Manly Wade Wellman - Judge Pursuivant 01 Read online

  The Hairy Ones Shall Dance

  Manly Wade Wellman

  Manly Wade Wellman (1903-1986) wrote more than seventy-five books and over two hundred short stories, many of which were published in the pulp magazines of the 1930s and '40s. He twice won the World Fantasy Award and some of the writer's best short fiction is collected in Who Fears the Devil? (filmed in 1972), Worse Things Waiting, Lonely Vigils am/The Valley So Low.

  The classic werewolf rwvella which follows was originally published over three issues of Weird Tales in January, February and March 1938 under the pseudonym "Gans T. Field". One of the Virgil Finlay illustrations for the serial depicted Wellman (as Finlay imagined him) throwing a punch at the werewolf The author didn't think it was a very good likeness, but then he and the artist had never met. Finlay gave the drawing to Wellman who, years later, passed it on to his friend Karl Edward Wagner.

  "The Hairy Ones Shall Dance" once again follows the exploits of occult investigator Judge Keith Hilary Pursuivant, whose adventures have previously appeared in both The Mammoth Book of Terror and The Mammoth Book of Vampires . . .

  Contents

  Foreword

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  Foreword

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

  Few words are best, as Sir Philip Sidney once wrote in challenging an enemy. The present account will be accepted as a challenge by the vast army of skeptics of which I once made one. Therefore I write it brief and bald. If my story seems unsteady in spots, that is because the hand that writes it still quivers from my recent ordeal.

  Shifting the metaphor from duello to mihtary engagement, this is but the first gun of the bombardment. Even now sworn statements are being prepared by all others who survived the strange and, in some degree, unthinkable adventure I am recounting. After that, every great psychic investigator in the country, as well as some from Europ>e, will begin researches. I wish that my friends and brother-magicians, Houdini and Thurston, had lived to bear a hand in them.

  I must apologize for the strong admixture of the personal element in my narrative. Some may feel that I err against good taste. My humble argument is that I was not merely an observer, but an actor, albeit a clumsy one, throughout the drama.

  As to the setting forth of matters which many will call impossible, let me smile in advance. Things happen and have always happened, that defy the narrow science of test-tube and formula. I can only say again that I am writing the truth, and that my statement will be supported by my companions in the adventure.

  Talbot Wills November 15, 1937

  I

  "Why must the burden of proof rest with the spirits?"

  "You don't believe in psychic phenomena," said Doctor Otto Zoberg yet again, "because you won't.''

  This with studied kindness, sitting in the most comfortable chair of my hotel room. I, at thirty-four, silently hoped I would have his health and charm at fifty-four - he was so rugged for all his lean length, so well groomed for all his tweeds and beard and joined eyebrows, so articulate for all his accent. Doctor Zoberg quite apparently liked and admired me, and I felt guilty once more that I did not entirely return the compliment.

  "I know that you are a stage magician," he began afresh.

  "I was once," I amended, a little sulkily. My early career had brought me considerable money and notice, but after the novelty of show business was worn off I had never rejoiced in it. Talboto the Mysterious - it had been impressive, but tawdry. Better to be Talbot Wills, lecturer and investigator in the held of exposing fraudulent mediums.

  For six years I had known Doctor Otto Zoberg, the champion of spiritism and mediumism, as rival and companion. We had first met in debate under the auspices of the Society for Psychical Research in London. I, young enough for enthusiasm but also for carelessness, had been badly out-thought and out-talked. But afterward, Doctor Zoberg had praised my arguments and my dehvery, and had graciously taken me out to a late supper. The following day, there arrived from him a present of helpful books and magazines. Our next platform duel found me in a position to get a little of my own back; and he, afterward, laughingly congratulated me on turning to account the material he had sent me. After that, we were public foemen and personal inseparables. Just now we were touring the United States, debating, giving exhibitions, visiting mediums. The night's program, before a Washington audience liberally laced with high officials, had ended in what we agreed was a draw; and here we were, squabbling good-naturedly afterward.

