[Illustration] _Haunted by their dark heritage, a medieval fate awaited them.... _ STRANGE ALLIANCE _BY BRYCE WALTON_ Doctor Spechaug stopped running, breathing deeply and easily where hepaused in the middle of the narrow winding road. He glanced at hiswatch. Nine a. M. He was vaguely perplexed because he did not react moreemotionally to the blood staining his slender hands. It was fresh blood, though just beginning to coagulate; it was dabbledover his brown serge suit, splotching the neatly starched white cuffs ofhis shirt. His wife always did them up so nicely with the peasant's lovefor trivial detail. He had always hated the silent ignorance of the peasants who surroundedthe little college where he taught psychology. He supposed that he hadbegun to hate his wife, too, when he realized, after taking her from alocal barnyard and marrying her, that she could never be anything but asloe-eyed, shuffling peasant. He walked on with brisk health down the narrow dirt road that led towardGlen Oaks. Elm trees lined the road. The morning air was damp and cool. Dew kept the yellow dust settled where spots of sunlight came throughleaves and speckled it. Birds darted freshly through thickly hungbranches. He had given perennial lectures on hysterical episodes. Now he realizedthat he was the victim of such an episode. He had lost a number ofminutes from his own memory. He remembered the yellow staring eyes ofthe breakfast eggs gazing up at him from a sea of grease. He rememberedhis wife screaming--after that only blankness. He stopped on a small bridge crossing Calvert's Creek, wiped the bloodcarefully from his hands with a green silk handkerchief. He dropped thestained silk into the clear water. Silver flashes darted up, nibbled thecloth as it floated down. He watched it for a moment, then went on alongthe shaded road. This was his chance to escape from Glen Oaks. That was what he hadwanted to do ever since he had come here five years ago to teach. He hada good excuse now to get away from the shambling peasants whom he hatedand who returned the attitude wholeheartedly--the typical provincial'shatred of culture and learning. Then he entered the damp, chilled shadows of the thick wood thatseparated his house from the college grounds. It was thick, dense, dark. One small corner of it seemed almost ordinary, the rest was superstitionhaunted, mysterious and brooding. This forest had provided DoctorSpechaug many hours of escape. He had attempted to introspect, but had never found satisfactory causesfor his having found himself running through these woods at night in hisbare feet. Nor why he sometimes hated the sunlight. * * * * * He tensed in the dank shadows. Someone else was in this forest with him. It did not disturb him. Whatever was here was not alien to him or theforest. His eyes probed the mist that slithered through the ancientmossy trees and hanging vines. He listened, looked, but found nothing. Birds chittered, but that was all. He sat down, his back against aspongy tree trunk, fondled dark green moss. As he sat there, he knew that he was waiting for someone. He shrugged. Mysticism was not even interesting to him, ordinarily. Still, though abehaviorist, he upheld certain instinctual motivation theories. And, though reluctantly, he granted Freud contributory significance. He couldbe an atavist, a victim of unconscious regression. Or a prey of someinsidious influence, some phenomena a rather childish science had notyet become aware of. But it was of no importance. He was happier nowthan he had ever been. He felt free--young and new. Life seemed worthliving. Abruptly, with a lithe liquid ease, he was on his feet, body tense, alert. Her form was vaguely familiar as she ran toward him. She dodgedfrom his sight, then re-appeared as the winding path cut behind screensof foliage. She ran with long smooth grace, and he had never seen a woman run likethat. A plain skirt was drawn high to allow long bronzed legs freemovement. Her hair streamed out, a cloud of red-gold. She kept lookingbackwards and it was obvious someone was chasing her. He began sprinting easily toward her, and as the distance shortened, herecognized her. Edith Bailey, a second-year psychology major who hadbeen attending his classes two semesters. Very intelligent, reclusive, not a local-grown product. Her work had a grimness about it, as thoughpsychology was a dire obsession, especially abnormal psychology. One ofher theme papers had been an exhaustive, mature but somehow overlydetermined, treatise on self-induced hallucination and auto-suggestion. He had not been too impressed because of an unjustified emphasis onsupernatural myth and legend, including werewolves, vampires, and