HEARTTHROB Read Online Free

with matted hair and three bulbous eyes... and yellow teeth
surrounding a mouth which seemed to breathe fire...
    Malcolm Hatch screamed, the pipe dropping from his open mouth.
Shaking his head, he found that the vision was gone, the day was
still bright — and there on the sidewalk was his pipe, broken in two
pieces at the stem. The first test of the powder had its results, he
thought to himself.
    As did the times which followed, these experiments made in the
comfort of Malcolm's own apartment. Each time, the horrible vision
would appear along with the sulfur smell. Each time his cry would
expel the pipe from his mouth, not however breaking the instrument as
before. And yet, as effective as the black powder seemed to be,
Malcolm was not satisfied. In spite of the fact that he had taken no
inhale of tobacco smoke in all his attempts, the fact was that he
still wanted that smoke — he craved it.
    He had his ideas about what the stuff was. Some
kind of hallucinatory drug, like LSD or something like that, one
which threw a real scare into the person who inhaled its fumes after
touching a match to the powder. It had worked, yes, but what really
was required was to scare him from wanting to light that pipe
again. A larger dose, perhaps....
    He recalled the tobacconist's warning, of course but thought that the
warning had been given only to make sure that no one with a weak
heart tried to frighten himself too much. Well, Malcolm didn't have a
weak heart, and then too he knew what the stuff really was. Thus it
was that perhaps he overdid the additional amount of the powder he
placed into the wooden bowl. Making sure that he was seated
comfortably, he struck the match and brought it closer —
    The flash within the room was as if lightning had struck, the
sulfuric stench burning Malcolm's nostrils as if he were inhaling a
real fire. And the thing congealing in the waves of air around him...
It was the same beast with the horrible smell and terrifying face as
before. As it came closer, Malcolm shrank back into his chair, vowing
never again to use so much of the stuff. Hallucination or not, this
really was frightening.
    It was when the dark green something placed a hairy claw on Malcolm's
trembling arm that he knew. His cry was short since Valefar, having
been called from the beyond for just a little while, was in a hurry
to feed...
    Ah, I see you smoke a pipe. Please,
in the humidor on the table you'll find something I think you'll
agree is quite different. I have this tobacconist friend who is an
expert at delicate blends. True, he dabbles in black magic, but he
keeps his two vocations completely separate for the most part.
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CARAFE OF A CORPSE
The story of
Durwood Beech
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    In
order for any large organization to run smoothly there must be both
leaders and followers. The pity is that, often, a follower such as
Durwood Beech, even though he has neither the talent nor the wish to
put in the long hours of toil necessary to succeed as a leader, still
aspires to that success. It can lead to all sorts of
unpleasantries... even death. Such was the case with Durwood Beech.
    It was not so much Mr. Mulgrave's job that
Durwood Beech wanted. It was what went with the job. The pretty
secretary, the office with its sofa and chairs
of leather and old wood, and wide expanse of antique desk, the lush
deep purple carpet... the things, in other words, which would
accrue to Durwood Beech if it were he and not Mr. Mulgrave who held
the high-sounding title of general manager. Perhaps it was the silver
carafe, though, which came to symbolize for Durwood all that he was
not and all that his superior was.
    It was a lovely thing. Old, yes, but carefully polished so that each
tune Durwood was summoned into Mr. Mulgrave's presence, the light
from its bright surface immediately brought the carafe to Durwood's
immediate and rapt attention. Many times he found himself staring at
it — there on the corner of the baroque credenza of