a strange dream

by anonymous

illustrated by konrad kraus

last night i had the strangest dream i dreamed i was forging balzac's signature on a letter to franz kafka i didn't have much time dupin was waiting in the next room with sherlock holmes i needed a quill not a ball point pen i found a fountain pen in the drawer of the old wooden desk it would have to do dupin just glanced at it when i gave it to him he and holmes were deep in discussion, muttering about something i could not understand them overcome with relief i walked down the dark street under the lamps in the fog the lights of a tavern beckoned i entered i settled in to a booth and ordered a foamy glass of dark ale from a rosy cheeked barmaid i thought my troubles were behind me but they had only begun four people were seated at a table behind mine. i could not help overhearing their conversation i looked behind me and recognized them as the distinguished novelist george meredith mister gladstone prince von bismarck, chancellor of the german empire and our beloved queen victoria to my horror i realized they were plotting a series of dreadful murders of unfortunate women who were reduced to walking the streets and selling that portion of themselves which no longer had any value their plan of attack was carefully coordinated each was to provide alibis for the others and the murders themselves were to be executed with a minute and unimaginable savagery i froze in my shadows would they realize i was overhearing them? with infinite care i rose from my seat leaving my glass of ale untouched not daring to look behind me i made for the door an eternity passed i could only make headway by swimming through the darkness at last i reached the door at last! as i entered the street a tall figure brushed past me on his way into the tavern it was sir edward burne-jones! i fairly flew through the streets when i reached my lodgings i saw a strange yellow light in in my third story window i opened the front door and careless of waking mrs foster the landlady i raced up the stairs the light beneath my door was a ghastly pink! i flung open the door and there hanging from the rafters casting a dark and swirling shadow over my overturned paint pots and scattered brushes was a dead man!

the peaceful village

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas and konrad kraus

part one of two

once there was a peaceful village with no murder, rape or pillage everyone did honest labor and was friendly to their neighbor every door was opened wide so that folks could come inside all elders were respected no crime was ever detected they had no silver, jewels or gold but through the valley a river rolled bringing water to boundless crops that folks could eat until they dropped mom and dad got up at dawn and polly put the kettle on all day long they did their chores so that they were never bored grandmothers were round and wise and made excellent blueberry pies grandpa though his hair was grayed enjoyed his pipe beneath the shade little boys ran and spread the news little girls minded their p's and q's it was the way that it should be for all of eternity and then one day a shadow fell across the world they knew so well thunder rolled across the land the distant horizon was fearfully scanned nightmares visited young and old strange tales around the fire were told people kept their doors shut tight and could hardly sleep at night outside the village a monster lurked skulking in the fog and murk waiting for the silent hour the unwary traveler to devour no longer could the children play even in the light of day birds abandoned the cloudy skies the villagers scanned with frightened eyes laughter was replaced with fear throughout the long and dreary year the leafless trees felt winters chills and the monster laughed behind the hills things might have gone along this way and the village perished, who can say? but fate would not be so forlorn because a hero had been born johnny smith, a faceless sort showed little sign, by all reports of standing out among the crowd not too quiet, not too loud even johnny's mom and dad little suspected that johnny had the stuff of heroes in his being none indeed were so farseeing the night was dark, and wet and drear the little household huddled in fear mom and dad and johnny and sis as the rain against the windows hissed dad whittled at his favorite stick you could hear mom's heartbeat tick sis stared into space and wiggled her toes then johnny from the table rose his algebra homework he put down and looked around with a puzzled frown he listened to the rain and scratched his head i think i'll go for a walk, he said sis looked puzzled, dad looked sad mom cried, johnny, are you mad this is something you must not do outside, certain death awaits you aw gee ma, don't talk like that said johnny, putting on his hat my clouded brain needs a fresh air shock i will just walk around the block so without saying anything more johnny walked over and opened the door and disappeared into the wind and rain would he ever be seen again? part 2

the bargain

by horace p sternwall

originally published in the june 1957 issue of desperate stories

illustrations by roy dismas

night was falling. a train whistled in the distance. it was time. twenty years. he had stayed in the shack for twenty years, as instructed. and now it was time. he walked out of the shack. he closed the door behind him. he did not lock it, as he had no key. the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the horizon. he started walking down the hill. he had kept his part of the bargain. would they keep theirs? even if they meant to, a lot could go wrong in twenty years. he came to the old tree, which had marked the limit of his walks during his time in the cabin. he passed the tree. he did not look back. another two miles, and he should come to a big rock, and a curb and a dip in the road. a car or truck should be waiting. he made good time. the night was clear. the path was not too narrow. his mind was a blank. he noticed the trees, the rocks, and the leaves and pine needles on the path. it wasn't too cool or too warm. he took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder. suddenly, he was there. and the vehicle was there. a station wagon, looking pretty much like the ones he would have seen twenty years ago. a woman was leaning against it. in the darkness he could not tell her age or if she was good looking. she didn't speak, but waited as he approached. "you from jenkins?" he asked. "of course." she had a husky, smoker's voice. "you got anything in that jacket?" "what?" "the jacket. let us see the jacket." us? he took the jacket off his shoulder and fanned it. "throw it over here." as he tossed her the jacket the rear door of the station wagon opened and another, bigger woman got out. the big woman motioned for him to lift his arms, and she patted him down. "i guess you can't be too careful." they ignored this. "get in the front," the first woman told him. she handed the jacket back to him. he relaxed. everything was going to be all right. why would they go to all this trouble, leave him up there for twenty years if they were not going to keep their end of the bargain? he got in. the seat was pushed back, there was plenty of room. the first woman got in the driver's seat. there was a purse between the seats and she took her time getting a cigarette out of it and lighting it. the other woman got back in the back seat, behind him. "want a drink?" the first woman asked. "uh - i wouldn't object to a little one." "there's a half pint in the glove compartment. help yourself." sure enough, there was a half pint of dewar's in the glove compartment, unopened. "um - you got a cup or something. i wouldn't want to -" "just drink it. it's all yours. it's a present from jenkins." "we're not whiskey drinkers anyway," said the woman in back. it was the first time she had spoken. "we're more beer drinkers. schlitz. we like our schlitz." he broke the seal and opened the bottle and took a sip. as soon as the liquor passed his throat he knew something was wrong. he heard the engine start up. it was the last thing he heard.