Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 100 - The Headless Men

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THE HEADLESS MEN
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. UNNATURAL HORROR
? Chapter II. ONE HEADLESS MAN
? Chapter III. LONG TOM IS TRAPPED
? Chapter IV. THE FIRST EXTORTION
? Chapter V. STUMPP SAYS HE’S STUMPED
? Chapter VI. TRAP!
? Chapter VII. LYNDA APPEARS
? Chapter VIII. AN UNANNOUNCED VISITOR
? Chapter IX. BLAST A LA HINDENBERG
? Chapter X. A CLEAN-UP FOR EVIL
? Chapter XI. ESCAPE FROM DEATH
? Chapter XII. A DESERT TRAP
? Chapter XIII. THE HEADLESS LEGION
? Chapter XIV. THE FRIGHTENED DICTATOR
? Chapter XV. THOUGHTS OF THE HEADLESS
? Chapter XVI. DOC MARKED FOR DEATH
? Chapter XVII. REVOLT OF THE HEADLESS
? Chapter XVIII. KILLER STRIKES BACK
? Chapter XIX. MONK RIGHT FOR ONCE
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. UNNATURAL HORROR
IF Needlenose Swenson had not encountered the drunk, the terror of the headless men might have run
unchecked a good deal longer than it did.
Enough people died as it was. Even before the first corpse was known, there was horror where the
headless death got its start. The thing wasn’t known by that name at the time, of course; wasn’t known at
all.
But there was the feel of something awful in the long laboratory of Professor Norgrud L. Watts.
There was also something menacing in the type of men Watts had about the building. At a glance, they
seemed to suggest the police records that they later turned out to have.
The first time that anything really unusual took place was early in the day that Needlenose Swenson
encountered the drunk.
It was early fall. Needlenose was burning leaves out in back of the administration building. The Stumpp
Electrical Co., in New Jersey, did not have an incinerator. Needlenose just raked leaves and rubbish
together and burned them in a heap.
"Whew!" somebody yelled from a window. "Swenson must have got a dead rat in his rakings."
Then, some more observant person took a careful sniff of the smoke coming from Needlenose
Swenson’s pile of rubbish.
"Ain’t there; seems to come from Norgrud Watts’ laboratory," the observant worker whispered to his
benchmate.
Norgrud Watts! That observation was whispered up and down the production lines in the Stumpp
Electrical Co. Nobody knew what to expect of Watts. Nobody even cared to guess what might be going
on. But they all talked, because they didn’t like Watts and his experiments.
It is remarkable how some blatant fear can go on and mount without any official notice being taken of it.
So many things that really are important can get put down as mere idle gossip. But the fear goes on, like
steam boiled in a kettle with the lid tied down. If that lid blows off soon enough, often good can result.
In the Stumpp Electrical Co., it just simmered. That particular September night, employees avoided the
laboratory of Norgrud Watts as they walked toward the big gates on Third Street. Employees who were
not forced to go near, usually gave that long, gaunt building a wide berth.
There were too many rumors of unnatural horror that went on within that drab building. There were
many, undoubtedly, which were without foundation.
But no one in that plant, as the workers left for home that night, had any idea of the horror that was to
come with the men who had no heads.
As the last of the day force straggled out from the gates of the Stumpp Electrical plant, a sleek and
powerful sedan crept up toward the factory. It halted a few feet from the main gate.
The man who emerged was huskily built. He was tall and lean and had the shoulders of a boxer. The jaw
was too outthurst for the man to be called handsome. But his most remarkable quality was the color of
his eyes. They were yellow; incredibly yellow.
The lean man was furtive in the quick twists of his shoulders. He peered into the main gate which still
remained open. The vast yards were practically empty. Only a skeleton night force remained inside the
plant. Soon they would close the gates and lock them until starting time the next day.
Yellow Eyes got back in his car. The motor growled in a powerful purr as he whipped the machine into
the yard. As he turned, it could be seen that a passenger rested in the seat beside the driver.
A cop would have been suspicious had he been able to closely examine that recumbent figure. The man
seemed to be sleeping. Obviously, he did not belong in the expensive sedan. His clothes looked as
though they had been slept in for months. Half an inch of stubble decorated a chin that could not even be
seen. He was unkempt and dirty. Probably a bum who might have been picked up from a gutter in the
Bowery.
