The CREATURE

It was late at night when Herman Phelps first heard of "The Hideous Creature," and this fact terrified him greatly. During the day, Herman would have shrugged off the fear-inspiring beast as a mere legend, a hoax, a trick, a story to frighten small children. But in the swirling mists of midnight's imagination, under the dim illumination of a creaky old bedside lamp, Herman could not help but wonder if the befanged monstrosity did in fact exist. Shuddering with dismay, he placed the ancient, yellowed book he had been reading on the nighttable and turned off the light. The afterimage of the words "SCARY THINGS AND OTHER FRIGHTS" was the last thing he ever saw.

"It's some damn case alright," muttered Inspector Karlson as he chewed meditatively on a piece of nine-week old German sausage. He liked to think it kept him tough. Karlson was not a man who liked to think many things, and consequently this case was beginning to annoy him. He went over the facts again in his head:

  1. A dismembered head, arms and torso in a bloody pool on the bed.
  2. The strange book, covered with bloody fingerprints and mats of brown fur, with the pages of one chapter ripped out.
  3. The trampled grass outside leading from the window for about twenty yards and then disappearing without a trace, and finally. . .
  4. An eighteen-inch footprint preserved perfectly in the wall-to- wall carpeting of Phelps' bedroom, recording the recent passage of a large, seven-toed, two-heeled creature.
Karlson didn't like puzzles, especially ones he couldn't solve. "Suicide," he concluded, nodding assuredly to himself. But despite repeated attempts, he couldn't shake the feeling that his hypothesis didn't fit the facts. What was missing? Karlson absent-mindedly put his sausage out in the bedside ashtray and turned to go. But wait . . . there was something odd about that book. He thumbed through it desperately. . . the answer was here, he knew. And then he was seized by a rare stroke of deductive reasoning. One chapter was missing, but the table of contents was intact! He scanned the page for the proper chapter heading. Just below Yikes - a Scary Ghost Goes Boo he found it -- The Hideous Creature. It was the last thing he ever found.

Not that he died. It was just that Karlson was a man who seldom lost anything, and was otherwise lacking in motives for searching things out. He really wasn't a very good detective, and his superior, Lt. Capt. John Le Swan, yanked him from the case after he had filed his suicide report. Le Swan immediately took over the case himself. What a case! he thought. If I can solve it I shall become the next Sherlock Holmes!

Le Swan brought the book to the local library the next day to renew it, and grudgingly paid the $10.50 in overdue fines that had accumulated, plus an additional $32.75 for damages and cleaning costs. "Blood stains are especially difficult to get out," the librarian had remarked knowingly over her horn-rimmed glasses as she pocketed the money. Le Swan made sure to take out a different, pristine edition of the same book, and settled down on a park bench in the sunlight to examine it.

There was no author or editor listed. The full title of the book was SCARY THINGS AND OTHER FRIGHTS: a Compendium of Horrors: guaranteed to thrill and chill you. The relevant chapter was number six hundred sixty- six. Le Swan began to read.

The hideous creeture stalked the erth in tymes of olde, wen the worlde was younge and men were fewe. A bodie of unlikly forme it hadde, standing seven foot abov the erth, and fangd with rowes of teeth sharpe as paring nives. Fur it had, the deepe brown of naugahide furniture, and ruf to the touche. Its feet were straynge, the toes numbering more than you woold think, the heels as well.
Le Swan paused here to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was inclined to think of this as a mere legend, a hoax, a trick, a story to frighten small children, but the writing was compelling. It was hard not to believe in a being described in such realistic detail. Suppressing a shudder, Le Swan continued to read.

I hayve seen this beest with my own eyes, and it was quite scayry, I assure you. Its eyes were like coles of fyre, and it emitted a terrifying sounde which went like this: "Rourrrrrr", but louder. Many legynds tell of this creeture. One recounts the raides it visited on helples vilages, making off with manie a herde of sheep and lofe of bredd. The most faymus legynde is of its curse. The beeste will always, the men saye, slay any man who dayrs read this chapter of my booke. . .

Le Swan closed the book in horror. Was he doomed? Perhaps Karlson was right to call the death a suicide. Some things, like cold snail soup and supernatural horrors, were better left well enough alone.

"Too late!" barked a menacing voice. Le Swan looked up suddenly to find himself face to face with the most terrifying visage he'd ever looked upon, with the possible exception of that of his wife. "Rooouurrr!" the creature exclaimed, displaying a gleaming pair of fangs each the length of a man's index finger, and twice as sharp. Le Swan reacted quickly, pumping several rounds of lead into the menacing tower of fur. The beast grunted, and dropped. "The next Sherlock Holmes!" Le Swan cried triumphantly, and bent to inspect the body. A costume! He ripped the mask away, revealing the ashen face of Karlson. "Shouldn't a yanked me . . . from the c-case . . . Swan . . ." he gasped, and it was over.

Le Swan returned the costume to the rental shop, paying $10.50 in overdue fines and $132.75 in damages. "Bloodstains . . . my, my, my," the shopkeeper was heard to mutter. As for the book, Le Swan settled into bed that night to continue the story. But he couldn't help wondering -- did the hideous creature really exist? He glanced at his wife, then shut the book and went to sleep.

The End


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