  "Please, Doctor," I begged, offering him a cigarette, "save your charges of stubbornness for the theater."

  He waved my case aside and bit the end from a villainous black cheroot. "I wouldn't say it, here or in pubhc, if it weren't true, Talbot. Yet you sneer even at telepathy, and only half believe in mental suggestion. Ach, you are worse than Houdini."

  "Houdini was absolutely sincere," I almost blazed, for I had known and worshipped that brilliant and kindly prince of conjurers and fraud-finders.

  "AHH, to be sure, to be sure," nodded Zoberg over his blazing match. "I did not say he was not. Yet, he refused proof- the proof that he himself embodied. Houdini was a great mystic, a medium. His power for miracles he did not know himself"

  I had heard that before, from Conan Doyle as well as Zoberg, but I made no comment. Zoberg continued:

  "Perhaps Houdini was afraid - if anything could frighten so brave and wise a man it would assuredly come from within. And so he would not even listen to argument." He turned suddenly somber. "Perhaps he knew best, Wills. But he was stubborn, and so are you."

  "I don't think you can say that of me," I objected once more. The cheroot was alight now, and I kindled a cigarette to combat in some degree the gun-powdery fumes.

  Teeth gleamed amiably through the beard, and Zoberg nodded again, in frank delight this time. "Oh, we have hopes of you, Wills, where we gave up Houdini."

  He had never said that before, not so plainly at any rate. I smiled back. "I've always been willing to be shown. Give me a fool-proof, fake-proof, supernormal phenomenon, Doctor; let me convince myself; then I'll come gladly into the spiritist camp."

  "Ahh, so you always say!" he exploded, but without genuine wrath. "Why must the burden of proof rest with the spirits? How can you prove that they do not live and move and act? Study what Eddington has to say about that."

  "For five years," I reminded him, "I have offered a prize of five thousand dollars to any medium whose spirit miracles I could not duplicate by honest sleight-of-hand."

  He gestured with slim fingers, as though to push the words back into me. "That proves absolutely nothing, Wills. For all your skill, do you think that sleight-of-hand can be the only way? Is it even the best way?"

  "I've unmasked famous mediums for years, at the rate of one a month," I flung back. "Unmasked them as the clumsiest of fakes."

  "Because some are dishonest, are all dishonest?" he appealed. "What specific thing would convince you, my friend?"

  I thought for a moment, gazing at him through the billows of smoke. Not a gray hair to him - and I, twenty years his junior, had six or eight at either temple. I went on to admire and even to envy that pointed trowel of beard, the sort of thing that I, a magician, might have cultivated once. Then I made my answer.

  "I'd ask for a materialization. Doctor. An ectoplasmic apparition, visible and solid to touch - in an empty room with no curtain
s or closets, all entrances sealed by myself, the medium and witnesses shackled." He started to open his mouth, but I hurried to prevent him. "I know what you'll say - that I've seen a number of impressive ectoplasms. So I have, perhaps, but not one was scientifically and dispassionately controlled. No, Doctor, if I'm to be convinced, I must make the conditions and set the stage myself"

  "And if the materialization was a complete success?"

  "Then it would prove the claim to me - to the world. Materializations are the most important question in the whole field."

  He looked long at me, narrowing his shrewd eyes beneath the dark single bar of his brows. "Wills," he said at length, "I hoped you would ask something like this."

  "You did?"

  "Ah. Because - first, can you spare a day or so?"

  I replied guardedly, "I can, I believe. We have two weeks or more before the New Orleans date." I computed rapidly. "Yes, that's December 8. What have you got up your sleeve, Doctor?"

