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VOLUME 1
introduced by the Crypt-Keeger
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VOLUME 1

Introduced by the Crypt-Keeper

Story adaptations by Eleanor Fremont

Random House <Sb New York

Copyright © 1991 by William M. Gaines, Agent. All rights reserved under
International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in
the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously
in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

The stories in this volume first appeared in different form

in Tales from the Crypt Comic Books in the following years:

"Terror Ride." Copyright 1950 by I. C. Publishing Co., Inc.

Copyright renewed 1978 by William M. Gaines, Agent.

"Seance." Copyright 1951 by I. C. Publishing Co., Inc.

Copyright renewed 1979 by William M. Gaines, Agent.

"By the Fright of the Silvery Moon." Copyright 1952 by

I. C. Publishing Co., Inc. Copyright renewed 1980 by

William M. Gaines, Agent.

"Auntie, It's Coal Inside!" Copyright 1952 by I. C. Publishing Co.,

Inc. Copyright renewed 1980 by William M. Gaines, Agent.

"By the Dawn's Early Light." Copyright 1954 by I. C. Publishing Co., Inc.

Copyright renewed 1982 by William M. Gaines, Agent.

"Bats in My Belfry." Copyright 1951 by I. C. Publishing Co., Inc.

Copyright renewed 1979 by William M. Gaines, Agent.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Fremont, Eleanor. Tales from the crypt / introduced by the
Crypt-Keeper and the Old Witch ; story adaptations by Eleanor Fremont.
p. cm. Adaptation of: Tales from the crypt / William M. Gaines.
summary: A collection of horror stories, featuring such grisly
characters as a vampire, werewolf, and murderous madman.
ISBN 0-679-81799-9 (v. 1 : pbk.) ISBN 0-679-81800-6 (v. 2 : pbk.)
1. Horror tales, American. 2. Children's stories, American.
[1. Horror stories. 2. Short stories.] I. (.anus, William M. Tales from
the crypt. II. Title. PZ7.W4472Tal 1991 [Fic]-dc20 90-2^916

Manufactured in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

 CONTENTS

Terror Ride 8

Seance 22

By the Fright of the Silvery Moon 36

Auntie, It's Coal Inside! 53

By the Dawn's Early Light 67

Bats in My Belfry 82
 CRYPT-KEEPER
Greetings and salivations, boils and
ghouls. Welcome to my dank and
frightening crypt. It's just the place

to stay up late reading reams and

reams of revolting stories, don't you
agree? Why don't you drag that cozy
bed of nails over and we'll have a nice
here,

pointed discussion. You might want to go ask your

mummy if you can stay up late reading. Otherwise
you might find yourself in grave trouble.
Of course, you'll need to establish just the right
mood before you start reading. How about a nice
glass of warm tomato juice to drink? (That is
tomato juice you have there, isn't it?) And you'll
need to light a candle or two. What's that? There's
a cold, damp wind that keeps blowing it out? Well,
why not scuttle over to the medicine chest and get
some syrup to keep you from coffin? (Heh, heh,
heh. What a rotting sense of humor I have!)
There, now, are you quite comfy? Moldy old
blanket pulled right up to your little chin? Well,
then, let me tell you what your ghoulish guide old
Crypty has in store for you today.
If you like amusement-park rides, you'll love the

first story in this book, "Terror Ride." It's a little

scarier than a trip to the 7 -Eleven in the family's

new station wagon, I can tell you.
Then, if you still have the stomach to continue,
you might like to go to a "Seance," which is the
name of my next delightful little offering. Of
course, you wont enjoy it at all if you like the
dead to stay dead.

Are werewolves your cup of tea? Then try "By

the Fright of the Silvery Moon," and see just how
secure you re feeling by the time the next full
moon rolls around.
"Auntie, It's Coal Inside!" gives us a glimpse
inside the mind of a little boy who's probably even
more deeply twisted than you, dear reader. (It also
won the prize for the Dumbest Title of the Year,

no small achievement around here.)

If vampires are your thing, you'll just love "By
the Dawn's Early Light." See if you can figure out
the ending before you get there.
And last but not least, we have "Bats in My
Belfry," a storyabout the revenge of the medical
profession on all those whining, complaining
patients out there. Bet you wont want to complain
to your doctor after you read this one.

Of course, you too may want to whine a little

bit in the morning —about all the holes your cozy

bed of nails has left in your back. But then again,
maybe you re a light sleeper.
Pleasant screams — er, dreams!

Festeringly yours,
The Crypt-Keeper
 Step right up, kiddies, don't be shy.
This is the tale of two nice young
lovers who took a trip to an
amusement park. But for whose
amusement, I wonder? Certainly not
theirs, as it turned out . . .

George and Ruth had been driving for hours,

speeding down country roads in their shiny
new red sports car. Their laughter was happy
and drowned out the sound of the chilly Octo-
ber wind as it rustled in the trees around them.
Ruth snuggled closer to George. "Oh,
George, I'm so happy," she said. "I wish this

day would never end."

"I know, sugarplum," said George. "Me
too." He reached over to give her a squeeze.
Ruth's attention was caught by a sign up
ahead. "Look, George," she said. "It's an
amusement park! Let's stop for a while, can
we?"
"Why not?" agreed George. "We can take a
few rides." He pulled the car into the entrance.

8
 The amusement park, however, did not
look too promising. There were no revelers, no
cotton candy, no music. The place seemed to be
deserted.
They got out of the car and walked through
the shabby gates and down the dilapidated
midway. "Oh, dear," said Ruth, pulling her
sweater a little closer around her. "The roller

coaster is closed up."

"Looks like the whole place is boarded up,"
George observed. "The season's over, you
know."
They stood alone on the deserted midway,
looking around them. The Ferris wheel, the
loop-the-loop, the sideshow —were all closed
up tight.

"Gee," said Ruth. "I guess we might as well

leave."
"Yeah," said George. "Too bad."
Suddenly they were both aware of a sound.
"What's that, Ruth?" said George.
"Sounds like water splashing," she said.

They wandered the grounds until they found

the source of the sound: a tunnel of love ride.
Inside the entrance was a huge wooden water-
wheel. Slowly, creakily, it churned the water
that carried the boats through the tunnel.
"Oh, George, how quaint!" exclaimed
Ruth.
"I'm glad at least one ride is open," said
George. "Let's try it!"

As they approached the ride, Ruth hung

back a bit. "I ... I don't know, George," she
said hesitantly. "It's always so dark in those
things . .
."

"Mmmm," agreed George with a mischie-

vous grin. "What better place to take my new
bride than on a dark boat ride!" He pulled her
close to him.
"Oh, George, stop," Ruth giggled.
Out of the shadows stepped the owner. He
was a huge, muscular fellow with a big handle-
bar mustache.
"How many, please?" he asked gravely.

"Two," said George cheerfully. "You aren't

very busy, are you?"
"No," replied the owner. "Not many people
come here this time of year." He turned toward
the tunnel. "Take the next boat," he said.

"I think he's a little creepy," Ruth whispered

into George's ear.
"Oh, you and your imagination," chuckled

10
 "

George. "That's why I love you."

In a moment the young couple was settled
in a little wooden boat. On its front was the

carved figurehead of a fierce dragon. The boat

rocked gently in the water at the entrance to the
tunnel beside the waterwheel.
"Comfortable, honey?" asked George,
drawing his new wife close.
"Snug as a bug," she replied.
"Have a pleasant trip," said the owner. He
gave the boat a powerful shove into the tunnel.
The boat moved into the yawning black
mouth of the tunnel, leaving the daylight far-
ther and farther behind. The only sound Ruth
and George could hear was the gentle lapping
of water on the sides of the boat.
"Oooooh." Ruth shivered. "It's dark."
"The darker the better," teased George.
"You're fresh, George Arnold," Ruth said
playfully.

"Did you forget who you just married to-

day, Mrs. Arnold?" he said, leaning very close
to her. "Now give me a
—
"Eeek!" screamed Ruth, pointing to one
side of the tunnel. "What's that?"
A bright light flashed on. Just a few feet

11
 "

away most dreadful horror imag-

a scene of the
inable was revealed a man — two men ... a
. . .

huge knife ... a corpse ... a lot of blood . . .

Then the light flashed off and it was gone.

George laughed in nervous relief. "Oh, it's

just a wax display. All these rides have them,"

he said.
9
"But it Ruth said with a
looks so real/
shiver as the boat began moving slowly for-
ward again in the gloom.
"Those wax figures, when they're done by
an expert, always do look real," explained
George. He put his arm back around his bride.
"Now," he said, "where were we?"
She snuggled close to him. "You were about
to give me a
—
 Another had flashed on, and there, not
light

three feet away from them, was another scene

even more gruesome than the first. And this

time they could see it clearly: a man in a bath-

tub, one arm hanging lifelessly over the edge,

while another man stood over him, frozen in
the act of wiping blood off a large cleaver with
a towel.
"How horrible!" cried Ruth.
"Hey! This isn't funny anymore!" ex-
claimed George. "These displays are really re-

volting!"
"George, I don't feel so good," said Ruth as
the light flashed off. She swayed slightly in the

boat.
"We'll be out of here soon," said George
uneasily. "I must owner of
say, the this place

has a strange sense of humor!"

"Look, George," said Ruth, recoiling. "An-
other one!"
"Ugh! They certainly do look real," said
George as he squinted into the bright light.
"That decapitated corpse . . . and the dried
blood!"
"I'm closing my eyes," whispered Ruth.
"I'm not going to look anymore!" She hid her

13
 "

face in George's shoulder and held him tight.

"I don't blame you," said George. "We —

Thump.
"We've hit something!" cried Ruth. "The
boat . . . it's stopped!"
"I'll see what it is," said George. He stood
up unsteadily in the boat and moved to the
front, groping his way through the inky black-
ness. Then, holding on to the carved dragon for
support, he leaned out of the boat and fished
around in the brackish water. He felt some-
thing solid and dragged it heavily up to have a
look at it.

"Good lord!" he yelled. In his hands was a

waterlogged, partially decomposed body.
"George," sobbed Ruth, "I want ... to get
. . . out of here!"
George worked feverishly to free the boat.
"I can't move it," he grunted. "It's jammed on
the corpse. We'll have to wade the rest of the
way."
Filled with terror and revulsion, the new-
lyweds climbed out of the boat. The waist-high
water was cold and They held evil smelling.

tightly to each other and began wading for-

ward through the tunnel, which was so dark

14
that they could barely see. For a few minutes
they waded in silence, until George stopped
abruptly.
"Good heavens! I just thought of some-
thing, Ruth!"
"What is it?" she asked, gripping his arm a
bit tighter.

