OOC: I wanted to write something wacky and this idea popped into my head. I'll finish it in parts 3 & 4. Just a an experiment.
Pennsylvania Jack and the Magick Grimoire was the first adventure of the titular character, created by author Eric Barrow, Jr., and it was published in the June, 1929, edition of
Bizarre Fiction Monthly.
Bizarre Fiction Monthly was printed in Pittsburgh, and it had a few decent characters and frequent contributors, but it would be Barrow's
Pennsylvania Jack stories that would would skyrocket the magazine to popularity nationwide. In 1935, actor Max Cross would star in the first Pennsylvania Jack talkie, and the character's popularity only continued to grow, decade after decade. The following is that first short story from
Bizarre Fiction Monthly.
PENNSYLVANIA JACK AND THE MAGICK GRIMOIRE: PARTS 1 & 2
by Eric Barrow, Jr.
Published in Bizarre Fiction Monthly (June, 1929)
PART ONE
The name is Jack Roberts, Private Eye. Used to live in Pittsburgh, but moved to Boston to open up my own small-time detective business. Everyone here calls me Pennsylvania Jack. Busted the Addams a case a while back and kinda made a big name for myself. Right now, I'm writing this from the inside of a pub called the Whaler's Daughter on 32nd Street. I figured I'd write down my adventures of the past couple weeks, because it's been pretty balls-to-the-wall lately and I think I might be able to make better sense of it all if I put pen to paper and start dropping my jive. I don't know, maybe it'll be--how they say--therapeutic. To say I've had an interesting life lately would be to put it quite mildly.
It all started when I was sitting in my office, smoking a Morton. I had my dogs kicked up on the table, Uncle Sam's Talkiebox Station playing some patriotic tunes as I waited for my next client. It was a slow month, with only a few cases to work. Most of my customers just want me to spy on a spouse or family member, or perhaps they ask me to look into Mr. Schwartz across the street because they resent him and wish to destroy his reputation to keep up with the Joneses (I'm an honest Joe, not a subtle one). To put it simply, my cases aren't generally very exciting. The Economic Clans have thousands of investigators on payroll, and don't need to outsource to guys like me. The government, thanks to ORRA and RUMP, sure as heck doesn't need me. So my cases are usually small-fry jobs. I work for a couple days, submit my findings, and then cash my check. It doesn't matter if I find what people want, because I get paid either way. It's not my fault if they send me on a wild goose chase, and I make that very clear the moment they hire me.
But anyway, like I was saying, I was sitting there in my buffalo-hide Sternbeck chair, one of the few luxuries I afforded myself since I sit on my rear most days. I was having a swell time, and I was about to doze off with a minor key melody courtesy of Uncle Sam, when I heard a knock at the door. Through my frosted glass door window I can see the shape of someone of rather small stature rapping and tapping both timidly and aggressively at the same time. It went on and on without stopping. "Okay, okay! Jeez! It's unlocked!" I shouted with a tone of general annoyance at the stranger's behavior. "Let yourself in!"
As soon as the words left my big fat smacker the door flies open and this short broad in a purple pencil dress barges in, with a look on her face that could give the best actors in Kissimmee a run for their money. I mean she was dee-straught, absolutely panicked. Her skin was like porcelain and she sported massive dark circles under her hazel eyes. She clearly hadn't slept in days. She carried a small clutch in one hand and a dainty black umbrella in the other. It was raining something fierce that day, so while she stood in the doorway a lightning bolt lit up the sky behind, followed by a rolling crack of thunder. When she entered my office she slammed the door behind her without saying a word.
Now this was quite an unusual client already, as you can deduce, and her antics rather unsettled me. I hoped she wasn't being chased by the mob or something like that and leading them here. Or maybe she was just some airhead, high out of her mind on lozenges or Boogie or both. Those things are for small doses, not the benders the party animals in Society's Betters used them to slam through. I sighed, got my feet off the desk, and held out an unlit Morton. "Morton's Finest, ma'am? Let off some steam and let in some smoke?"
