dochermes

"No More Djinn For Me, Thanks"

8/24/1944

I.

Kelly O'Connor felt unbearably smug that hot summer afternoon. Her new lightweight yellow dress set off both her red hair and her slender legs perfectly. For once, all her bills were paid up because she had gotten a bonus for the Dockside Burglaries story she had scooped all the other papers on. And Jim had been a complete sweetheart all day, trudging through little boutiques in Greenwich Village as if he actually enjoyed looking at old clothes. Soon, they would pick a bistro for lunch and the thought of tucking away some Italian food at the Hungry Bambino's appealed to her immensely.

Just one more antique store, she thought. A new lamp for her room at the boarding house had been on her mind for weeks. The redhead paused in front of a grimy window on Bleecker Street which read CURIOUS CURIOS in ornate Germanic script. What an odd assortment of items were displayed. Wavy-bladed daggers with gold hilts. A crystal ball six inches across on an ebony base. What WAS that skull? A fox or a bat or what? She couldn't tell. And those weren't regular Tarot cards, they had pictures of stars and planets on them.

Leaning over her shoulder, big Jim muttered, "Haven't you had enough of the supernatural in your life lately?"

"Oh, this junk isn't Midnight War," she laughed. "It's just silliness for the tourists. Real, no-fooling Midnight War talismans aren't on public display. Come on, let's snoop for a minute and then wrap ourselves around some spaghetti and meatballs. With garlic bread."

"All right," he replied without enthusiasm. They entered, setting off a jingling bell over the door. The interior was dimly lit but had a pleasant pine wood aroma instead of the mustiness she had expected. Behind a counter with a cash register, a little old man rose.

Even for Greenwich Village, he was flamboyantly dressed. Baggy black trousers and a long-sleeved white blouse with a brilliant scarlet sash around the bulging belly. A red fez with a tassel added contrast. The weathered, cheerful face was adorned with a white handlebar mustache. "Come, come. Enter freely and stay as long as you like."

"Well, hi there!" she called out cheerfully. "I don't think I've seen this shop here before. Wasn't this a Chinese restaurant last week?"

"We are here now," answered the old man. "My name is Mohallet. Please, take your time and browse as you wish." He settled back down into his chair and began writing in a ledger with an old-fashioned fountain pen.

"Hey, red. I'm stepping out for a smoke, be back in a jif." Jim had already stuck his last Lucky Strike in his mouth and was heading for the door. Kelly muttered something compliant and went back to studying the shelves. Such odd items. Curved swords, oval mirrors in cast iron frames, ornate gilded jewelry boxes. And so many big old books, so faded that the words on their spines could hardly be deciphered. THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN. LOST SCIENCE OF THE ANCIENTS. SPIRIT GUIDE OF WALES. Intriguing stuff, but not the lamp she was looking for.

Then she saw it sitting by itself in a corner, atop a neat pile of folded coats. A brass lamp with a coiled handle and long snout. She hadn't seen an oil lamp like that in ages. Kelly O'Connor picked it up and smiled that it felt warm to the touch. Whatever was inscribed on its surface was beyond her ability to read.

"Hee hee. Say, Mr Mohallet, if I rub this, will a Genie appear?" she laughed. Hearing no answer, she turned to find the old man was not in sight. Must have gone into a back room, she figured. Studying the lamp, she gave in to a puckish impulse and rubbed the side of the lantern briskly with one hand. "If there's a Genie in there, come on out!"

Considering her career as the Green Devil the past three years, what followed should not have been any surprise to Kelly. From the snout of the lamp, thick black smoke poured out to rise and form a vaguely humanoid shape. Two glowing red spots appeared like eyes and a deep sepulchral voice asked, "What is thy bidding, oh my mistress?"

II.

Kelly made some incoherent squawking noises. The black cloud snorted and exclaimed, "I may only manifest for a few minutes, little mistress. Hast thou thy wishes three ready?"

"Wishes? Wishes? Oh right, I get wishes." The green eyes snapped back into focus. "Okay, maybe this is a dream or maybe I've just lost my marbles completely like Jim always said I would. But I better go ahead. Okay, okay. I wish this terrible war was over!"

"Thy first wish is granted!" A newspaper drifted down from the ceiling and Kelly caught it without thinking. It was the paper where she worked and the headline screamed, 'US SURRENDERS!' Beneath that, 'Heavy Losses In Europe Lead to US Surrender To Empire of Germany!'

"What?! No, no, not like that. Undo it, Genie, I take it back."

"Alas, little mistress, what is done is done. What is thy second wish?" asked the cloud.