It turned out later that he had been picked up in just such a place.
The yellow-eyed driver roared his big car to the long rambling building so avoided by the employees of
the electrical plant. A sign on the door said, "Experimental Laboratory of Dr. Norgrud L. Watts. Danger.
Keep out."
Yellow Eyes grunted in what sounded like pleasure. He hauled his passenger to the ground.
That motion awakened the sleeper.
"Washa matter?" the bum demanded, waving his arms about wildly. "Washa wanna do now?"
An expression of contempt and brutality spread over the face of the driver. A low growl crawled from his
throat. Then his fist flashed upward. There was a crack like the snap of a whip. The bum immediately
resumed his sleeping position.
"Filthy drunk," the yellow-eyed one grated. Then the sound of leather crunching on gravel made him twist
quickly around. With obvious haste, he hauled the bum through the door into the long building. In another
second he was outside again, smiling at the attendant who ambled toward the sedan.
"Afternoon, Mr. Dedham," the attendant greeted him. "Take your car for you?"
Wings Dedham turned his most cordial smile on the attendant. Wings liked to be addressed with respect.
He had grown accustomed to respect when he had been a famous transport flier. After that he had been
a well-known radio technician for a major air line. But a set of stolen plans for a new substratosphere
ship had cost Wings Dedham his job—his job and all of his reputation. Wings had been grounded.
"Leave the car here," he said shortly. "I’m going to need it."
Yellow eyes glowed strangely as the grounded flier turned back toward the laboratory. They were not
unlike the baleful eyes of a jungle cat about to spring upon its prey.
INSIDE the building, another figure had seen the unconscious drunk. At first, he had been puzzled. A
man sleeping off a drunk in the corridor of Norgrud Watts’ laboratory was not something he had
expected.
The new arrival in the corridor wore a linen duster and a cap that said "Janitor." His most prominent
feature was an astounding proboscis. It was just about the size and shape of a man’s forefinger.
There was little question as to the merit of the nickname of Needlenose Swenson. The skinny,
watery-eyed janitor also insisted on sticking that remarkable nose into everything going on in the plant.
Needlenose considered himself no end of a detective. He had books on it. Pamphlets were stacked in his
room. Needlenose was waiting only for one sensational break to prove that he had entered a profession
beneath him.
He did not at first think the drunk was connected with such an important event. He leaned over the bum
in disgust. "Yah," he snorted. "Ay tank you go now."
He moved to grab the recumbent figure. The grating voice of Wings Dedham stopped him.
"Leave him alone, squarehead!" Wings snarled. "I’ll let him sleep it off. You mind your own business."
Needlenose Swenson suddenly cringed as if the devil himself had descended upon him. He could
scarcely bring his watery eyes to meet the baleful yellow ones that bore down upon him. Needlenose
began to sweat. His hands shook.
His opinion of Wings Dedham was more than apparent.
"Yah," Needlenose muttered. "Ay go now."
He almost fell over his mop handle scuttling around a corner. Presently a door slammed at the other end
of the building. Wings’ yellow eyes narrowed. Then he grunted and picked up the drunk. He dragged him
through a door in the middle of the corridor. It was quite an unusual door. Panel, jamb and casing were
made of high-tempered steel. It was protected by double locks of very modern construction. Complete
privacy for its occupants seemed to be a matter of no question at all.
BUT down the corridor there came a faint rustle. Needlenose Swenson crept slowly toward that steel
doorway. Needlenose had told fellow workers that something evil was being concocted behind that steel
door. As an amateur detective, he was certain that much was so.
Norgrud Watts and Dedham, he insisted, were brewing a witch’s caldron in there that the world should
discover. The thought of Wings Dedham made Needlenose shudder. Only the day before, he had seen
the ex-flier brutally strangle a harmless dog. Then he had carried the dog into that secret room.
"Yah," Needlenose muttered softly now. "Ay tank now Ay find out for sure. Yah."
Needlenose crouched down before the door. About breast-high there was a tiny hole. Needlenose had
borrowed a steel-cutting drill from the machine shops. Then, when a new generator tryout was making
enough noise to cover him, Needlenose had made his hole.
He looked through it now. Almost immediately, what color he had drained from the janitor’s skin. His
jaw began to work strangely. Sweat dribbled from his receding chin. Bony hands clenched and
unclenched. Needlenose Swenson began to tremble. He seemed transfixed by horror, unable to move.