"That corpse was real! Maybe those hor-

rible displays were real, too!"
"Oh, no," Ruth moaned. "No, no!"
There was nothing to do but keep walking.
On through the darkness they waded, one foot
in front of the other, praying for the moment
when the light at the end of the tunnel would
appear, praying that they wouldn't bump into
anything else in the water.
"We'll be out soon," panted George.
"I'm tired," gasped Ruth. "I've got to rest."

George groped along the side wall of the

tunnel, and soon hand felt a stone ledge.
his

"Here," he said, guiding Ruth over. "Here's a

place to sit down."
"Thank goodness," she said. "I'm about
to— Eeeek!"
Suddenly the place where they'd stopped
was flooded with bright light, revealing a man

15
hanging lifelessly from a noose. His feet dan-
gled inches from their faces.
"It's another display," began George, hop-
ing against hope that this tunnel of horrors
wasn't what he thought it was.
"It's real!" shrieked Ruth, watching the
man as he swayed. "George, it is real!"
Terror clutched at their hearts as George
and Ruth rushed from the horrible scene. Just
ahead of them they could see the dimly lit out-
lines of a recessed chamber in the walls of the

tunnel.
"Here," said George as they reached it,

fighting for breath. "Here's a place where you

can rest."

"It looks like some kind of torture cham-

ber," said Ruth, her voice shaking. They looked
around. There were all the instruments they'd
read about in school, straight from the base-
ment of some dank medieval castle: a coffinlike
iron maiden full of sharp spikes, a thumbscrew
for slowly crushing the fingers, a rack for add-
ing a few inches to a person's height — the
works. But at least it was empty. No corpses
here.

16
 They sat on the edge of the stagelike cham-
ber, breathing hard. "As soon as we catch our
breath, we'll get out of here, Ruth," said
George.
Ruth nodded, too out of breath to answer.
She looked around, and her eyes widened with
horror. On the ground beside her was a whip.
It —
was real not a prop.
"The owner of this place," she gasped,
"must be a madman! A homicidal maniac!"
66
You didn't laugh at my exhibits, did you?"
asked a strange voice. •

Out from behind the iron maiden stepped

the owner of the ride.
"George!" whispered Ruth. "It's . . . him!"
"Look at his eyes," George said softly. "He
is mad!"

The man's eyes seemed to glow in the dark,

and his breathing came in hoarse, excited rasps.
He was clearly totally insane.
"All summer," said the man, "they laughed
at my exhibits. They said my wax dummies
didn't look real! Now I can show them! I can
show them all! Heh, heh, heh." He rubbed his
hands together with delight.

17
 George leaned toward Ruth and whispered
very quietly into her ear, "Get ready to make a
break for it!"

But the lunatic hadn't noticed. "No more

will they laugh!" he was shouting. "Now my
exhibits look real! Because I use real people!
And this is my last display," he said, sweeping
his arm around him. "A medieval torture
chamber! Thanks to you two, like the others
who wandered into the deserted amusement
park and found this ride, I will be able to finish

it! There's no use running. You can't get out!

The exit is closed! And locked!" He threw back
his head and laughed and laughed.
"Run, Ruth! Run!" yelled George, not even
bothering to whisper. He grabbed the hand of
his bride, who was standing frozen with fear,

and began dragging her through the tunnel.

They fled — stumbling, falling in the water,
standing up again, pressing onward through
the terrifying darkness. And the rasping breath
of the madman followed close behind.
"Ha-ha!" he crowed. "I'll get you. Never
fear." He was carrying something that made a
metallic clanking sound, and George glanced
back to see what it was.

18
 "He's carrying shackles," gasped George.
u
He wants on that rack!"
to put us
"George, he's gaining on us!" said Ruth in
a panic. "Wait, I see something up ahead!" She
peered into the darkness and saw the faintly
glowing red light of the exit door. "There,
George!" she "The end of the tunnel!"
said.

They sloshed faster toward the door, and as

they got closer, they began to hear the creak of
the huge waterwheel. Now they knew they
were close to freedom, if they could only make
it. If they could only get out the door.
They were almost there. They could see the
wooden walkway they had stood on before
they climbed into the boat. And they could see
something else: a large padlock on the door.
"We're . . . we're trapped!" cried George.
They climbed up onto the walkway and began
banging on the door, hoping against hope that
someone would hear them. The waterwheel
thumped and creaked rhythmically beside
them.
"Maybe if I scream for help
— " offered
Ruth.
"There's no use calling," the owner intoned
behind them. "No one will hear you. The park

19
is deserted." He began dragging himself and his
heavy shackles out of the water and onto the
walkway.
"Keep away, you crazy idiot!" yelled
George.
"Crazy? You'll see if I'm crazy!" The man's
eyes were burning like coals now. He pulled
himself heavily out of the water and onto the
slippery walkway.
"I'm a genius!" he shrieked. "I create real-

istic — ugh!"
He on the wet boards, and
lost his footing

his legs shot out from under him, sending him

flying back into the water. But he was too close

to the waterwheel. First his right arm caught in

one of the huge paddles, and he screamed as he
tried to pull it loose. But the big wheel wasn't
even slowed down, and in a second the man's
leg was also tangled up in it. Screaming like a

banshee, he was pulled down into the black

water.
"He'll be drowned!" cried Ruth.
"Or crushed," said George with a grimace.
"Don't look." He pulled her away from the aw-
ful sight.

"What a horrible end," said the young

bride.
"His own diabolical ride finally destroyed
him," said George. "Come on, Ruth. Let's bust
that padlock and get away from here."
They walked slowly to the door, squeezing
the water out of their clothes.
"Remember," said George, "we've got a
honeymoon to finish."

And we've got a book to finish! So scrape that

slime off your shoes, shake that fetid water out of
your ears, and step over that dead body! It's time
to go visit Walton Farnum and his lovely wife —
and her lovely dead brother. . . .

21
 As you go through life, my dears,
you 11 find that you are either a
believer or an unbeliever. Thereis no

happy medium, as Alan Bitsby is

about to discover. Tonight, you see,
he is going to attend his first . . .

SEANCE
Walton Farnum was an ordinary man, an ac-
countant for the firm of Bitsby and Company.
His boss was Mr. Alan Bitsby, a large, loud,
wealthy man who liked to get his way.
One night Mr. Bitsby and his wife, Martha,
were gracing the home of the Farnums with
their presence for dinner. Mr. Bitsby enjoyed
having dinner at the homes of his employees
from time to time. He liked to say that it pro-
moted a cozy family feeling in his company, but
the truth was, he liked to make them squirm.
He knew how nerve-racking a visit from the
boss was for them.
On this particular occasion Walton Farnum
was squirming quite a bit. His house was spot-
lessly clean, the dinner casserole was bubbling

22
 " —

in the oven, fresh flowers were on the table, and

the Bitsbys were seated comfortably on the
sofa — but Walton's wife was not home. She
should have been home an hour ago, and Wal-
ton was running out of topics for small talk.
"I — I have to apologize for my wife, A. B.,"
he stammered at last, looking at the floor.

"She's never this late."

"Quite all right, Walton," said Bitsby in his
booming voice. "Quite all right."
Silence descended over the room. Walton
was very distressed. Finally he took a deep
breath and looked Bitsby in the eye. Might as
well take the plunge, as long as there was noth-
ing else to talk about.
"Mr. Bitsby," Walton began nervously, "I

I find that I am forced to ask you for a raise . . .

in salary. There have been extra expenses

and —
. . .

lately . . .

He broke off. This was absolutely excruciat-

ing for him, and he couldn't go on.
Mr. Bitsby puffed on his cigar and smiled.
"Let's not talk business tonight, Walton," he
said."Drop by in the morning. I'll see what I
can do for you." He gave Walton a large wink.
Suddenly Walton was beside himself with

23
 "

joy. He would get a raise! They'd be able to pay

their bills after all!

Just then the sound of the key in the front

door announced the arrival of Harriet Farnum.

At last!

In she sailed, looking flushed and hurried.

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bitsby!" she said, extend-

ing her hand as she rushed in. "I'm so sorry I'm

late, but the seance took so long today!"
Bitsby sprang to his feet, his face red. "Se-
ance?" he cried. "What seance? Is this what
you mean by 'extra expenses,' Farnum? Send-
ing your wife to seances?"
Walton just shrugged. "She wants to go,
Mr. Bitsby," he explained. "And if it makes her
happy
—
"Happy! Bah! Idiotic nonsense! Those me-
diums are fakes! Sitting a bunch of people
around a table and pretending to contact their
dead relatives — poppycock! They're thieves!
They prey on lonesome old people and take ad-
vantage of their losses!" Bitsby turned to Har-
riet Farnum. "Whom does he 'produce' for
you, Mrs. Farnum? Your mother?"
"No," she said shakily, "my poor departed

24
brother Maxum. And today — today I heard his
voice!"
Harriet Farnum sat down beside her hus-
band. He took her hand. "Tell us what hap-
pened, Harriet," he said.
"Yes!" Martha Bitsby chimed in. "I'm so in-

terested! Aren't you, Alan?"

"Never mind, Martha," her husband
grumbled. "This trickery is not for you. You're
a rich man's wife! A medium would milk you
dry! They love to keep rich people coming back
time after time, while they 'try' to reach their
dearly departed. The richer you are, the longer

it takes!"
Martha ignored her husband. "Oh, go on
and tell us about it, dear," she said to Harriet.
"Well," Harriet began, "I arrived at the me-
dium's house about ten after three. The seance
was scheduled to begin at a quarter after. The
others were ahead of me. There were quite a
few of them waiting, some that I'd seen before

and some I met Mrs. Dober. She

hadn't. First I

told me that Dr. Podos was communicating

with her son, who died in the war. She said that
her son was happy now. And Mrs. Dober

25
looked so happy herself, just knowing that her
son was at peace!
" 'I'm so glad,' I told her. 'I've come to hear
my brother Maxum. Last week he knocked but
did not speak.'
"Then Mr. Hatch spoke. I'd seen him the
week before. 'Yes, I remember,' he said. 'It was
too bad. The doctor worked so hard. But did
you hear my wife, Sarah? How near she was?'
" 'Yes,' I said, 'her voice was strong.'

" 'The doctor says he's going to try to make

my son materialize today,' Mrs. Dober told
me.
At that point Alan Bitsby gave a loud snort
of disbelief. His wife, who had been listening
intently, shushed him. "Go on," she urged.
Harriet took a deep breath. "Suddenly he
was in the —
room the medium!" she said. "No
one saw him come in. His deep dark piercing
eyes looked from one of us to the other. 'Ah,'
he said to me, 'I'm so glad you've come again
today, Mrs. Farnum. Perhaps this afternoon
your brother Maxum will speak to us.'

"'I hope so, Doctor,' I replied.

"Then we all sat around the table, and Dr.