For a moment, Kelly couldn't think straight. What could she do? How could she fix the disaster. "Can I wait a while and think things over? Maybe I can talk to Jim about this?"

"Alas, no. I must return to the lamp within the minute. What is thy wish?"

"Hell. I guess I better ask for something smaller. Umm, okay, I wish for enough money to buy that little cottage Jim and I were looking at."

"Thy wish is granted, little mistress!" answered the drifting cloud. Again, something fell from the ceiling and she snatched it out of the air. A thick bundle of documents stapled together at the upper left hand corner. Her heart missed a beat. It was a life insurance statement about James Peter Harkins, and the attached letter informed her that she was being paid twenty-two thousand dollars because of his death....

His death! Kelly found herself sitting on the floor without realizing she had dropped down there. She couldn't catch her breath. It hurt worse than anything she could have imagined. Jim. She had finally opened up and allowed herself to really fall in love, to make plans for the future and now... One wish had ruined everything.

"I wish Jim was alive again!" she screamed as loud as she could.

"Alas, what is done is done. The writing cannot be erased, little mistress."

Kelly wiped her eyes and glared up at the smoke as it shifted about. The glowing red spots seemed to be smiling in mockery. "You bastard. Oh, I get it. My next wish is for YOU to die!"

"That cannot be, little mistress, we Djinn are sadly immortal. Thou still hast one wish left."

Despite all the life and death crises she had been through the past few years, she had never been stricken so hard. Tears were still running down her face and she was sobbing in short pants. "Oh what difference does it make? What does anything matter? All right, I wish I win the Pulitzer Prize for Journalism."

This time it was only a single scrap of paper that came floating down from overhead, a newspaper clipping. Sniffling, she grabbed it. The story told how THE MESSENGER's prize columnist Kelly O'Connor had indeed won the Pulitzer Prize... for reporting on how Japan's use of its new 'atomic bomb' had repelled American landing forces and was reversing the tide of war.

Crumpling up the scrap of paper and sobbing so hard her body shook, Kelly wailed, "What have I done? Millions dead. Freedom lost around the world. Oh my God, this can't be happening. Make it stop."

"Thou hast been given wishes three, as was thy right," mocked the cloud of smoke as it began to withdraw back into the lamp.

And even in her utter despair, Kelly thought of something. The sharp mind that had created the Green Devil snatched at hope. "Wait! Wait, I wish... I wish I had super-powers like the Sceptre or the Jupiter Man."

Deep booming laughter echoed throughout the shop. "Thou art wise beyond thy years, little mistress! For only learned mages know that a fourth wish unmakes the three. Fare thee well!"

White light flashed as bright as lightning striking close at hand, but without sound. Kelly wiped at her face and found it was dry. The papers were gone.. the clipping, the edition of THE MESSENGER, Jim's insurance form, all gone without a trace. She got to her feet and smoothed her dress down. How her head ached!

The door swung open and Jim stepped in, big and alive and solid, "Say, doll-face, I don't have any matches..." He was cut off as Kelly leaped over to embrace him fiercely. "Hey, what's this all about?"

"Oh, Jim, I love you so much. I couldn't live without you."

"Huh? I was only outside for a few seconds. But I love you, too, Irish. You know that."

She stood up on her toes and gave him a quick gentle kiss. "It never hurts to say so."

"The missy speaks words that even the Wise need to hear," said the shopkeeper. He was behind the counter again.

"You're right, sir." Jim rubbed Kelly's back as she began to disengage from the hug. "So. Find anything or are we ready to go get supper?"

Kelly glanced over. Behind the counter, the old shopkeeper had placed the brass lantern in a cupboard, which he closed with a decisive click. The shrewd eyes smiled at her behind their wrinkles. "I guess there's nothing for me here," she said at last. "Come on, Jim, let's get some Italian food and talk about our plans."

3/27/2023

"Is Stockbridge House Really Haunted?"

10/30/1944

I.

Kelly parked her sporty little roadster next to three other cars in front of the Inn. In the passenger seat, Jim Harkins scanned the sky and said, "We better put the top up, dear."

"You worry too much. Look at that sky! Not a single cloud," she scoffed. Unwrapping the silk scarf from her brick-red hair, Kelly O'Connor got out and stretched luxuriantly. The pale green dress and the simple cloche hat she now put on complimented her perfectly. Trim and energetic with long legs, she was gloating inwardly at how wonderful she looked. "Thanks for letting me drive, little lamb," she added gleefully.

"Well, it IS your car after all," Jim replied. At six feet even, Jim was a massive bulk with broad shoulders which his dark blue suit made seem even wider. His dark hair was slicked down with enough pomade that even riding in the convertible had not ruffled it. Like Kelly, he had stowed his hat down by his feet and he fixed the fedora firmly on his head as he got out.