The air in the corridor began to smell queerly. It became the pungent scent of ozone, as if a great electric
arc were snapping overhead, scorching the atmosphere.
Suddenly, Needlenose Swenson began to sway. He clawed at his throat. His mouth opened and closed
without sound. Then Needlenose found his voice. He began to scream. It was a scream that sent shivers
up and down many spines in the electrical plant.
Nothing but stark horror could have brought forth such a scream.
Needlenose straightened up and started to run. At first his sole aim was to be somewhere else. Any place
else, apparently, would do at the time. He heard the big steel door creak behind him. He dived into the
first hiding place that he saw. It was a huge, lighted broom closet near the door.
Needlenose heard Dedham cursing in the hall. Then he heard the ex-flier’s footsteps receding toward the
steel door to Norgrud Watts’ private laboratory.
"Watts, I’ll get that squarehead this time!" Dedham growled.
Needlenose perspired some more. He thought he was safe for the moment. He felt sure Dedham would
think he had fled from the building.
But Needlenose Swenson was an amateur detective, not a scientist. He didn’t know that the odd-looking
lenses in the ceilings of all rooms in this building were there to catch him. Swenson didn’t know anything
about a television pick-up lense.
That was why he was surprised when Wings Dedham suddenly whipped open the door of the broom
closet and sprang in with a snarl. Wings’ bony fist slashed down viciously, crashed against the cowering
janitor’s head.
But fear does remarkable things to people at times. Fear has sometimes given one man the strength of
ten. Amazing feats have been performed by men sufficiently influenced by fear.
Needlenose Swenson performed one now. Of course, Wings wasn’t expecting it. But he didn’t realize
how much Swenson had seen; how great was his reason for fear. Needlenose tore into Dedham like a
she-wolf cornered with her young. Dedham cursed, lost his balance. Needlenose didn’t try to hit him. He
butted the bigger man in the jaw with his head.
Then Needlenose Swenson made tracks. He put one foot down after another in quicker succession than
he ever had before in his life. Behind him, Wings Dedham struggled to his feet. He seemed to hesitate for
a moment; seemed anxious to go back to the mystery laboratory of Norgrud Watts.
Then Wings ground out an oath.
"Hell!" he grated. "I haven’t got time."
With that cryptic utterance, Wings whipped out a heavy automatic and pounded after the fleeing janitor.
Needlenose leaped through the door.
It was ironical that Dedham himself let his quarry escape. Not intentionally, of course. But Wings had left
his car keys in the powerful sedan parked outside. Needlenose brushed against it, knocking a magazine
out of the pocket of his flowing linen duster. Then Needlenose was in the machine, stamped on the
starter.
The car was moving before Wings reached the door. Dedham blasted with the big automatic. The gun
roared in the early-evening air. Round holes jumped into the windows of the fleeing sedan. One slug
parted the janitor’s hair sidewise. But Needlenose roared toward the Pulaski Skyway and the shortest
cut to New York.
"Yah," he muttered to himself. "Ay tank now Ay go see Doc Savage."
Behind him, smoking automatic in his hand, Wings Dedham stopped cursing for a moment. His foot
tripped on the magazine Needlenose had dropped getting into the car. Wings picked it up.
"The Life of Doc Savage," the periodical was titled. "Some keys to the bronze man’s amazing physical
and mental development."
Wings Dedham’s face went suddenly white. His jutting jaw seemed instantly to sag.
"Cripes!" Wings muttered under his breath. "We can’t let that happen. Why—"
Wings whirled then and raced to a phone booth in the laboratory building. He locked himself in,
frantically called a number. He talked to himself as he waited for his connection.
"Savage!" he muttered. "He’s the one guy big enough to stop us. He and them five stooges’ll have to be
bumped if the big guy gets wise!"
At that moment a voice growled over the wire to Wings. Dedham did all the talking from then on.
"The squarehead must be wise," he rasped. "I think he’s heading for Doc Savage. Send some boys out to
both tunnels and all the ferries. Someone else cover the tube trains. That guy must not get to Doc
Savage!"
NEEDLENOSE SWENSON tore along the highway. All his life he had wanted a really good excuse to
call on Doc Savage. Every course in crime detection he had ever read, spoke of the amazing feats of the
man of bronze.
