Image of the Beast

CHAPTER 25

Forrest J Ackerman, hiding in the bushes, was getting wetter. Hewas also becoming madder.

Three days ago he had received through the mail a large flat box. This had come from England, and it contained an original painting by BrainStoker. The painting depicted Count Dracula in the act of sucking blood from thethroat of a young blonde. Many illustrations have done this; a number of reprintsof Dracula, written by Bram Stoker, have shown Dracula going down on asleepingyoung beauty, and i

But this was the only painting of Dracula done by the authorhimself. Until a few months ago, its existence had been unknown. Then a dozen oilpaintings anda score of ink drawings had been found in a house in Dublin, onceowned by afriend of Stoker's. The present owner had discovered the works in aboarded-upcloset in the attic. He had not known what the paintings and drawingsrepresented in money. He had sold them to an art dealer for severalpounds andthought himself well ahead.

But the dealer had brought in handwriting experts who verifiedthat the signature on the illustrations was indeed Bram Stoker's. ForryAckerman, readingof this, had sent a wire to the Dublin art dealer and offered to topany pricesubmitted. The result was that he got his painting but had to go tothe bank to get a loan. Since then, he had been waiting anxiously and could talkof little but the expected arrival.

When he unwrapped it, he was not disappointed. Admittedly, Stokerwas no St. John, Bok, Finlay, or even a Paul. But his work had a certain crudeforce that a number of people commented upon. It was a primitive, no doubt ofthat, but apowerful primitive. Forry was glad that it had some artistic merit, although he had no knowledge of what constituted "good art" and no desire tolearn. He knew what he liked, and he liked this.

Besides, even if it had been less powerful, even crude, he wouldnot have cared. He had the only original painting of Dracula by the author ofDracula. No one else in the world could claim that.

This was no longer true.

That night he had come home to his house in the 800 block ofSherbourne Drive. It was raining then as now, and water was pouring down hisdriveway intothe street. The street was flooded but the water had not yet risen tocover the sidewalk. It was after one o'clock, and he had just left a party atWendy's tocome here because he had to get out one of his comic magazines. Aseditor of Vampirella and some horror magazines, he had hard schedule dates tomeet. He had to edit Vampirella tonight and get it out in the morning, air mail, specialdelivery, to his publisher in New York.

He had unlocked the door and entered the front room. This was a rather largeroom decorated with large and small original paintings of science- fiction and fantasy magazine covers, paintings done on commission, stills fromvarious horror and so-called science-fiction movies, photographs of LonChaney, Jr., asthe Wolf Man, Boris Karloff as Boris Karloff, and Bela Lugosi asDracula. Each bore a signature and a dedication of best wishes and fondest regardsto "Forry." There were also heads and masks of Frankenstein's monster, theCreature from the Black Lagoon, King Kong, and a number of other fictional monsters. The bookshelves reached from floor to ceiling at several places, andthese were jammed with the works of science-fiction authors, Gothic novelwriters, and somevolumes on exotic sexual practices.

Forry's house had to be seen to be visualized. It had once beenhis residence, but he had filled it with works evaluated at over amillion dollars. He had moved into Wendy's apartment and now used the house as hisbusiness office and as his private museum. The day would come--perish theday!--when hewould no longer be around to enjoy, to vibrate with joy, in the midstof his dream come true. Then it would become a public museum with the greatRayBradbury as trustee, and people would come from all over the world toview his collection or to do research in the rare books and with the paintingsand manuscripts and letters. He was thinking about having his ashesplaced in abronze bust of Karloff as Frankenstein's monster and the bust put on a pedestal in the middle of this room. Thus he would be here in physical fact, though not in spirit, since he refused to believe in any survival after death.

California law, however, forbade any such deposit of one's ashes. The morticians' and cemetery owners' lobby had insured that, thelegislature passedlaws beneficial to their interests. Even a man's ashes had to be buried in a cemetery, no matter what his wishes. There was a provision that ashescould be scattered out over the sea; but only from an airplane at a suitabledistance and height. The lobby ensured that the ashes of a number of deceased werestored until a mass, thus economical, flight could be made.

Forry, thinking about this, suppressed his anger at the money- hungry andessentially soulless robbers of the bereaved. He wondered if he couldnot make some arrangements for an illegal placing of his ashes in the bust. Why not? Hecould get some of his friends to do it. They were a wild bunch--someof them were--and they would not be stopped by a little illegality.

While he was standing there, taking off his raincoat, he lookedaround. There was the J. Allen St. John painting of Circe and the swine, Ulysses'buddies. And there, pride of his prides, and there...and there...!

The Stoker was gone.

It had been hung on a place opposite the door so that anybodyentering couldnot miss seeing it. It had displaced two paintings. Forry had had ahard time finding space in this house where every inch of wall was accountedfor.

Now, a blank spot showed where it had been.

Forry crossed the room and sat down. His heart beat only a littlefaster. He had a faulty pacemaker; it controlled the heart within a narrowrange, and thatexplained why he had to take stairs slowly and could not run. Nor didexcitement step up the heart. The emotions were there, however, and they madehim quiverwhen he should have beat.

He thought of calling the police, as he had done several times inthe past. His collection had been the object of attentions of many a burglar, usually ascience-fiction or horror addict who brushed aside any honesty hemight havepossessed in his lust to get his hands on books, paintings, stills, manuscripts, masks, photographs of the famous, and so forth. He had lost thousandsof dollars from this thievery, which was bad enough. But the realization thatsome of the works were irreplaceable hurt him far worse. And the thought thatanybody coulddo these evil things to him, who loved the world as he did not loveGod, hurt.

Who loved people, rather, since he was no Nature lover.

Putting aside his first inclination to call the police, hedecided to check with the Dummocks. These were a young couple who had moved in shortlyafter the previous caretakers, the Wards, had moved out. Renzo and Huli Dummockwere broke and houseless, as usual, so he had offered them his hospitality. Allthey had todo was keep the house clean and fairly well ordered and act ashelpers sometimeswhen he gave a party. Also, they would be his burglar insurance, since he no longer lived in the house.

He went upstairs after calling a number of times and getting noanswer. The bedroom was the only room in the house which had space for residents. There was a bed and a dresser and a closet, all of which the Dummocks used. Their clothes were thrown on the bed, the floor, the dresser top, and on a pile ofbooks in one corner. The bed had been unmade for days.

The Dummocks were not there, and he doubted they could beanyplace else inthe house. They had gone out for the night, as they quite often did. He did not know where they got their money to spend, since Huli was the only oneworkingand she did that only between fits of apathy. Renzo wrote stories buthad so far been able to sell only his hardcore pornography and not much of that. Forrythought they must be visiting somebody off whom they were undoubtedlysponging. This increased his anger, since he asked very little of them inreturn for room and board. Being here nights to watch for burglars had been theirmain job. Andif he reproached them for falling down on this, they would sneer athim and accuse him of exploiting them.