Oscar by Cleve Cartmill

Illustration by Edd Cartier

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."

Michael Corbyn watched Linda narrowly during the conversation. When she looked at him, he spoke confidentially.

'' I feel that we are kindred spirits, Miss Houseman. We know that forces, Beings, exist that cannot be explained in terms familiar to such clods as my friends. But you and I, and others like us . . . we know.''

Linda's lips were parted, her forgotten drink clutched in both hands.

''Yes," she whispered. ''Yes.''

''Don't let him sell you on it, Miss Houseman," Finnegan said. ''And drink your drink before it gets warm."

''Let's talk of something else,'' Rockey proposed. "If Mike gets started, he'll talk all night on other plane Beings. I remember one drunk and stormy night—''

His voice died. His jaw dropped. His eyes, as Corbyn's had, followed an unseen Something along the base of a wall. He became rigid.

''What is this, a gag?'' Finnegan snarled.

Corbyn flung him a smug and sardonic look. Linda's wide, dark eyes moved slowly from one to the other. With a slight shudder, she set aside her drink.

Rockey, in the manner of a sleepwalker, set down his drink and walked stiffly from the apartment without a glance at Linda or a word of farewell.

''What the hell's the matter with you?'' Finnegan snapped. ''Where you going?''

After the door had closed behind Rockey, the three sat quietly. Corbyn's lips formed a faint smile. Finnegan gulped the last of his drink and set the glass on the floor. Linda's glance moved fearfully about the room, questing, searching each corner.

“This is a lot of nonsense!'' Finnegan growled.

''Be a good boy, Oscar," Corbyn tossed over his shoulder at an empty corner.

''It's gone far enough," Finnegan continued. ''I never told you before, Mike, but I think this is just a pose on your part to get attention you wouldn't receive otherwise because of a colorless and stupid nature. I'll grant that the accumulated effect of these painful incidents might persuade a weak-minded visionary like Paul that he saw some thing for a moment. Your low cunning broke through for an instant . . . Well, I resent this pose of yours, and you either drop it or I don't want your friendship." He paused. ''May I have another drink, Miss Houseman?''

Linda took his glass solemnly and went into the kitchen. Corbyn and. Finnegan grinned at each other .

When Linda came into the room again Finnegan smiled his thanks for the fresh drink and continued, directing his remarks at the girl. ''Hope you'll excuse my vehemence, but I'm fed up with this gag. I don't like to be made feel a fool, and when Paul walked out of here like a corpse, it was embarrassing. If he had brains enough to come in out of an air raid, he'd have known he didn't see anything; he only thought he did. Mike doesn't see anything, either. He—''

Finnegan gasped. His eyes froze on Something in the kitchen doorway. Corbyn turned lazily, looked toward the kitchen, and shrugged. Linda put a taut hand to her throat.

Finnegan got stiffly to his feet. With the glass still in his hand, he backed to the door. He reached behind him, opened it and backed into the hallway, his eyes still riveted on the kitchen entrance.

When the door closed, and the sound of his footsteps receded, Corbyn looked at his watch.

"Now we are alone with it," he said in sepulchral tones. "In five minutes it will be midnight, the end of an old day. This is the first time anyone else has ever seen Oscar. Perhaps that is an omen." He mused silently for a second. "Perhaps . . . this time . . . it won't follow me out."

"No . . . no!" Linda whimpered as he rose.

A strangling scream gurgled in her throat as she fastened her eyes on the kitchen doorway. Corbyn followed her glance. The short hairs on his neck stiffened, and a chill fluttered down his spine.

In the kitchen doorway squalled a dark Thing. It had two living snakes for arms, and a large green eye.

"Well?" it snarled in a hoarse voice. "Well?"

THE END.