NUELOW at Christmas: Day Seventeen

THE DRAGON WHO LOVES CHRISTMAS

When she walks among humans, she calls herself "Brigid" in honor of a goddess she once knew. Her real name is too long and complicated for lesser beings to pronounce, so she doesn't even bother to tell them.

Brigid is one of the oldest living beings on Earth. Brigid is an ancient dragon.... an ancient red dragon. Unlike most of her kind, she not retreated to the elemental planes with the Titans and other ancient races who were driven from Earth by the Atlanteans. Instead, she has spent tens of thousands of years observing humanity as it developed from cave-dwelling scavengers to masters of the Earth and becoming capable of destruction on a level that not even red dragons can conceive of in their darkest imaginings.

Brigid first became interested in humanity when she noticed they had "tamed" fire and made it just another one of their tools. Over the millennia, she traveled among them in human form--dragons are all capable of taking whatever shape they like, but few bother to perfect the skill to the degree that Brigid has--and she has been worshipped as a goddess of fire and light (and sometimes destruction) by many cultures that have emerged and faded.

 

  

 
 

But out all the inventions and achievements she has witnessed grown out of human imagination and community were the celebrations of Saturnalia and Yule; she loved the chaotic way humans in that part of the world celebrated life and brought light to the darkest of seasons. She also enjoyed getting gifts and getting roaringly drunk and treating lucky crowds to amazing displays of fire magic.

As Christianity gained dominance and the ancient festivals merged into a celebration of the faith's central figure, Brigid's love of the festivities surrounded it only grew greater. The songs, the decorations, the setting aside of differences and coming together in peace--if only for brief moments. And by the time what we consider "modern day" had arrived, Brigid loved that Christmas was EVERYWHERE thanks to all the various human inventions' who needs magic when you have broadcast networks and Muzak in malls?!

Every Christmas, Brigid assumes the human form she considers her most perfect and dresses it in quirky Christmas outfits. She visits churches and community centers around the world; she crashes corporate and political Christmas parties; she approaches both the financial and cultural elite, as well as the poorest and most rejected members of societies, asking to help them celebrate Christmas.
If treated with a minimum of hospitality and good cheer, she is a good guest that brings much entertainment to the party. If she is treated warmly and generously, the generosity is returned. The party's hosts receive a charm that will bring good luck to them and their direct descendants for 100 years so long as they are kind and generous while guests who are nice to her receive charms that grant them good luck for the next year.

 

 

If those who are impoverished or on the fringes of human societies accept her offer to spend Christmas with them, they find themselves whisked away to a wondrous palace that reflects Yule and Christmas in all its forms. They are guests at a spectacular feast and leave with gifts both useful and desired, as well as money to get back on their feet and magically cured of whatever addictions of ailments they may have been suffering from.

On the other hand, if Brigid is rebuffed or treated rudely, she makes sure those who lack proper Christmas spirit have their Holiday Seasons ruined by unexplained fires. How severe those fires are depends on how badly Brigid is treated. If she is physically attacked, she will reveal her true from and lay waste to a swath of the land, killing dozens if not hundreds of people... but leaving those who violated the Spirit of Christmas alive and fully aware of what they unleashed.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen & A Christmas Western by R.E. Howard

Enjoy some Christmas music and an early short story by Robert E. Howard (written and published when he was still in high school). It's a Very Western Christmas today at NUELOW Games!

GOLDEN HOPE CHRISTMAS

By Robert E. Howard

Chapter 1

Red Ghallinan was a gunman. Not a trade to be proud of, perhaps, but Red was proud of it. Proud of his skill with a gun, proud of the notches on the long blue barrel of his heavy .45s. Red was a wiry, medium-sized man with a cruel, thin lipped mouth and close-set, shifty eyes. He was bow-legged from much riding, and, with his slouching walk and hard face he was, indeed, an unprepossessing figure. Red’s mind and soul were as warped as his exterior. His insister reputation caused men to strive to avoid offending him but at the same tome to cut him off from the fellowship of people. No man, good or bad, cares to chum with a killer. Even the outlaws hated him and feared him too much to admit him to their gang, so he was a lone wolf. But a lone wolf may sometimes be more feared than the whole pack.

   Let us not blame Red too much. He was born and reared in an environment of evil. His father and his father’s father had been rustlers and gun-fighters. Until he was a grown man, Red knew nothing but crime as a legitimate way of making a living and by the time he learned that a man may earn a sufficient livelihood and still remain within the law he was too set in his ways to change. So it was not altogether his fault that he was a gunfighter. Rather, it was the fault of those unscrupulous politicians and mine-owners who hired him to kill their enemies. For that was the way Red lived. He was a born gun-fighter. The killer instinct burned strongly in him—the heritage of Cain. He had never seen the man who surpassed him or even equalled him in the speed of the draw or in swift, straight shooting. These qualities together with the cold nerve and reckless bravery that goes with red hair, made him much in demand with rich men who had enemies. So he did a large business.
    But the forefront of the law began to come into Idaho and Red saw with hate the first sign of that organization which had driven him out of Texas a few years before—the vigilantes. Red’s jobs became fewer and fewer for he feared to kill unless he could make it appear self-defense.
    At last it reached a point where Red was faced with the alternative of moving on or going to work. So he rode over to miner’s cabin and announced his intention of buying the miner’s claim. The miner, after one skittish glance at Red’s guns, sold his claim for fifty dollars, signed the deed and left the country precipitately.
    Red worked the claim for a few days and then quit in disgust. He had not gotten one ounce of gold dust. This was due, partly to his distaste for work, partly to his ignorance of placer mining and mostly to the poorness of the claim.
     He was standing in the front door of the saloon of the mining town, when the stage-coach drove in and a passenger alit.
    He was a well built, frank-appearing young fellow and Red hated him instinctively. Hated him for his cleanliness, for his open, honest, pleasant face, because he was everything that Red was not.
    The newcomer was very friendly and very soon the whole town knew his antecedents. His name was Hal Sharon, a tenderfoot from the east, who had come to Idaho with the hopes of striking a bonanza and going home wealthy. Of course there was a girl in the case, though Hal said little on that point. He had a few hundred dollars and wanted to buy a good claim. At this Red took a new interest in the young man.
    Red bought drinks and lauded his claim. Sharon proved singularly trustful. He did not ask to see the claim but took Red’s word for it. A trustfulness that would have touched a less hardened man than Red.
    One or two men, angered at the deliberate swindle, tried to warn Hal but a cold glance from Red caused them to change their minds. Hal bought Red’s claim for five hundred dollars.
    He toiled unceasingly all fall and early winter, barely making enough to keep him in food and clothes, while Red lived in the little town and sneered at his uncomplaining efforts. As winter deepened, everywhere the miners stopped work and came to town to live until the snow should have melted and the ground thawed out in the spring. Only Hal Sharon stayed at his claim, working on in the cold and snow, spurred on by the thought of riches—and a girl.

