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Authors: Philip José Farmer
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Heepish.
"Woolie" was about six feet in height, portly and soft-
looking, moderately paunched, with a bag of skin hang-
ing under his chin, bronze walrus moustache, square
rimless spectacles, a handsome profile from the mouth
up, a full head of dark-red, straight, slick hair, and pale
gray eyes. He hunched forward as if he had spent most
of his life over a desk.
The walls and windows of the room were covered with
shelves of books and various objects and with paintings,
movie stills, posters, masks, plastic busts, framed letters,
and blow-ups of movie actors. There was a sofa, several
chairs, and a grand piano. The room beyond looked
much the same except for its lack of furniture.
If he wanted to learn about vampires, he was at the
right place.
The place was jammed with anything and everything
concerning Gothic literature, folklore, legendry, the
supernatural, lycanthropy, demonology, witch-craft, and
the movies made of these subjects.
Woolie shook Childe's hand with a large, wet, plump
hand.
"Welcome to the House of Horror," he said.
Jeremiah explained why they were there. Woolie
shook his head and said that he had heard about Colben
over the radio. The announcer had said that Colben had
been "horribly mutilated" but he had not given any de-
tails.
Childe told him the details. Heepish shook his head
and tsk-tsked while his gray eyes seemed to get
brighter and the corners of his lips dimpled.
"How terrible! How awful! Sickening! My God, the
savages still in our midst! How can such things be?"
The soft voice murmured and seemed to become lost,
as if it were breaking up into a half dozen parts which,
like mice, scurried for the dark in the corners. The pale,
soft wet hands rubbed together now and then and several
times were clasped in a gesture which at first looked pray-
erful but also gave the impression of being placed
around an invisible neck.
"If there is anything I can do to help you track down
these monsters; if there is anything in my house to help
you, you are welcome," Heepish said. "Though I can't
imagine what kind of clue you could find by just brows-
ing through. Still …"
He spread both hands out and then said, "But let me
conduct you through my house. I always have the guided
tour first for strangers. Hamlet can come with us or look
around on his own, if he wishes. Now, this blow-up
here is of Alfred Dummel and Else Bennrich in the
German film, The Blood Drinker, made in 1928. It had
a rather limited distribution in this country, but I was
fortunate enough—I have many many friends all over
the world—to get a print of the film. It may be the only
print now existing; I've made inquiries and never been
able to locate another, and I've had many people try-
ing to find another for me …"
Childe restrained the impulse to tell Heepish that he
wanted to see the newspaper files at once. He did not wish
to waste any time. But Jeremiah had told him how he
must behave if he wanted to get maximum cooperation
from his host.
The house was crammed with objects of many vari-
eties, all originating in the world of terror and evil
shadows but designed and manufactured to make
money. The house was bright with illuminations of many
shades: bile-yellow, blood-red, decay-purple, rigor mortis-
grayblue, repressed-anger orange, but shadows seemed
to press in everywhere. Where no shadow could be,
there was shadow.
An air-conditioner was moving air slowly and icily, as
if the next glacial age were announcing itself. The air
was well-filtered, because the burning of eyes and
throat and lungs was fading. (Something good to say
about ice ages.) Despite this, and the ridges of skin
pinched by cold air, Childe felt as if he were suffocating
with the closeness and bulk and disorder of the books,
the masks, the heads of movie monsters, the distorted
wavy menacing paintings, the Frankenstein monsters
and wolfmen dolls, the little Revolting Robot toys, the
Egyptian statues of jackal-headed Anubis, the cat-
headed Sekhmet.
The
"Woolie" was about six feet in height, portly and soft-
looking, moderately paunched, with a bag of skin hang-
ing under his chin, bronze walrus moustache, square
rimless spectacles, a handsome profile from the mouth
up, a full head of dark-red, straight, slick hair, and pale
gray eyes. He hunched forward as if he had spent most
of his life over a desk.
The walls and windows of the room were covered with
shelves of books and various objects and with paintings,
movie stills, posters, masks, plastic busts, framed letters,
and blow-ups of movie actors. There was a sofa, several
chairs, and a grand piano. The room beyond looked
much the same except for its lack of furniture.
If he wanted to learn about vampires, he was at the
right place.
The place was jammed with anything and everything
concerning Gothic literature, folklore, legendry, the
supernatural, lycanthropy, demonology, witch-craft, and
the movies made of these subjects.
Woolie shook Childe's hand with a large, wet, plump
hand.
"Welcome to the House of Horror," he said.
Jeremiah explained why they were there. Woolie
shook his head and said that he had heard about Colben
over the radio. The announcer had said that Colben had
been "horribly mutilated" but he had not given any de-
tails.
Childe told him the details. Heepish shook his head
and tsk-tsked while his gray eyes seemed to get
brighter and the corners of his lips dimpled.
"How terrible! How awful! Sickening! My God, the
savages still in our midst! How can such things be?"
The soft voice murmured and seemed to become lost,
as if it were breaking up into a half dozen parts which,
like mice, scurried for the dark in the corners. The pale,
soft wet hands rubbed together now and then and several
times were clasped in a gesture which at first looked pray-
erful but also gave the impression of being placed
around an invisible neck.
"If there is anything I can do to help you track down
these monsters; if there is anything in my house to help
you, you are welcome," Heepish said. "Though I can't
imagine what kind of clue you could find by just brows-
ing through. Still …"
He spread both hands out and then said, "But let me
conduct you through my house. I always have the guided
tour first for strangers. Hamlet can come with us or look
around on his own, if he wishes. Now, this blow-up
here is of Alfred Dummel and Else Bennrich in the
German film, The Blood Drinker, made in 1928. It had
a rather limited distribution in this country, but I was
fortunate enough—I have many many friends all over
the world—to get a print of the film. It may be the only
print now existing; I've made inquiries and never been
able to locate another, and I've had many people try-
ing to find another for me …"
Childe restrained the impulse to tell Heepish that he
wanted to see the newspaper files at once. He did not wish
to waste any time. But Jeremiah had told him how he
must behave if he wanted to get maximum cooperation
from his host.
The house was crammed with objects of many vari-
eties, all originating in the world of terror and evil
shadows but designed and manufactured to make
money. The house was bright with illuminations of many
shades: bile-yellow, blood-red, decay-purple, rigor mortis-
grayblue, repressed-anger orange, but shadows seemed
to press in everywhere. Where no shadow could be,
there was shadow.
An air-conditioner was moving air slowly and icily, as
if the next glacial age were announcing itself. The air
was well-filtered, because the burning of eyes and
throat and lungs was fading. (Something good to say
about ice ages.) Despite this, and the ridges of skin
pinched by cold air, Childe felt as if he were suffocating
with the closeness and bulk and disorder of the books,
the masks, the heads of movie monsters, the distorted
wavy menacing paintings, the Frankenstein monsters
and wolfmen dolls, the little Revolting Robot toys, the
Egyptian statues of jackal-headed Anubis, the cat-
headed Sekhmet.
The
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