Oscar by Cleve Cartmill - The very first part

1941 Genre: Short Pulp Story | Psychological Horror

It was a swell gag. Just sitting and staring all evening at nothing would make any hostess nervous—

Paul Rockey parked his roadster in front of the beer joint.

"She lives in that corner apartment house," he said. "We'll meet here, after."

"I'd like to raise an objection," Michael Corbyn said.

Terence Finnegan and Paul Rockey regarded Corbyn with patient annoyance. Corbyn's lean face flushed.

"My objection is valid." he protested. "Suppose this girl goes nuts. We'd be in a hell of a jam."

Terence Finnegan laid a large fatherly hand on Corbyn's shoulder.

"Mike, my son, we rehearsed for two hours with Elsie. Did she turn a hair? No. Nor will this friend of Paul's."

"Elsie is a tailor's dummy."

"Aren't all women?"

"Don't be so glib, Terry. I contend it's dangerous. According to Paul, this girl has occult leanings. She wants to believe in such phenomena as our imaginary Oscar. If we play our parts well enough, I tell you we're not running a risk.''

''I'm not as concerned for Linda's sanity," Paul Rockey interposed, ''as I am about your acting."

''O. K. Let's go."

In the third floor corridor of the apartment building, Paul Rockey rapped on a door. It was presently opened by a pretty brunette in blue slacks.

"Oh, good," she said. ''Company.''

The three young men trooped inside. Paul Rockey made a vague motion to ward his companions.

''Linda, may I present Terry Finnegan, and—''

He broke off. Michael Corbyn was following an unseen something around the walls with cold, blue eyes.

Rockey cleared his throat. "Ah, er, Mike.''

Corbyn started. ''Sorry," he murmured to the girl. ''How do you do?''

''—and Michael Corbyn. Linda Houseman.''

Finnegan closed the door. He and Rockey exchanged a significant glance, turned compassionate eyes on Corbyn, shook their heads in brief pity. Linda, observing the by-play, frowned fleetingly and motioned them to chairs. ''Would you like a whiskey and soda?''

Three contented sighs were born.

As ice tinkled in the kitchen, Corbyn asked a question with his eyebrows. Two nods of affirmation answered him.

Linda brought a tray of drinks, tucked a leg under her on a divan, and raised her glass.

''Do we drink to something, or do we just drink?"

"To our beautiful barmaid,'' Corbyn responded. ''My father told me only last week—''

''Last night you said he was killed in the Big Wind of 1906," Rockey interrupted.

''That wasn't the blow that killed father. He told me only last week that brunettes, as compared to blondes—'' He halted. Again his eyes followed an Unseen Something across the walls.

Rockey and Finnegan dropped embarrassed glances to their drinks.

Rockey made a hollow effort to break the tension. "What have you been doing lately, Linda?''

She, intent upon Corbyn, did not heed the question. Finnegan nodded at Rockey.

''He's got it again," Rockey said in disgust.

''Mike!'' Finnegan snapped.

Corbyn jumped. Like a man awakening from heavy sleep, he blinked and gradually orientated himself.

"As I was saying," he mumbled, ''. . . where was I?"

''I think we'd better explain," Rockey said to the wide-eyed Linda. ''Mike thinks he's a psychic phenomenon. He has a familiar spirit, who, in a spirit of familiarity, he calls Oscar.''

''Nuts!'' Finnegan snorted. ''There's nothing the matter with him, except he's crazy.''

''He sees a Thing," Rockey continued smoothly. ''It follows him. He can't or won't, describe it. It is not always visible. He sees it, or claims he does, only on some nights in an enclosure . . . a room, auditorium, or a similar place. It never manifests itself in daylight. Don't feel ill at ease. It never bothers anybody. Terry and I don't pay attention to it any more."

''All we can do," Finnegan added, ''is apologize for him. Of course, this peculiarity of his distracts attention from some of his more obvious defects, and people get the impression that he's a pretty nice guy except for his fixation."

READ the whole story at the Gardner Francis Fox Library.