--

It was a little over three weeks until Christmas when, one cold night Red Ghallinan sat by the stove in the saloon and listened to the blizzard outside. He though to Sharon, doubtless shivering in his cabin up on the slopes, and he sneered. He listened idly to the talk of the miners and cow-punchers who were discussing the coming festivals, a dance and so on.
    Christmas meant nothing to Red. Though the one bright spot I his life had been one Christmas years ago when Red was a ragged waif, shivering on the snow covered streets of Kansas City.
    He had passed a great church and, attracted by the warmth, had entered timidly. The people had sung, “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing!” and when the congregation exited, an old, white haired woman had seen the boy and had taken him home and fed him and clothed him. Red had lived in her home as one of the family until spring, but when the wild geese began to fly north and the trees began to bud, the wanderlust got into the boy’s blood and he ran away and came back to his native Texas prairies. But that was years ago and Red never thought of it now.
    The door flew open and a furred and muffled figure strode in. It was Sharon—his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.
    Instantly Red was on his feet, hand twisting just above a gun. But Hal took no notice of him. He pushed his way to the bar.
    “Boys,” he said: “I named my claim the Golden Hope, and it was a true name! Boys, I’ve struck it rich!”
    And he threw a double handful of nuggets and gold-dust on the bar.

--

Christmas Eve Red stood in the door of an eating house and watched Sharon coming down the slope, whistling merrily. He had a right to be merry. He was already worth twelve thousand dollars and had not exhausted his claim by half. Red watched with hate in his eyes. Ever since the night that Sharon had thrown his first gold on the bar, his hatred of the man had grown. Hal’s fortune seemed a personal injury to Red. Had he not worked like a slave on that claim without getting a pound of gold? And here this stranger had come and gotten rich off the same claim! Thousands to him, a measly five hundred to Red. To Red’s warped mind this assumed monstrous proportions—an outrage. He hated Sharon as he had never hated a man before. And since with him to hate was to kill, he determined to kill Hal Sharon. With a curse he reached for a gun when a thought stayed his hand. The Vigilantes! They would get him sure if he killed Sharon openly. A cunning light came to his eyes and he turned and strode away toward the unpretentious boarding house where he stayed.
    Hal Sharon walked into a saloon.
    “Seen Ghallinan lately?” he asked.
    The bartender shook his head.
    Hal tossed a bulging buck-sack on the bar, and said: “Give that to him when you see him. It’s got about a thousand dollars worth of gold-dust in it.”
    The bartender gasped. “What! You giving Red a thousand bucks after he tried to swindle you? Yes, it is safe here. Ain’t a galoot in camp touch anything belonging to a gun-fighter. But say—“
    “Well,” answered Hal, “I don’t think he got enough for his claim; he practically gave it to me. And anyway, “ he laughed over his shoulder, “It’s Christmas!”

Chapter 2

Morning in the mountains. The highest peaks touched with a delicate pink. The stars paling as the darkness grew grey. Light on the peaks, shadow still in the valleys, as if the paint brush of the Master had but passed lightly over the land, coloring openly the highest places, the places nearest to Him. Now the light-legions began to invade the valleys, driving before them the darkness; the light on the peaks grew stronger, the snow beginning to cast back the light. But as yet no sun. The king had sent his courtiers before him but he himself had not appeared.
    In a certain valley, smoke curled from the chimney of a rude log cabin. High on the hillside, a man gave a grunt of satisfaction. The man lay in a hollow, from which he had scraped the drifted snow. Ever since the first hint of dawn, he had lain there, watching the cabin. A heavy rifle lay beneath his arm.
    Down in the valley, the cabin door swung wide and a man stepped out. The watcher on the hill saw that it was the man he had come to kill.

    Hal Sharon threw his arms wide and laughed aloud in the sheer joy of living. Up on the hill, Red Ghallinan watched the man over the sights of a Sharpe .50 rifle. For the first time he noticed what a magnificent figure the young man was. Tall, strong, handsome, with the glow of health on his cheek.
    For some reason Red was not getting the enjoyment he thought he would. He shook his shoulders impatiently. His finger tightened on the trigger—suddenly Hal broke into song; the words floated clearly to Red.
    “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing!”
    Where had he heard that song before? Suddenly a mist floated across Red Ghallinan’s eyes; the rifle slipped unnoticed from his hands, He drew his hand across his eyes and looked toward the east. There, alone hung one great star and as he looked, over the shoulder of a great mountain came the great sun.
    “Gawd!” gulped Red, why—it is Christmas!”

--
If you enjoyed that story, written by Robert E. Howard when he was just a teenager, you'll love the westerns he wrote when his skills were at their sharpest. Check out The Last Ride from NUELOW Games.

A fundraiser for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

On June 11, 1936, short-story author and poet Robert E. Howard took a gun from the glove box of his car and shot himself to death. His suicide came as he was reaching new creative heights, and his career was shifting in a more literary-oriented direction. We'll never know what great stories and characters evaporated at that tragic moment. Roy Thomas and Sandy Plunkett dramatized the tragedy in this illustrated story.

NUELOW Games is currently engaged in an effort to raise funds for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention by offering all of the Robert E. Howard-related products in a single discounted package--that also includes a great Howard-inspired RPG from Bedrock Games--and donating all of its proceeds. Click here to check out the bundle, or read on for more information.

A page from Shadows of Dream, featuring poetry by Robert E. Howard.
It's one of 25 different books in the Suicide Prevention Fundraiser bundle.