Podos turned out the lights. We joined hands

26
and waited for the seance to begin. Mr. Hatch
was on my left and Mrs. Dober on my right.
The doctor was directly across from me, and I
could see his face in the glow of the candle he
had lit. He told everyone to be quiet and con-
centrate, and said he was about to go into his
trance.
"I watched his face. He stared into the
candle, muttering words none of us could
understand. Perspiration broke out on his fore-
head, and he writhed as though he were in
pain.
"And then suddenly was a voice! I
there
couldn't tell where it was coming from, just
that it was a woman's voice and that it seemed
to be floating somewhere above our heads.
"'Harvey?' it said. I nearly jumped out of
my skin.

"'Sarah!' cried Mr. Hatch. 'Is that you?'

"'Yes, Harvey!' the voice said.Her voice
was so sad it was almost a wail. 'Why do you
keep sending for me, Harvey?' it moaned.
"'I need you, Sarah!' cried Mr. Hatch. 'I

need you so!'

"The medium twisted in what seemed like

agony. Then the voice spoke again: 'You must

27
 "

forget me, Harvey/ it said. 'My life is finished!

Yours is not. You must accept life without me.
I — I'm going now . . .
'

"Her voice was fading away. Mr. Hatch

begged her frantically to come back, but she
was gone. I looked over at the doctor, but he
was still in his stupor. And and then it came! —
That sharp, clear rapping! And then another
voice
—
Farnum covered her face with her
Harriet
hands and began to weep. They all watched her
for a moment: her husband looking concerned,
Martha filled with morbid curiosity, and Alan
Bitsby looking disgusted. Finally Martha could
hold out no longer. She put a hand on Harriet's
shoulder and urged her gently to continue. "It
will be good to talk about it, my dear," she
said.
9
Harriet collected herself. "It was him/ she
said. "It was 'Maxum?' I said.
his voice! 'Is that
you? Speak to me, please, Maxum!'
"I listened. I strained my ears. But I heard
nothing. Then a voice came from far away.
'Harriet!' it said. 'Can you hear me?'
"'Oh, yes, Maxum! I can hear you!' I said.
" 'I can't stay long, Harriet,' he said to me.

28
It was his voice, I know it was! 'It's so hard,' he
said. 'Maybe . . . maybe next time . .
.' And
then he faded away, just like that. 'Wait!' I

cried. 'There's so much I want to ask you!' But

he was gone. Dr. Podos couldn't hold him.
went on, "at least I'd heard
"Well," Harriet
my brother's voice. I was happy. But Dr. Podos
wasn't finished yet. His eyes were still glassy,
and he was still in his trance. Suddenly he
gripped the arms of his chair very tightly, and
we heard another voice. 'Mother?' it said. It

sounded very fragile, very young.

"Mrs. Dober's face lit up. It was her son,
Paul, the one that died in the war! 'Paul!' she

cried. 'Is that you? I'm here, Paul!'

"The voice sounded very unhappy and wor-
ried. 'I told you last time, Mother,' it said, 'I'm

happy now. Why did you come back?'

"'I just wanted to see you, Paul,' said his

mother. 'The doctor said he'd try.' Then she

turned to the doctor and begged him to let her
see her son. And all the time the voice was pro-
testing, saying, 'No, no, please!'"
Harriet stopped and took a drink of water.
She was shaking. "Then, slowly," she contin-
ued, "a mist rose in the darkness of the room.

29
It began to take shape. It was a man, a man in

uniform.
"'Paul!' said Mrs. Dober. 'I'm beginning to
see you!'
"'Don't look, Mother! Don't!' the ghost
pleaded. But it was too late. She'd seen him.
We'd all seen him. His face ... it was half shot
away! It was awful . . . awful!"
Harriet sobbed as she finished her story. "'I
toldyou not to try to see me, Mother,' the ghost
was moaning. And his mother was crying,
'Paul! My Paul! You're hurt!' And then he was
gone, and the seance was over."
Harriet sat there, staring at the wall.
"Ooh." Martha Bitsby shivered. "It gives

me the creeps! Doesn't it you, Alan?"

PAULf I'M
BEGINNING TO SEE
YOUf
 "Fake!" he thundered. "Nothing but a fake,
that's what he is!" He turned on Walton.
"You'll get no raise from me, Farnum, if you
insist upon letting your wife spend good money

on that trash!"
Weakly Walton tried to defend his wife.
"But she heard his voice, Mr. Bitsby," he pro-
tested. "Maxum's voice!"
"If I prove he's a fake, Farnum, will you for-

bid your wife to see him again?"

"How . . . how can you expose him, Mr.
Bitsby?" asked Walton.
"Simple! Martha, my wife, will stay here.
We three will go to your 'medium.' I'll ask to
speak to my 'dear departed wife, Martha.'
When he produces her spirit, you'll know he's

a faker!"
"That sounds fair enough to me," agreed
Walton.
And so Harriet called Dr. Podos and made
an appointment for herself and her husband
and his friend Mr. Bitsby. "He's trying to con-
tact his wife," explained Harriet.
"All right, bring him in tonight," said the

doctor. Not long after, the three of them left for

his house, while Mrs. Bitsby stayed behind.

31
 When they arrived there, they were ushered
into the seance room, which was hung with
heavy red velvet curtains. There was a red car-
pet on the floor and a large chandelier over-
head, which tinkled with the slightest move-
ment of the air.

Since the doctor had arranged to see them

at an unusual time, he was waiting for them
alone. No other people were present. "Ah," he
said to Mrs. Farnum, rubbing his hands to-

gether, "so these are the people you brought?"

"Yes," she said timidly, hating the idea of
trying to fool the doctor. "This is my husband,
and this is Mr. Bitsby, our friend. He's a . . . he's

a widower. He would like to communicate with

his dear departed wife, Martha." She looked at
the floor.
"Won't you sit down?" invited the doctor.
The lights were lowered. Mr. Bitsby winked
broadly at Farnum as they took seats around
the big round table. A single red candle flick-
ered at the center.
Dr. Podos closed his eyes. He was really a

very ordinary-looking man with a mustache

and thinning hair. But in a minute he wasn't
looking very ordinary at all. As he entered his

32
 " "

hypnotic trance, his face began to twitch and

his eyelids fluttered, showing the whites of his

rolled-up eyes.
Bitsby leaned over to Walton. "Seems to be
having a bit of trouble, eh, Farnum?" he whis-
pered loudly, nudging his employee in the ribs.

"Shhhh," scolded Harriet.

Now the medium began writhing as though
he were in terrific pain. His face was bathed in
sweat, and the veins in his forehead stood out.
"Can't seem," he gasped, "can't seem ... to
rouse . . . spirit
—
Bitsby elbowed Farnum again. "Pretty good
act, isn't it?" he whispered.
"Yes," said Walton uncertainly. "It is
—
"Wait!" Harriet interrupted. "Listen!"

33
 The them sat up as the sound of a
three of
very faint voice became audible. "Alan, dear?"
it said as though from very far away.

They looked at Dr. Podos. He was deeply

into his trance and did not see them.
"Alan?" said the voice, a bit stronger now.
"You — you called me?"
"Mrs. Bitsby!" cried Walton. "It's her
voice!"
"Martha!" said Bitsby.
Suddenly Alan Bitsby jumped up, red-faced
in anger. "You see? What did I tell you? He's a
fake! This proves it!"
Dr. Podos emerged from his trance looking

confused and exhausted. "What happened?"

he asked. "I don't understand. I seemed to feel
a spirit that was very close, very new. Did some-
one come?"
"Bah!" said Bitsby, marching for the door.
"Let's go!" he said to his two companions.
"I've proven my point!"
"I guess you have," said Walton.
Then he and Harriet went home with the
triumphant Alan Bitsby. "Ha-ha!" he gloated
on the way. "See? They're all fakes! All of 'em!
Convinced now, Farnum?"

34
 "Yes," said Walton slowly as they reached
the front door of the house and Harriet un-
locked it. "I'm afraid I—"
But he was interrupted by a loud, horrified
gasp from Harriet. "Look!" she screamed.
They rushed into the house. There, lying in
a grotesque heap on the living room floor, was
Martha Bitsby. Her eyes stared unseeing ahead
of her. She was quite dead.
"Martha!" shouted Bitsby. "Oh, my God!
She's dead!"
"Then then the medium wasn't a fake!"
. . .

said Walton Farnum in a shaking voice. "She

really was trying to contact you!"

Harriet buried her face in her hands. "Oh,

what have we done?" she sobbed. "What . . .

have . we
. . done?" . . .

Whew! I guess that'll teach Bitsby not to tangle

with the undead. That's what I always tell my little

cousin Toady: Don t play with matches, always

wear clean underwear, and don't fool around with
disembodied spirits! It also might be a good idea
to lock yourself in your room on the full moon. If
you don't believe me, just take a gander at the
next story.

35
 Welcome to the next story, my
dear little fiends. It's good and
nauseating, all right — just the way
we like 'em.

Before we start, maybe we should

have a little refresher course on how
to kill a werewolf, just in case. No, bubblegum
won't do it. No, noogies won't kill a werewolf,
either — not even really hard noogies. Okay, I

guess you'll just have to read the story. But do it

quick, before the next full moon.

BY THE FRIGHT OF
THE SILVERY MOON
My name is Peter Gedra. I am fifteen years old.

My father, Alec Gedra, was a hardworking

farmer who had brought me and my brother,
Edward, to America from Hungary after the

end of the last war. With the meager amount of

money he'd managed to save, my father had
bought a small farm in the Midwest.
It was a beautiful place at the edge of a
beautiful town: rolling hills, green fields, clear

ponds, white church spires. "Peter," my father

36
used to say to me, "I have worked hard, but it's

been worth it. Now you and Edward will have

a good life, and you will never have to be afraid
of anything."
"Yes, Papa," I would say, and Edward
would agree.
And in fact, the only thing I was afraid of
was that no girl would ever look at me, with
my Hungarian-made clothing and my funny ac-
cent, to say nothing of the little brother who
followed me everywhere I went. Actually I was
happy to have Edward along. He was a good-
natured boy and always eager to help.
One day, about a year after we'd come to
America, was helping my father feed the
I

chickens when we heard someone shouting. It

was Edward, who'd been out in the cornfields.
"Papa!" he screamed, dashing across the
farmyard. "Papa! Come quickly!"
My father looked up from his burlap sack
in alarm. "What is it, Edward?" he asked.
"What's the matter?"
"He is white as a ghost, Papa," I said.
Edward stood panting before us, trying to
get enough breath to speak. "There's there's —
a dead man, Papa! In the cornfield!" he gasped.

37
 —

"Come quickly! Please!"

"A dead man? Where? Show me!"
I followed my father and Edward at a run
to the cornfields. We plunged into the tall corn
rows, crashing through the stalks, using our
arms to keep the leaves out of our eyes. It was
hard to keep a sense of direction in the corn-

field — hard even to see the sky — but Edward

seemed to know exactly where he was going.
Finally he stopped. "There!" he panted.
"There he is!"

