Judge Pursuivant – The Complete Stories by Manly Wade Wellman

Book Details

Judge Pursuivant – These stories of Judge Keith Hilary Pursuivant pit him against werewolves, ghosts, possessed spirits and supranormal wildlife. Judge Pursuivant, “a man of great height and girth,” is a bulwark against the occult forces of evil.

The Hairy Ones Shall Dance (1938)
A novel of a hideous, stark horror that struck during a spirit séance—a tale of terror and sudden death, and the frightful thing that laired in the Devil’s Croft
Foreword

1. “Why Must the Burden of Proof Rest with the Spirits?”
2. “Yon Can Almost Hear the Ghosts.”
3. “That Thing Isn’t My Daughter-“
4. “I Don’t Know What Killed Him.”
5. “They Want to Take the Law into Their Own Hands”

Part 2

6. “Eyes of Fire!”
7. “Had the Thing Been So Hairy?”
8. “A Trick that Almost Killed You.”
9. “To a Terrified Victim He Is Doom Itself
10. “Blood-lust and Compassion.”

Part 3

11. “To Meet that Monster Face to Facer
12. “We Are Here at His Mercy!’
13. “Light’s Our Best Weapon
14. “I Was—I Am—a Wolf”
15. “And That Is the End “

The Black Drama (1938)
A strange weird story about the eery personality known as Varduk, who claimed descent from Lord Byron, and the hideous doom that stalked in his wake
Foreword

1. Drafted
2. Byron’s Lost Play
3. Enter Judge Pursuivant
4. Into the Country
5. Jake’s Story

Part 2

6. The Theater in the Forest
7. Rehearsed
8. Pursuivant Again
9. Davidson Gives a Warning
10. That Evening

Part 3

11. Battle and Retreat
12. Return Engagement
13. The Black Book
14. Zero Hour
15. “Whither? I Dread to Think—”

The Dreadful Rabbits (1940)
One hardly thinks of rabbits as murderous wild beasts, and yet—

The Half-Haunted (1941)
Would YOU laugh if something followed you all around your home-something cold and sneaky, that wasn’t even there when you turned your head?

The last two stories in this collection make reference to Dr. Jules de Grandin, and his friend and fellow scholar of the occult, Dr. Trowbridge. These two characters were the occult detectives popularized by Seabury Quinn, a great friend of Wellman’s.

Manly Wade Wellman (1903–1986) was born in the village of Kamundongo in Portuguese West Africa (now Angola), where his father was stationed as a medical officer. He spoke the native dialect before he learned English, and became an adopted son of a powerful chief whose vision Dr. Wellman restored.

Judge Pursuivant – The Complete Stories  contains 7 illustrations.

Files:

1. Wellman-JudgePursuivant.epub

Excerpt – The Half-Haunted

FOR six months Judge Pursuivant had intended to visit that old dwelling with the strange history, but Judge Pursuivant often has trouble finding time to do what he most wants. The fall passed, the winter came. He spent Christmas, not very joyfully, helping the widow of a friend repossess some property at Salem. New Year’s Eve found him at Harrisonville, where de Grandin and Towbridge wanted his word on translating certain old Dutch documents better left untranslated. Heading west and south toward his home, he passed Scott’s Meadows. And, though it was nearly dark and snowy, he could not resist the opportunity to visit Criley’s Mill then and there.

A druggist on the little main street gave him directions. The judge drove up a steep ill-paved road, then between hills crowned with naked trees. Eventually he came to an old quarry road and followed it to here, across a rapid brown brook, a creaky bridge led to the place.

By the last rays of the sun, he decided he had either come the wrong way or come too late.

He had heard of a tall, gaunt building, the ruins of a mill house—a place two hundred years old, that looked two thousand. This was almost the opposite—quite new, of brown shingles, low and rambling, with a screened porch and wide windows. The place should have been cheerful, but it was not.

Pursuivant drove across, got out and knocked at the door. Snow began to shimmer down. Lights went on in the front room, and a man opened the door. He was small and slim, with a gray forelock and a lined, shrewd face, reminiscent of the late Will Rogers. He wore a smoking jacket and slippers.

“Yes?” he half challenged.

“Excuse me,” replied Pursuivant, hunching his massive shoulders, “but is this Criley’s Mill? The haunted house?”

“Haunted?” echoed the man on the threshold. “Why, I—I don’t know.”

There seemed to be only one thing to say. Pursuivant shook snowflakes from his tawny mustache and said it: “I’m sorry to have troubled you. I seem to have made a mistake.”

At once the other changed his manner. “Oh, no, sir. No mistake. This was the place. You see, I built where Criley’s Mill was—just finished and moved in on Thanksgiving—look here, won’t you come in? I’m sorry if I was abrupt. Just nerves. I didn’t know who might be coming to my door—so far away from everything—”

His gaunt little hand caught at Pursuivant’s big one. “Come in, sir. Or—wait. It’s putting on to snow. I’ve got a double garage around back. Want to slide your car in with mine? Then we’ll have a drink. Maybe a bite to eat.”

He wanted Pursuivant to stay. The judge gazed at him with big blue eyes, deceptively innocent. Then he nodded and said, “Thanks. I’ll be very glad to stay.”

