Fantastic (magazine)/Volume 8/Number 1/Last Laughter

by Robert Chase

Do you know a prac- tical joker? Hate him? Here's a good way to get even.

LAST LAUGHTER By ROBERT CHASE

THE instant their hands met, there was a sudden loud staccato buzz, and the thin, nervous-looking man jerked his hand back as if it had been bitten. He stepped back, rubbing his palm, and glared at the other man angrily. "Same old Larry," he murmured.

Larry, who was a heavy set man with curly black hair, laughed loudly and clapped the other on the shoulder. "You fell for it, kid!" he said, showing the spring-operated buzzer in his hand. "Still the same old Jim Sadler! Remember the time in school when I sent the principal that note, and I forged your handwriting? Oh God," he said, laughing. "Remember that?"

"Yes. I was nearly expelled for that."

"That's right! By God, that's right! I'd nearly forgotten that." He eyed Sadler appreciatively, enjoying their reminiscence. "Say, what are you doing in town?"

"I've been transferred," Sadler said. "I'm with the Consolidated Bank, you know, and the manager here—Phil Evans—is due to retire next year. I guess this is my break," he grinned. "In the meantime, I'll be in the accounting department."

"Well, how about that?" Larry said, looking the other man up and down. "Come to stay, huh? I'll have to get the welcoming committee out. Show you a good time. Well, you can count on me." He winked, and patted the pocket which held his hand buzzer. "This may be a dead-looking burg, but I can make it jump."

"I'll bet you can," Sadler said. "But don't go to any bother on my account." He looked worried. "Please," he added.

"Aw, nuts," Larry said. He fished a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. "Look, where are you staying?"

"At the Regina Hotel," Sadler said. "Until I find a place." He took a cigarette from Larry's pack and lit it.

"Well, look, I'll pick you up at eight tonight and we'll do the town. How about it?" Larry asked. He was watching Sadler curiously.

"No. Sorry," Sadler said. "I've got to be careful about late hours and such. Doctor's orders." He patted his chest, and smiled weakly. "Bad heart murmur. I've got to avoid any kind of strain. I shouldn't even be smoking this cigarette, in fact." He puffed on it and inhaled cautiously.

"Aw, nuts. You'll outlive us all," Larry said, watching him. "I'll pick you up at eight."

"Uh-uh," Sadler said, shaking his head. Then, as he drew the cigarette to his mouth again, it exploded in his face. There was a loud bang and a puff of smoke, and Sadler jerked back, gasping. He dropped the cigarette, which was in shreds, to the sidewalk. Larry was roaring.

"Oh God!" he howled, slapping his thigh. "Oh my God, you should see the look on your face! It's priceless!"

Sadler leaned back against the wall of the building. His face was pale and he looked a little sick. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face with it.

"Oh, man," Larry said, his pudgy face beaming. "You all right? You look a little upset, boy. Something happen?" And he burst out laughing again.

"Look," Sadler said in a weak voice. "I can take a joke all right. But I just finished telling you about my heart. You shouldn't do things like that Larry."

"Aw, nuts. We all got to have a few laughs. Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

"No thanks," Sadler said. "Look, Larry, I've got some things to do. I'll see you around." He nodded, his face still pale and shaken, then turned and walked away. Larry stood watching him, shaking his head slowly, a grin still on his lips.

Three days later, Jim Sadler was picked up by the police and questioned. They'd received several telephone reports from irate men who stated that either their daughters or their wives had been molested by this newcomer, Jim Sadler. They were surprised to see that he was a timid, nervous little man; and this, coupled with a character reference from his employer, convinced them that the charges were false. When they started investigating the men who had made the phone calls, they found they couldn't locate any of them by the names they'd given. It was all just a practical joke, they decided. Jim Sadler agreed. But when they asked him if he had any idea who might have done it, he said no. "I wouldn't want to cause any trouble without being sure," he said. But the incident had obviously upset him. His face was strained and drawn-looking, the lines seeming deeper than usual.

