American Supernatural Tales Part 21

"Miss Elva, this is Miss Finch."

Her eyes closed and breath fluttered through her lips. "Yes?" she said.

"About those calls you say you've been receiving."

"Yes?" In her mind, Miss Finch's words cutting-"those calls you say say you've been receiving." you've been receiving."

"We sent a man out to trace them," continued Miss Finch. "I have his report here."

Miss Keene caught her breath. "Yes?"

"He couldn't find anything."

Elva Keene didn't speak. Her gray head lay motionless on the pillow, the receiver pressed to her ear.

"He says he traced the-the difficulty to a fallen wire on the edge of town."

"Fallen-wire?"

"Yes, Miss Elva." Miss Finch did not sound happy.

"You're telling me I didn't hear anything?"

Miss Finch's voice was firm. "There's no way anyone could have phoned you from that location," she said.

"I tell you a man man called me!" called me!"

Miss Finch was silent and Miss Keene's fingers tightened convulsively on the receiver.

"There must be a phone there," she insisted. "There must be some some way that man was able to call me!" way that man was able to call me!"

"Miss Elva, there's no one out there."

"Out where, where where?"

The operator said, "Miss Elva, it's the cemetery."

In the black silence of her bedroom, a crippled maiden lady lay waiting. Her nurse would not remain for the night; her nurse had patted her and scolded her and ignored her.

She was waiting for a telephone call.

She could have disconnected the phone, but she had not the will. She lay there waiting, waiting, thinking.

Of the silence-of ears that had not heard, seeking to hear again. Of sounds bubbling and muttering-the first stumbling attempts at speech by one who had not spoken-how long? Of-h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?-first greeting by one long silent. Of-where are you? Of (that which made her lie so rigidly) the clicking and the operator speaking her address. Of- Of (that which made her lie so rigidly) the clicking and the operator speaking her address. Of- The telephone ringing.

A pause. Ringing. The rustle of a nightgown in the dark.

The ringing stopped.

Listening.

And the telephone slipping from white fingers, the eyes staring, the thin heartbeats slowly pulsing.

Outside, the cricket-rattling night.

Inside, the words still sounding in her brain-giving terrible meaning to the heavy, choking silence.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Elva. I'll be right over."

CHARLES BEAUMONT.

Charles Beaumont-the pseudonym, and later the legally adopted name, of Charles Leroy Nutt-was born in Chicago in 1929. A high-school dropout, he served briefly in the U.S. Army before taking up a career in writing in the early 1950s. It was just at this time that the pulp magazines were dying out, and supernatural fiction-often disguised as mystery or suspense fiction-had to appear in the science fiction digest magazines or in mainstream magazines. Beaumont published widely in such digests as Infinity Science Fiction Infinity Science Fiction and such men's magazines as and such men's magazines as Playboy Playboy and and Rogue. Rogue. His first story collection, His first story collection, The Hunger and Other Stories, The Hunger and Other Stories, appeared in 1957, and several others- appeared in 1957, and several others-Yonder: Stories of Fantasy and Science Fiction (1958), (1958), Night Ride and Other Journeys Night Ride and Other Journeys (1960), (1960), The Magic Man The Magic Man (1965), and (1965), and The Edge The Edge (1966)-appeared in rapid succession. Many of Beaumont's stories present a fusion of science fiction, fantasy, mystery, suspense, and the supernatural, so that genre cla.s.sification of his work becomes difficult. Of his two novels, (1966)-appeared in rapid succession. Many of Beaumont's stories present a fusion of science fiction, fantasy, mystery, suspense, and the supernatural, so that genre cla.s.sification of his work becomes difficult. Of his two novels, Run from the Hunter Run from the Hunter (1957; with John E. Tomerlin) is a crime thriller, and (1957; with John E. Tomerlin) is a crime thriller, and The Intruder The Intruder (1959) is a mainstream novel of race relations in the South. Some of his best-known horror tales are "The Howling Man," a brilliant tale of the Devil, and "Black Country," which ingeniously fuses the supernatural with blues music. (1959) is a mainstream novel of race relations in the South. Some of his best-known horror tales are "The Howling Man," a brilliant tale of the Devil, and "Black Country," which ingeniously fuses the supernatural with blues music.

Beaumont did much work in film and television, writing the screenplay (with Ben Hecht) to the film Queen of Outer s.p.a.ce Queen of Outer s.p.a.ce and writing many scripts for Rod Serling's and writing many scripts for Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone. The Twilight Zone. These have now been collected in These have now been collected in The Twilight Zone Scripts of Charles Beaumont, Volume I The Twilight Zone Scripts of Charles Beaumont, Volume I (2004), with more volumes to follow. Beaumont, afflicted with an extremely advanced case of Alzheimer's disease, died in 1967. His (2004), with more volumes to follow. Beaumont, afflicted with an extremely advanced case of Alzheimer's disease, died in 1967. His Selected Stories Selected Stories appeared in 1988. appeared in 1988.

