glove of challenge had been thrown down, but he was
too weak even to pick it up. Already, Memphis' angry face was beginning
to blur and drift lazily back and forth before him. A curious limpness
had come into his body, and he felt himself sagging toward the floor.
"Good grief! He's sick!" Memphis' voice came to him distantly, as
though through water. Then he felt her arms about his shoulders,
holding him away from the floor. "Well, don't just sit there, you
gaping parasites, help me carry him into his office!" Though commanding
and brusque, the voice carried a faint overtone of self-reproach.
* * * * *
Being carried ... or dragged, as it seemed ... into the quiet confines
of his private office, Marc was only half aware of what was happening.
However, as he felt the softness of the lounge beneath him, his head
began to clear a little. He opened his eyes. The door was just closing
on an assortment of backs and a confusion of whispered conversation.
Memphis, sitting in a chair next to the lounge, was staring at him with
worried concern.
"I didn't mean to let go at you like that, Mr. Pillsworth," she said
regretfully. "But, really, you shouldn't have done it. I was so
disappointed."
"Disappointed?" Marc asked weakly. "Shouldn't have done what?"
She waved a hand vaguely through the air. "Oh, everything. Drinking in
the office. Making passes at the girls. Chasing them. All the--rest.
Somehow it just doesn't seem right to go on like that in a business
office."
"Drinking?" Marc looked deeply perplexed. "Who's been drinking?"
"It's all right," Memphis replied soothingly. "And it doesn't matter
now that it's all over. I'm sure it won't happen again. Will it?"
Marc raised himself slowly to one elbow. "What won't happen again?" he
asked. "What's been going on here, anyway? I demand to know."
"Who knows better than you?" Memphis returned, a touch of temper
creeping back into her voice. "Just look at this office."
For the first time Marc turned his attention to his surroundings. The
office was a shambles. Paper was strewn everywhere, and in the center
of the room, a chair, turned on its back, lay discarded and forlorn.
Across from him, by the leg of another chair, a suspicious-looking
half-filled bottle stood on the floor. The air was redolent with the
odor of liquor. Unbelievingly, Marc swung his legs over the edge of
the lounge, rose shakily to his feet, and toddled toward the offending
container. Drawing abreast of it, he squatted down and reached for
it. Then, blinking incredulously, he withdrew from it, empty-handed.
The battering his head had taken that morning must have affected his
sight. He could have sworn the bottle moved out of his grasp of its own
accord. Shaking his head, he turned to Memphis.
"How did that get in here?"
"I guess you hauled it in here when you came in this morning."
"Came in this morning?" Marc was more bewildered than ever. "But I'm
just now getting here. I was held up. I had an accident a whole lot of
accidents."
Bemusement crept stealthily across Memphis' face. "You weren't here
until now?" she asked slowly. "I'd be the last one to call you a liar,
but I saw you with my own eyes. So did Miss Hicks and Miss Graham. Oh,
Lord, and don't they wish they hadn't!"
Under a wave of dizziness, Marc made his way unsteadily back to the
lounge. "You did not," he said fretfully, sitting down. "I wasn't here."
Exasperation finally flashed in Memphis' eyes. "All right," she said
unhappily. "So you weren't here. I didn't see you. You're absolutely
right, Mr. Pillsworth. And ... and that isn't all you are!"
She may have said more, but if she did, Marc didn't hear her. As he
sank back onto the lounge, the room suddenly started to spin. Then it
stopped, and began to fill with writhing, surging waves of blackness.
Ink-like liquid was seeping in everywhere, its whispering tide rising
swiftly toward him. It was coming so fast! In a moment it covered
Memphis, hiding her from view, and he wondered fleetingly why she
allowed herself to be submerged without a struggle.
Then, quickly, the blackness washed over the edge of the lounge, and
Marc felt himself, light and buoyant, being lifted upward. Up, up and
up he moved and then, just as he was nearing the ceiling, there was a
terrible sucking sound and he was drawn swiftly downward into unbroken,
unending, fluid blackness.
* * * * *
He moved in a drifting delirium that seemed endless and brief all
at the same time. Time, hours ... or were they really minutes? ...
dissolved and were lost beyond remembrance. He drifted lazily through
ages, shot fleetingly through racing seconds. Then, just as he had
resigned himself to this curious state of timelessness, he was lifted
upward once more, and shot out of the darkness, into brilliant, nearly
blinding light. Borne on the crest of an ebony wave, he was hurtled
forward and heavily deposited on what appeared to be a grassy beach.