THE WHY & THE WHAT
If you've been paying even the slightest bit of attention to NUELOW Games in recent years, you've noticed that the works of Robert E. Howard have been an important part of many of our releases. Steve Miller loves Howard mostly for his action/adventure and horror fiction, and L.L. Hundal loves Howard primarily for his comedy stories. Both think his non-fantasy work is his best work.

But the vast majority of readers only know him for being the creator of Conan, and many never move beyond those stories--if they even get that far, given all the comic books and movies and pastiches by other authors that are most likely encountered first. To share our love for Howard's other writings--writings he himself stated he wanted to be remembered for rather than Conan or even Kull and Kane--we produced a number of anthologies collecting his non-fantasy short stories. Given that NUELOW Games is, well, a game publisher, we've also released a number of ROLF! battle scenarios making use of characters that Howard created (even Conan)--battle scenarios that are compatible with "The Violent Worlds of Robert E. Howard," a complete RPG which was included in the Fists of Foolishness short story collection.

Every year, we've one a special sales event to mark the anniversary of the tragic end to Howard's life, hoping to attract more attention to the fantastic stories he left us. This year, we have gone a step further.

The 24 Howard-related books and game products featured in this large bundle are the majority of the Howard-related releases we've produced over the few years. They can be had for just $20-- a savings of over 50 percent off the cost of purchasing them individually. You can get dozens of great short stories and more battle scenarios than you can shake a bucket of dice at for every little money. What makes this deal even more attractive is that NUELOW Games (in conjunction with partner Bedrock Games) will donate all of its proceeds [$13.50 after distributors and contributors have gotten their cut] to the American Suicide Prevention Foundation.

The Suicide Prevention Fundraiser bundle will be available until the end of June, and NUELOW will makes its donation to the AFSP by the middle of July. Click here to see what is in the bundle, or to get your copy right now. Be a small part in helping modern-day Robert E. Howards get the support and help they need before it's too late.

HIGHLIGHTS OF THE BUNDLE
* The complete Sertorius rolelaying game

* Stories and novellas Howard wrote that he would have been preferred to be remembered for, collection in Oriental Stories, Oriental Stories Vol. 2, and Oriental Stories Vol 3: A Texan in Afghanistan. These books feature some of his best writing.
* Samplings of Howard's "Southern Gothic" horror/action tales in Shadows of Texas and Names in the Black Book.
* The complete collection of Howard's comedic tales of boxer Steve Costigan in Fists of Foolishness and Shanghaied Mitts.
* The complete collection of Howard's comedic western tales featuring dimwitted mountain man Breckinridge Elkins in Bath-time on Bear Creek, The Misadventures of Breckinridge Elkins, and Breckinridge Elkins Rides Again.
* A sampling of Howard's poetry in Shadows of Dreams.
* NUELOW Games designer favorite ROLF! battle scenarios based on Howard's writings, such as ROLF!: The Hopping Vampires of Yao Ping, ROLF!: The Tornado vs. Steve Costigan, and ROLF!: The Sheik.

And ten more short story collections and game products that celebrate the creations of Robert E. Howard--all at a steep discount, and all currently on sale to support a great cause.

Get your copy of the Suicide Prevention Fundraiser from NUELOW Games from DriveThruFiction, DriveThruRPG, or RPGNow.

'The Werewolf Hunter #2' arrives in time to scare away 2013!

The second issue of NUELOW Games' horror anthology, The Werewolf Hunter, is now available for download. Like the first issue, it's got great horror comics rarities from the Golden Age (two adventures starring Prof. Armand Broussard, the Werewolf Hunter himself; one starring the mysterious Lade Satan; and one re-introducing "girl photographer" Gail Porter to the world), fiction (an all-new story from Angela Beegle, author of the Werewolves of Washington series; and a Robert E. Howard story with revisions by yours truly), and more systemless RPG content to bring variety to standard monsters in campaigns.

Click here to see previews and to get your own copy of The Werewolf Hunter #2.

(Re)Introducting 'Hawkshaw the Detective'

Every great artist, writer, or circus clown starts their career somewhere. In the case of Robert E. Howard, creator of the iconic fantasy character Conan and other great adventure fiction characters like Steve Costigan, Breckinridge Elkins, and El Borak (all of which are featured in e-books published by NUELOW Games), the start came with fan fiction.

In 1923, the young Robert E. Howard published two fan fictions inspired by Gus Mager's Hawkshaw the Detective comic strip in his high school newspaper. Mager, working under the penname Watso, had initiated the character as a Sherlock Holmes spoof named Sherlocko. The name-change to Hawkshaw came when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle threatened to sue Mager and his syndicate for copyright infringement. ("Hawkshaw" was a once-widespread American slang-term for "private detective" that fell out of vogue during the 1930s.)

"Hawkshaw the Detective" was published on and off from 1913 through 1947 when it met its final demise and faded into comic strip history. Modern readers will relate to Howard's Hawkshaw stories as spoofs of Sherlock Holmes rather than the fan fiction inspired by a Sherlock Holmes spoof that they are.

In another display of our deep love for writings of Robert E. Howard--Steve Miller for everything but a number of his Conan stories, L.L. Hundal for his humor stories--NUELOW Games offers one of those early fan stories, along with ROLF! game stats for the Great Hawkshaw and his sidekick Colonel Watso.

ROLF!: HAWKSHAW THE DETECTIVE

By L.L. Hundal

Hawkshaw the Detective (Male)

Brawn 14, Body 13, Brains 6

Traits: Nimble

Combat Maneuvers:  Basic Attack, Debate Philosophy, Disarm, Dodge, Run Away, Walk and Chew Gum

Important Items Worn/Wielded: Tweed Coat and Matching Deerstalker Hat (Clothes), Magnifying Glass (grants -1 modifier to Brain checks while searching for clews). Revolver (Small Ranged Weapon. Four Shots. Deals 3 points of damage that ignore armor).

Colonel Watso (Male)

Brawn 12, Body 10, Brains 4

Traits:  Honorable

Combat Maneuvers: Basic Attack, Disarm, Dodge, Strike Pose

Important Items Worn/Wielded: Howitzer (Large Ranged Weapon. One Shot. Deals 5 points of damage that ignore armor).

* - *

THE MYSTERY OF THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE

By Robert Ervin Howard

First published in The Tattler, the Brownwood High School paper, March 1, 1923.

Inspired by Gus Mager's Hawkshaw the Detective.