  He grinned once more, with a great display of gleaming white teeth, and Bung out his long arms. "My sleeves, you will observe, are empty!" he cried. "No trickery. But within five hours of where we sit - five hours by fast automobile - is a little town. And in that town there is a little medium. No, Wills, you have never seen or heard of her. It is only myself who found her by chance, who studied her long and prayerfully. Come with me. Wills - she will teach you how little you know and how much you can learn!"

  II

  ''You can almost hear the ghosts."

  I have sat down with the purpose of writing out, plainly and even flatly, all that happened to me and to Doctor Otto Zoberg in our impromptu adventure at psychic investigation; yet, almost at the start, I find it necessary to be vague about the tiny town where that adventure ran its course. Zoberg began by refusing to tell me its name, and now my friends of various psychical research committees have asked me to hold my peace until they have finished certain examinations without benefit of yellow journals or prying politicians.

  It is located, as Zoberg told me, within five hours by fast automobile of Washington. On the following morning, after a quick and early breakfast, we departed at seven o'clock in my sturdy coupe. I drove and Zoberg guided. In the turtle-back we had stowed bags, for the November sky had begun to boil up with dark, heavy clouds, and a storm might delay us.

  On the way Zoberg talked a great deal, with his usual charm and animation. He scoffed at my skepticism and prophesied my conversion before another midnight.

  "A hundred years ago, realists like yourself were ridiculing hypnotism," he chuckled. "They thought that it was a fantastic fake, like one of Edgar Poe's amusing tales, ja? And now it is a great science, for healing and comforting the world. A few years ago, the world scorned mental telepathy - "

  "Hold on," I interrupted. "I'm none too convinced of it now."

  "I said just that, last night. However, you think that there is some grain of truth to it. You would be a fool to laugh at the many experiments in clairvoyance carried on at Duke University."

  "Yes, they are impressive," I admitted.

  "They are tremendous, and by no means unique," he insisted. "Think of a number between one and ten," he said suddenly.

  I gazed at my hands on the wheel, thought of a joking reply, then fell in with his mood.

  "All right," I replied. "I'm thinking of a number. What is it?"

  "It is seven," he cried out at once, then laughed heartily at the blank look on my face.

  "Look here, that's a logical number for an average man to think of," I protested. "You relied on human nature, not telepathy."

  He grinned and tweaked the end of his beard between manicured fingers. "Very good. Wills, try again. A color this time."

  I paused a moment before replying, "All right, guess what it is."

  He, too, hesitated, staring at me sidewise. "I think it is blue," he offered at length.

  "Go to the head of the class," I grumbled. "I rather expected you to guess red - that's most obvious."

  "But I was not guessing," he assured me. "A flash of blue came before my mind's eye. Come, let us try another time."

  We continued the experiment for a while. Zoberg was not always correct, but he was surprisingly close in nearly every case. The most interesting results were with the names of persons, and Zoberg achieved some rather mystifying approximations. Thus, when I was thinking of the actor Boris Karlofl", he gave me the name of the actor Bela Lugosi. Upon my thinking of Gilbert K. Chesterton, he named Chesterton's close friend Hilaire Belloc, and my concentration on George Bernard Shaw brought forth a shout of "Santa Claus." When I reiterated my charge of psychological trickery and besought him to teach me his method, he grew actually angry and did not speak for more than half an hour. Then he began to discuss our destination.

  "A most amazing community," he pronounced. "It is old - one of the oldest inland towns of all America. Wait until you see the houses, my friend. You can almost hear the ghosts within them, in broad daylight. And their Devil's Croft, that is worth seeing, too."

  "Their what?"

  He shook his head, as though in despair. "And you set yourself up as an authority on occultism!" he sniffed. "Next you will admit that you have never heard of the Druids. A Devil's Croft, my dull young friend, used to be part of every English or Scots village. The good people would set aside a field for Satan, so that he would not take their own lands."

  "And this settlement has such a place?"

  "yfl wohl, a, grove of the thickest timber ever seen in this over-civilized country, and hedged in to boot. I do not say that they believe, but it is civic property and protected by special order from trespassers."

