Cornell Woolrich - Nightwebs (A Collection of Stories)

I would, I said; which was true any way you looked at it.

“You have been particularly afflicted, because of the circumstances of your father’s death,” he went on. “However, don’t think you’re alone in your fear of death. There are scores, hundreds of others, who feel as you do, even if not quite so strongly. From them we draw our membership; we give them new hope and new life, rob death of all its terrors for them. The sense of mortality that has been crippling them ends, the world is theirs to conquer, nothing can stop them. They become like the immortal gods. Wealth, fame, all the world’s goods, are theirs for the taking, for their frightened fellow-men, fearful of dying, defeated before they have even begun to live, cannot compete with them. Is not this a priceless gift? And we are offering it to you because you need it so badly, so very much more badly than anyone who has ever come to us before.” He was anything but cold and icy now. He was glowing, fervent, fanatic, the typical proselyte seeking a new convert.

“I’m not rich,” I said cagily, to find out where the catch was. And that’s where it was — right there.

“Not now,” he said, “because this blight has hampered your efforts, clipped your wings, so to speak. Few are who come to us. We ask nothing material from you now. Later, when we have helped you, and you are one of the world’s fortunate ones, you may repay us, to assist us to carry on our good work.”

Which might be just a very fancy way of saying future blackmail.

“And now — your decision?”

“I accept — your kind offer,” I said thoughtfully, and immediately amended it mentally: “At least until I can get out of here and back to town.”

But he immediately scotched that, as though he’d read my mind. “There is no revoking your decision once you’ve made it. That brings instant death. Slow suffocation is the manner of their going, those who break faith with us. Burial while still in full possession of their faculties, is the penalty.”

The one doom that was a shade more awful than what had happened to my father; the only one. He at least had not come to until after it had been done. And it had not lasted long with him, it couldn’t have.

“Those vents you saw can prolong it, for whole days,” he went on. “They can be turned on or off at will.”

“I said I’d join you,” I shuddered, resisting an impulse to clap both hands to my ears.

“Good.” He stretched forth his right hand to me and much against my inclination I took it. Then he clasped my wrist with his left, and had me do likewise with mine. I had to repeat this double grip with each of the others in turn. “You are now one of us.”

The cemetery watchman left the room and returned with a tray holding three small skulls and a large one. I could feel the short hairs on the back of my neck standing up of their own accord. None of them were real though; they were wood or celluloid imitations. They all had flaps that opened at the top; one was a jug and the other three stems.

The man behind the desk named the toast. “To our Friend!” I thought he meant myself at first; he meant that shadowy enemy of all mankind, the Grim Reaper.

“We are called The Friends of Death,” he explained to me when the grisly containers had been emptied. “To outline our creed and purpose briefly, it is this: That death is life, and life is death. We have mastered death, and no member of the Friends of Death need ever fear it. They ‘die,’ it is true, but after death they are buried in special graves in our private cemetery — graves having air vents, such as you discovered. Also, our graves are equipped with electric signals, so that after the bodies of our buried members begin to respond to the secret treatment our scientists have given them before internment, we are warned. Then we come and release them — and they live again. Moreover, they are released, freed of their thralldom; from then on death is an old familiar friend instead of an enemy. They no longer fear it. Do you not see what a wonderful boon this would be in your case, Brother Bud; you who have suffered so from that fear?”

I thought to myself, “They’re insane! They must be!” I forced myself to speak calmly. “And the penalty you spoke of — that you inflict on those who betray or disobey you?”

“Ah!” he inhaled zestfully, “You are buried before death — without benefit of the attention of our experts. The breathing tube is slowly, infinitesimally, shut off from above a notch at a time, by means of a valve — until it is completely sealed. It is,” he concluded, “highly unpleasant while it lasts.” Which was the most glaring case of understatement I had ever yet encountered.

There wasn’t much more to this stage of my preliminary initiation. A ponderous ebony-bound ledger was brought out, with the inevitable skull on its cover in ivory. I was made to draw blood from my wrist and sign my name, with that, in it. The taking of the oath of secrecy followed.

“You will receive word of when your formal initiation is to be,” I was told. “Return to your home and hold yourself ready until you hear from us. Members are not supposed to be known to one another, with the exception of us three, so you are required to attend the rites in a specially-constructed skull-mask which will be given to you. We are the Book-keeper (man behind the desk), the Messenger (man with the Luger), and the Grave-digger. We have chapters in most of the large cities. If business or anything should require you to move your residence elsewhere, don’t fail to notify us and we will transfer you to our branch in the city to which you are going.”

“Like hell I will!” I thought.

“All members in good faith are required to be present at each of the meetings; failure to do so invokes the Penalty.”

The grinning ghoul had the nerve to sling his arm around my shoulder in a friendly way as he led me toward the door, like a hospitable host speeding a parting guest. It was all I could do to keep from squirming at the feel of it. I wanted to part his teeth with my right fist then and there, but the Messenger, with the Luger on him, was a few steps behind me. I was getting out, and that was all that seemed to matter at the time. That was all I wanted — out, and a lungful of fresh air, and a good stiff jolt of whiskey to get the bad taste out of my mouth.

They unlocked the two doors for me, and even flashed on the porch-light so I could see my way down the steps. “You can get a city bus over on the State Highway. We’ll have your car fixed for you and standing in front of your door first thing in the morning.”

But at the very end a hint of warning again showed itself through all their friendliness. “Be sure to come when you’re sent for. We have eyes and ears everywhere, where you’d least expect it. No warning is given, no second chances are ever allowed!”

Again that double grip, three times repeated, and it was over. The two doors were closed and locked, the porch-light snuffed out, and I was groping my way down the brick footpath — alone. Behind me not a chink of light showed from the boarded-up house. It had all been as fleeting, as unreal, as unbelievable, as a bad dream.

I shivered all the way back to the city in the heated bus; the other passengers must have thought I had the grippe. Joan Blame found me at midnight in a bar around the corner from where I lived, stewed to the gills, so drunk I could hardly stand up straight — but still shivering. “Take him home, miss,” she told me afterwards the bartender whispered to her. “He’s been standing there like that three solid hours, staring like he sees ghosts, frightening my other customers off into corners!”

I woke up fully dressed on top of my bed next morning, with just a blanket over me. “That was just a dream, the whole thing!” I kept snarling to myself defensively.