He lay flat on his stomach for a time, listening to the dying rumble
of the wave. And when it was gone, there was a deep stillness, broken
only by the lingering lap-lap of the receding blackness. Rolling over,
he saw that he was resting on the topmost point of a grassy knoll. The
black waters had entirely disappeared now, and the greenness of the
little hill stretched out endlessly in all directions. Here and there,
clusters of strange feathery trees swayed gently at the command of a
blue vaporous mist. It was so blissfully quiet.
Then something shot past his ear and struck the earth behind him with a
soft thud. He turned just in time to see a glistening apple ... golden
and perfectly round ... rolling down the far side of the mound. He sat
up and watched it quizzically.
"Darn!" a voice said shrewishly. "I should have hit him right between
his fishy eyes."
Marc swung around, but there was nothing and no one behind him ...
nothing, that is, except one of the strange trees. Curiously alone and
aloof, it was the only tree on the little hill. Getting to his feet,
Marc moved warily toward it. Then he stopped short as he noticed an odd
fluttering motion in its foliage. Then, all at once, there was a flash
of red along one of the branches, and he wondered if it were afire. He
drew closer, then stopped again. What he was really looking at was a
mop of agitated red hair. A hand suddenly appeared and brushed the hair
aside, and two green eyes, wide with aggravation, glinted down at him.
Marc recognized them at once. "Toffee!" he exclaimed.
"Miss Toffee to you, mushhead," the girl replied hotly. "I shouldn't
think you'd have the brass to show your sniveling face around here
after the way you've treated me. A crime, that's what it is!"
"What are you doing up there?" Marc asked noncommitally.
"I'm falling out," Toffee snapped. "Right now, I'm just barely dangling
by my toes. But in a second I'm going to let go, and if you know what's
good for you, you'll catch me. I lost my balance chucking that apple at
you."
"Serves you right," Marc said. He stepped forward, under the tree, and
looked up. It was true. Toffee was dangling precariously between two
branches. Her foot acting as a grappling hook on one branch, her hand
grasping the other, she looked like nothing so much as a shapely pink
hammock. Her transparent tunic, always an aloof bystander at best,
was hanging loosely to one side, unconcerned that its wearer was left
shockingly exposed. Marc quickly averted his eyes and held out his arms.
"Okay!" he called. "Let go!"
Toffee came down promptly and heavily, her sudden weight rocking
Marc back on his heels. For a moment it was touch and go between the
staggering man and the forces of gravity. But Marc finally won out and
righted himself. Then, looking down, he discovered, to his horror,
that Toffee had landed face-down in his arms. Obviously, certain
adjustments needed to be made immediately. With a timid hand, Marc
tried to do what he could about them.
"Stop pawing me, you wrinkled adolescent!" Toffee yelled. "Put me down!"
And with that, she sank two talon-like fingernails into the flesh of
Marc's thigh. Marc's trousers might just as well have been made of
tissue for all the protection they afforded him against the cutting
nails.
* * * * *
With a piercing scream of agony, he promptly gave Toffee over to the
ground, where she landed with a resounding thump. "You little beast!"
he cried, clutching his leg. "Of all the ingratitude!"
Toffee looked up owlishly from over her shoulder. "I told you to put
me down," she said vindictively. "Surely, you didn't expect me to just
hang there while you made finger prints all over my--"
"I was only trying to set you right," Marc cut in quickly.
"Hah!" Toffee jumped lightly to her feet. "From now on," she said,
placing a slender hand on a sculptured hip, "I'll take care of my own
setting, and don't you ever forget it."
"Do what you like with your precious setting," Marc put in, his
irritation mounting. "See if I care. You can hurl the fool thing out
the window for all of me."
"I wouldn't even tilt it over the sill for the best part of you,"
Toffee sneered. "Not after the torture you've been putting me through
lately."
"I torture _you_!" Marc laughed bitterly. "That's good, that is!"
"Then what do you call it?" Toffee made a quick gesture that
encompassed the whole of the valley. "How would _you_ like to be
locked up in this place months on end? The valley of your mind! Hah!
The sump hole would be more like it. You haven't had an original
thought in the last six months."