Hawkshaw, the great detective, was smoking a stogy reflectively when the Colonel burst into the room.

"Have you heard—" he began excitedly, but Hawkshaw raised his hand depreciatingly.

  "My dear Colonel," he said. "You excite yourself unduly: you were about to tell me that the Queen's necklace, valued at fifteen million shillings, was stolen from her boudoir and that so far Scotland Yard has found no trace of the thief although they have ransacked London."

  "You are a wonder, Hawkshaw," exclaimed the Colonel admirlingly. "How did you know that?"

  "Deduction, my dear Colonel," replied Hawkshaw, surreptitiously concealing the newspaper in which was a full account of the robbery.

  "Have you been to the palace?" he asked.

  "I have," was the reply. "And I brought the only clew to be found. This cigar stub was found just beneath the palace window.

  Hawkshaw seized the stub and examined it carefully. He stated, "The man who stole the necklace was a very tall, lank, gangling person, with very large feet and cross-eyed. He wears a number 5 hat."

  "Wonderful!" exclaimed the Colonel, "and how may I ask do you deduce that? How do you even know that a person who smoked that cigar stole the necklace?"

  "The stub is flattened on one side. That proves that its smoker had a large foot. He stepped on it and it would take a great deal of weight to even dent a cigar like that. I know that its smoker is the thief because it is a long stub and anyone who could stand one whiff of that cigar would smoke it entirely up. He would be that kind of man. He evidently dropped it in his haste to make his getaway."

  "But that hat? And his tallness and cross-eyes?"

  "Any man that would smoke a cigar like that would wear about a number 5 hat. As for the tallness and cross-eyes I will explain later."

  Just then there came a tap at the door. The Colonel opened it and an old man entered. He wore large green glasses, was a great deal stooped and had white hair and a long white beard.

  "You are the famous detective?" he addressed Hawkshaw. "I believe I have a clew to this theft. I passed along the opposite side of the street about the time the robbery was supposed to have taken place. A man jumped out of the palace window and walked rapidly up the street."

  "Umhum," remarked Hawkshaw, "what kind of man was this?"

  "He was about five feet tall and weighed perhaps three hundred lbs.," was the reply.

  "Umhum," commented Hawkshaw, "would you mind listening to my theory?"

  "I would be delighted," answered the old man as he seated himself in the best chair.

  "Well, then!" began Hawkshaw, rising and walking to the middle of the room so that he could gesture without knocking the table over. "At the time of robbery was committed a man was returning home from a fishing trip on the Thames. He carried a fishing pole on his shoulder and as he walked along he looked into the windows of houses he had passed while seemingly gazing straight ahead for he was very cross-eyed."

  Here the visitor started, but Hawkshaw went on, apparently oblivous. "The gentleman at last arrived in Windsor and passing the palace saw the necklace lying on the mahogany table. The window was open and though it was high off the ground he saw a way to get it. He was (and is) a very tall man and he had a long rod and line. Standing on tiptoes he made a cast through the window as if casting for trout. He hooked the necklace at the first throw and fled, dropping his cigar in his flight. He also stepped on the cigar. He eluded the police easily and thought to elude me by coming to me in disguise and seeking to divert suspicion in another direction."

  And with that Hawkshaw leaped upon the old man and gripped him by the beard and gave a terrific jerk. The old man gave a yell as he was jerked erect and yanked across the floor. Hawkshaw turned pale. He had made a mistake in identity? He placed a foot against the old gentleman's face and grasping the beard firmly in both hands gave another jerk. Something gave way and Hawkshaw and his victim sprawled on the floor, Hawkshaw holding in his hands the false beard and wig. While the impostor was trying to rise, encumbered by his long coat the detective sprang nimbly up and with great dexterity kicked the huge green glasses from his face.

  The "old man" was revealed as a tall, gangling man with huge feet and cross-eyes!

  “You're under arrest,” Hawkshaw said, advancing toward him with a pair of handcuffs.

  The man sprang to his feet and drew a glittering butter knife from his pocket. "I am a desperate man! Beware!"

  At that moment the Colonel recovered from his amazement enough to push the muzzle of a howitzer against the villain and he was soon handcuffed.

  "Call the police, Colonel," directed Hawkshaw, taking the necklace out of the fellow's pocket.

  "Curses!" hissed the villain, "tricked, foiled, baffled! Curses!"

"But, Hawkshaw," asked the Colonel a few hours later, after they had collected the enormous reward that had been offered for the recovery of the necklace. "But Hawkshaw, how did you know that was the man?"

"My dear Colonel," answered Hawkshaw as with a smile he lighted a stogy, "I smelt the fish on his hands."

The End

It's a Halloween Horror Sale!

Celebrate Halloween with NUELOW Games and some of the greatest horror classics you may never even have heard of!

All our PDF e-book horror fiction collections are just $1 between now and the Big Night of Monsters! (Sales ends at Midnight Pacific Time on October 31, 2012.)

Get one or get them all! Click on the titles for more information.

From the Dark Corners (Tales about ghosts, madmen, and more by Howard, Smith, Stoker, and Wells)

Horror for the Holidays (Tales of Christmas ghosts and Christmas killers by Harte, Hume, Lovecraft, Locke, Poe, and Wallace)

Names in the Black Book (Tales about murderers and dark magic by Howard and Miller)

Shadows of Dreams (Dark and darkly humorous poetry by Howard)

Shadows Over Texas ( Tales about ghosts and vampires by Howard)

White Fell (Tales about werewolves by Housman, Howard, and Miller)

Fiction: The Devil in the Dark, Part Two

We now continue our fiction serial. If you missed Part One, click here before reading this post.

And if you like what you read here, maybe you'd like White Fell and Other Stories, a collection of werewolf tales from NUELOW Games featuring the work of Housman, Howard, and Miller.

We hope you enjoy this offering. Please let us know what you think.

THE DEVIL IN THE DARK: A CASE FOR STEVE HARRISON 

 By Robert E. Howard & Steve Miller 

(Copyright ©2012 Steve Miller. All Rights Reserved.)