AFTER stowing the car, he returned through the snow. The little man still waited at the door to usher him in. “What did you say your name was?”

The judge had not said, but he replied, “Pursuivant. Judge Keith Pursuivant. I’m interested in haunted houses.”

“And I’m Alvin Scrope—country editor, retired, bachelor.” They were in the front room now, a room designed to answer a man’s prayer for comfort. It had cushioned furniture, thick rugs, bright pictures, plenty of light, a shelf of books. But, as outside, the cheer was somehow lacking. “You’ll have to pardon me,” said Alvin Scrope. “My house boy left here New Year’s eve, and I’m running the place alone for a day or so.”

From a side table he lifted a bottle of scotch and a syphon. Mixing two highballs, he gave one to Pursuivant. “Snow’s coming down harder. You’d better plan to stay the night.”

Pursuivant laid aside overcoat and black hat. “You are very kind,” he said, wondering why he had been half-rebuffed at first, then almost wheedled into entering. Alvin Scrope dabbed at his forelock. “Yes, sir,” he said, trying to sound hearty, “I built this right where the old mill stood. How d’you like it?”

The judge fitted his big body into an armchair, and sipped. “I don’t quite know yet. I’ve only come. How do you like it yourself, Mr. Scrope?”

Another dab at the forelock. “To tell the truth, I don’t know either.” He, too, drank before continuing. “Maybe because I’ve never had a place of my own before. And I’ve been used to working, always on the go with my paper—now I’m a little lost with all the slack time on my hands. You know how that is. But when I first saw the spot, with the ruined mill and all, stuck away here, I thought it was as nice a building site as I’d ever heard of.”

“I’ve been told a little about the mill and its legend,” ventured Pursuivant, rummaging a pocket for his pipe. At once his host began the tale, as Pursuivant had hoped:

“The place, I understand, was built before the War of Independence. It was owned and run by a man named Criley. He had a wife, a son and a daughter.”

“Mind if I take notes?” asked Pursuivant, producing notebook and pen. “Go on, Mr. Scrope.”

“Well, the war came. The miller and his son joined Washington’s army. The British took New York, and there was a long, hard scrap to see whether they’d stop there or take the rest of the country, too.”

PURSUIVANT nodded. He knew that dark, desperate phase of his nation’s history. After the first disaster to American arms, the fighting had taken on the somber complexion of raids, ambuscades, betrayals. Considerable savagery on both sides. Nathan Hale and John Andre—two fine gentlemen—hanged like felons. Thousands of other tragedies. All the New York area—including this”“part of New Jersey—stuck full of grim deeds, giving rise to creepy tales.

Scrope went on:

“New York had quite a few Hessian soldiers stationed around—hired to fight the Americans, you know.”

Again Pursuivant nodded. His Virginia ancestor had followed Washington in the battle of Trenton. “The Hessians weren’t very fierce fighters,” he commented.

“There was an exception to that rule,” Scrope declared pithily. “Still taking notes, Judge?—I can’t tell you this particular Hessian’s name, but it comes down in the story how he looked. Big as you, I figure. Burly. He was a famous hunter back home in Germany. Maybe a criminal, joining the army to escape— Anyway, he could beat the Americans at their own game of hunt and shoot.”

“That’s hard to believe,” rejoined Pursuivant. “Some of Washington’s men were hard-set old Indian fighters.”

“This Hessian outdid the Indians. He’d strip naked—even in winter—and paint himself like a Mohawk and sally out to kill. He was a dead shot, and a devil with sword or hatchet or knife.” Scrope paused to bite the end off a cigar. “He could track or stalk anything, and he’d fight two soldiers at a time. Sometimes more. He raided farms and murdered civilians, even women and children. Quite a score he ran up.” Scribbling in his book, the judge could see in his mind one of those fancy-portraits so often vivid—a naked colossus, streaked with red and black, a heavy-boned face, thick, pale brows over slitted eyes. A belt stuck full of weapons. Had the Hessian looked like that? Pursuivant filled his pipe and thrust it under his mustache. “Go on,” he prompted.

“The two women left here at the mill hated and feared that Hessian. They plotted against him. Pretended to be British sympathizers, and scraped an acquaintance.”

“That was nervy of them,” commented the judge. His mind’s eye showed him new pictures. Probably the daughter made the overture—buxom, rosy-cheeked on a chill afternoon, she managed to encounter the man of blood on a country lane. The Hessian would be a heavy-handed gallant. His broad, tough face grinned admiringly. The rural beauty, trying not to tremble, would venture a return smile, a curtsey.

“They invited him to dinner,” Scrope continued. “He put on his best uniform—” Strange that Hessian butcher would look in full dress—white small-clothes and gaiters modelling his brawny legs, the red coat with white facings and shiny buttons cramping his barrel torso. How out of place the powdered hair, the tall grenadier cap! But Scrope was getting on to the climax:

“When he sat down at the table, one of the women — mother or daughter, the stories disagree—stuck a serving knife into his back. They got rid of the body somehow—walled it up or buried it in the cellar. But the spirit returned.”

Excerpt From: Manly Wade Wellman. “Judge Pursuivant – The Complete Stories.”