thelike. She sprang to a stop like a cornered deer as she saw him suddenlyblocking the path. She turned, then stopped and turned back slowly. Hereyes were wide, cheeks flushed. Taut breasts rose and fell deeply, andher hands were poised for flight. But she wasn't looking at his face. Her gaze was on the bloodsplattering his clothes. He was breathing deeply too. His heart was swelling with exhilaration. His blood flowed hotly. Something of the whirling ecstasy he had knownback in his student days as a track champion returned to him--the madbursting of the wind against him, the wild passion of the dash. A burly figure came lurching after her down the path. A tramp, evidently, from his filthy, smoke-sodden clothes and thick stubble ofbeard. He recalled the trestle west of the forest where the bindlestiffsfrom the Pacific Fruit line jungled up at nights, or during longlayovers. Sometimes they came into the forest. He was big, fat and awkward. He was puffing and blowing, and he began togroan as Doctor Spechaug's fists thudded into his flesh. The degeneratefell to his knees, his broken face blowing out bloody air. Finally herolled over onto his side with a long sighing moan, lay limply, verystill. Doctor Spechaug's lips were thin, white, as he kicked savagely. He heard a popping. The bum flopped sidewise into a pile of drippingleaves. He stepped back, looked at Edith Bailey. Her full red lips were moistand gleaming. Her oddly opaque eyes glowed strangely at him. Her voicewas low, yet somehow, very intense. "Wonderful laboratory demonstration, Doctor. But I don't think many ofyour student embryos would appreciate it. " * * * * * Doctor Spechaug nodded, smiled gently. "No. An unorthodox case. " He lita cigarette, and she took one. Their smoke mingled with the dissipatingmorning mist. And he kept on staring at her. A pronounced sweater girlwith an intellect. This--he could have loved. He wondered if it were toolate. Doctor Spechaug had never been in love. He wondered if he were now withthis fundamental archetypal beauty. "By the way, " he was saying, "whatare you doing in this evil wood?" Then she took his arm, very naturally, easily. They began walking slowlyalong the cool, dim path. "Two principal reasons. One, I like it here; I come here often. Two, Iknew you always walk along this path, always late for your eight o'clockclass. I've often watched you walking here. You walk beautifully. " He did not comment. It seemed unnecessary now. "The morning's almost gone, " she observed. "The sun will be out verywarm in a little while. I hate the sun. " On an impulse he said: "I'm going away. I've wanted to get out of thisobscene nest of provincial stupidity from the day I first came here. Andnow I've decided to leave. " "What are you escaping from?" He answered softly. "I don't know. Something Freudian, no doubt. Something buried, buried deep. Something too distasteful to recognize. " She laughed. "I knew you were human and not the cynicalpseudo-intellectual you pretended to be. Disgusting, isn't it?" "What?" "Being human, I mean. " "I suppose so. I'm afraid we're getting an extraordinarily prejudicedview. I can't help being a snob here. I despise and loathe peasants. " "And I, " she admitted. "Which is merely to say, probably, that we loatheall humanity. " "Tell me about yourself, " he said finally. "Gladly. I like doing that--to one who will understand. I'm nineteen. Myparents died in Hungary during the War. I came here to America to livewith my uncle. But by the time I got here he was dead, too. And he leftme no money, so there was no sense being grateful for his death. I got apart-time job and finished high school in Chicago. I got a scholarshipto--this place. " Her voice trailed off. She was staring at him. "Hungary!" he said and repeated it. "Why--I came from Hungary!" Her grip on his arm tightened. "I knew--somehow. I remember Hungary--itsancient horror. My father inherited an ancient castle. I remember longcold corridors and sticky dungeons, and cobwebbed rooms thick with dust. My real name is Burhmann. I changed it because I thought Bailey moreAmerican. " "Both from Hungary, " mused Doctor Spechaug. "I remember very little ofHungary. I came here when I was three. All I remember are the ignorantpeasants. Their dumb, blind superstition--their hatred for----" "You're afraid of them, aren't you?" she said. He started. "The peasants. I----" He shook his head. "Perhaps. " "You're afraid, " she said. "Would you mind telling me, Doctor, how thesefears of yours manifest themselves?" He hesitated; they walked. Finally he answered. "I've never told anyonebut you. There are hidden fears. And they reveal themselves consciouslyin the absurd fear of