The next time Larry and Sadler met, Sadler was eating supper alone in the hotel dining room. Someone tapped him on the left shoulder. He turned, but no one was there. When he turned to his right, Larry's face jumped out at him with a loud "Boo!" startling him so much he spilled some of his soup.

Larry laughed, and took a seat opposite him. "You're a barrel of fun, boy," he said, beaming. "How's it going?"

Sadler wiped up the soup he'd spilled with his napkin, trying to maintain his dignity.

"Hello, Larry," he said. He didn't say it with much enthusiasm.

"Say, anything wrong? You don't look so good."

"I'm a little tired," he admitted. He smiled. "Breaking into the new job, you know." Then he stopped smiling, and his face became drawn and strained again. "Also, some joker's been giving me a bad time—phoning reports to the police that I've been molesting women in the park."

"You!" Larry said, delighted. "Oh brother, that's a good one!" He laughed, then looked at Sadler slyly. "I wonder who could have done such a thing?"

Sadler lowered his eyes to his plate. He hadn't eaten anything since Larry had arrived.

"What are you here for?" he asked, not looking up.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," Larry said. "Just dropped in to see how you're getting along." He stood up. As he left, he patted Sadler on the back. "You won't find this place dull!" he promised. Sadler winced.

One week later, Mr. Evans called Sadler into his office. He showed him a letter he'd received, saying that Sadler was an alcoholic and could not be a worthy successor to the managership of the bank. The letter was unsigned.

Sadler denied the charge vehemently, and he said he strongly suspected that this was another practical joke, like the reports to the police earlier. Mr. Evans agreed that it was either a joke or a crank letter; but he said that, despite the injustice in it, the bank could not afford to have as manager a man about whom vicious rumors were circulating. He said there might be other such letters going to the important tradespeople in town. Whether or not they were true, they must be stopped—or the bank could not possibly consider giving Sadler the job. It was simply a matter of business.

Sadler told Mr. Evans he would look after it, and he left. But he did not know what to do. He worried about it for the rest of the day, getting hardly any work done. Then, at five o'clock, he telephoned Larry.

As usual, Larry was full of cheer. "Good to hear from you, pal," he said. "What's up?"

"Larry, I've got to talk to you. This is pretty serious." Sadler hoped his voice didn't betray his uneasiness. He didn't know how to deal with Larry. He never had, since the early days when they were in school together, and Larry had always picked him as the butt of his jokes and pranks.

"Look, Larry, can I see you tonight?"

"Sure thing, pal, what's the trouble? You haunted? Say, that reminds me—you found any ghosts in that room of yours yet? It really is haunted, you know. A guy died in that room."

"No, Larry, it's something else. When can I see you?"

"I don't know. You name it."

"Eight o'clock?"

"Okay. Drugstore across from the hotel, all right?"

"Fine. I'll see you there."

They hung up.

Larry was peering in through the window of the hotel when Sadler came down the stairs. He watched Sadler leave his key at the desk, then head for the door. Larry sank back into the shadows, holding his parcel close to him. When Sadler had crossed the street and entered the drugstore, Larry ducked into the hotel. He walked up to the desk.

"Jim Sadler and I are going out tonight—he's just making a phone call now—and he asked me to leave this up in his room. Would you give me his key? Room 7."

The clerk handed him the key, and Larry climbed the stairs hurriedly. Inside Sadler's room, he switched on the lights, found the mirror behind the door, then opened his parcel and took out several tubes of theatrical make-up. He applied the colors to his face—deep black under his eyes, white on his lips, luminous green on eyelids and temples—until he had made a horrible death mask of his face. He grinned at himself in the mirror—it was a ghoulish grin—then turned off the light and hid in the closet to wait.

About ten minutes later, Sadler could be heard climbing the stairs. He stopped for a moment outside his room, then pushed the unlocked door open. He walked in, switched on the light, then went to the chair and sat down. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

He sat quietly for several minutes, smoking his cigarette. Finally he stood up and, as if a thought had occurred to him, walked over to the closet. He put his hand on the knob to open it. Larry was ready.