Part Two: The Cabin in the Woods

Jim Hong was lying face down in a pool of his own blood, his red-dabbled limbs sprawling drunkenly. He was dead.
Harrison rose from his crouch, shaking out and discarding the match. He thought that Jim hadn’t deserved a death like that—he had been a petty crook, but he had never made anyone suffer like he had suffered in his final moments. The detective gritted his teeth, looking at the surrounding forest that hid the thing that had killed him. That it was a man he knew; the outline, in the brief light of the muzzle flashes, had been vague, but unmistakably human. He also knew that it had been too slender of build to be Ku Chang eventhough Harrison wouldn’t put it past the diseased and psychopathic imagination of Chang to conceive of a weapon that could make a wound like the merciless champing of great bestial teeth. It meant there wasn’t just one killer lurking in these woods, but two.
Harrison weighed his choices. Should he risk his life further by continuing to Shen’s cottage, or should he return to the outer world and bring in men and dogs, to carry out poor Jim’s corpse, and hunt down his murderer? It only took moments for him to reach a decision. He had set out to perform a task, and if a murderous criminal besides Ku Chang were abroad in the piney woods, there was all the more reason for warning the men in that lonely cabin and all the more likelihood that it might serve as a lure to one or both of them. As for his own danger, he was already more than halfway to the cabin. It would scarcely be more dangerous to advance than to retreat.
So he left Jim Hong’s body there in the trail, and went on, gun in hand, and nerves sharpened by the new peril. Where he had been moving through the darkness  by choice before, he now did so without option. The flashlight’s malfunction might have been temporary, but when he had failed to locate it on the ground. After using five matches in the search, he decided to save the rest in the box and just brave the night. His reasoning for not keeping his flashlight on still remained—he didn’t want the light alerting his quarry. Either one of them.
His nerves on edge and all his senses heightened in their anticipation of danger, Harrison kept his calm by reviewing what he knew about the situation. Jim Hong had definitely not been killed by Ku Chang. Harrison had the dead man’s word for it that the attacker was a mysterious white man; the glimpse he had had of the figure had confirmed the fact that he wasn’t Chang. This man who had come at Harrison was tall and spare, while Chang was squat and muscular. And the face? Harrison couldn’t remember the face except for a possible falsh of white. It might have been bandaged as Jim had said, or might Harrison have seen a glimpse of monstrous fangs?
He swore under his breath as an involuntary shudder ran through him, causing his wounded shoulder to throb. Walking along a black forest trail with only the stars glinting through the dense branches, with the knowledge that any one of two ruthless murderers by be lurking within arm’s length in the concealing darkness, was bad enough without needing to spook himself further.
He dismissed all thoughts of monstrous fangs, but the recollection of the butchered Chinaman and his tortured screams burned vividily in his mind. Sweat beaded on his face and hands, and he wheeled a score of times, glaring into the blackness where his ears had caught the rustle of leaves or the breaking of a twig—how could he know whether the sounds were but the natural noises of the forest, or the stealthy movements of a killer?
Harrison stopped dead. Some distane away, through the black trees, he glimpsed a faint, lurid glow. It was not stationary; it moved, but it was too far away for him to make out the source. With his hair prickling unpleasantly he watched as the mysterious glow bobbed up and down and vanished.
“You damned idiot,” Harrison growled at himself. That light had been someone walking with a pine-knot torch, but he had let irrational fear seize him again, and he had stood there like a little child afraid of the dark and ghosts. That was probably Ku Chang that he had just let slip away.
Steeled by self-disgust, Harrison moved on, a little quicker that before. He was out of his element, and that was rattling his nerves, but this fear that kept seizing him was going to get him killed if he didn’t control it.
He saw the light of Kai Shen’s cottage gleaming through the pines. While he sighed with relief, he did not relax his vigilance. Many a man, danger-dogged, had been struck down at the very threshold of safety—because what appeared to be safety might be a trap; either one of the killers in the woods could have gotten here first. Knocking on the door, Harrison stood sidewise, shifting his gaze from the door to the shadows that ringed the tiny clearing and seemed to repel the faint light from the shuttered windows and back again.
“Who’s there?” came a deep harsh voice from within. “Is that you, Ashley?”
Harrison knew Ashley was Kai Shen’s man-servant. “No; it’s Steve Harrison—I’m a detective from the River Street Precinct. We met a couple of years ago. Open the door.”
The upper half of the door swung inward, and Kai Shen’s head and shoulders were framed in the opening. The light behind him left most of his face in shadow, but could not obscure the harsh gaunt lines of his features nor the gleam of the bleak black eyes.
“What do you want, at this time of night?” he demanded, his bruqueness seemingly heightened by his perfect and proper British accent.
“I came to tell you that it’s very likely that a dangerous criminal is nearby. He’s a Tong enforcer by the name of Ku Chang. This morning he killed two police officers and a shopkeeper I think you know, Ming Lee. He fled into the forest, and since he’s a superstitious sort, so I think he’s headed here so you can maie him a good luck charm. I thought you ought to be warned and—”
“Well, you’ve warned me,” he said, cutting Harrison off. “Now be off.”
“I have no intention of going back through those woods tonight,” Harrison answered coldly. “I came in here to warn you, but also because I think I can lay a trap for Chang here. If I stay the night—“
“That is out of the question,” Shen snapped. “I never admit strangers into my home, and if this Ku Chang shows up here, I assure you that I have the means to defend myself.”
Shen shifted behind his weight on his feet and Harrison realized that he couldn’t see the other man’s hands. “I’m not a stranger,” Harrison reminded him. “I’m also an officer of the law. I’m going to take out my badge and show you, so relax. See?”
Shen scowled at the small shield in Harrison’s hand. “Just because I’ve met you doesn’t mean I know you. And I don’t care that you’re a policeman. I know my rights as an American citizen, and I don’t have to let you into my house unless you have a warrant.”
“Fine. But— Can I at least ask you to help me clean and dress my shoulder?”
Shen lifted one of his hands to peel back Harrison’s torn jacket. From his shoulders, the detective guessed the other held something heavy—a weapon of some sort. Shen scowled again. “It is not that bad, but— Fine. I will help you, but then you will leave.”
“Sure. Whatever we can work out.” Harrison thought that once he was inside, he could speak with Shen’s servant, Ashley, and get an ally to help make his case in favor of him remaining here, at least for the night. “But let’s hurry. Ku Chang isn’t the only killer out there tonight.”
At that Shen halted in his fumbling at the lower door, and glared at Harrison. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a dead man a mile or so up the trail. The person who killed him tried to kill me. He may be after you, for all I know. The man he killed was guiding him here.”
Shen started violently and his face went livid. “Who—what man?”
“The dead man is Jim Hong; I doubt you knew him.”
“No! The killer!”
“I don’t know. A fellow who manages to rip his victims like a hound—”
“A hound!” The words burst out in a scream. “Ashley! Did you see Ashley out there?!”
“Ashley? No—isn’t he in the house with you?”
“No, you fool! He went to the city for supplies!” The change in Shen was hideous. His eyes seemed starting from his head and his skin was the hue of ashes. His lips drew back from his teeth in a grin of sheer terror. He gagged and then found voice. “You must have passed him in the forest!”
“Not if he was traveling by motor,” Harrison noted, gesturing to indicate the forest behind the cottage, and the road that lay somewhere beyond that.
“Find him! Bring him back here, or I will not admit you!” Shen shrieked.
“Now listen—“
“No!” Shen screamed. He brought his hands above the lower half of the door and Harrison was staring into the gaping muzzles of a sawed-off shotgun. “I know why you wanted to get into my house! You bloody devil! He sent you! You’re his spy! Get out of here!”
“You’re threatening an officer of the law, Shen,” Harrison growled. “This won’t end well for you.”
“Go before I kill you!” Shen shrieked, thrusting the shotgun forward.
“Be careful with that thing,” Harrison grumbled and stepped back off the stoop. He was well aware of what a close-range blast from that murderous implement of destruction could bring, and the livid, convulsed face behind those black muzzles promised sudden demolition. “I’m going. But don’t think you’ve heard the end of this, Shen. I’ll be back. Meanwhile, keep your doors and windows locked—I don’t want you getting killed before the judge has his way with you.”