And Swenson had heard dozens of persons discuss Doc Savage.
"Doc Savage is a philanthropist," one friend had told him. "Doc gives away hundreds of thousands of
dollars to worthy causes. But he does it anonymously so no publicity will result. Doc hates publicity."
"The bronze man was trained from childhood to fight for the oppressed," another had said. "His life is
dedicated to undoing wrongs in the four corners of the earth. He metes out justice to evildoers and helps
those in trouble."
That Doc Savage was a mental marvel, a scientific wonder and a superman in strength, any newspaper
reader knew. Needlenose Swenson had read all about that. Doc Savage was the one human being in the
world whom Swenson worshiped.
"Yah," Swenson said to himself. "Ay wonder yust what Doc would do if he vas me now?"
It may have been that thought which spurred Swenson to mental activity beyond his normal grasp. He
made one of the few quick decisions of his life.
"Yah," he grunted. "Ay tank dey look at toonel. Ay go to airport."
Temporarily, Needlenose Swenson had probably saved his own life. He headed toward Newark
Airport. Needlenose had a friend there who had a plane. The friend took passengers for short rides at
two dollars a head. There was little airport activity now with most of the major lines transferred to
LaGuardia Field at North Beach in Queens. Needlenose hoped his friend would be there and not too
busy to do a favor.
He tooled the machine into the vast air field at a breakneck rate of speed. The cop who frantically tried
to wave him back to a parking field, nearly got run over for his trouble. Needlenose had a one-track
mind. And that track was very busy.
He recognized the small monoplane of his friend and raced toward it. If he hadn’t almost run into the
shuttle transport plane arriving from New York, Needlenose probably would not have noticed the
passengers disembarking from it. As it was, he was stopped and forced to step out of his car.
The passengers disembarking from the transport had come in from the West. One of them nearly took
Swenson’s mind off the horror with which it was filled.
"Gosh," he exploded. "Ay tank that is somet’ing."
"That" definitely was something. Just the right height. Curves where they should be. Hair like a sunset.
Eyes of a shade popular with painters of tropical waters. The sway of her hips even stirred the lethargic
breast of Needlenose Swenson.
"Golly," he muttered. "Ay tank—" Then Needlenose practically choked.
Recognition came to him in the exact instant that she gave directions to a cab driver.
"Drive me," she said in a clear, firm voice, "to the Stumpp Electrical Co."
Needlenose groaned aloud. Off the screen, the glamorous Lynda Ladore was even more beautiful than
on. But what made Needlenose groan was the memory of a newspaper gossip column many months
before. That had been before Wings Dedham had been disgraced and grounded; when Wings was still
an important and romantic figure in aviation.
"Rumor has it," the column had stated, "that Lynda Ladore and the redoubtable Wings are more than just
pilot and passenger."
Needlenose Swenson was torn. He yearned to rush over to Lynda Ladore and warn her that death
lurked in the Stumpp plant. But Swenson’s single-track mind reasserted itself then. He had to get to Doc
Savage. He suddenly realized that he could not be sure this beauteous creature was not in league with
Dedham and Norgrud Watts.
It is problematic whether Needlenose Swenson would have lived longer had he yielded to his primary
impulse. Things like that are difficult to determine.
But at any rate, Needlenose found his friend and shortly took off for New York.
Chapter II. ONE HEADLESS MAN
THE offices of Clark Savage, Jr., were on the eighty-sixth floor of one of New York’s tallest
skyscrapers. In fact, they occupied the entire floor space at that level.
It was well known that persons in genuine trouble could contact Doc Savage or one of his aids at any
time. Doc never took pay for his efforts in solving the problems of others. And sometimes, in fact quite
frequently, Doc’s efforts took him to the four corners of the earth. The bronze man had a secret source
of wealth that few persons knew about. He had only to broadcast on a certain wave length at a certain
hour of the day. If he did that, a mule train of gold would start immediately for the coast of a certain
Central American nation.
Doc’s offices consisted mainly of a large outer office, a huge laboratory equipped with devices and
materials that would have astounded top-flight chemists, and a library that housed learned tomes on a
large variety of subjects.
A tableau was being enacted in Doc’s outer office that fall evening that would probably have surprised
most people. A something that apparently had escaped from a zoo, lolled in a huge leather-upholstered
chair.