"Most men wouldn't let a woman drive while they sat in the passenger seat," she continued. "They think it makes them seem weak or something. Oh, look at this place! It's gorgeous. Like a SATURDAY EVENING POST cover. And the leaves turning color is the final touch."

Stockbridge House was in fact an immaculately maintained two-story gable-roofed main building, from which a one-story block extended to the rear. A single-story porch, covered by a roof, extended across the front and around to one side. The white exterior gleamed as if freshly painted that day, the lawn was pristine and even the split-log fence around the property was in mint condition. On a separate post hung a placard STOCKBRIDGE INN - SINCE 1828 in elaborate script.

"It really is," Jim agreed. He was opening the trunk and taking out their luggage but he paused to look over at the scene. "My family stayed here a few times while we were visiting relatives. The big scandal of the Stockbridge was that Martin Van Buren supposedly tried to leave without paying his tab because he was unhappy with the meals."

"Hah!" Kelly fetched a huge brown leather handbag and slung it by its gold chain over one shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere without the You-know-who outfit on hand. I bet there are Nazi saboteurs and mobsters simply crawling all over this area. Maybe a few Mad Scientists to boot."

That got a laugh from Jim. He closed the trunk, picked up the suitcases and started toward the front of the Inn with Kelly beside him. "Give the Green Devil a weekend off, Irish. I swear, you're hoping for a murderer or two for you to chase."

The couple stepped up on the porch and through the front door into a spacious lobby with comfortable overstuffed furniture, a piano and a fireplace unused as yet. Behind the registration counter, a middle-aged man pushed his glasses up on his nose from where they had slid down and put his newspaper.

"Hello there. You're Mr and Mrs Harkins, I take it?"

"That'll be us," Jim said. "We confirmed our reservations last week, you remember."

"Absolutely. We spoke on the phone. I'm Tom Broughton, my wife and I are the owners. I do the paperwork, she cooks. Welcome. It's a beautiful time of year to visit Vermont."

"You bet," said Kelly with a grin she couldn't have suppressed. "What a ride from Manhattan! If I had artistic inclinations, I would have stopped every mile to paint the scenery."

Seated behind the counter, examining her nails, a teenage blonde glanced up. "You get used to it."

Not sure how to react to that comment, Kelly turned to watch Jim sign the register book and receive an old-fashioned key with a wooden plaque that had their room number on it.
"It's good to get away from horns honking and people yelling."

"Tiffany, show these people to their room," Broughton said.

"I just sat downnnnn," the girl complained. "My feet hurt. I'm returning these shoes." Despite her objection, Tiffany got up and gestured at Jim and Kelly to follow her. As she stamped one annoyed foot on the bottom step of the staircase, the door opened and everyone naturally turned their heads.

Three disreputable figures entered the lobby. Two men were wearing filthy homespun clothes so ragged that it was difficult to guess the original color or where the shirt ended and trousers held up by a rope belt began. The shorter of the two wore an actual coonskin cap with the head still attached over his forehead. The other man was carrying a hunting rifle up against his shoulder and seemed to have as much chewing tobacco as his mouth could hold without some coming out of his nose. Behind them was a young woman attired in a resewn burlap sack that read PURITY FLOUR XXX, her hair reaching nearly to her waist. While the men had on delapidated brogans, she was barefoot.

In one grimy hand, she held up a dead possum by a hind leg. The pride in her smile was unsettling.

"We was wondering if you'd want ta buy some meat, Mr Broughton," said the man with the cap. "It's fresh as could be."

"Trapped it this morning, I did," added the girl.

"Zeke, I've told you before we can't do that," Tom Broughton responded from behind the counter. "The Board of Health is unfortunately dead set against it."

"Shucks, I is crestfallen and filled with chagrin," said Zeke. "Howsabout you folks?"

Standing at the foot of the staircases, Kelly and Jim exchanged a horrified glance. Jim cleared his throat and said, "Uhhh... I think we have to turn it down, too. Thank you anyway."

"We kin skin it outside for you," offered the girl. "I got my knife with me."

"Never mind, Clemency. You can see they is city folk who buy their food from stores."

"Sorry," Kelly said. "We have plans for dinner."

The three shrugged and turned around the doorway. Zeke paused to lift his coonskin cap to the teenager. "You're looking right purty today, Miss Tiffany."

"I know, right?" she responded with a smirk. "Come on, Mr and Mrs Harkins... if that is your real names."

