The Haunted Den

Tales of the Wandering Collector, Part Three

Thomas McNulty

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I was sitting in my leather chair in my new home on Farnsworth Avenue and making notes for my treatise, The Pleasures of Pulp, when there came a sudden knocking on my door. I had been living here less than a month in my retirement and reveling in the excess of a lifelong collection of ephemera, esoterica, erotica and the pulp Bildungsroman and Kunstler roman par excellent, when the knocking interrupted my intense reverie.

Reluctantly, I dragged myself from the comfort of my leather throne, cinched my robe tightly about my waist, dropped into my Superman slippers, heaved forward with a grunt, and flung the door wide.

“Yes, what is it?” I demanded.

Lightning split the night sky beyond the figure in the doorway, followed by an ominous peal of thunder. It was a girl, and a young one with a full, curvaceous figure that was barely concealed by the tight blouse and short skirt. She was a brunette, perky, and sweeter looking than a lollipop in the park on Sunday. She batted her green eyes at me.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but my automobile has stalled and I wonder if I might use your telephone to call a mechanic?”

“Harrumph!” I cleared my throat, sucked in my belly and thrust out my jaw. “Why of course, although at this ungodly hour I doubt if any mechanic is open, but do come in!”

She glided in, and with her came the heavenly scent of a woman in full bloom, a dash of perfume at the nape of her neck, her golden skin luxuriant in the glow of the lamp. We hastily attacked the telephone, but with a shock discovered the line was down.

“It’s this damnable storm,” I said apologetically, “I’m sure we’ll be able to ring for a repairman in the morning, meanwhile, you can avail yourself of my guest room and I’ll make you a cup of strong Irish coffee.”

With this her eyes glowed, and her very aura bespoke of tender pheromones delighting in the freedom of other-worldly delights, although little did I know at the time the wicked turn our chance meeting would take. After some time, we settled in my den and she took the chair opposite mine, dangling a slender fawn like leg over her knee while she gazed at the tall bookcases covering each wall.

“A lovely collection,” she announced at length, “I see you own a copy of Zane Grey’s Sunset Pass? How interesting to see all of these books stacked up like firewood.”

I must admit her statement astounded me, but something in her tone bothered me. “Why, yes, thank you, in fact that’s a signed copy. I have numerous valuable signed books or rare editions of many authors in my collection.” I was suddenly excited, because a book collector enjoys nothing more than to talk about his collection.

She had barely touched her Irish coffee at that point, and I had eagerly introduced a healthy portion of Jameson’s so I was anxious to see the result as I examined her heaving cleavage from across the rug. That’s when she said, “Of course, you know this den is a portal to another galaxy?”

This second shocking statement nearly catapulted me from my chair!

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed, perhaps too quickly. “I’ve been perfectly comfortable the entire month and heard not so much as a mouse whimper!”

She laughed then, and wickedly. Tossing back her head, she opened her mouth and chortled. Her mirth was genuine, I must say, and when she was finished she leveled her gaze on me and a tremendous change came over her. The delicious young morsel metamorphosed into a green, scaly reptilian female. Her body shivered and contorted, the flesh blending and stretching so that in a few moments the last vestige of her humanity was wiped away. She had a skull like a velociraptor’s but with a shorter snout, and her long rows of teeth were white and sharp. Her red, malevolent eyes stared at me.

“You fool!” she cried, “The multidimensional vortex has many doorways, including this house on Farnsworth Avenue! While you’ve been sitting here reading, we, the Reptilians, have plotted our attack against earth. This den is the doorway to our intergalactic conquest!”

“Great Krypton!” I bellowed, “There must be a way to stop you!”

“Furthermore,” she continued, “these books, comics and magazines are piled up and in our way. They must be destroyed!”

Stretching out her hand, a power blast emanated from her fingertips, rattling the bookcases. One book was dislodged, floating in the air. With a twist of her wrist the levitating book opened, revealing the title page signed by the author. Except it wasn’t Zane Grey. How I wish it had been. She had chosen wisely. I watched in abject terror as Guy N. Smith’s signature rose from the page undulating like a black snake. The signature enlarged, looping toward me, and swiftly lashed about me, tying me securely. I had been tied and bound to my leather chair with the animated spirit of Guy N. Smith’s signature!

The Reptilian’s evil laughter echoed in the den. The bookcases were shaking fiercely, and books were dislodged and flung outward to swirl in the air about me. I was besieged by images from books by Joe Bonadonna, Mickey Spillane, Ray Bradbury, Anne Rice, Stephen King, and so many more! I could barely take a breath as the books pummeled me, nearly knocking me senseless. The room swirled madly. The vortex opened before me and the room was filled with strange unearthly creatures, demons from the deepest pits of hell, carnivorous monsters, bug-eyed aliens, and gothic sorcerers.

I heard the Reptilian’s voice mocking me. “You book collectors and readers are all the same,” she cackled, “and now you’ll pay the ultimate price for your precious collection as we invade the earth!”

I began to suffocate as the pulp paper was torn loose and crammed into my mouth. I had a glimpse of Arthur Machen striding toward me, followed by Robert E. Howard, but before I could make sense of it, the blackness consumed me and I was plunged into the ethereal afterlife of fairy tales and fantastic pulp adventures, and I almost felt cozy, drifting along on a paragraph of adjectival pomp...

And slowly, I began to awaken...my neck was sore and stiff as I regained consciousness. I was in my chair with my head tilted at an angle, having dozed off upon consuming in one mighty gulp a frothy measure of Irish coffee with extra Jameson’s. I shrugged, and stretched my limbs. Glancing about the room I noted that everything was in order, and I shook off the wild nightmare that had seemed all too real.

Then I noticed something odd. There on the floor was my copy of the signed paperback of Guy N. Smith’s Spawn of the Slime Beast. Somehow it had fallen from the bookcase onto the rug. I couldn’t imagine how that could happen, but I vowed then and there to ease up on the Jameson’s whiskey while reading.

Well, maybe a little bit.