"You're so depraved," Marc said, rising to his own defense, "you
wouldn't know an original thought if you saw one. And if you think I'm
going to dedicate my days to the contemplation of smut, just for your
sweet sake, you're mistaken. Just because you're nasty minded, doesn't
mean the rest of us are."
"Why you hypocritical old heller!" Toffee flared. "Some of the thoughts
you've had were enough to singe the hair right off a censor's head. It
makes me fairly blush sometimes, just being in the same mind with them."
"I've a fine picture of that!" Marc snorted. "You haven't got a modest
blush left to your name."
Toffee shrugged her shoulders. "Anyway," she said, "you might at least
have dreamed me up in time for the excitement this morning. The one
morning in your dull life when something happens, and you keep me
chained up in your subconscious!"
Marc's features suddenly fell into lines of deep meditation. The
morning and its frantic adventures had gone completely out of his
memory until now. Toffee's remark had stirred vague remembrances. All
of it was slowly coming back.
Toffee started toward him with sudden concern. "What's wrong, Marc?"
she asked softly. "Is it anything I can help with? Even if you are a
low viper, I still love you, you know. I guess I just can't help it."
Marc shook his head. "I don't quite know what's wrong myself," he said
slowly. "That is, I know what's happened, but I don't know why."
"You sound a little mixed up."
"I am. All mixed up."
Then they both swung quickly around as an odd lap-lapping sounded
softly behind them. At the foot of the mound, the black tide was
already rising swiftly toward them, each successive surge blotting
out more and more of the little valley. For a moment, they just stood
looking at it, too surprised to move.
"Here we go again," Toffee said happily, turning to Marc.
Her voice seemed to wake him from a sort of trance. "Go again?" he
asked. "We?" A frightened look came into his eyes. "No! No, you don't.
Things will be bad enough without you!"
"Oh, don't be silly," Toffee giggled. Then seeing that the speeding
tide was already near their feet, she suddenly turned to Marc and swung
her arms around his neck. "You need me."
"Let go!" Marc yelled. He ducked, tried to break her grasp, but it was
no use. Then it was too late. All at once, the tide caught them up
and hurled them toward the sky. And just as it seemed they were going
to touch the clouds, there was a horrible sucking sound and they were
drawn down into the inner current of the flowing blackness.
* * * * *
The light of day returned to Marc slowly and without welcome. Partly
opening one eye, he wished he hadn't, for his head instantly began
pulsing like a heavily burdened steam engine pulling out of a mountain
way-station. Somewhere there was a faint, intermittent hissing sound,
which Marc expected was probably caused by gases shooting rhythmically
from his ears. He opened the other eye and tried to clear his head by
concentration. But the hissing continued. He lay back and turned his
attention to the restful blankness of the ceiling. When Toffee's pert,
puckish face swam into view just above his own, he was only mildly
surprised. After everything else, it seemed only to be expected.
"It's so lovely to be materialized again," she sighed happily. "I feel
all alive and wonderful. I even begin to like you a little." Unmoved
by these glad tidings, Marc nodded absently and closed his eyes again.
"You look simply awful," she added.
"You wouldn't win any titles, yourself," Marc mumbled, "if you'd been
kicked, pummeled and bashed all over town like I have."
"What happened. Who kicked you?"
Sitting up and holding his head in his hands, Marc tried to give her a
brief and coherent summary of his havoc-ridden journey to the office.
Also, he included the depressing welcome afforded him by the staff upon
arrival.
"Very strange," Toffee mused, moving thoughtfully around the disordered
room. "Something has obviously gone amiss."
"Amiss!" Marc groaned. "Something's gone completely berserk." Suddenly
he stopped speaking, looked up, and inclined his head in a listening
attitude. "Do you hear something?" he asked.
"That hissing sound?" Toffee said. "Gets on your nerves, doesn't it?"
"Thank heaven," Marc sighed. "I thought maybe it was in my head. What
do you think it is?"
"Sounds like someone sleeping, breathing heavily," Toffee said. Then
her roving eye lit on the half-filled bottle at the other end of the
room, and she moved swiftly toward it. She started to reach down for
it, then suddenly stopped, tilting her head to one side. "That noise is
louder over here." She straightened and pointed to the chair beside the
bottle. "It seems to be coming from that."
"Don't be silly," Marc said shortly. "Why would a chair hiss?"
