Roger Zelazny - A Night in the Lonesome October

I backed away. I turned and ran as more fire fell from the heavens. I had done my duty. This seemed ample investigation here for one night.

I walked my next line from the Good Doctor's to Larry Talbot's place. I came out of the rain partway there and shook myself at some point. When I reached Larry's house I saw it to be well lighted. Perhaps he really did suffer from insomnia.

Circling the place many times, I spiraled inward, pausing to inspect a small gazebo to the rear. Within, outlined in dried mud, I discovered a large paw-print which appeared identical to the one I had found near my home.

Drawing nearer, I rose onto my hind legs, forepaws against the side of the house, and peered in through a window. Empty room. The third one I inspected let upon a skylighted room filled with plants. Larry was there, staring into the depths of an enormous flower and smiling. His lips were moving, and though I could hear low sounds, I could not distinguish the words he uttered. The huge blossom moved before him, whether because of air currents or by its own volition I could not tell. He continued to murmur, and finally I turned away. Lots of people talk to their plants.

Next, I oriented myself as best I could and attempted to follow a straight line from Larry's place to the Count's crypt. I came to the ruined church first, and I paused there, trying to visualize the rest of the pattern. By then, a faint lightening had begun in the east.

As I lay puzzling, a large bat, much bigger than Needle, swooped in from the north, passing behind a big tree. It did not emerge on the tree's other side, however. Instead, I heard the softest of footfalls, and a dark-suited man in a black cloak stepped out from behind the tree.

I stared. His head snapped in my direction, and he spoke: «Who is there?»

Suddenly, I felt very exposed. There was only one role I could think to play.

Uttering an idiot series of yips, I rushed forward, wagging my tail furiously, and threw myself on the ground before him, rolling about like some attention-starved stray.

His bright lips twitched into a brief, small smile. Then he leaned forward and scratched me behind the ears.

«Good dog,» he said, in slow, guttural tones.

Then he patted my head, straightened, and walked off toward the crypt. He halted when he reached it. One moment he was standing there, the next moment he was gone.

I decided it was time to get gone myself. His touch had been very cold.

A brisk morning. After I made my rounds I went outside. I could discover nothing untoward, so I set off in the direction of the Good Doctor's place. As I was trotting along the road, however, I heard a familiar voice from a small grove to my right:

«That, sir, is the same dog,» it said.

«How can you be sure?» came the response.

«I noted the markings, and his are identical. Also, he has the same limp in his left foreleg, the same shredded right ear… .»

… Old war injuries, disagreement with a mindless guy in the West Indies, long ago… .

It was the Great Detective and his companion who had spoken, of course.

«Here's a good fellow,» he said. «Good dog. Good dog.»

I remembered my act of the previous evening, wagged my tail, and tried to look friendly.

«Good dog,» he repeated. «Show us where you live. Take us home.»

He patted my head as he said it, his hands being much warmer than the last friendly fellow's I'd met.

«Home. Go home now.»

Thinking of Graymalk in the well, I led them to Morris and MacCab's place. I waited with them on the porch till I heard footsteps approaching inside in response to their knocking. Then I withdrew and cut a straight line from there to the Count's crypt. The results were interesting; and even more so when I ran in a line from there to the Good Doctor's.

I did several more thereafter, confirming my results.

Slow day. The thing in the circle tried being a greyhound. I was never attracted to skinny ladies, though. Growled a few times at the Thing in the Attic. Watched the slitherers. Watched Jack as he puttered with his acquisitions. It was still too early for him actually to start using them.

Heard from Graymalk later that Nightwind had seized Quicklime and borne him far out over the Thames and dropped him in. He was washed ashore later. Spent a long time slithering back. Not sure what they'd been arguing about.

Also learned of several cases of sudden severe anemia among the neighbors. I'm glad the Count doesn't do dogs.

I took Jack his slippers this evening and lay at his feet before a roaring fire while he smoked his pipe, sipped sherry, and read the newspaper. He read aloud everything involving killings, arsons, mutilations, grave robberies, church desecrations, and unusual thefts. It is very pleasant just being domestic sometimes.

The great detective was back today. I glimpsed him only briefly from a hedgerow where I was burying something. He did not see me.

Later, Graymalk told me that he had visited Owen's place. Owen and Cheeter were out, and he had looked about some, discovering the wicker baskets. His assistant injured his wrist, she said, having been sent up the ladder into the oak to test the strength of some branches, whence he had fallen. Fortunately, he landed on a heap of mistletoe, or it might have been worse.

That evening, I heard a scraping at an upstairs window while I was making my rounds. I went to it and peered out. At first I saw nothing, then I realized that a small form was darting back and forth.

«Snuff! Let me in! Help!» it cried.

It was Needle.

«I know better than to invite you guys inside,» I said.

«That's the boss! I'm just a bat! I don't even like tomato juice! Please!»

«What's wrong?»

I heard a loud thunk from the other side of the wall.

«It's the vicar!» he cried. «He's wigged out! Let me in!»

I undid the latch with my paw and pushed. It opened a few inches, and he was inside. He fell to the floor, panting. There followed another thunk from without.

«I won't forget this, Snuff,» he said. «Give me a minute… .»

I gave him two, then he stirred.

«Got any bugs about?» he asked. «I've got this fast metabolism, and I've been getting a lot of exercise.»

«It'd take a lot of effort catching them,» I said. «They're pretty fast. How about some fruit?»

«Fruit is good, too… .»

«There's a bowl in the kitchen.»

He was too tired to fly it, though, and I was afraid he was too fragile to pick up in my mouth. So I let him cling to my fur.

As I walked downstairs, he repeated, «Wigged out, wigged out… .»

«Tell me about it,» I said, as he feasted on a plum and two grapes.

«Vicar Roberts has become convinced there's something unnatural in the neighborhood,» he said.

«How strange. What might have led him to that belief?»

«The bodies with no blood left in them, and the people with anemia, who all seem to have had vivid dreams involving bats. Things like that.»

I'd seen Vicar Roberts many times on my rambles, a fat little man, dundrearied, and wearing old-fashioned, square-lensed, gold-framed spectacles. I'd been told that he often grew very red of complexion at the high points of sermons, splattering little droplets of spittle about, and that he was sometimes given to fits of twitchings followed by unconsciousness and strange transports.

«It is understandable in someone of an hysterical personality type,» I said.

«I suppose so. At any rate, he recently took to running about the parish by night, armed with a crossbow and a quiver of bolts, 'flying stakes,' he calls them. I hear your door! I'll bet that's him! Hide me!»