"The Vanis.h.i.+ng American" (first published in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August 1955, and collected in August 1955, and collected in The Hunger and Other Stories The Hunger and Other Stories) exhibits Beaumont's use of the supernatural as a metaphor for social and psychological trauma in the literal vanishment of a dispirited office worker.

THE VANIs.h.i.+NG AMERICAN.

He got the notion shortly after five o'clock; at least, a part of him did, a small part hidden down beneath all the conscious cells-he didn't get the notion until some time later. At exactly five p.m., the bell rang. At two minutes after, the chairs began to empty. There was the vast slamming of drawers, the straightening of rulers, the sound of bones snapping and mouths yawning and feet shuffling tiredly. didn't get the notion until some time later. At exactly five p.m., the bell rang. At two minutes after, the chairs began to empty. There was the vast slamming of drawers, the straightening of rulers, the sound of bones snapping and mouths yawning and feet shuffling tiredly.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l relaxed. He rubbed his hands together and relaxed and thought how nice it would be to get up and go home, like the others. But of course there was the tape, only three-quarters finished. He would have to stay.

He stretched and said good night to the people who filed past him. As usual, no one answered. When they had gone, he set his fingers pecking again over the keyboard. The click-clicking click-clicking grew loud in the suddenly still office, but Mr. Minch.e.l.l did not notice. He was lost in the work. Soon, he knew, it would be time for the totaling, and his pulse quickened at the thought of this. grew loud in the suddenly still office, but Mr. Minch.e.l.l did not notice. He was lost in the work. Soon, he knew, it would be time for the totaling, and his pulse quickened at the thought of this.

He lit a cigarette. Heart tapping, he drew in smoke and released it.

He extended his right hand and rested his index and middle fingers on the metal bar marked TOTAL. A mile-long ribbon of paper lay gathered on the desk, strangely festive. He glanced at it, then at the manifest sheet. The figure 18037448 was circled in red. He pulled breath into his lungs, locked it there; then he closed his eyes and pressed the TOTAL bar.

There was a smooth low metallic grinding, followed by absolute silence.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l opened one eye, dragged it from the ceiling on down to the adding machine.

He groaned, slightly.

The total read: 18037447.

"G.o.d." He stared at the figure and thought of the fifty-three pages of manifest, the three thousand separate rows of figures that would have to be checked again. "G.o.d."

The day was lost, now. Irretrievably. It was too late to do anything. Madge would have supper waiting, and F. J. didn't approve of overtime; also . . .

He looked at the total again. At the last two digits.

He sighed. Forty-seven. And thought, startled: Today, for the Lord's sake, is my birthday! Today I am forty-what?-forty-seven. And that explains the mistake, I suppose. Subconscious kind of thing . . .

Slowly he got up and looked around the deserted office.

Then he went to the dressing room and got his hat and his coat and put them on, carefully.

"Pus.h.i.+ng fifty now . . ."

The outside hall was dark. Mr. Minch.e.l.l walked softly to the elevator and punched the Down Down b.u.t.ton. "Forty-seven," he said, aloud; then, almost immediately, the light turned red and the thick door slid back noisily. The elevator operator, a bird-thin, tan-fleshed girl, swiveled her head, looking up and down the hall. "Going down," she said. b.u.t.ton. "Forty-seven," he said, aloud; then, almost immediately, the light turned red and the thick door slid back noisily. The elevator operator, a bird-thin, tan-fleshed girl, swiveled her head, looking up and down the hall. "Going down," she said.

"Yes," Mr. Minch.e.l.l said, stepping forward.

"Going down." The girl clicked her tongue and muttered, "d.a.m.n kids." She gave the lattice gate a tired push and moved the smooth wooden-handled lever in its slot.

Odd, Mr. Minch.e.l.l decided, was the word for this particular girl. He wished now that he had taken the stairs. Being alone with only one other person in an elevator had always made him nervous: now it made him very nervous. He felt the tension growing. When it became unbearable, he cleared his throat and said, "Long day."

The girl said nothing. She had a surly look, and she seemed to be humming something deep in her throat.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l closed his eyes. In less than a minute-during which time he dreamed of the cables snarling, of the car being caught between floors, of himself trying to make small talk with the odd girl for six straight hours-he opened his eyes again and walked into the lobby, briskly.

The gate slammed.

He turned and started for the doorway. Then he paused, feeling a sharp increase in his heartbeat. A large, red-faced, magnificently groomed man of middle years stood directly beyond the gla.s.s, talking with another man.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l pushed through the door, with effort. He's seen me now, he thought. If he asks any questions, though, or anything, I'll just say I didn't put it on the time card; that ought to make it all right . . .

He nodded and smiled at the large man. "Good night, Mr. Diemel."

The man looked up briefly, blinked, and returned to his conversation.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l felt a burning come into his face. He hurried on down the street. Now the notion-though it was not even that yet, strictly: it was more a vague feeling-swam up from the bottom of his brain. He remembered that he had not spoken directly to F. J. Diemel for over ten years, beyond a "Good morning" . . .

Ice-cold shadows fell off the tall buildings, staining the streets, now. Crowds of shoppers moved along the pavement like juggernauts, exhaustedly, but with great determination. Mr. Minch.e.l.l looked at them. They all had furtive appearances, it seemed to him suddenly, even the children, as if each was fleeing from some hideous crime. They hurried along, staring.