My father crouched down ahead of me and

gasped. "Good lord!" I heard him say. "He . . .

he's been attacked! By a wild beast!"

I reached my father's side and looked down
at the awful thing on the ground. It was a man,
or what was left of one. He had been ripped to
shreds by something very powerful and very
merciless. I could only hope that the man had
died quickly.
"But Papa!" said Edward, his eyes huge
with fright. "There are no wild beasts around
here!"
"Edward is right, Papa," I agreed. "There
are only raccoons and skunks and field mice
and for sure they did not do this!"

38
 My father's face darkened. He stared in-
tently at the mangled body on the ground and
finally spoke. "Then it is the work of a were-
wolf," he said.
"Papa!" Edward and I gasped together.
Such a thing seemed unthinkable in the green

hills and tidy fields of our new land. In Hun-

gary, yes, perhaps. There, werewolves were
whispered about in every little town and on
every farm. But here? In America?
"I'd thought we had left such horrors be-
hind us," said my father grimly. "I see that I am
wrong."
"Are you sure, Papa?" asked Edward. "Are
you sure it is a werewolf?"

39
 Papa turned and started back to the house.
"Yes, Edward," he said. "I am sure." He looked
up at the sky, thinking. "Last night was the full

moon. Come! We must go to the town to tell

them what we have found!"

"Papa!" I cried. "You're not going to tell

them! I mean ..." I trailed off, unable to even

imagine what their response would be to the
news of a werewolf on the foreigners' farm.
"No, Peter," my father reassured me. "I am
not going to them that I think it is the work
tell

of a werewolf. They would not believe it any-

way."
"I can hardly believe it myself," I muttered
as we ran toward our old pickup truck.
My father drove us into town, and soon our
little farm was alive with the curious, who
came from all around to see the gory sight. A
knot of farmers in dusty denims and battered
hats stood over the body shaking their heads.
"Torn to shreds," they choked. "Horrible!"
In the kitchen the sheriff was questioning
my father. As I passed under the window, I
heard the sheriff ask, "And you heard no

screams, Mr. Gedra? No cries last night?"

"1 heard nothing," my father replied quietly.

40
 "I can't figure out what could have done it,"

said the sheriff. "It's the durndest thing. Looks

like a wild animal attacked him. But we ain't

got nothing like that around here — only squir-

rels and chipmunks and suchlike. And they sure
as heck wouldn't do that. You got any ideas,

Mr. Gedra?"
"I — I have none," said my father.

Meanwhile my younger brother was ming-

ling with the local farm boys, who were just as

curious as their fathers.

"Maybe it was an escaped lion from a cir-

cus!" ventured one.

"Aw, we would have heard about it on the
radio," scoffed another.
Then I heard the thin little voice of my
brother piping up. "My papa says it was a
werewolf!" he said eagerly.
"A ... a werewolf?" echoed the first boy
fearfully.

"What's that?" asked the second.

"A werewolf," Edward said, "is a human
being who changes when the full moon comes
up — into a vicious flesh-craving wolf!"
"Aw, that's just comic book stuff!" said one
of the boys. "No one believes in that junk."

41
 "In my old country, in Hungary," said Ed-
ward, "the people there believe in were-
wolves!"
"Edward!" I cut in as I reached the group
of boys. "That's enough!"
But Edward was upset. He wanted them to
believe him. "Tell them, Peter!" he said. "Tell
them that there really are such things as were-

wolves!"
I grabbed Edward's collar and pulled him
away, flabbergasted that he didn't have better
sense than to go talking about werewolves with
these people.
I pushed him way into the house and
all the
turned him around when we were safely in the
front hall. "Why don't you learn to keep your
mouth shut?" I whispered fiercely.
"But what harm is there in talking about
werewolves?" asked Edward. He really was so
innocent there was no point in yelling at him.
"Werewolves?" said a rough voice behind
us. It was the sheriff! "Werewolves, eh?" he re-
peated. "Who said somethin' about were-
wolves?" He stood there glaring down at us,
his bushy eyebrows arched, and the ash of the
cigar he held smoldering like the red eye of

42
some monster. We stood frozen, unable to
think of anything to say.
"Well?" he said. "I'm waiting. What about
them?"
"N-nothing, sir," I stammered. "We didn't
say—"
"Papa says it's the work of a werewolf!"
said Edward. I could have strangled him then
and there.

"Oh, he did, did he?" said the sheriff

thoughtfully, scratching his large stubbly chin.

"Yes!" said Edward. "In Hungary there are
many werewolves! During the day they are just
like ordinary human beings. But on the night

that the moon is full they change!"

. . .

"They change into a wolf, eh?" said the

"And they eat human flesh?"
sheriff.

"Wh-why, sheriff!" I said. "You know all

about them, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," he replied with a little smile.
His two deputies, who had been out in the

cornfield, appeared at the door. "Okay, boys,"

said the sheriff. "Let's wrap that critter in a
sack and clear out of here."
Later, after the sheriff and all the other
people had left our farm, I told my father about

43
Edward and his big mouth.
"And he told everybody!" I concluded.
"Even the sheriff!"

"Well," sighed my father, "I would not

worry too much, Peter. They will not believe it

anyway."
Nearly a month passed without event. We
had begun forgetting about the awful thing
we'd found in our cornfield. After all, on a farm
the work must go on, no matter what.
But one night I was awakened from a fitful

sleep by the sound of a distant howling. I got

up and ran to my father's bedroom. He was fast
asleep.
"Papa?" I said, shaking him. "Papa?"
"Peter? Is that you?" he asked. He sat up,
wiping the sleep from his eyes. And then he
heard it too.
We sat for a while listening to the howls.
Then he patted me on the back gently. "It is
probably an old dog howling at the moon, my
son," he reassured me. "Now go back to sleep.

And do not wake your brother."

I tiptoed past Edward's door and slipped
into bed. But it took me a long time to get back
to sleep.

44
 "

Later that night was awakened by a com-

I

motion. I became aware that Edward was shak-

ing me hard by the shoulder. "Peter!" he was
yelling. "Someone is hammering on the door!

Wake up!"
The two of us hurried to the top of the
stairs. We could hear angry voices below, so we
tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. As we got
closer, we could hear my father arguing with
some men. One of them was the sheriff.
"No!" my father was shouting. "I am no
werewolf! I swear it!"

We peeked in at the door to see the sheriff

shaking his fist at my
"You come from
father.

Hungary, don't you?" he was yelling into my

father's face. "Wolfsbane grows in Hungary! I

know all about it!"

We cowered in the doorway, watching in

helpless terror as the sheriff grabbed my father's

and pulled my father's face up to his.
shirt front

"We found another victim, Gedra! He was killed

tonight! Torn to pieces and partially eaten,
as though some wild beast had gotten him!"
"And no wild beasts around here,"
there's

offered the deputy. "Only little shrews and

voles and
—

45
 "Shut up, Smithers!" said the sheriff. "We
know that werewolves attack when the moon
is full!" he shouted at my father. "And there's
a full moon tonight!"
"And werewolves come from Hungary!"
Smithers put in.

"We didn't have no killin's like this before

you come here!" said the sheriff, growing uglier

and bigger by the second.

"So you must be the werewolf!" said the
second deputy, pointing at my father.

In a second they had grabbed my father and

dragged him from the house. We ran behind
them, pulling on their clothes and screaming,
"Papa! Papa!"
But the sheriff wasn't listening to us. "We
know how to get rid of a werewolf, Gedra!" he
said. "With a silver bullet, like the one Hank
here carved."
And then in the moonlight, as Edward and
I watched helplessly, those three men shot my
father with the silver bullet. Then they left.

We ran to our father as he lay in the farm-

yard, but it was too late.

"Papa!" sobbed Edward. "Papa!" He shook

46
him as though he might be able to wake him
up.
"He's dead, Edward," I wept. "They . . .

they killed him!"

Edward looked up at me with tear-filled

eyes. "Papa wasn't . . . the werewolf, was he,

Peter?"
"No!" I shouted. "He couldn't have been! I

saw him tonight! Sleeping! In his room!"

Edward's face grew hard as I watched it. He
choked back his tears, and his voice grew hard,
too.
"I'll get him!" he said. "I'll get that were-
wolf! I know who it is! I can tell!"

"Edward!" I cried, shocked. "Who is it?"

47
 "It's that sheriff!" he said. "Did you ever
notice the way his eyebrows grow together?
That's the sign of a werewolf! Next month,
when the moon is full, I'll wait for him,
and—"
"What can you do, Edward?" I asked,
frightened. "You have no gun, no silver bullet!"
"No," he said. "But I have these!" He held
up both hands, an object in each. "I have a
slingshot, and I have a silver dollar!"
"A slingshot! A silver dollar! How can you
kill a werewolf with a silver dollar?"
"You'll see," he said as we turned and
trudged back toward the house.
There were only two people at my father's

funeral: me and Edward.

All that month we lived in the house alone.
And every day Edward worked on his silver

dollar. He stood it up in the big iron vise in the

basement and filed away at it, all around the

edges.
"You see, Peter?" he said to me one night
when I came downstairs at midnight to see
what he was doing. "I am almost done. I have
made it sharp as a razor. I will have a lethal
silver missile."

48
 "And you will fire with the slingshot?" I

asked.
"Exactly," he said. "I mean to avenge our
father's death. He was innocent, and I will

prove it!"

"We will do it together, Edward," I said res-

olutely. "When the moon is full, we will clear

our father's name together!"

And so I set about sharpening the edge of
another silver dollar for myself and fashioning
a powerful slingshot out of the forked branch
my father had taught me.
of a beech tree, just as
At last the night of the full moon came. Ed-
ward and I were ready. We left the house
quietly and crossed the barnyard in the bright

moon. We crossed the fields to-

light of the full

ward town, moving as stealthily as cats. We

would get that devil, or we would die trying.
Suddenly Edward grabbed my arm. "Hush!
What was that?" he whispered.
"I heard nothing, Edward," I whispered
back.
And then we saw it: a shadowy figure steal-
ing down a lonely country road.
"Look!" I said. "Is that him? Up ahead?"
"Let us separate, Peter," whispered Edward

49
into my ear. "You go that way, and I'll go this

way!"
And before I could object, Edward had
darted off into the nearby woods. I stood there
a moment, hesitating. Then I swung off into the
trees on the other side of the road. We would

circle around and cut him off, and then we'd

have him.
Suddenly a bloodcurdling scream split the

night air.