  "I'd like to visit that grove," I said.

  "I pray you!" he cried, waving in protest. "Do not make us unwelcome."

  We arrived shordy before noon. The little town rests in a circular hollow among high wooded hills, and there is not a really good road into it, for two or three miles around. After listening to Zoberg, I had expected something grotesque or forbidding, but I was disappointed. The houses were sturdy and modest, in some cases poor. The greater part of them made a close-huddled mass, like a herd of cattle threatened by wolves, with here and there an isolated dwelling like an adventuresome young fighting-bull. The streets were narrow, crooked and unpaved, and for once in this age I saw buggies and wagons out-numbering automobiles. The central square, with a two-story town hall of red brick and a hideous cast-iron war memorial, still boasted numerous hitching-rails, brown with age and smooth with use. There were few real signs of modem progress. For instance, the drug store was a shabby clapboard affair with "Pharmacy" painted upon its windows, and it sold only drugs, soda and tobacco; while the one hotel was low and rambling and bore the title "Luther Inn." I heard that the population was three hundred and fifty, but I am inclined to think it was closer to three hundred.

  We drew up in front of the Luther Inn, and a group of roughly dressed men gazed at us with the somewhat hostile interrogation that often marks a rural American community at the approach of strangers. These men wore mail-order coats of corduroy or suede - the air was growing nippier by the minute - and plow shoes or high laced boots under dungaree pants. All of them were of Celtic or Anglo-Saxon type.

  "Hello!" cried Zoberg jovially. "I see you there, my friend Mr. Gird. How is your charming daughter?"

  The man addressed took a step forward from the group on the p)orch. He was a raw-boned, grizzled native with pale, pouched eyes, and was a trifle better dressed than the others, in a rather ministerial coat of dark cloth and a wide black hat. He cleared his throat before replying.

  "Hello, Doctor. Susan's well, thanks. What do you want of us?"

  It was a definite challenge, that would repel or anger most men, but Zoberg was not to be denied. He scrambled out of the car and cordially shook the hand of the man he had called Mr. Gird. Meanwhile he spoke in friendly fashion to one or two of the others.

  "And here," he wound up, "is a very good friend of m
ine, Mr. Talbot Wills."

  All eyes - and very unfriendly eyes they were, as a whole - turned upon me. I got out slowly, and at Zoberg's insistence shook hands with Gird. Finally the grizzled man came with us to the car.

  "I promised you once," he said glumly to Zoberg, "that I would let you and Susan dig as deeply as you wanted to into this matter of spirits. I've often wished since that I hadn't, but my word was never broken yet. Come along with me; Susan is cooking dinner, and there'll be enough for all of us."

  He got into the car with us, and as we drove out of the square and toward his house he conversed quietly with Zoberg and me.

  "Yes," he answered one of my questions, "the houses are old, as you can see. Some of them have stood since the Revolutionary War with England, and our town's ordinances have stood longer than that. You aren't the first to be impressed, Mr. Wills. Ten years ago a certain millionaire came and said he wanted to endow us, so that we would stay as we are. He had a lot to say about native color and historical value. We told him that we would stay as we are without having to take money from him, or from anybody else for that matter."

  Gird's home was large but low, all one storey, and of darkly painted clapboards over heavy timbers. The front door was hung on the most massive handwrought hinges. Gird knocked at it, and a slender, smallish girl opened to us.

  She wore a woolen dress, as dark as her father's coat, with white at the neck and wrists. Her face, under masses of thunder-black hair, looked Oriental at first glance, what with high cheek-bones and eyes set aslant; then I saw that her eyes were a bright gray like worn silver, and her skin rosy, with a firm chin and a generous mouth. The features were representatively Celtic, after all, and I wondered for perhaps the fiftieth time in my life if there was some sort of blood link between Scot and Mongol. Her hand, on the brass knob of the door, showed as slender and white as some evening flower.