Murgunstrumm and Others by Hugh B. Cave

Author:Hugh B. Cave [Cave, Hugh B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2011-12-18T23:00:00+00:00

After that the policeman came.

The policeman was Irish and block-shouldered and had a blunt-cornered face as fixed in its expression as the angular walls of the shanty. His blue uniform distended the doorway. He carried a night-stick in his right hand.

He peered at Cerema and glanced casually at Jum Peters. He strode into the middle of the linoleum floor.

“He ain’t come back here, hey?” he demanded.

“No suh,” Jum Peters said. “He am’.”

“And you got no idea at all where he might’ve got to?”

“No sub. Him ’ud run ’way mos’ anyw’eres ’ceptin’ ’crost dat debbie-lan’ out’n dar.”

“Yeah? Well, we ain’t found no sign of him yet, but we’ll get him. I’ll have a look around here. Might get an idea, maybe.”

Jum Peters sat stiff in his chair. Cerema stood stiff against the wooden bed end. The policeman strolled indifferently across the room.

The policeman stopped and stood quite still and looked curiously at the candle. He swung around sharply and stared at the dangling electric light bulb, and at Jum Peters. His thick-soled boots grated on the floor and grated on Jum Peters’ nerves as he turned. Jum Peters stopped breathing and looked helplessly into his eyes.

“What happened to the light?” the policeman demanded.

“It—it done wen’ out’n orduh, sub,” Jum Peters gulped. “De wires—”

“Oh.”

The policeman moved again. He peered at the stove, peered behind the stove, peered into Cerema’s immobile face as he slouched past. He peered at the bed, raised the brown blankets and peered under the bed. He jerked around again. He glared at Jum Peters again.

Jum Peters licked his mouth. He tried to follow the focus of the policeman’s eyes. The policeman wasn’t staring into Jum Peters’ face, but at something under Jum Peters’ face. Jum Peters’ head lowered itself spontaneously. His eyes dilated to their extreme magnitude. His body became all at once hard and inflexible. He knew that the policeman was intently contemplating the coruscant belt buckle which glittered on the outside of his coat.

“Where’d you get all this stuff?” the policeman said. “Out of the dump?”

“Y-yes, suh. Out’n de dum’.”

The policeman glanced queerly into Jum Peters’ face. Then he resumed his inspection. He walked along the tin wall, dangling his nightstick from its leather strap. He stood over the crooked body of Washington Jeffers. He studied it dispassionately. He turned again and stared at Jum Peters.

Jum Peters knew what he was staring at. He was staring at the belt buckle again. He was noticing the difference in the length of the belt. Four holes difference, and the policeman was aware of it. On Mulvahey’s middle, the end of the strap had lipped down like a dog’s tail with four punctures. On Jum Peters’ it barely extended enough to go around.

Jum Peters tried frantically to hide it with his hands. He leaned forward in his chair and sat like a man petrified. His eyes twitched and contracted with quick spasmodic jerks. His black face turned purple and became the color of the ashes in Mulvahey’s grave.

“How often did this old guy come to visit you?” the policeman said.

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