Four Hours
“You did what?”
“I added four hours to your life.”
The short, dark-haired man opened and closed his mouth a few times, stunned. A few moments later he was able to speak. “Caspar, you did what?”
The blond man on the other side of the chessboard moved his white rook, then looked up at the shocked face of his opponent. “Kip, we’ve been friends for years, right?”
Kip just nodded.
Caspar continued speaking. “And we’ve had a great number of great chess games, right?”
Again the man in control of the black pieces just nodded.
The chessboard was set upon a card table put between two easy chairs in front of a brick and stone fireplace in the living room of a house. On top of the card table was a chessboard, a few chess pieces, and two glasses of scotch and soda. A large clock on the mantle ticked loudly and chimed on the hours and half hours. The two men were the same age, twenty-seven, but they were attired quite differently. The brunet Kip wore a faded T-shirt and blue jeans, while the blond Caspar wore sharp slacks and a new sweater.
The blond took a sip of his drink and continued. “So, I thought I’d extend your life by four hours so that we might enjoy one additional game. It’s your move.”
Kip looked absently at his pieces. He pushed a pawn forward.
Caspar pushed his queen to the opposite edge of the board. “That appears to be checkmate, Kip. Your endgame was definitely lacking that time …”
“How, Caspar?”
Caspar Thomas leaned back in his chair. “It was simple really. I’ll show you the book.” Caspar rose from his seat and strode through a door behind Kip Saunder’s chair.
Kip shook his head a little, looked at his watch, drank some more scotch and soda, and began putting the chess pieces into a box under the table.
Caspar returned after a minute, clutching a battered book. “I was skimming through this book one night, just reading the interesting passages, when I stumbled on a part that told how you could supposedly extend the life of a person by a number of hours.” Caspar laid the book on the table in front of Kip. Kip read the title and looked relieved. The book’s title was Necronomicon.
“How?”
“It was quite simple, really. After you had gone one night, I looked on the upholstery of the chair you always sit in and found a few strands of your hair. Following the instructions in the book, I took the strands into a tomato patch under a full moon at midnight and burned them in a ceremonial fire of oak twigs and tea leaves while reciting the proper incantations. Easy.”
“Why four hours?”
“It was automatically four hours because you were born in April. Had you been born in February, we only could have had half a game.”
Kip thought about this for a few seconds. He took another drink of scotch and soda. “You don’t think it will really work, do you?”
Caspar shrugged. “I figured, what could it hurt to try?”
“Did you do yourself?”
“Of course. And as you know I was born in September, so that means nine extra hours for me.”
“Did you do anyone else?”
“No. I just read about the thing a few days ago,” Caspar said. “You and I are the only ones I’ve been able to get hair from.”
It was eleven thirty-eight. Kip and Caspar finished their drinks and walked to the front door. They shook hands.
“Nice game,” said Kip.
“Drive safely.”
Caspar turned on his porch light, and, when Kip had gotten into his car and driven to the end of the driveway, turned it back off and watched Kip drive down the long dirt road that led to Caspar’s house. When at last Kip’s taillights disappeared behind the trees, Caspar closed his front door and went back inside his comfortable one-floor ranch house.
He looked at his mantle clock. It was eleven forty-three. He poured himself another scotch and soda, dressed for bed, and drank it while finishing a particularly good murder mystery. When he heard his mantle clock chime once at twelve-thirty he turned out his light and went to sleep.
* * *
Just after one-thirty, Caspar awoke with a start. The full moon beamed through the window beside his bed, bathing his blankets in its soft glow.
Again a knock sounded at his door.
He leaped from his bed and put on a dressing robe. He trotted to his front door, scratching his head. At the door, he turned his porch light on and looked out. His short driveway led from the dirt road to his garage, and it was devoid of vehicles. Caspar noticed that it had begun to drizzle lightly.
A knock again thumped at the front door. Caspar jumped a little, then unlocked the door. Probably just a guy with a flat tire, Caspar thought. He opened the door.
Kip stood on Caspar’s small front porch, hideous in the moonlight and the porch light and the drizzle. The left side of his head was mangled horribly, the flesh ripped away in most places, bare bone gleaming in the dim light. His shirt was torn almost off his body, and a few of his ribs jutted out through the right side of his chest. The left side of his chest was deeply caved in. Kip’s head hung at a strange angle, and his neck twisted quite unnaturally. Kip opened his mouth to speak, and his voice was grating. “Care for a game of chess?”
Caspar swayed a little.
Kip lurched past him into the house. He took his usual seat in the easy chair and began putting the pieces from the box under the table back onto the chessboard.
Caspar opened and closed his mouth several times before he could speak. “What … what happened? Where’s your car?”
“Well, I guess that I underestimated that corner, you know, the one almost at the end of your road, and I kinda smashed into a tree. Car’s a wreck. I went through the windshield …”
“You gotta get to a hospital. You’re really … really …”
“I know how I am.”
“Well, come on!” Caspar grabbed a pair of shoes and began putting them on.
Kip rose from his seat and put a deformed hand on Caspar’s shoulder. “Caspar, I’m already dead.”
Caspar turned and looked into the mangled face of his friend, who spoke again.
“The only reason I’m here now is because you burned my hair in a tomato patch at midnight. You wanted to play a game of chess, so come on, let’s play. I looked at my watch just before I crashed. It said midnight.” He looked at the clock on the mantle. “That leaves us just two hours and twenty-six minutes to play. Sit down and set up the pieces. I’ll get us some drinks.” He pushed Caspar back into his chair and lurched into the kitchen, leaving bloody footprints on the floor.
Caspar watched him go, looked at the bloody handprint on his shoulder, then began dazedly setting up the pieces.
Kip returned in a minute, carrying two glasses of scotch and soda. He put the drinks on the table and sat down behind the white pieces.
Caspar finished arranging the pieces and spoke. “Does it … hurt?”
“Ooooh, considerably.”
Caspar flinched, and Kip pushed forward his king’s pawn, dripping blood onto the board and smearing some on the pawn.
They played for two hours and twenty minutes, and the board and pieces, as well as the chair and the floor and the drinking glasses, soon became a bloody wreck. Kip moaned increasingly throughout the game, rocking now and then from the pain. Caspar watched him in dreadful fascination.
At three fifty-five Kip rose from his chair and grabbed a poker from the fireplace.
Caspar’s eyes grew round. “What—what are you doing?”
Kip swung the poker, hitting the surprised Caspar in the chest.
Caspar stooped and wheezed.
Kip swung again, smashing Caspar in the head. Broken skull bones jutted from the wound.
Caspar fell onto his back and knocked over the card table, sending drinks and chessmen flying. Caspar lolled his eyes at Kip’s mangled frame.
Kip stuck the point of the poker at Caspar’s throat, voice box level. As Caspar reached limply to block the poker, Kip heaved and forced it into Caspar’s jugular. Blood spurted up and onto the carpet beside the card table where Caspar lay. Again Kip heaved, and this time the poker reappeared through the flesh at the base of Caspar’s skull.
The clock on the mantle began to chime.
Kip fell back into his easy chair. “Enjoy your next nine hours.”
Sale