As soon as the door came open, Larry let out a blood curdling scream and toppled forward out of the closet. He reached his hands out towards Sadler, who was falling away from him, and grasped him by the throat. Together, they fell on the bed. Before Sadler could recognize who it was, Larry pulled a sheet over his face, blinding him, and then dashed out of the room.

Sadler was lying on the bed, clawing jerkily at the sheet over his face. The sheet slid off. His face was contorted in agony. The eyes were opened very wide and staring up at the ceiling. They did not move or blink, but held rigidly still, as if paralyzed—the only movement was in the eyelids, which were fluttering slightly.

His body was lying crookedly on the bed, and his legs were kicking, knocking his feet about on the floor, as if he were trying to get up. He kept his hands clutched to his chest, just over his heart.

Finally he rolled off the bed and was on his knees on the floor. Rising to his feet was an agonizing effort; his mouth wrenched open in pain, and saliva was running down his jaw. When he was standing up, he moved towards the door; then out to the stairway.

"Oh my God," the desk clerk said, looking up at him. He watched the figure poised grotesquely at the top of the stairs, trying to make the first step down, trying with a certain determination, as if it must go someplace, must find something. The clerk wondered for a moment if the figure was trying to follow the other strange, ghoulish creature who had just run out the door a minute or so earlier. Then the figure lurched, and toppled headlong down the stairs, helplessly. The body banged and crashed its way down, knocking against the railing, until it reached the bottom. The clerk rushed over to it. It was lying quite still now. The head was twisted at an impossible angle on the neck, and the eyes, staring upwards, were lifeless.

"Oh God above," the clerk whispered. "It's Mr. Sadler. Dead."

Back at his apartment, Larry washed the make-up off his face. He was still chuckling to himself. When he had got the make-up off, he sat down at his desk—and after a moment or two he took out a piece of paper and a pen. He began writing sample signatures on the paper, trying now one style of writing, now another.

After a few minutes, he stopped and looked behind him, as if there were someone watching over his shoulder. Then he shrugged, and went back to his practicing.

A few seconds later, he stopped and looked around again. He peered around the room; yet everything was in order, everything was as it always was.

He kept very still, and listened. But there was no sound, except for his own breathing, and his own heartbeat.

He shrugged again, and turned back to the desk.

He signed the name "Phillip Evans." It looked good; and this would probably come in handy some time. Just below it, he signed, in a different handwriting, "James Sadler."

He shivered then, and got up to close the window. He found the window already closed. He whirled around, and looked very carefully at every detail of the room. Nothing was changed. Except, perhaps . . .

Moonlight was streaming in through the window and it fell, in the rectangular shape of the window frame, on the door to his closet. This made the closet door shine and stand out from everything else. Did the moonlight always land there? Larry stood quietly, staring at the closet door, as if he could look through it and see what was standing inside, waiting. He stood that way for several minutes.

Finally he went back to his chair, moving very quietly and cautiously, and keeping his gaze fixed on the closet door. He sat down, facing the door.

Perhaps because he had stared so hard at it for so long, the door seemed to be slightly more open now than it had been. Then he looked at how it fitted in the jamb, and saw there had been no change. Again, he shrugged. But he did not turn back to the desk.

He cleared his throat. The sound was surprisingly loud, but it seemed reassuring. But in a moment, the deathly silence filled the room again, and Larry made no further sounds.

With sudden determination, he stood up, walked to the closet door, and flung it open.

He gasped, "No." But he could not move away.

The figure in the closet took a step forward. The face was contorted, the eyes bulging out, and it had a look of terrific strain on it. The mouth was pulled open; and the lines in the face cut deeply into the flesh, which was bloodlessly pale, dead. As it lurched forward from the closet, the mouth seemed to curl up in a hideous laugh.

Larry opened his mouth, but now he could not even speak. He stood still, frozen, as the figure drew up to him silently and reached up for his throat. He stared fascinated at the face as it began to bob up and down in laughter—laughter which was utterly soundless—and the icy cold fingers tightened on his throat.

THE END

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