"Edward!" I shrieked. I ran as fast as I

could toward the sound, and as I ran, I slipped

the razor-sharp silver dollar into my slingshot.
I would get that demon! I would not lose the
last member of my family to its foaming jaws!
"I'm coming, Edward!" I shouted.
At last I burst out onto the clearing — and
then I saw it! It was a horrible hairy red-eyed
creature, worse than my wildest nightmares. It

bent over its victim, slavering, its mouth drip-

ping blood. Was I too late?
"Edward!" I screamed. But the body on the
ground lay still. "Oh, my lord!" I sobbed.
"What have you done to him?"
The creature looked up from its dreadful
business, noticing me for the first time. It

50
 The silver dollar entered the
werewolf's throbbing throat...

moved a lot faster than I would have thought,

springing to its feet and loping directly toward
me.
There wasn't much time to think. I shoved
my deadly silver dollar into the pocket of my
slingshot and took aim quickly. I pulled it back
as far as I could as the thing got closer and
closer to me. I could smell its disgusting breath,
feel coming from its bloody jaws.
the hot air I

had only one shot before it would be on me. I

let the slingshot snap.

My aim was true. The silver dollar flew

unerringly at its target and entered the were-

wolf's throat with a sickening splat.
The monster grunted in surprise, looked di-

51
rectly at me, and pitched forward onto the
ground. I'd killed it! Even if I hadn't been able
to save my brother, at least I'd avenged his
death and kept the thing from killing again. I

stood over it, panting, and watched the life

flow out of it. And as I watched, the thing be-

gan to change. It was becoming human again. I

waited for the familiar ugly features of the sher-

iff to emerge as the disgusting fangs shrank
away . . . and the hair disappeared . . . and the
eyes darkened . . . and the agonized face of my
younger brother took shape before my eyes.

"Edward!" I choked, hardly believing what

was before me. I bent over his body, sobbing
uncontrollably.
So Edward was the werewolf, and he had
killed the sheriff in that clearing, and I had
killed him. Did Edward himself know the
truth? I would never know.

now you know how to do away with a

Well,

werewolf! Or your pesty little brother. Or both,

as the case may be. Gotta go now. The Old Witch
just gave me a recipe for Hungarian Ghoul-osh.

Time for supper!

52
 Imagine, if you will, that you re a
sensitive little boy, forced to live in a
big dark bouse with a nasty old lady.
Then imagine that you have voices
inside your head that talk to you,

very persuasive voices. Then imagine

that a large pink giraffe is floating outside your
bedroom window Wait a second, I was getting
. . .

carried away there. Forget that last sentence. Just

read the story.

IT'S COAL INSIDE!

Toby shook his seven-year-old head angrily.
The voice continued, and it grated in Toby's
ears. This time it was high-pitched and excited.

It was always different. Last time it had been

low and soft. The time before that it had been

loud and gruff.
"Go on, Toby!" urged the voice. "Your
aunt's not home now! It's a good chance! You
need a few pieces anyway! Go ahead! Go on
down!"
Toby put his hands over his ears. "No!" he

53
 "

said. "Aunt Agnes forbid me! I mustn't! Aunt

Agnes said
—
"She'll never know, Toby!" the voice inter-

rupted. "How are you going to be able to mark

up the sidewalk without a hunk of coal! Just
one piece, one small piece!"
Toby began to weaken. "Gee," he said, "I

do need it badly. Today's the game! I gotta keep

score! Okay, I'll do it! I'll go down into the
coalbin!"
He opened the door in the kitchen that led
to the cellar and tiptoed down the steps. Hesi-

tating at the bottom, he peered toward the little

room at the end of the cellar where the coal was

kept.
Aunt Agnes was the only person in the
neighborhood who still heated her house with
coal. Every couple of months a big truck would
come along and dump a huge load of the inky
black stuff right through the basement window
and down the chute into the coalbin. Toby
loved the lumps of coal. They were good to
write on the sidewalk with, and they felt nice in
his hand. It was too bad his aunt hated the mess
so much. It drove her wild when she caught
him getting coal from the bin.

54
 He tiptoed slowly through the dark base-
ment. "Last time Aunt Agnes gave me a good
lickin'!" he told the voice.
"Last time you got caught," the voice re-

sponded. "You won't this time, though."

Overhead a board creaked. Toby stopped
beside the coalbin door, looking up. His heart
was pounding.
"Maybe it's Aunt Agnes!" he fretted.

"Nah," said the voice. "She couldn't have

gone to the store and back so fast."

Toby moment. There was no

listened for a
sound. He swung open the coalbin door and
stepped in onto the black dust-covered floor.

There was only a small pile of coal left in the

corner. "Gee, the coal's almost used up," said

Toby to the voice. "Aunt Agnes ought to order
more."
"Don't worry, she will," said the voice im-
patiently. "Quick! Grab a few pieces!"
A faint light filtered through the blackened
cellar window high up in the wall of the coal-
bin. Toby knelt and picked up three of the larg-

est lumps he could see.

"Okay! Now c'mon, let's get upstairs before

she comes back!" said the voice.

55
 Toby went out of the coalbin, closed the
door behind him, and tiptoed upstairs and —
not a minute too soon, either. The front door
slammed. It was Aunt Agnes!
"Toby?" she called. Her voice sounded like
a dentist's drill. "I'm home! Are you around?
Come help me with these bundles!"
Toby's first impulse was to run away. Aunt
Agnes was the grownup he knew. Her
scariest

nose was sharp, her voice was sharp, every

single thing about her was sharp. He was glad
she never kissed him or hugged him, because
she'd probably cut him if she did.
Before Toby could make a move his aunt
was in the kitchen, glaring down at him.
"Toby!" she yelled. "Didn't you hear me call

you to help me with these bundles?"

"I — I'm sorry, Aunt Agnes," Toby fumbled.
"Here, give me one."
Toby extended two blackened, coal-dust-
covered hands, and his aunt gasped. In a sec-
ond her face had turned purple with rage.
"You've been in the coalbin again!" she
snapped.
Toby was caught off guard. "Huh?" he
stammered. "Who ... me?"

56
 a

Aunt Agnes slammed the bundles down on

the kitchen table. "Look at you! You're filthy!
I told you what would happen if you went

down there again!"

"Gee, Aunt Agnes," said Toby, "I needed a
piece of coal to keep score! There's a game this

afternoon! The voice reminded me!"

"Are you going to start telling me about
that stupid voice you keep hearing?" demanded
Aunt Agnes. "You're just like your father —
good-for-nothing liar!"

"I'm not a liar! I hear a voice! Honest! It

talks to me! makes me do things!"

It

"Liar! Liar!" shouted Aunt Agnes. "You're

just bad, that's all! Just like your father! Oh, I

warned my sister not to marry him, but did she

listen?"
 "Stop it! Stop talking like that!" cried Toby,
covering his ears. "My daddy was wonderful!"
But Aunt Agnes was just getting started.

When she got cranked up like this, she just

went on and on. She was practically foaming at
the mouth. "Ha!" she shouted. "He was noth-
ing but a worthless drunkard! If it wasn't for
him, your mother would be alive today!"
"He wasn't a drunkard!" insisted Toby,
crying. "He wasn't!" Toby kept a picture of his
father in his underwear drawer, right next to
his socks. He looked like a nice man. He looked
like Toby.
"Not a drunkard?" screamed Aunt Agnes.
"How do you think he and your mother were
killed? He was dead drunk when he drove

home that night!"

"No! I hate you!" Toby buried his face in

his hands, sobbing.

"He used to hear voices, too!" she contin-
ued relentlessly. "Voices, bah! They were the
d.t.'s, just drunken hallucinations. He caused
nothing but trouble for all of us. Look at me!
Now I'm stuck with you!"
"The voice says you hate me!" sobbed
Toby. "That's why you're always yelling at me!"

58
 "I yell at you because you're bad! Now you
listen to me, young man. The next time you go

down into that coalbin, I'll send you away to

the orphan home!"
Toby threw his arms around Aunt Agnes's
bony waist in sheer panic. One of his voices
had told him about the orphan home. It had
told him that little boys went into the orphan
home, but they never, never came out. Bad
things happened to little boys in that place, the
voice had told him. "No, Auntie Agnes!" Toby
begged. "Please don't send me away! Please! I'll
be good! I'll be good!"
"You promise?" she said, poking her bony
finger into his chest.
"I promise! Next time the voice tells me
anything, I won't listen! Honest! I promise!
Cross my heart! Just please don't send me to
the orphan home!"
"All right," she said. "Now go to your
room. You'll spend the rest of the afternoon in-

doors. You've got to be punished for disobey-

ing me!"
"Y-yes, Auntie Agnes." Toby started to
leave the kitchen, but her harsh voice stopped
him in his tracks.

59
 —

"Toby!" she shrieked. "Look what you're

doing to the floor! Your shoes are covered with
coal dust! Take them off at once!"

"Yes, Auntie Agnes," mumbled Toby, tak-

ing off his shoes.
His aunt glared at him as he headed up the
stairs. "Idiotic child!" she ranted. "Voices
hmmmph! If he weren't my sister's flesh and
blood, I'd have him committed to the insane
asylum! Four times he's gone to that coalbin!
Well, I'm going to put a stop to that!"
Aunt Agnes pulled out book
the telephone
on the table at the foot of the stairs and
thumbed through it until she found what she
wanted. Then she dialed a number. "Hello?"
she said. "Is this Amos Kinster, the locksmith?
Oh, good. I have a job for you, Mr. Kinster. I

want you to install a lock on my coalbin!"

Meanwhile, upstairs Toby was having his

troubles. He wasn't alone up there. There was

a voice, a new one, to keep him company.
"C'mon, Toby," this one said. "It's almost
time for the game. The kids are waiting for you.
Besides, you've got to keep score! The coal
it's in your pocket!"
Toby put his hands over his ears again. "Go

60
away!" he said. "I'm not going to listen to

you!" He really meant it this time, too. He

wasn't going to let that voice get him put into
the orphan home, no sir.

But the voice kept talking. It was gentle this

time, pleading. It reminded him of his mother's

voice — at least the little he could remember.

"It's easy, Toby," the voice said. "Just climb
down the trellis outside your window. Here, I'll

go You just follow me!"

first!

"No! You're only trying to get me into

trouble!" Toby squinched his eyes shut, but the
voice kept talking.
was outside the window now, drifting
It

back to Toby from halfway down to the

ground. "C'mon!" it invited. "It's easy!"
Toby could stand it no longer. He jumped
up from his bed and looked out the window.
There was the trellis, right outside the window,
just as the voice had promised. "Gee," said

Toby, "it looks easy."

As the voice encouraged Toby, he slipped
one foot over the window sill and then the
other. He started down the trellis. But suddenly
a truck pulledup in front of the house. Out
jumped a man, and he was looking up. He had

61
spotted Toby on the trellis!