seeing my own reflection. Of not seeing my shadow. Of----" She breathed sharply. She stopped walking, turned, stared at him. "Not--not seeing your--reflection!" He nodded. "Not seeing your--shadow--!" "Yes. " "And the full moon. A fear of the full moon, too?" "But how did you know?" "And you're allergic to certain metals, too. For instance--silver?" He could only nod. "And you go out in the night sometimes--and do things--but you don'tremember what?" He nodded again. Her eyes glowed brightly. "I know. I know. I've known those sameobsessions ever since I can remember. " Doctor Spechaug felt strangely uneasy then, a kind of dreadfulloneliness. "Superstition, " he said. "Our Old World background, where superstitionis the rule, old, very old superstition. Frightened by them when we wereyoung. Now those childhood fixations reveal themselves in crazysymptoms. " He took off his coat, threw it into the brush. He rolled up his shirtsleeves. No blood visible now. He should be able to catch the littlelocal passenger train out of Glen Oaks without any trouble. But whyshould there be any trouble? The blood---- He thought too that he might have killed the tramp, that popping sound. She seemed to sense his thoughts. She said quickly: "I'm going with you, Doctor. " He said nothing. It seemed part of the inevitable pattern. * * * * * They entered the town. Even for mid-morning the place was strangelysilent, damply hot, and still. The 'town' consisted of five blocks ofmain street from which cow paths wound off aimlessly into fields, woods, meadows and hills. There was always a few shuffling, dull-eyed peoplelolling about in the dusty heat. Now there were no people at all. As they crossed over toward the shady side, two freshly clothed kids ranout of Davis' Filling Station, stared at them like vacant-eyed lambs, then turned and spurted inside Ken Wanger's Shoe Hospital. Doctor Spechaug turned his dark head. His companion apparently hadn'tnoticed anything ominous or peculiar. But to him, the whole scene wasmorose, fetid and brooding. They walked down the cracked concrete walk, passed the big plate-glasswindows of Murphy's General Store which were a kind of fetish in GlenOaks. But Doctor Spechaug wasn't concerned with the culturalsignificance of the windows. He was concerned with _not_ looking intoit. And oddly, he never did look at himself in the glass, neither did helook across the street. Though the glass did pull his gaze into it withan implacable somewhat terrible insistence. And he stared. He stared atthat portion of the glass which was supposed to reflect Edith Bailey'smaterial self--_but didn't reflect anything. Not even a shadow. _ They stopped. They turned slowly toward each other. He swallowed hard, trembled slightly. And then he knew deep and dismal horror. He studiedthat section of glass where her image was supposed to be. _It stillwasn't. _ He turned. And she was still standing there. "Well?" And then she said in a hoarse whisper: "_Your reflection--where is it?_" And all he could say was: "And yours?" Little bits of chuckling laughter echoed in the inchoate madness of hissuddenly whirling brain. Echoing years of lecture on--cause and effect, logic. Little bits of chuckling laughter. He grabbed her arm. "_We--we can see our own reflections, but we can't see each other's!_" She shivered. Her face was terribly white. "What--what is the answer?" No. He didn't have it figured out. Let the witches figure it out. Letsome old forbidden books do it. Bring the problem to some warlock. Butnot to him. He was only a Doctor of Philosophy in Psychology. Butmaybe-- "Hallucinations, " he muttered faintly. "Negative hallucinations. " "Doctor. Did you ever hear the little joke about the two psychiatristswho met one morning and one said, 'You're feeling excellent today. Howam I feeling?'" He shrugged. "We have insight into each other's abnormality, but areunaware of the same in ourselves. " "That's the whole basis for psychiatry, isn't it?" "In a way. But this is physical--functional--when psychiatry presentssituation where--" His voice trailed off. "I have it figured this way. " How eager she was. Somehow, it didn'tmatter much now, to him. "We're conditioned to react to reality incertain accepted ways. For instance that we're supposed to see ourshadows. So we see them. But in our case they were never really there tosee. Our sanity or 'normalcy' is maintained that way. But the constantauto-illusion must always lead to neuroticism and pathology--the hiddenfears. But these fears must express themselves. So they do so in moresocially acceptable ways. " Her voice suddenly dropped as her odd eyes flickered across the street. "But we see each other as we really