On closer inspection, it could really be seen to be a man. But the distance removed from simian sources
was startlingly small. Monk, otherwise Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, was better
nicknamed than named. When he scratched his nubbin of a head and grinned, he looked as if he had just
leaped down from a tree.
Everything about Monk from his low, wide brow to the rusty stubble that covered his entire body belied
the fact that he was really one of the world’s foremost industrial chemists.
Monk was arguing—as usual—with a faultlessly dressed man, another of Doc’s aids, familiarly known as
Ham. The fashion plate’s real name was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks. He was known as
one of the keenest lawyers ever turned out by Harvard.
It was when the argument was reaching its heights—the argument was about Ham’s pig, called Habeas
Corpus, and Ham’s pet ape, called Chemistry—when the photoelectric cell indicator announced the
approach of a visitor.
THE action of the indicator automatically closed all inner doors to the reception room.
Momentarily, Monk forgot his quarrel with Ham. Visitors who might affect Doc Savage, came first.
Monk strode to the door leading to the elevator shaft and opened it.
"Ay bane want Doc Savage," the voice told Monk.
"What do you want Doc for?" Monk demanded.
"My name is Swenson, I come from New Jersey," Needlenose informed him. "They is killing people
there."
That is absolutely all that Swenson would tell the hairy chemist. Obviously, Needlenose did not think
anyone who looked like Monk, could be intelligent enough to trust with a secret. Monk grunted in
annoyance and led Needlenose Swenson into the reception room. He indicated the big leather chair and
strode to the desk in the center of the room.
Inset in the glass top of the huge walnut desk was a flat, oblong section of a slightly different hue. Monk
pressed a button and looked into this. An image at once appeared on the glass. The device was an
improved inter-office television outfit that Doc had perfected.
It enabled Doc and his aids to converse and see each other as they did. The images thrown up were
different from those of ordinary television. True colors met the eye in such realistic fashion that they
seemed to be actual reductions of the objects the device transmitted.
Doc’s bronze hair, flat against his head, showed plainly. The televisor even transmitted the bronze man’s
odd flake-gold eyes that stirred like tiny whirlwinds when he was agitated. Of course, Doc looked small
in the little oblong of glass. But Doc Savage was so well proportioned that he almost never seemed as
huge as he was. It was only when the bronze man was seen in relation to some other person or object
that he appeared to reach his real proportions.
"Who is the man and what does he want?" Doc Savage asked.
The tones were possessed of a marked clarity. They were calmly spoken, soft in volume. Yet they
carried with a compelling quality that was almost hypnotic.
"His name is Swenson," Monk answered. "He says he comes from New Jersey and that they’re killing
people over there."
"Oh, yes," Doc’s voice came back. "He’s probably from the Stumpp electrical plant. I’ve just heard
rumors of something queer going on over there. Tell the man I’ll be right out."
Monk released the button of the televisor. Then his nostrils began to quiver. He smelled a sharp, unusual
odor that he could not quite place for a moment. Then he recognized the smell of ozone, like an open
electric arc.
Monk turned from the desk.
Needlenose Swenson still sat erect in the leather chair. One leg was crossed over the other. His hands
were folded primly on his lap.
But Needlenose Swenson had no head! His body ended at his shoulders as neatly as if there had never
been a head there at all.
There had been no sound. There was no sign of any blood.
Monk Mayfair shuddered.
The world had encountered the first of the headless men!
Chapter III. LONG TOM IS TRAPPED
DOC SAVAGE took one look at Monk and the body of Needlenose, and stepped to the big walnut
desk. The bronze man’s motion was so smooth that the tremendous power of the muscles meshed
beneath his skin was scarcely noticeable. Only the cabled tendons under the bronze flesh of the hands
showed plainly.
Doc’s flake-gold eyes were tiny maelstroms of agitation as he pressed the button and said: "Come in
here, Long Tom."
Then Monk began to squall in a voice that sounded frightened. That was highly unusual for Monk.
"Lookit!" the chemist shrilled. "The thing is movin’!"
And Monk’s statement was not an exaggeration. The headless figure of Needlenose Swenson snapped
jerkily to its feet. Needlenose Swenson, without his nose or the head that had held it, took three steps
forward on the thick-carpeted floor!