"Hey, kid!" the man called. "You'll get

hurt!"
Toby dropped to the Aunt Agnes
ground as
rushed outside through the front door. The
man grabbed Toby by the arm and held him as
she hurried toward them. "I'm the locksmith,
ma'am," he explained. "I saw him as I drove
up—"
"Toby!" yelled Aunt Agnes without even a
nod at the locksmith. "Get in the house! I'll

take care of you later!"

Toby scrambled back into the house and up
to his room. He waited there while Aunt Agnes
told the locksmith about the nice big lock she
wanted installed on the coalbin, one that Toby
wouldn't be able to open. Then while the lock-
smith was working in the basement Toby heard
her on the phone downstairs. Her piercing,
harsh voice carried all through the house.
"Four tons of young man!" she was
coal,
saying into the phone. "That's what I said, and
that's what I meant. I want it here within an

hour. I don't care if it's a lot of coal for one

delivery. I always order four tons, and if you
don't want to deliver it, I'll find someone else!"

62
Then she slammed the receiver down.
Finally she was ready to come upstairs and
punish Toby for climbing down the trellis. He
was not to go out of the house for three days,
she yelled at him, and he was lucky he wasn't
getting a beating. "And," she added, "you'd
better not listen to any of your voices again, do
you understand? If I hear any more about
them, it's the orphan home for you!"
"Yes, Aunt Agnes," said Toby quietly.

"And you're to stay in your room while I'm

at the store! If the coal should come while I'm
gone, just tell them to put it in through the cel-

lar window. Don't forget what you promised!"

"Don't worry, Auntie Agnes," said Toby
fervently. "I'm never going to listen to the
voices again!"
Finally she Toby was glad she was gone
left.

and the house was quiet. He began playing on

his floor with his toy soldiers, talking softly to
himself.
In a little while Toby looked up from his
toys. Someone was calling him.
"Toby! Toby, help me!" it wailed. "Come
downstairs . . . please!"
"Huh? It's Aunt Agnes calling me!"

63
 is... is thatIJ YES, TOBY <COME

WZ/, AUNT IE 1p> DOWN'.' PLEASE.'*

-7 AGNES?^yk LET ME OUT OF «
— M^ Bfcj HE COAL- B IN
f^

d ^|f^H|

Toby
n
'^^^fo ^SSISfj [/.
r^ ' ^
I'll

tiptoed downstairs. His aunt's voice

F*t^^

seemed to be coming from the cellar.

"Help me!" it called plaintively.

"Is ... is that you, Auntie Agnes?"
"Yes, Toby! Come down! Please! Let me out
of the coalbin!"
"The coalbin?" Toby could not imagine
Aunt Agnes being in the coalbin. He didn't
think she ever went in there. Something wasn't
right.

"The door locked shut on me!" the voice

was saying. "I went in to see if the window was
open so they could deliver the coal! Hurry!

64
They'll be here any minute!"
Toby started down the cellar stairs. Then he
hesitated. "Aw, no!" he said. "I know you!
You're not going to get me into any more
trouble!"
"Toby!" shouted the voice. "For heaven's
sake! Come down here and let me out! The key
is in the lock! Just turn it! Quickly! Please!"
Toby sat down on the cellar stairs, and a
smile spread across his face. Now he was sure.

"I promised I wouldn't listen to you anymore,"

he said to the voice, "and I wont! You just

sound like Auntie Agnes. Before you tried to

sound like my mommy. I'm not going to listen

to you anymore, no matter what!"

"Toby!" screamed the voice frantically. "I

am your Auntie Agnes! Please come down!

Please!"
Toby's smile grew even wider. He was going
to test the voice. He knew just how to do it,
too.
"Auntie Agnes," he said slyly, "was my
daddy a drunkard?"
"No, Toby!" the voice pleaded desperately.
"Your daddy was a good man! Now please
come down!"

65
 " —

But Toby stood up triumphantly. "See!" he

crowed. "You're not my Auntie Agnes. My
Auntie Agnes always says that my Daddy was
a drunkard!"
"Toby! Toby! Good lord! The window's
opening! They're starting to unload the
yaaaaaaaggghh!
The shrill screams of delight from the chil-

dren dancing around the coal truck and the

deafening roar as the black fuel cascaded down
the tin slide drowned out Aunt Agnes's shrieks
of terror. Little by little the hydraulic lifts raised
the truck body until four tons of coal had
poured into the coalbin beneath the tiny cellar
window. Four tons — enough to crush the
strongest of men, no less a frail, bitter old

woman. . . .

Now, doesn't that story leave you with a lump

in your throat? Heh, heh! It did old Agnes! In fact,

they found one in her throat and two more in her

mouth when they finally dug her out. Lumps of
coal, that is.

So let this be a lesson to you. Next time you

hear a voice telling you to do something like set
the table or pick up your disgusting old socks off
the floor, don't listen ! Okay?

66
 Oh, say can you see
Any bedbugs on me?
If you do, take a few,
'Cause I got them from you . . .

Oh, ahem, sorry, I forgot the real

words. It really goes:

BY THE DAWN'S
EARLY LIGHT
There was a sickeningly sweet smell of flowers
mixed with the blunt aroma of burning wax.
Yellow candle flames fed on what fresh air
seeped into the parlor of Hayson's Funeral
Home in the little town of Centerville, Illinois.
Frank Williams looked for the last time at
Joan Lorin's lovely white face — the death mask
of his bride-never-to-be.
Mr. Hayson tiptoed respectfully over to him
across the thick red carpet and spoke in a dole-
ful voice. The dead girl's mother's unceasing
sobs formed a background for the undertaker's
ironic words.
"She's beautiful, Mr. Williams," said Hay-

67
son. "She wasn't like that when they brought
her in, but Earl put everything he had into the
job because he's your best friend, and because
he was going to be your best man."
"Thank Earl for me when you see him," he
mumbled.
Out of the shadows Harry Martin stepped
forward. He reached for Frank's arm. "C'mon,
Frank," he said softly. "Let's go. I'll buy you a
drink."
"Th-thanks, Harry," said Frank. Tears were
pouring down his cheeks. He picked up his
bags and let himself be led from the funeral
home. "Earl Boyd made her beautiful for me,"
he said with a mirthless laugh. "A wedding pre-
sent from my best friend."
"Old man Hay son is stupid! Plain stupid!"
said Harry angrily as they walked slowly down
the street. "What an idiotic thing to say!"

They entered an almost deserted bar and sat

down in a darkened booth. Frank Williams was
still wearing the clothes he'd flown from New

York in, and Harry Martin had a black arm-

band on his sleeve.
They stared into their drinks for a few mo-
ments. Then Frank spoke. "What really hap-

68
pened, Harry? What's all this bunk about a
vampire killing Joan?"
"The part about the vampire isn't bunk,
Frank. But the vampire didn't kill Joan. I did.

We all did!"
"What you talking about?" said Frank.
are
"You've been in New York for the past
month, so you don't know what's been going
on back here in Illinois. See this armband? Ym
in mourning too! My brother Charlie died last

week. There were two other deaths the week

before!"
"And you're trying to tell me that a vam-
pire . .
." began Frank, shaking his head un-
comprehendingly.
"You don't believe me, Frank, but I saw
it — the vampire!" said Harry. "The night after

Charlie's funeral I got down my hunting rifle. I

didn't buy that talk about a vampire. I was

going to get the maniac that was roaming our
streets.

"Nina was upset. 'Where are you going

with a gun, Harry?' she asked me. 'You can't
kill a vampire with a gun! I read it in a book!
You gotta use a stake, a wooden stake!' My
wife's a big one for horror books.

69
 " 'I know what I'm doing, Nina,' I told her.
'Just lock the door behind me and don't open
it for anyone but me.'
"So I went. Each night I hunted the maniac
with the wind moaning through the dark
streets and the snow crunching underfoot. 'I'll

get you,' I'd be saying under my breath. 'I'll get

you for my brother, Charlie!'
"For five nights I went out into the winter
blackness. I got to asking myself what good it

was doing to go walking in the cold with the

sleet whipping my face. But then I'd think
about poor dead Charlie with those two bloody
punctures in his throat, and I'd keep on. Maybe

70
 —

I'd never find Charlie's killer. But I couldn't

quit. I just couldn't.

"Then one night I heard a gurgling cry and

then a moaning just a little louder than the
moaning of the wind. I started running through
the dark streets. And then I saw it. It was bend-
ing over the body of a girl, its ugly fangs sunk
into her white throat.
"I started yelling at it. 'You leave her alone!'
I screamed. I raised my gun, firing as I ran to-
ward it. I heard the bullets thud into its vile

flesh, and then — I saw it rise! 'My God!' I

thought. 'Bullets don't kill it! It is a vampire

9
one of the living dead. It is!

"I kept firing my rifle, but the thing just van-

ished into the shadows. went back and looked
I

at the girl. She seemed to be breathing. She had

two punctures in her throat, just like the oth-

ers . .
."

Harry's voice faded. He looked at Frank.

"The girl — was it Joan?" asked Frank, his

knuckles white on the edge of the table.

"Yeah, Frank, it was," replied Harry. "It

was Joan. I ran all the way to the firehouse. I

started pulling on the bell rope. The fire bell

was the only thing I could think of to get the

71
town out. I kept pulling on that rope. And then
they came. They came running. Everybody in

town was there.

" 'You saw it?' they asked me. 'You saw the
vampire? Did it get anybody?'
"I told them I'd seen it and shot at it, but
that the bullets wouldn't kill it. And I told them
it had gotten Joan.
"Then I took them to where Joan's body
lay. Doc Morris looked at her and shook his
head. 'Blood's drained, all right,' he said. 'But
she's alive, somehow.'
"'Sometimes a vampire's victim becomes a
vampire,' somebody else in the crowd said.

'And the only way to kill it is with a stake

driven into its heart — after dawn!'
"Well, somebody got a stake, and we held a
silent, gloomy vigil over Joan's body. I felt sick
inside, and cold — even with a big bright fire

going — because of what we had to do. And

thenwhen Doc saw the first icy blue streaks of
dawn in the east, he looked at all of us. 'It's
time,' he said."
Harry paused and looked into Frank's eyes.

"They handed me the stake, Frank," he said

quietly. "I held it against Joan's heart. Some-

72
body else stood over it with a rock."
Frank stared blankly into space, stunned, as
Harry continued.
"It was awful, Frank!" he said. "The rest of

them, they could turn away. But I had to look!

I had to see!"
"You lousy murderers!" Frank exploded,
jumping to his feet. "You killed her!" He
reached out and grabbed Harry by the lapels of
his coat.

"We had to do it, Frank, don't you see? We

had to!By now she'd be sleeping in a coffin
with dirt in the bottom during the day and at —
night she'd be roaming the back streets thirst-
ing for blood!" He stopped and shuddered be-
fore he went on.
"Charlie got his after that," said Harry in a
dull voice, "just to make sure. And the two oth-
ers who were killed the week before Charlie.