But not, Mr. Minch.e.l.l noticed, at him. Through him, yes. Past him. As the elevator operator had done, and now F. J. And had anyone said good night?

He pulled up his coat collar and walked toward the drugstore, thinking. He was forty-seven years old. At the current life-expectancy rate, he might have another seventeen or eighteen years left. And then death.

If you're not dead already.

He paused and for some reason remembered a story he'd once read in a magazine. Something about a man who dies and whose ghost takes up his duties, or something; anyway, the man didn't know he was dead-that was it. And at the end of the story, he runs into his own corpse.

Which is pretty absurd: he glanced down at his body. Ghosts don't wear $36 suits, nor do they have trouble pus.h.i.+ng doors open, nor do their corns ache like blazes, and what the devil is wrong with me today?

He shook his head.

It was the tape, of course, and the fact that it was his birthday. That was why his mind was behaving so foolishly.

He went into the drugstore. It was an immense place, packed with people. He walked to the cigar counter, trying not to feel intimidated, and reached into his pocket. A small man elbowed in front of him and called loudly: "Gimme coupla nickels, will you, Jack?" The clerk scowled and scooped the change out of his cash register. The small man scurried off. Others took his place. Mr. Minch.e.l.l thrust his arm forward. "A pack of Luckies, please," he said. The clerk whipped his fingers around a pile of cellophaned packages and, looking elsewhere, droned: "Twenty-six." Mr. Minch.e.l.l put his twenty-six-cents-exactly on the gla.s.s shelf. The clerk shoved the cigarettes toward the edge and picked up the money, deftly. Not once did he lift his eyes.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l pocketed the Luckies and went back out of the store. He was perspiring now, slightly, despite the chill wind. The word "ridiculous" lodged in his mind and stayed there. Ridiculous, yes, for heaven's sake. Still, he thought-now just answer the question-isn't it true? Can you honestly say that that clerk saw you?

Or that anybody saw you today?

Swallowing dryly, he walked another two blocks, always in the direction of the subway, and went into a bar called the Chez When. One drink would not hurt, one small, stiff, steadying shot.

The bar was a gloomy place, and not very warm, but there was a good crowd. Mr. Minch.e.l.l sat down on a stool and folded his hands. The bartender was talking animatedly with an old woman, laughing with boisterous good humor from time to time. Mr. Minch.e.l.l waited. Minutes pa.s.sed. The bartender looked up several times, but never made a move to indicate that he had seen a customer.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l looked at his old gray overcoat, the humbly floraled tie, the cheap sharkskin suit-cloth, and became aware of the extent to which he detested this ensemble. He sat there and detested his clothes for a long time. Then he glanced around. The bartender was wiping a gla.s.s, slowly.

All right, the h.e.l.l with you. I'll go somewhere else.

He slid off the stool. Just as he was about to turn he saw the mirrored wall, pink-tinted and curved. He stopped, peering. Then he almost ran out of the bar.

Cold wind went into his head.

Ridiculous. The mirror was curved, you jacka.s.s. How do you expect to see yourself in curved mirrors?

He walked past high buildings, and now past the library and stone lion he had once, long ago, named King Richard; and he did not look at the lion, because he'd always wanted to ride the lion, ever since he was a child, and he'd promised himself he would do that, but he never did.

He hurried on to the subway, took the stairs by twos, and clattered across the platform in time to board the express.

It roared and thundered. Mr. Minch.e.l.l held onto the strap and kept himself from staring. No one watched him. No one even glanced at him when he pushed his way to the door and went out onto the empty platform.

He waited. Then the train was gone, and he was alone.

He walked up the stairs. It was fully night now, a soft, unshadowed darkness. He thought about the day and the strange things that were gouging into his mind and thought about all this as he turned down a familiar street which led to his familiar apartment.

The door opened.

His wife was in the kitchen, he could see. Her ap.r.o.n flashed across the arch, and back, and across. He called: "Madge, I'm home."

Madge did not answer. Her movements were regular. Jimmy was sitting at the table, drooling over a gla.s.s of pop, whispering to himself.

"I said-" Mr. Minch.e.l.l began.

"Jimmy, get up and go to the bathroom, you hear? I've got your water drawn."

Jimmy promptly broke into tears. He jumped off the chair and ran past Mr. Minch.e.l.l into the bedroom. The door slammed viciously.

"Madge."

Madge Minch.e.l.l came into the room, tired and lined and heavy. Her eyes did not waver. She went into the bedroom, and there was a silence; then a sharp slapping noise, and a yelling.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l walked to the bathroom, fighting down the small terror. He closed the door and locked it and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Ridiculous, he thought, and ridiculous and ridiculous. I am making something utterly foolish out of nothing. All I have to do is look in the mirror, and- He held the handkerchief to his lips. It was difficult to breathe.

Then he knew that he was afraid, more so than ever before in a lifetime of being afraid.

Look at it this way, Minch.e.l.l: why shouldn't shouldn't you vanish? you vanish?