Leaning down again, Toffee extended a slender finger, and jabbed
quickly at the cushion of the chair. Instantly, a horrible grunting
sound echoed through the room, and she jumped back, her eyes wide with
surprise.
"Good grief," a voice said thickly. "Haven't you any sense of decency
at all? Keep your prodding fingers to yourself. Go exercise your low
instincts somewhere else."
Toffee swung quickly around to face Marc. "This," she said sternly,
"is no time to be sitting around throwing your voice. If you must give
vaudeville entertainments, go to a cheap theatre where your vulgar
talents will be appreciated."
Marc's face twisted with wonder. "I didn't throw anything," he said
innocently. "Least of all my voice. But I heard it, and it was awful."
"It was your voice," Toffee insisted. "I'd know that rasp anywhere. And
if you try it just once more, I'll...." Suddenly her voice froze into
silence as she saw Marc's expression swiftly change to one of undiluted
horror. Slowly, she turned and followed his gaze to the garrulous
chair, and promptly started back with a hysterical sob.
"Holy gee!" she breathed. "If that isn't the most hair-raising sight
ever!"
* * * * *
From the chair an apparently disembodied hand swung downward and
grasped the bottle on the floor. Then, even as they watched it, it
raised the bottle rakishly over the center of the chair and poured a
portion of its contents into ... into nothing! This done, the hand and
bottle moved downward again, and a resounding burp rumbled messily
through the room.
"Holy gee!" Toffee repeated breathlessly.
"What ... what's...." The words died in Marc's throat.
The floating hand, now at rest on the arm of the chair, had suddenly
been matched by another on the opposite arm. Marc and Toffee, struck
dumb by this spectacle, remained rigid, staring with wide-eyed
amazement. And as they watched, two feet, as though to add balance to
the already gruesome picture, slowly appeared on the floor in front of
the chair. After that things seemed to really get under way, and it was
only a matter of seconds until, a section at a time, a whole body had
come into view, complete with everything ... except a head.
"Ulp!" The sound came from Marc.
"You said it," Toffee murmured. "I think I'm going to be hysterical."
With a shudder she turned away and gazed intently out the window.
"You ... you see it too?" Marc asked wretchedly.
"I'm doing my level best not to," Toffee replied. "It's the most
horrible thing I've ever set eyes on. It's positively haunting. I'd be
just as pleased if you wouldn't remind me of it."
"What do you suppose it is?"
"I don't know," Toffee returned miserably. "And I don't care. I just
want to forget all about it. Maybe if we simply ignore it, it will go
away and leave us alone. Let's just look out the window and engage in
casual conversation. Maybe it'll get the idea it's not wanted."
"I wonder if it _can_ go away?" Marc said. Shakily he rose from the
lounge, and with one last tormented glance at the headless figure,
moved rapidly to Toffee's side. "Suppose it ... it can't move ... any
more?"
"It can move all right," Toffee said gloomily. "The way it was whipping
that bottle around I wouldn't be surprised to see it get up and start
doing an Irish jig, though the mere thought of it makes my flesh fairly
scamper."
"That's right," Marc mused. "Whatever it is, it seems to be in splendid
working order."
"Too damn splendid," Toffee agreed.
"Maybe we should assert ourselves," Marc suggested. "Maybe we could
throw it out."
"I, personally," Toffee replied firmly, "would rather slash my wrists
than lay a finger to the clammy thing."
"As I recall," a voice said hollowly from across the room, "you didn't
mind in the least laying a finger to me a while ago. And a shockingly
intimate finger it was too. In fact I was quite embarrassed by it. And
if you two mental cases really want something to do, I suggest you
open up that window and throw yourselves out into the street. Your
feeble-minded gibbering is keeping me awake."
Marc and Toffee nearly collided as they swung about. Then, in perfect
unison, they gasped. The figure, now graced with a head, was glaring at
them evilly.
"Wha ... who?" Marc sputtered. Turning away, slightly, he passed a
trembling hand over his eyes, then looked again. "OOooo!" He looked
like a man who'd just received a ball bat across the stomach. The face
into which he gazed was an exact duplicate of his own. It was like
looking at his own reflection ... only there wasn't any mirror.
"You," the figure observed dryly, "sound like a bilious Indian. For
that matter you may be one, for all I know. But, in any case, if you
can't say anything intelligent, please go away. I'm very tired."