Shen made no reply; panting and shivering like a man smitten with ague, he crouched over his shotgun and watched Harrison as the detective walked backwards across the clearing. Where the trees began, Harrison could have drawn his gun wheeled and shot Shen without much danger, for his .45 would out-range the old man’s shortened scatter-gun. But Harrison had come there to warn the fool, not to kill him. There was also the issue of the sound of gunfire scaring Ku Chang off—and it really would be more satisfying to see that idiot Shen up on some charges rather than dead.
When Harrison was close to the trees, he turned to the piney dark. As he did, the upper door slammed, and the stream of light was cut abruptly off. He walked a few paces into the forest, drew his gun, and leaned against a tree.
What now? He had beaten Chang here, so his hope of staging an ambush still stood. But was it still the best move? There was someone else in the area, someone who had asked to be led to Kai Shen’s cottage. Whoever it was, he was a killer even more brutal than Chang and someone who had filled Shen with a fear that bordered on insanity. He must have exiled himself to this lonely stretch of pinelands to escape this person. A person who he knew ripped victims to shreds like a savage dog.
But Shen hadn’t come into the woods alone. He had brought Ashley. Ashley might have the answers Shen was unwilling to give. Ashley might also be in danger, because if Shen’s reaction was anything to go by, whoever this person was, he was just as much after Ashley has he was Shen.
With a grunt, Harrison, righted himself and circled around the edge of the clearing, looking for the rutted path that connected the cottage with the highway. When he located it, he again strode into the darkness. As the faint light shining from the cabin’s shuttered windows vanished among the black trees, a curious, chill, sinking feeling obsessed me, as if the disappearance of that light, hostile as was its source, had severed the only link that connected this nightmarish adventure with the world of sanity and humanity.
Grimly taking hold of his nerves, he strode steadily on up the trail, trying to keep as close to its center as he could, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes and his ears pricking with every sound. At that point the branches interlaced over the trail, forming a black arch through which not even the stars gleamed. As he passed through this even deeper darkness, he heard a branch snap to his left.
Without conscious thought, he whippd his gun toward the sound and fired. The momentary burst of light from the gun’s muzzle revealed nothing but the rutted dirt road and the trees that lined it—and in its aftermath, Harrison saw phantom lights before his dazzled eyes and had the rapport ringing in his ears. But he was sure he heard no other sounds of movement; it must have been his imagination or a sound more remote than it had seemed.
Reminding himself that the gunfire could draw both Chang and the mysterious killer to his location, Harrison started moving again, a little quicker this time.
He reached the highway. There wasn’t much more light out of the forest as there had been in it, but Harrison found the clear view of the stars overhead and the dull sheen of the blacktop that stretched like a lifeline back to the city very, very comforting.
“Next time you get a bright idea like heading into the forest at night,” he grunted, “damn well stop and get a second opinion. At least don’t do it when your partner’s recovering from a bullet to the shoulder.”
Harrison began walking in the direction of the city, again keeping to the middle of the road. It seemed to him that his shoes were clicking on the blacktop with each step, but he knew that had to be his imagination—his relentless foe this night. But he felt fairly safe with his feet on the pavement that was his natural environment… and he knew that he would easily spot and shoot anyone who tried to charge at him from the woods.
He crested a small rise after which the road started a gradual decline to a bend that took it out of view. But in the distance he saw the lights of the city and the ships in the bay. His heart soared at that sight, and he promised himself that he would take his girlfriend Joan to every play, nightclub act and movie she wanted to see; every resteraunt she wantd to try; every art exhibit she wanted “experience” for the next year. Hell, he might even join her at one of those meetings or whateer it was that she had been going to in order to get more in touch with the Chinese side of her background. Likewise, whenever one of the detectives wanted to go for a drink after work, Harrison would not turn down the invitation. However this night ended, he knew that he was going to spent the foreseeable future appreciating everything glorious citylife had to offer. Even the bums, drunks, and grifters.
As he was making these vows to himself, Harrison heard the unmistakable sound of a car engine drawing closer, out of site as it climbed the hill from the city. Soon, twin shafts of light pierced the darkness, first illuminating treetops and then shifting and angling and vanishing moments moments later a pair of headlights appeared from around the bend in the road.
Harrison holstered his weapon and drew out his badge. He planted himself firmly in the vehicle’s path and held it out before him. As the car drew nearer, he shouted: “Police! Pull over!”
The vehicle slowed, and came to a stop. Harrison went to the driver’s side of the sedan and looked in. A square-faced, elderly white man in a dark fedora looked back. he recognized him to be Ashley. In the front seat next to him, much to Harrison’s surprise, was a young Chinese woman. Her dark eyes glittered by the dashboard lights under the broad brim of a hat not unlike one Joan only wore on special occasions.
“Ashley... Miss,” he said. “I am Steve Harrison, a detective with the River Street Precinct.”
“Another checkpoint?” asked the young woman, putting a slim, gloved hand on Ashley’s arm.
. “No, Miss. I came out here to warn Ashley’s employer about Ku Chang possibly heading for his cabin. There’s been a development, so I thought it best to stop you here on the road.”
“Is Mr. Sheng all right?” Ashley asked, his voice carrying a tone of apprehension rather than concern. Harrison also saw the inquisitiveness ebb from his countenance and horror grow there. It was clear to Harrison that he wouldn’t have to go into too many details; Ashley was obviously already concerned about danger to his master.
“Mr. Shen is fine for the moment,” Harrison said. “But I need to ride with you back to the cabin. And, pardon me, but who is the young lady with you?”
“She’s Mr. Shen’s niece.” The answer came tonelessly through dry lips. “Please, get in the car.”
Harrison opened the back door and slid into the car. He grunted at a painful twinge in his shoulder.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Harrison. I am Sarah Shen,” the young woman said, turning in her seat as Ashley set the car moving again. She continued in a cultured accent, “I’ve come down from—oh! You’re hurt!”
Harrison pulled his coat tighter, trying to cover the red that stained his white shirt. “It looks worse than it is. You’ve no reason to worry, Miss Shen.”
“My uncle will take care of you,” she said confidently and sweetly; it was a real struggle for Harrison to not make a bitterly sarcastic reply.
“Whatn was it you were saying about coming down from somewhere?” Harrison asked.
“I’ve come down from New York, because Uncle Kai wired for me to come to him at once—”
“I’ve seen the wire,” Ashley muttered. Harrison got the feeling that an argument was about to restart. “You showed it to me. But I don’t know how he sent it. He hasn’t been to the city, to my knowledge, in months.”
“And I can’t understand why the telegram was sent to me, instead of to somebody else in the family—”
“You were always your uncle’s favorite, Miss,” said Ashley. He turned the car onto the unpaved road leading to Shen’s cabin.
“We should all be blessed with such close relations,” Harrison said, hoping to disrupt the repeat. “But if Ashley wasn’t expecting you, it was awfully lucky that you should arrive on the very day Ashley was picking up supplies—and even luckier that you should happen upon each other."
“Oh, it wasn’t luck. Uncle’s telegram was quite specific in the train I should take. I was leaving the station and abot to hire a car when I saw Ashley coming out of the shipping office.”
“I always check to see if there are packages from the Master’s business interests abroad that I need to collect when I’m in the city,” Ashley muttered. “It’s always my last stop.”
“And you’re always very precise.” Sarah said cheerfully, patting his arm. “Uncle Kai knows that you’re like a Swiss clock when it comes to your routines.” She turned to Harrison and said: “Tell him there is nothing fantastic about me being in the train station at just the time to meet him.”
“I’d need to know a little more about the circumstances, Miss,” Harrison said distractedly, glancing out the window at the black forest, then back to the girl, to look past her at the dirt road being illuminated by the headlights. A large pine to the left stood out from his brothers, leaning drunkenly in the direction of the road; Harrison gathered that is what had blotted out the stars for a stretch as he was heading to the highway. Shen’s cabin was’t far .
“My uncle is a very clever man,” she continued. “He and Ashley have been together longer than  I’ve been alive, so it wouldn’t be difficult for him to arrange it so our paths crossed. He—”
Harrison noticed the sudden rush of movement to the car’s right. Ashley let out a startled cry. Something massive, like the fist of God Himself, shot out of the shadows and slammed onto the car’s hood. The windscreen blasted inward, showering the car’s inhabitants with glass.
The silence that followed was absolute.