Then the thing collapsed. With a whoosh, a lungful of air gushed out of the larynx which terminated at the
base of the neck. The body of the unfortunate janitor fell to the rug.
Another figure leaned over Swenson now. The newcomer, apparently the one summoned by Doc’s press
of the desk button, had a complexion about as healthy looking as a mushroom. In fact it would have been
an attractive bet for one who did not know him, that Long Tom Roberts had never been out of a cellar in
his life.
Long Tom, otherwise Major Thomas J. Roberts, electrical wizard extraordinary, was a small, thin man
with a tremendously bulging forehead. Neither his size nor his complexion was to be discounted, if
fighting had to be done. Long Tom could handle his share of wild cats or of human rats.
Long Tom studied the fallen man closely. He had seen the figure rise from the chair, take three steps and
fall.
"Unusual post-mortem reflex action," Long Tom commented. "The suddenness of the decapitation made
it possible. Like a chicken running around a barnyard after its head had been cut off."
Monk breathed a little easier. He had seen chickens race half the length of a barnyard after decapitation.
Monk looked at Doc for confirmation.
The bronze man said nothing for a moment.
Finally, he said, "Look at the present termination of the neck column. What do you think of it?"
Long Tom looked. It was the most peculiar formation he had ever seen. The various veins and arteries,
the larynx itself, all terminated in neat bits of scar-tissue. The neck itself was like a well-healed wound
that had been inflicted many years before.
The situation was manifestly impossible. Monk rubbed his eyes. They seemed trying to pop out from the
sockets that were usually overhanging pits of gristle.
"Dang it!" Monk complained. "I must have been seein’ things. Maybe this guy didn’t just come in here
and talk to me. Maybe someone hypnotized me."
Doc Savage’s voice was quiet, reassuring. But it didn’t cheer Monk up much. It gave no indication of
whether he had any idea what had caused the unbelievable decapitation.
"You saw him come in, Monk," Doc said. "And he did speak to you. See what identification he has in his
pockets."
NEEDLENOSE SWENSON’S clothes yielded an identification card that said he was a janitor
employed by the Stumpp Electrical Co., of New Jersey.
Another card showed that he had been taking a correspondence course in crime detection. Long Tom
was interested in the first card he found.
"I am acquainted with that concern," he said simply. "I was a stockholder before it was reorganized."
Monk’s ears pricked up at this information. "Yeah?" he muttered. "What kind of a joint is the plant?"
Long Tom’s story was quite an ordinary one. The Electrical Appliance Co. had gone into receivership
two years before. It had never made much money. There were too many firms manufacturing and selling
electrical pharmaceutical aids. Most of the stockholders were willing to get out from under for what they
could.
L. Pennfield Stumpp had been the one exception. L. Pennfield had a little money. So he bought control of
the company. Stumpp scarcely knew an ohm from a wave length. But as a salesman, he had few peers.
"He was kind of lucky," Long Tom opined. "After he took it over he developed the Stumpp Electrical
Massage Vibrator. It’s making a wealthy man of him."
Monk grunted. "It’s advertised everywhere," he agreed. "How’d he figure that one out?"
"The firm had one asset," Long Tom said. "An old guy named Norgrud Watts. He’s really a genius. But
because of him, Stumpp nearly junked the whole project."
Stumpp, it seemed, didn’t know about Watts until he had bought in. Watts was a minority stockholder
who did not sell out. The gnomelike genius was a weird little fellow. Stumpp seemed actually afraid of
him. Electrical hocus-pocus was beyond Stumpp’s mental grasp. There was one story that he was going
to bail out and take a financial licking after his first visit to Norgrud Watts’ laboratory.
Then Watts developed the electrical vibrator.
Ham, who had come in quietly from the other room, looked again at the body and shuddered.
"I don’t think Norgrud Watts is the kind of a guy I’d like to meet," he said flatly.
摘要：

THEHEADLESSMENADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.UNNATURALHORROR?ChapterII.ONEHEADLESSMAN?ChapterIII.LONGTOMISTRAPPED?ChapterIV.THEFIRSTEXTORTION?ChapterV.STUMPPSAYSHE’SSTUMPED?ChapterVI.TRAP!?ChapterVII.LYNDAAPPEARS?ChapterVIII...

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