We exhumed their bodies, drove stakes into

each of their hearts . .
."

Frank released his hold. His rage and hate

were still there, but he knew Harry Martin and
the others had done what was right.

"Didn't I send you the telegram, Frank, tell-

ing you to come right back home?" said Harry,

73
 —

putting an arm on Frank's shoulder. "Didn't I

meet you at the airport?"

"I . . . I'm sorry, Harry," said Frank softly.

That night Frank Williams went on a hunt

of his own. He was armed with a sharp, crudely
hewn wooden stake and an anger within him
a bitter, hating anger.
"I'll get that vampire," he said to himself as
he trudged along the quiet streets, swinging the
stake at his side. "I'll get it if I have to look
forever!"
But Frank did not have to look forever. To-
ward morning he heard a bloodcurdling, gur-
gling rasp coming from the dark street ahead.
He sprinted through the snow. There it was, the
loathsome, hideous thing bending over its vic-

tim, sucking its fill of blood.

The thing moved a bit, and Frank was able
to see the face of the victim on the ground.
"Harry!" gasped Frank. "It's gotten Harry!"
Frank inched forward, his heart pounding
in his chest so loudly that he was sure the vam-
pire could hear it. But it was his crunching foot-
steps in the snow that made his presence
known. The monster suddenly straightened up,
startled.

74
 "

"Blast! It heard me!" muttered Frank.

The vampire fled, its black cape flowing be-
hind. It dodged through alleys and down nar-
row, winding streets, seeming at times almost
to fly. Frank pounded after it in breathless un-

relenting pursuit. "Can't ... let ... it ... get

away," he puffed.
Suddenly his quarry darted around a corner.
By the time Frank reached the spot the vampire
had vanished into thin air.

"It must have gone into one of those build-

ings," Frank said to himself. "It must have
gone
—
Frank realized where he was: at Hayson's
Funeral Home. Joan was still lying in her coffin
in that very building.

"Coffins!" cried Frank. "Of course! A vam-

pire sleeps in a coffin by day. What better place
for one to hide?"
He tried the door and found it open. He
pulled the coil of rope he'd brought along from
his pocket and entered cautiously.
"Earl told me about the cellar," he mused,
"where they store things and prepare bodies.
Perhaps down there . .
."

He made his way across the dark parlor,

75
brushing against Joan's coffin. There was a
staircase in the rear. He struck a match and
started down, his shadow performing a gro-
tesque dance on the wall beside him. "There
certainly are plenty of coffins down here." He
clamped his handkerchief to his face, gagging
on the horrible smell. "And there's a body
down here, too," he choked.
He moved from coffin to coffin, peering in-
side, searching for the telltale sign. And then he
saw it — the one with dirt in the bottom.
Suddenly Frank heard a sound, the sound of
grit grinding on the stairs above. He blew out
the match and cowered in the darkness, listen-

ing, waiting, as a figure came slowly down the

steps.

The figure glided across the cellar. Frank

leaped, wrapping the rope around the villain

with lightning speed.

"What . . . what's going on? Lemme go!
Hey!" the figure spluttered, Frank's arm over
its mouth.
"Now we'll see who you are, you fiend!"
whispered Frank, pulling the rope tight. He
fumbled for a match, struck it and it lit up the
gloom.

76
 "Earl! Earl Boyd!" Frank was horrified.

"Frank!" said Earl, his eyes wide with fright

and confusion. "Why didn't you let me know
you got home? Hey, is this your idea of a joke?
C'mon! Untie me!"
"You re the vampire, aren't you, Earl?" said
Frank. "My best friend, a vampire! You've
come back here to this cellar for your sleep,
haven't you?"
"Are you crazy? You know I work here at
night, Frank!"
Frank held the match up closer to Earl's

face. "There's blood on your mouth, Earl! Is it

Harry's blood?"

77
 "You knocked me down! For God's sake,
Frank!" pleaded Earl.
Frank looked into the coffin beside them.
"What about the dirt, Earl?" he demanded.
"What about the dirt in the bottom of this cof-

fin?" He pushed Earl's head closer to the coffin

and made him look in.

Earl was sweating now. "I don't know what

you're talking about, Frank! Joan's death must
have been too much for you. You're out of your
mind!"
"Out of my mind, am I? All right! Then you
won't mind proving you're not the vampire!
You won't mind being tied up in that coffin."
"In the coffin?" Earl shuddered. "Why?"
"Because if you are the vampire, you'll fall
asleep come sunrise. And when you do, I'll be
ready with this stake!" Frank brandished the
large pointed wooden stake. His eyes, lit up by
the match, glittered brightly. He looked pos-
sessed. "Get in," he ordered.
"Frank!" Earl begged. "I know how much
Joan meant to you, but why blame it on me? I

loved you both! I was going to be your best

man! I—"
"Get into that coffin and shut up! It's al-

78
most seven. Sunrise ought to be very soon!"
Earl relaxed suddenly. He stopped arguing
as Frank pushed him inside the coffin. Frank
checked the rope and started up the steps.

"Where are you going, Frank?" asked Earl

from the coffin.

"Upstairs," said Frank. "There isn't a win-

dow in this place. I want to see the sun rise."
Earl pointed his chin toward the wall.
"That calendar," he said. "That calendar will

tell you. It'll tell you the exact time the sun
rises."

"You're right, Earl," said Frank, studying

the calendar. "Let's see . . . Today's the tenth
. . . There it is! Sunrise: Seven twelve a.m.!"
Frank looked at his watch. "That's five min-
utes from now, Earl. Five minutes!" He folded
his arms and stood over Earl, waiting.
The minutes crawled by. Frank peered at his
watch. Seven twelve came and went, and Earl
was still wide awake. Seven thirty came. Finally
Frank hurled the stake away in disgust. "If you
were the vampire, you would have been asleep
by now," he muttered.
"See?" said Earl triumphantly. "I told you!
And the real vampire, the one who uses this

79
coffin, has gotten away! Untie me, Frank!"
Frank untied Earl. "Sorry, buddy," he said.

"I guess I'm a little crazy with this vampire

stuff. I just have to find out who it is and avenge
Joan's death."
Earl grinned at Frank. It was a strange grin,
not like Earl's usual good-natured smile at all.

It was an evil, leering grin. "You've been in

New York, haven't you?" he asked Frank.

"Y-yeah," said Frank. He was looking at

THAT'S FIVE YOU'LL SEE/

MINUTES FROM YOU' LL SEE
NOW,EARL.V/J/£" I'M NOT THE
MINUTES/ VAMPIRE/
Earl a little nervously. "I flew back this after-
noon, when I got Harry's telegram. I took the
two-thirty plane out of . . . out of . .
." His eyes
began to widen as he trailed off.

Earl's leering grin changed as he sprang.

Fangs erupted from behind his snarling lips.

Suddenly he was transformed into a hideous

demon.
Frank screamed. "My God!" he shrieked.
"How stupid of me! Illinois is an hour behind
New York!"
"That's right, Frank!" snarled Earl. "You
forgot to reset your watch!" I've got plenty of
time till sunrise! Another half hour! Enough to
drink my fill . . . again . .
."

Heh, heh! Now, isn't that a bloody shame,

kiddies? Just because Frank's watch was a little

fast, his time ran out. You might say Frank came
to a dead stop, eh? Well, let that be a lesson to
you — always set your watch to the right time. You
don't want some vampire saying "Tough time
zone" to you, do you, now?

81
 Well, I see you had enough guts to
make it all the way to the very last

story in this book. Let's see if you

can handle this one now. It's also got
plenty of guts . . . blood and guts,
plus a new kind of bat-man, who's
nothing to joke about. So lie back on your marble
slab, pull the sheet up over your head, and we'll
begin. The story is called . . .

BATS IN MY BELFRY
I first was going deaf when I
found out that I

visited our family doctor. I had gone to him be-

cause of a painful earache. But what he told me

came as a complete surprise.
"I'm sorry, Matt," he said, "I know what
this will do to your career. But the symptoms

are unmistakable. In a month or so you will be

stone deaf."
was in shock. "Are you sure, Doctor?
I

Can't you do anything? Operate?"

"No," he said sadly. "Nothing can be done
for you. There is no operation."
"I see," I said, though I really didn't see at

82
all. "Well, thank you for everything, Doctor." I

stumbled out of his office into the sunshine.

went home to my beautiful wife, Laura,

I

and told her what the doctor had said.

"You mean you won't be able to act any-
more?" she asked me when I'd finished explain-

ing as well as I could.

"How could I?" I said despairingly. "I'd
miss my cues. My voice expression would be
lost."

Her voice rose. "There must be something

they can do! Go see specialists! Make sure!"
Even when she was this upset, Laura looked
glamorous and lovely. She was wearing an ex-
pensive red silk dress, cut very low, and she
tossed her red hair as she spoke. I lived to make
Laura happy. Sometimes it wasn't easy, because
she liked to live in high style. Only the best for
Laura. But I didn't mind. I loved her as much
as I had when we'd first married. I loved her to
distraction.
"I will see another doctor, dear. I will," I

promised.
But every doctor I went to told me the same
story. It was useless. When I started to miss
my cues onstage, it was impossible to keep the

83
awful secret anymore.
"Sorry, Matt," the directors would say.

"We'll have to get another star."

"Huh?" I would respond. "What did you
say?"
And then at last it came: the thick, heavy
silence. was stone deaf. I walked in a world of
I

stillness. The traffic, the crowds, the orchestras

in nightclubs —
all silent. I had to learn to lip-

read to understand what Laura said to me.

"Our money's practically gone," she said to
me one day.
"Huh?" I said.

She yelled into my face, moving her lips very

slowly. "I said our money's practically gone!
Understand? We're broke! Cleaned out! Get
it?"

"Yes, Laura," I said.

Things got worse. I tried to find work, but I

couldn't do anything. Acting was all I knew.

Then I thought of an old friend, John
Bayne. John and I had played summer stock to-

gether. Then John had gone blind.

I went to see him the next day.
"Well, well," he chuckled as he opened his
door. "Matt Gordon! It's good to see you!"

84
 "Did — did you say my name, John?" I fal-

tered. "I — I'm can't hear you. Did you

deaf. I

say my name?"
"Of course," he said slowly. "I recognized
you immediately."
"You can see? Then why do you wear dark
glasses?"
"To hide my eyes," he said, whipping off his
sunglasses. "These eyes."
"Good lord!" I gasped.
John's eyes gleamed yellow in the dim light

of his room. They were the eyes of a cat.

"Wh — what did you do to yourself? Your
eyes
— " I began.
"Yes," he said. "They're cat's eyes."
"Huh?" I said.