To Be Continued...?

Fiction: The Devil in the Dark, Part One

Over the next few days, we're going to present a story revised from "The Black Hound of Death" by Robert E. Howard. We hope you'll enjoy it. Please let us know--that's what we have a comments section for!

(You can read more horror-tinged detective fiction by Howard (with revisions by Miller) in NUELOW Games's Names in the Black Book. Click here to see a preview, or to purchase and download a copy.)

THE DEVIL IN THE DARK: A CASE FOR STEVE HARRISON

By Robert E. Howard & Steve Miller
(Copyright ©2012 Steve Miller. All Rights Reserved.)

Part One: The Death of Jim Hong

There’s no blackness this side of Hell’s abyss as absolute as this, Detective Steve Harrison thought, as he groped along the narrow trail that wound through the densely timbered pinelands.

   He once again found himself entirely too far from his normal beat of Chinatown's River Street Precinct, and the darkess that pressed in around him as he clutched his unlit flashlight in one hand and his pistol in the other still filled him with a creeping dread that maybe there were unseen things lurking in that blackness; things that skulk in the deep shadows and shun the light of day; slinking figures that prowl beyond the edge of normal life. He had faced down drug-maddened Tong assassins, psychopathic killers, and even a crimelord reputed to be immortal, but the darkness of this lonely stretch of forest still filled his mind with vague fears.

   The trail Harrison followed was but a half-guessed trace winding between the walls of solid ebony. He went as hurriedly as he dared, with his ears whetted to knife-edge alertness. But there was stealth mingled with his haste, because he had reason to be wary beyond figments of his imagination. He listened for the snap of a twig under a great, splay foot, for any sound that would presage murder striking from the black shadows. The creature he was hunting, and which he feared might be hunting him, was more to be dreaded than any phantom.

   Earlier that day, Ku Chang, a Tong enforcer had chosen to fight rather than surrender to the law, leaving a ghastly toll of dead behind him. Every available officer and detective of the River Street District and neighboring preceincts had turned Chinatown upside down hunting for him, and all leads soon indicated that he had fled the city for the woody hills beyond.

   Down along the river, bloodhounds were baying through the brush and hard-eyed men with rifles were beating up the thickets. Harrison glanced toward the bobbing shafts of light that pierced the darkness while keeping his own electric torch turned off. The chief of police had directed the officers to focus their search on the river with the assumption that Chang would doubleback and follow the waterway to the sea and steal away on a boat.