* * * * *
This seemed to jolt Marc out of his state of temporary paralysis. With
the air of one who had had quite enough, he stepped forward and leveled
a long finger at the figure in the chair. "Who ... who are _you_?" he
asked.
"Why, I'm...." The figure turned and regarded Marc closely for the
first time. A look of astonishment came into its face. "Who are _you_?"
it countered suspiciously.
"I'm Marc Pillsworth," Marc returned impatiently. "This is my office.
And whoever you are, and whatever kind of trick you think you're
playing, I'll thank you to clear out before I call the police and have
you dragged out ... er ... bodily." He cleared his throat uneasily. "A
section at a time if need be."
Suddenly the figure was on its feet, staring at Marc in unmixed alarm.
"You're lying," it said. "You can't be Marc Pillsworth. I'm Marc
Pillsworth ... at least, in a sense I am." It turned to Toffee. "He
isn't Marc Pillsworth, is he?"
"I thought he was," Toffee replied confusedly. "Now I'm not so sure.
Right now, I don't even know who I am. Maybe I'm Marc Pillsworth and
you two are Toffee. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if it turned out that
way."
"He can't be!" the figure insisted. "Marc Pillsworth was due to die at
eight-thirty sharp this morning." Suddenly it turned to Marc. "You're
dead!" it said firmly. "You'd better stop running around like this. It
isn't right. I was ordered here to haunt this place, and how can I do
it with you around? It ruins everything. I'm a self-respecting spectre
and I won't have this sort of thing. I won't!"
"I'm not dead," Marc snapped peevishly. "And ... and...." Suddenly he
stopped short and blinked. "You ... you're a ghost?"
"Naturally," the figure replied with solemn dignity. "Yours. What
did you think? So you see, you simply can't be alive. It just isn't
possible. These things just aren't handled that way."
Fearful uncertainty crept into Marc's eyes. "Well," he murmured, "I did
have a lot of accidents this morning, and maybe I did.... I don't feel
so good." Suddenly he shook his head. "No! This is insane. I'm just as
alive as ever."
"Holy smoke!" the figure cried. "You mean you loused things up and
didn't get killed? You're actually here, you and that naked lady?"
Toffee drew her brief tunic closer around her. "Ghost or no ghost," she
said icily, "I'll not be referred to as that naked lady."
The ghost looked at her appraisingly. "You may not be any lady," he
said, "but you are certainly naked."
"For heaven's sake!" Marc cried desperately. "This is no time to be
going on about naked ladies."
"It's as good a time as any," Toffee said pertly. "You stay out of
this. It may develop into something interesting." Her hold on the tunic
relaxed slightly. "Naked ladies don't grow on trees, you know."
"I don't care if they grow in ash cans!" Marc rasped, a little out of
control. "I don't care about naked ladies at all!"
"You don't?" The ghost stared at Marc wonderingly.
"No, I don't! What I care about is this mess you've gotten me into.
It's got to be straightened out!"
"Oh, that," the ghost said, suddenly unconcerned. "That's easy, now
that I think about it. There was some sort of slip up this morning, but
I'm sure it was all your own doing. Our office never makes mistakes.
All you have to do now is just bump yourself off, and everything will
be all right. Better late than never, I suppose."
"What!" The word shot from Marc's mouth like a handful of gravel. "You
expect me to commit suicide just for the sake of your precious records!
I never heard of anything so callous!"
"Oh, come now, old man," the spirit smiled blandly. "Let's not be
sentimental about it. Why don't you just toddle down to the corner
and slip quietly under a truck?" Suddenly he burped and his legs, in
simultaneous accompaniment, disappeared up to the knees. For a moment
he seemed to hover, half-legless, in mid-air. Looking down at this
curious phenomenon, he smiled apologetically. "It's the liquor," he
said. "Can't handle my ectoplasm worth a damn when I'm drinking."
Closing his eyes, he seemed to concentrate a moment, and the legs
reappeared in their entirety. He looked up, beaming proudly.
"Oh, good grief," Toffee moaned. "As long as I live I'll never see
anything worse than that!"
"And now," the spirit began, turning to Marc, "as I was saying...."
"No!" Marc looked like an animal at bay.