Leaning closer to Jim, Kelly whispered, "Bet you'd rather deal with a few spies or monsters, eh?"

( the rest of the story )

"Does Anyone Remember Captain Amnesia?"

7/12-7/14/1942

I.

"You're one of them reporter dames, aren't ya?" demanded the police detective.

Kelly O'Connor laughed right in his face, showing perfect white teeth in an insolent face. The thick mop of brick-red hair and bright green eyes gave credence to the accuracy of her name. "I wish," she said. "But the Chief won't give me a shot at it. I'm stuck doing rewrites for drunken journalists who regard spelling as an inconvenience. I proofread. I use scissors and paste when ads don't fit. I pick up and deliver manuscipts. Sometimes I even get asked to lunch with the gang in the bullpen and they try to tone down their filthy language, while they pretend not to check out my legs. What's a gal to do, I ask you?"

Faced with this unexpected barrage of complaints, Jim Harkins was torn between annoyance and amusement. He was an imposing young man, not much over six feet but solidly built in his dark blue suit with red necktie and neat fedora planted firmly on his dark hair. His long mournful face wasn't handsome but it had some of the endearing quality of a hound dog. "So why should I let you onto a murder scene, then?"

Folding her arms across a modest bust, Kelly tilted her head and tried to smile more demurely. She herself was wearing a sedate dark green skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse and a single strand of pearls. Her hat was a mere cloche perched precariously on the side of her head. Hanging on a brass chain from her left shoulder was a soft leather handbag. "Harkins, right? You just passed the detective exam recently?"

"So?"

"So you know what it's like to try to work your way up to a better job. I could be a great reporter, I KNOW I could be better than the palookas snoozing over their typewriters at the MESSENGER. All I need is a chance and you, big fella, are the one who will give me that chance." As she spoke, Kelly deftly slipped past him through the open door into Markle's office. By the time Harkins grunted a protest, she had already flipped the light switch. He lumbered in and started to speak but paused instinctively as she pointed a slender index finger.

"What is all that godawful junk?" she demanded.

For the publisher of so many pulp magazines, the late Goodson Markle's office wasn't luxurious. The furniture was walnut, the thin carpeting dark brown and the curtains opaque for blackouts. Brass trim on lamps and door edges added contrast. There were a few moderately comfortable chairs around a desk burdened by two neat stacks of papers evidently meant to be IN and OUT, as well as two phones and an intercom. But that wasn't what Kelly was indicating.

An open cabinet displayed eighteen items ranging from wind-up dolls to metal lunch boxes to ashtrays to eight by ten glossy autographed photos. Everything bore the likeness of a man draped in a white cloak and hood with a featureless black oval for a face. A wrought-iron bookend supported a row of scripts for a radio series and there were stacks of pulps on the bottom shelf.

"Aw, that's all Captain Amnesia merchandise," Harkins said, picking up a bronze statuette of the hero.

"Who? I never heard of him."

"That's what you think, sweetie," the policeman said. "You know about him but you forgot you know."

Kelly reached up to press the inside of her wrist against his forehead. "Are you running a fever, big guy?"

"Heh. No, no, that's the joke. See, this Captain Amnesia bird, he fights crime. His gimmick is that everybody forgets about him once he's gone so no one knows who is turning crooks in with the stolen loot on them or who is rescuing kidnap victims. 'He could be here, he could be there... Captainnnnn Amnesia!' Haven't you heard him on the radio?"

"I usually listen to the big bands, that licorice stick sends me." Kelly O'Connor didn't explain that working at the MESSENGER during the day and running around dark alleys as the Green Devil most nights left her very little leisure time. "So. This Captain Whatever is popular?"

"Sure. I heard that Markle was negotiating to sell the rights to Metropolis Pictures for a serial." He gave her a quizzical look. "You know, those serials that run a chapter every Saturday at the moving pictures?"

The redhead made a non-commital sound to acknowledge she had heard him. Her interest was on a stack of cover proofs that showed covers of future pulps. "Seems like Markle covered every topic. WILD WESTERN COMPLETE NOVELS... SOUTH SEA ROMANCE... FUTURE WORLDS... KOLLEGE KITTENS... what's this, GRUESOME TALES? Did you see this cover, big guy?"

Harkins leaned a little closer to the slender girl than was strictly speaking necessary, but she seemed unaware of it. He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, that's one of the horror titles. Torture and murder on every page. I don't care for them, I like a solid historical fiction."

"No, don't you see? Never mind the agitated blonde in her negligee in the background. This shows a man being strangled by someone pulling a wire tight around his neck!"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's the way Markle died...!"

( the rest of the story )