are, " she whispered tensely. "Thoughwe could never have recognized the truth in ourselves. " She pointed stiffly. Her mouth gaped, quivered slightly. He turned slowly. His mouth twitched with a growing terrible hatred. They were coming for him now. * * * * * Four men with rifles were coming toward him. Stealthily creeping, theywere, as though it were some pristine scene with caves in thebackground. They were bent slightly, stalking. Hunters and hunted, andthe law of the wild and two of them stopping in the middle of thestreet. The other two branched, circled, came at him from either side, clumping down the walk. George recognized them all. The town marshal, Bill Conway, and Mike Lash, Harry Hutchinson, and Dwight Farrigon. Edith Bailey was backed up against the window. Her eyes were strangelydilated. But the faces of the four men exuded cold animal hate, andblood-lust. Edith Bailey's lips said faintly, "What--what are we going to do?" He felt so calm. He felt his lips writhe back in a snarl. The windtingled on his teeth. "I know now, " he said. "I know about the minutes Ilost. I know why they're after me. You'd better get away. " "But why the--the guns?" "I murdered my wife. She served me greasy eggs. God--she was ananimal--just a dumb beast!" Conway called, his rifle crooked in easy promising grace. "All right, Doc. Come on along without any trouble. Though I'd just as soon you madea break. I'd like to shoot you dead, Doctor. " "And what have I done, exactly, " said Doctor Spechaug. "He's hog-wild, " yelled Mike Lash. "Cuttin' her all up that way! Let'sstring 'em up!" Conway yelled something about a "fair trial, " though notwith much enthusiasm. Edith screamed as they charged toward them. A wild, inhuman cry. Doctor Spechaug's eyes flashed up the narrow street. "Let's go!" he said to Edith Bailey. "They'll see running they've neverseen before. They can't touch us. " They ran. They heard the sharp crack of rifles. They saw the dustspurting up. Doctor Spechaug heard himself howling as he became aware ofpeculiar stings in his body. Queer, painless, deeply penetratingsensations that made themselves felt all over his body--as though he wasawakening from a long paralysis. Then the mad yelling faded rapidly behind them. They were running, streaking out of the town with inhuman speed. They struck out in longeasy strides across the meadow toward the dense woods that broodedbeyond the college. Her voice gasped exultingly. "They couldn't hurt us! They couldn't! Theytried!" He nodded, straining eagerly toward he knew not what, nosing into thefresh wind. How swiftly and gracefully they could run. Soon they lostthemselves in the thick dark forest. Shadows hid them. * * * * * Days later the moon was full. It edged over the low hill flanking GlenOaks on the east. June bugs buzzed ponderously like armor-plated dragonstoward the lights glowing faintly from the town. Frogs croaked from theswampy meadows and the creek. They came up slowly to stand silhouetted against the glowing moon, nosing hungrily into the steady, aromatic breeze blowing from the Conwayfarm below. They glided effortlessly down, then across the sharp-bladed marsh grass, leaping high with each bound. As they came disdainfully close to thesilent farm house, a column of pale light from a coal oil lamp camethrough the living room window and haloed a neglected flower bed. Sorrowand fear clung to the house. The shivering shadow of a gaunt woman was etched against the half drawnshade. The two standing outside the window called. The woman's shadowtrembled. Then a long rigid finger of steel projected itself beneath the partiallyraised window. The rifle cracked almost against the faces of the two. Hescreamed hideously as his companion dropped without a sound, twitching, twitching--he screamed again and began dragging himself away toward thesheltering forest. Intently and desperately the rifle cracked again. He gave up then. He sprawled out flatly on the cool, damp, moon-bathed path. His hottongue lapped feverishly at the wet grass. He felt the persistent impactof the rifle's breath against him, and now there was a wave of pain. Thefull moon was fading into black mental clouds as he feebly attempted tolift his bleeding head. He thought with agonized irony: "Provincial fools. Stupid, superstitious idiots ... And that damned Mrs. Conway--the most stupid of all. _Only she would have thought to load herdead husband's rifle with silver bullets!_ Damned peasants----" Total darkness blotted out futile revery. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantasy Book_ Vol. 1 Number 1 (1947). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note, whilst variant spellings remain as printed.