* * * * *
Moving to the chair, the spirit sat down, crossed his legs and
elegantly lifted the bottle from the floor. After a long swallow, he
looked up and shook his head. "It's on the books that you're dead, and
I've got my ectoplasm and a job to do. I don't care what you do, I'm
going to stay and haunt this place." He crossed his arms defiantly over
his chest.
Marc glanced up peevishly. "_Haunt_ this place?" he said sarcastically.
"A wrecking crew could do the same thing, if that's what you call it."
"It's the new method," the spirit said languidly. "The old-fashioned
moaning and chain rattling is out nowadays. The new haunting manual
tells us just to use our own imagination and initiative. You know, make
the thing more personal through self-expression." He leaned forward and
looked at Marc more closely. "Say, you don't look so good." He held out
the bottle. "You better have some of this."
Marc accepted the bottle with hesitation, regarded it suspiciously for
a moment, then, with a shrug, took a long drink. After savoring the
taste and the feel of the warm liquid, he thoughtfully took another ...
and another.
"Let's not get greedy about this thing!" the spirit said with some show
of alarm. "Let's not go overboard. That grog was hard come by. I had to
hi-jack a delivery truck and nearly got a free ride to the next city."
"That would have been awful," Marc countered wryly. He returned the
bottle and turned to Toffee. "You are naked," he mused. "Awful naked.
And things are complicated enough without it. Why don't you trot off
and put on some clothes?"
"And where do I get these clothes?"
Marc waved an expansive hand toward a door at the far end of the room.
"I think the boys were doing some models in there yesterday. There are
probably some clothes left over."
"Good night!" Toffee said, scandalized. "What were those boys doing to
the poor things. What, with clothes left over, it must have been awful."
"They were photographing them for ads."
"Oh," Toffee said disappointedly, and pivoting, went to the door.
Opening it, she paused a moment to look back. "This won't take long.
Don't go away." She stepped into the dimness of the next room, and
softly closed the door.
Marc directed his attention back to the spirit. "Now there must be some
way out of this, Mr. ... uh...."
"Just call me George," the spirit said. "It's your second name, you
know. You're already using the Marcus part of it yourself."
Marc nodded gravely. "Well, anyway, George, you must understand that
this thing can't go any further." George yawned expansively, and Marc
increased the volume of his voice. "You've simply got to go, George.
I'm sure that...."
His voice trailed off into the distant reaches of the room and faded
into nothing. George had suddenly disappeared, and a hollow snoring
sound rattled ominously from the depths of the now empty-looking chair.
"In here, Miss McGuire?" The voice was Julie's and it came from just
beyond the outer door.
Marc leaped to his feet in alarm, started frantically toward the chair,
the door to the photographer's room, then, hopelessly, he whirled
about, threw himself down on the lounge and closed his eyes tight.
Maybe if Julie thought he was sleeping, she would leave. There was the
sound of a hand on the door knob.
The door whined open, and muted footsteps sounded on the carpet. From
the sound of it, there seemed to be several people, among them a man.
Marc wondered desperately who it was, but kept his eyes determinedly
shut.
"There he is," came the sound of Memphis' voice, "just as I left him."
"Is that good, doctor?" This time it was Julie's voice, anxious and
fearful.
"I really couldn't say, Mrs. Pillsworth. Maybe. Maybe not."
The doctor's voice was a solemn one with sonorous, church-like
overtones.
"Well, I'll leave you two with him," Memphis said. "I hope everything
will be all right."
"Thanks so much for calling me," Julie returned.
As the door closed with a snap, Marc struggled valiantly against a
driving impulse to open his eyes ... one of them at least ... just a
little.
"Smell the liquor, doctor?" Julie was saying. "This sort of thing has
never happened before. I just don't understand it. If what Miss McGuire
tells me is true, he's been behaving like a regular hoodlum."
"Sometimes," the doctor replied, "they just snap all of a sudden.
There's no telling what sets them off at all. It might be anything."
The footsteps came closer and Marc felt a hand on his shoulder. It
shook him gently. "Wake up, dear," Julie's voice cooed. "It's Julie."
* * * * *
Marc opened his eyes and looked up guiltily. Julie's anxious face was
just above his own, smiling a tragic little smile. And just beyond her
shoulder there was also the face of a man, studious and intelligent in
a musty, smug sort of way. Marc disliked it on sight.
"Do you feel very awful?" Julie asked.