"They're cat's eyes!" he shouted into my

face. "But who cares, Matt, I can see!"
had difficulty reading John's lips, but I
I

managed to understand enough of what he said

to get the whole story. And what a story it was.
"I found out about him through another ex-

blind man," John explained. "He's a genius! He

operated on me, grafted these cat's eyes. And
now I can see."
"Do you think he can help me, John?" I

85
asked, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Can he
restore my hearing the same way?"
"Why don't you go see him?" said John.
"Huh?" I said.
9
"Go see him! shouted John. "I'll give you
'

his address."

And so the next day found me in the shab-

biest part of the city. The shop was on a dark

and winding back street. There were animals,
stuffed ones, in the dusty window: monkeys, a
fox, a hawk, a moose's head.
"John said he wasn't a doctor," mused as
I

I looked in, "but this? This looks more like a

taxidermist's shop!"
I went in. The odor of staleness and decay
hung heavily in the air.
He came from behind a curtain. He was tall
and dark, even sinister looking.
—
"You you were recommended by a —
friend," I said nervously. What was I doing

there? What had I gotten myself into? But I had

no choice. He was my only hope.
—
"You you helped him to see again," I con-
tinued. "I wondered if ." . .

"I see by the way you watch my lips that

you are deaf," he said.

86
 "Huh?" I said.

"Deaf!" he shouted into my face. "Come

into the back! I will examine you!"
The rear of the shop looked like an alche-
mist's nightmare. There were bottles and jars of

various colored liquids and powders. But in the

center of the room was a modern-looking op-
erating table with up-to-date equipment. He
examined me briefly. I could hardly stand to
have him near me. He smelled bad.
"Your auditory nerves are paralyzed," he
said. "1 will have to replace your whole hearing

system with something different."

"What do you have in mind?" I asked ner-
vously.
"I propose transferring the auditory system
of a bat into your body."
"A bat!" I was horrified.

"Yes," he said. "The bat's auditory system

is unique. It is extrasensory. If the operation is

a success, you will be able to hear better than

you did before you lost your hearing."
I agreed to the operation. After all, what did
I have to lose?
"When do we do it?" I asked him.
"Now," he said.

87
 I lay down on his operating table. I was
scared out of my wits.

"Breathe deep, Mr. Gordon," he said as he

clamped the anesthesia mask over my face. The
last thing I saw was his horrible twisted smile.

Then I blacked out.

When came I out of the anesthesia, I looked
around. He was standing over me. He started
to speak.
"How do
you feel?" he asked.
His voice slammed into my brain. It was
harsh and loud.
"My head! Don't talk!" I cried.

"You'll get used to it, Mr. Gordon," he said.

"I — I certainly hope so," I said, my face

covered with sweat. But would I? Have you
ever turned a radio up full blast right next to
your ear? That's what everything sounded like

to me as I made my way home.

When I opened the door, I heard Laura's
voice. She was upstairs on the phone.
"I think he just came in," she was saying.
"I'll have to hang up now, darling. Good-bye.
Yes, of course I love you!" I could hear the rus-
tle of her low-cut silk dressing gown as she
hung up the phone.

88
 I couldn't believe it. Laura . . . and another
man! I decided not to tell her about my good
fortune, about my hearing being restored. I

wanted to wait. I wanted to find out more.

That night I couldn't sleep. I got dressed
and went for a walk.
"Funny," I thought as I shuffled along in the
shadows of an alley. "I have the strangest feel-

ing like I want to scream!"

. . .

I ignored the strange feeling and just kept

walking. I guess I walked all night. When I re-

turned home, Laura was gone. She had gotten

a job since I lost my hearing, and she must have
left early that morning. As I walked upstairs, I

couldn't believe how tired I was. The sun was

streaming through the windows. A heavy
drowsiness had come over me, and I could
hardly make it up the stairs. I had to go to
sleep. . . .

"What in blazes?" I cried as my eyes flew

open. I didn't even remember falling asleep, but
I woke to find myself in the clothes closet. I had
fallen asleep hanging upside down from the
clothes pole!
"What . . . what's happening to me?" I said
to myself as I slipped to the floor.

89
 I staggered into the bathroom and looked in
the mirror. I needed a shave badly, but there
was something else: hair. Hair growing on my
forehead, my nose, all over my face. Fine gray
hairs.

I was frightened. I shaved carefully, clearing

my face of the growth. Then I stepped into the

shower. As I raised my arm to soap under it, I
received a new shock.
"What the — " I spluttered. "There's a mem-
brane! A membrane growing across my arm-
pit!" It stretched from my side all the way over
to my elbow, some kind of disgusting wing.
like

I dressed quickly, and it wasn't easy getting

my suit jacket on. I rushed to my friend John's
house —John, who had first recommended the
strange shop with its still stranger proprietor. It
was getting dark outside. I burst through his
door without knocking.
"John!" I yelled, running through the
rooms to look for him.
—
"Get out quickly!" said a strange, hoarse
voice that sounded a bit like John's.
His room was dimly lit. His feline eyes
glowed with an eerie yellow light. He lay in a
corner. White picked-clean bones were strewn
all around him. His face was covered with silky

black fur.

"Get away from me, before it's too late!" he

cried hoarsely. "I — I'm an animal!"
"What's happened? Tell me! Tell me!" I

shouted.
John stood up in a crouch. "It's that hor-

rible fiend!" he said. "He — he's done some-

thing to me! These aren't cat's eyes he's given
me! They're the eyes of a panther! And ... I

can't help myself! I — I have an incessant urge

to . . . kill!"

"Lord help us!" I gasped.

John snapped on a light. "Look at me!
Look!" he cried. "I'm even beginning to look
like a panther! Don't go to him, Matt!
Don't—"

91
 "It's too late, John," I broke in. "It's too
late!"

John snarled. His eyes burned. I got out.

I began to walk, thinking. "That explains

my falling asleep hanging upside down in the

closet," I said to myself. "And the gray hairs on

my face . . . and the membrane growing across
my armpits! I — I'm turning into a bat!"
And that night, as I walked through the
blackness, I began to utter short, shrill shrieks.
And I listened for the shrieks to echo back. I

was using sonar, the radarlike device bats use

for traveling through darkness.
When dawn came, I made my way home.
"Where have you been all night?" snapped
Laura. "Can you understand me? Why did you
stay out all night?"
"I ... I got a job, Laura," I said, loosening

my tie. I was exhausted. I had to sleep. I kept

my face turned away from her so she wouldn't
see how strange I looked.
"You got a job?" she said, rolling up her
silk stockings. "Good! Then I'll quit mine. To-
day!"
"If you like, Laura," I said wearily. "I'm
going to bed."

92
 —

She went out, and I lay exhausted on the

bed. Again, remember falling asleep, but
I don't
when I awoke, I was hanging upside down in
the closet. I opened my eyes and heard voices
Laura's voice and a man's coming from —
downstairs.
"He carried a large insurance policy," Laura
was saying. "A hundred thousand dollars. He
took it out while he was acting and making
good money."
"Is it still in effect?" asked the man's voice.
I listened. From my lair in the closet I lis-

tened as they kissed.

"Yes," Laura said finally. "The insurance
premium is due next month. Matt and I prob-
ably won't be able to pay for it after that, but

if you and I kill him now, we can still collect the

insurance money."
"We'll be rich," said the man. "After we kill

him."
I couldn't believe my
They were plan-
ears.

ning to murder me! I got down from the clothes

pole and slowly opened the door. "Got to get
away" was all I could think. "Got to get away
from them!"
I rushed down the stairs and out the door

93
before they could stop me. I heard them talking
behind me. "It was Matt!" Laura cried. "He
must have heard us! He'll go to the police!"
"I'll stop him," vowed the man. "I'll stop
him however I have to."

Laura's lover came after me. The sidewalks

were dark and deserted. I ran, uttering little

shrill high-pitched shrieks. They warned me of

fences, dead-end alleys, and blind streets.

Laura's loverpounded along after me.

"Matt!" he shouted. "It's no use! I'll get you!"
As I ran, I looked down. Claws sprang from
my fingers where nails had once grown. I stared
at them in horror.

"And when I do get you, Matt," the man

was yelling.
I passed my clawed hand over my face. It

was hairy.
And over my lower lip hung fangs. I had . . .

grown fangs.
"When I get you, Matt, I'll kill you!" the
man was shouting.
I stopped running. There was no need to
run any longer. I knew what I had to do.
Laura's lover ran up to me, leering. He
thought he had me now, I could tell. I almost

94
felt sorry for the poor sap. But not quite.
Then he saw me. His eyes widened in hor-
ror. I sprang at him. "No! No, keep away!" he

screamed.
When it was over, he lay sprawled gro-
tesquely on the cobblestones, white as chalk.
There were two punctures on his neck. He was
dead. I had drained his blood.

I stood over him, trying to think. "I'm not

just an ordinary bat," I said to myself.
I looked at my long claws, my twisted
hands. I felt my fangs jutting down over my
lower lip.

"I'm a vampire bat."

I fairly flew back through the streets to my
house, back to Laura.
"Did you get him, Cha
— " she began as she
heard me come in. Then she saw me. "Matt!
What — what's happened to you?"
"I killed him, Laura," I explained. "I killed
him as you had planned to kill me. And now I
must kill you, too!"
"No, Matt, no!" she screamed. But I wasn't
listening. Not anymore.
Her throat was white and soft — not like his.

When I had finished, I looked around me.

95
 I '

"Now I've got to go away and hide," I said to

myself, wiping the blood off my face with my
sleeve.

So I found a place, a nice quiet place to hide.

It's in a coffin in this lovely mausoleum. And
what did I do with the body that occupied it

before I came? I brought it to John . . . my

friend. He made short work of it!

Heh, heh! Well, my little darlings, that's Matt

Gordons story. Personally, I think he was a little

batty, don't you? Or maybe like his friend John,

Ym just being catty.
Anyhow, it's time for me to be really bratty and
tell you that the fun's over. Candles out, kiddies.

Time to tuck those wings in, hang yourselves

upside down, and go to sleep ! (Don't let the
bedbugs, vampires, werewolves, or flesh-eating
zombies bite!)

96
 THE CRYP
7
. . .Where a witches brew of gruesome, gleeful gore
awaits you! These six terrifyingly funny tales,
just right for raising giggles and goose bumps, are
introduced by none other than the Crypt-Keeper himself!
So climb into the crypt, boys and ghouls,
and read Volume 1 — if you dare!

Terror Ride
Seance
By the Fright of the Silvery Moon
Auntie, It's Coal Inside!
By the Dawn's Early Light
Bats in My Belfry

If you have the stomach for more, you may want

to read Volume 2, introduced by the Old Witch,
and Volume 3, introduced by the Vault-Keeper...

ISBN D-fe^-fll?^- 1
!

81 799>
$2.99 U.S.

$3.99 can.

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