   But Harrison was certain Ku Chang had a different goal in mind, because he was more familiar with the people of the River Street District than most of his fellow officers. So while the hunt flowed away in another direction, he plunged into the black forest alone, on a mission that was as much one of warning as of hunting.

   Six months ago, an elderly herbalist and rumored mystic named Kai Shen had quit Chinatown to move to a cabin within mazy pine labyrinth. Shen was reported to create exceptionally powerful good luck charms and Harrison knew that Chang was deeply superstitious like many other of the city’s Chinese. Given the manhunt he was trying to escapes, Chang was sure to seek one of Shen’s charms—and Harrison was certain that he would get get it over Shen’s dead body. If Harrison didn’t intercept Chang in the woods, he was hoping that he would beat him to Shen’s cottage and save the old man from death while putting six slugs in a vicious murderer.

   Harrison stopped dead, all thoughts of what might happen banished in favor of the immediate by sudden shriek that was edged with agony and terror. It came from somewhere ahead of him. Silence followed that cry, a silence in which the forest seemed to hold its breath and the darkness shut in more blackly still. Again the scream was repeated, this time closer. Then he heard the pound of feet along the trail, and a form hurled itself at him out of the darkness.

   He brought up his revolver as he flicked on the flashlight. He squinted against the harsh light and the only thing that kept him from pulling the trigger was the sounds the object was making—gasping, sobbing noises of fear and pain. It was a man, and direly stricken. He blundered full into Harrison, shrieked again, and fell sprawling, slobbering and yammering.

   The form cried out in Mandarin: “Oh, my God, save me! Oh, God have mercy on me!”

   In the pool of light Harrison stared down at blood-splashed body of a burly Chinaman. The hair stirred on Harrison’s scalp at the poignant agony in the gibbering voice and the terrible wounds on the man’s body. Blood jetted from torn veins and arteries in breast, shoulder and neck, and the wounds were ghastly to see, great ragged tears, that were never made by bullet or knife. One ear had been torn from his head, and hung loose, with a great piece of flesh from the angle of his jaw and neck, as if some gigantic beast had ripped it out with its fangs. He was dying, and only abnormal energy rising from frenzied panic could have enabled him to run as far as he had.

   “What in God’s name did this?” Harrison exclaimed. “A bear?”

   But even as he spoke, he knew that there had not been a bear in these woods for more than 30 years.

   The mauled man clawled weakly at Harrison’s knees and stared up at him, recognition dawning on his blood-smeared, contorted face. He moaned something in Mandarin.

   “Speak English, damn you!” Harrison growled, kneeling next to him.

   “Officer Harrison, keep him away! He kill my body, and now he wants my soul! It’s me— Jim Hong. Don’ let him get me!”

   Jim Hong?! The blood and grimace of pain had obscured the man's features, but Harrison recognized him now. He was a small-time crook who hung around the waterfront looking for drunks to roll and sailors to scam. He had occasionally helped Harrison by relaying information from within the insular Chinese community that he needed to put away more dangerous criminals. Harrison barked, “What are you doing out here?! What happened to you?!”

   “He did it!” Jim mumbled thickly, his hands twitching weaking in the flashlight’s harsh glare. “The white man come to me on the dock. He ask for guide to Master Shen’s house. He say he have tooth-ache, so he has head bandaged; but bandages slipped and I see his face—he killed me for seeing his face.”

   “He set dogs on you?” Harrison demanded, for as he looked closer the wounds reminded him of a case last year where a man had killed his wife in just that fashion—by trapping her with vicious junkyard dogs.

   “No, sir,” whimpered the ebbing voice. “He done it hisself— heeeaaggghhh!”

   The mumble broke in a shriek as Jim twisted his head, barely visible in the gloom, and stared back the way he had come. Death struck him in the midst of that scream, for it broke short at the highest note. He flopped convulsively once, and then lay still.

   Harrison checked to see if life had indeed left the prostrate form—but then he caught movement at the edge of the flashlight’s radiance. He brought the light up, but has he did, its light died with a sharp and sudden pop. He was plunged into an immediate darkness that seemed even more eternal than before. The silence was also complete; he couldn’t even hear the baying dogs down by the river.

   He was certain that he had seen a vague shape on the trail some yards away as the light went out. In his mind’s eye, he could still see it standing there—erect and tall like a man. He aimed his gun into the darkness, trying to sight along the barrel he could barely see at a target he could only envision. He opened his mouth to shout a challenge to the unknown person, but no sound came.

   A chill unlike anything he had ever experienced flowed over him, freezing his tongue to his palate and emptying his mind of all thought. It was fear, primitive and unreasoning, and as the longest seconds of his life passed, Harrison stood paralyzed. Years of police training, experience, and his naturally curious intellect brought a small degree of reason back to him, but it was an almost hysterical thought that did nothing to dispel his dread—what sort of devil had he half-glimpsed that should rouse such instinctive terror?!

   Almost without warning, whoever—or whatever—was upon him. The figure had closed soundlessly and it was only the ferocious snarl it uttered as it flung itself against Harrison that gave him a chance to react at all. He pulled the trigger on his gun—once, twice—almost involuntarily and without aim, and its flash dazzled his eyes, obscuring rather than revealing the tall man-like figure that struck at him.

   Then with a crashing rush through the trees, Harrison’s assailant was gone.

   The detective staggered to his feet and whirled to face the diminishing sound of breaking branches. He raised his gun to fire after the man—his analytical mind now once again in full force—but that’s when he became aware of the pain in his shoulder and the warm wetness on his chest.

   Harrison moved to a tree by the trail and squatted. He holstered his weapon and touched his chest and shoulder—his shirt was soaked through and his suit coat was quickly becoming so as well. He swore with anger and surpised pain  as he touched his wound through the shredded shoulder padding of his coat. He fumbled and eventually found a match in his vest pocket. He struck it and examined his injury in the frail light.

   It wasn’t as bad as it had seemed in the dark—another shirt and suit coat were ruined, but his shoulder wound was little more a couple of parallel scratches. But their arrangement caused another chill to sweep down his spine. The thing he had glimpsed, the thing that roused nameless fear in my mind, was the same thing that had killed poor Jim Hong and it had left its mark on Harrison as well. 

Click Here for Part Two: The Cabin in the Woods