The bimbo looked at me finally, those hazel eyes staring me down from behind the circles. She would have been pretty if she wasn't so distressed and obviously exhausted. Finally, after several awkward silent moments, the broad finally answered, "Yes... yes, a cigarette. Sure." She slowly approached me and held out a hand to grab the Morton. As she raised it to her lips she plopped herself down in the seat across from me. It was a worn out metal folding chair.
I held out a lighter and studied her more closely as she leaned into the light, her hands shaking. Judging by her fingers, she had never done a hard day's work in her life. Though her clothes were a bit wrinkled and disheveled, they were of good craftsmanship. Expensive clothes and dainty hands meant my price just doubled. I smiled, knowing I was gonna make a good few bucks off her. I'm a business, not a Fundie charity shop, so don't judge my practices. Anyway, I could tell she wasn't right in the head. I kept a bottle of Cuba's Finest in top left drawer, so I took it out and poured her some of the brown booze into a little shot glass and slid it across the desk. "Have a sip," I said.
She eyeballed real strange like, as if she had forgotten where she even was, before snatching the rum up and downing it in one gulp. She seemed to stop shaking so much and collected herself. Finally, she spoke. "My name is Doris Sandwich, of the Plymouth Sandwiches. I need help."
"Don't we all?" I joked, letting out a light chuckle. The bimbo didn't laugh.
"I am in serious danger, sir. Something truly beyond what you are accustomed to, I assure you," she replied in a quiet but high voice.
I sighed. I really was hoping she wasn't referring to some sort of murderous guy-pal, as I wasn't some kinda RUMP officer. I spied on people and collected dirt; I wasn't a gun for hire. If I wanted to kill for cash I'd be an Overton boy. "Ma'am, I am not a bodyguard. I carry a .38, but that only gets used once a damn decade. I have a number for the local Overton office if you'd like to hire a gun--"
She cut me off. "--This is not a job for a mercenary, sir. I am Doris Sandwich of the Plymouth Sandwiches, and if I wanted to rent a thug I could very well do so." She eyed me with a sudden dignity, even behind the dark circles. New England Old Blood for you.
"Ma'am, er, Miss Sandwich, what is the case? I like to know what I'm getting into right off the bat. No secrets," I said with a sigh. I snuffed out my Morton in my 1776 commemorative brass ashtray I kept on the desk, a souvenir from the 1876 centennial celebration that I found in a local junk shop over on Clancy Street. I'm a man of simply style. I pulled another Morton out of the pack and prepared to light up. I had a sinking feeling I wasn't going to like this case.
"It's about my future husband, Archie Williams," she answered, her voice growing more squeaky and scared. "I... I'm afraid he's gotten himself into some stuff with which he never should have tangled. He's a darling boy, but he's ever so reckless. I warned him to leave well enough alone, but his search for adventure and stories to tell have led him to do some truly foolish things. I am so worried not only for him, but for me as well."
I winced visibly and knew what was coming next. "Miss Sandwich," I said after a drag from the cigarette, "Is this a drug thing? He runnin' absinthe, or something? If he's done something illegal, please phone up your nearest RUMP office at 1-7-7-6 and due your civic duty and report him."
She waved her hand and looked annoyed through the exhaustion. She replied, "No, no, nothing like that. I believe... I believe... he has opened a gateway."
My eyebrows raised and I took a deep inhale from the Morton before asking, "A gateway? What kinda gateway?"
Miss Sandwich looked down at the desk and began to shake again. Slowly, her straining voice answered, "I believe gateway to the Other Side."
In my fright, my cigarette fell out of my mouth and onto my lap, scalding my leg. "Sunovgun, these are my good trousers!" I yelped as I stood up and smacked at my gray wool pants to extinguish the flame. I slumped back into my seat, sweat starting to trickle down my forehead even though I had a fan pointed right at me. "Ma'am, call a preacherman and have him deal with it. I don't mess with stuff I don't understand."
She began to cry and reached out a hand to touch mine. Through the tears the broad said, "Oh, sir, please help! I think this is life or death and if I call the authorities they will lock him up for practicing Magick without a license from the Church! I will pay you whatever you ask, just please help my darling Archie. He's not a bad boy! He was almost All-American in the CYB, and he goes to Church every Sunday. He just is in over his head. Please help us." Her chin trembled as she spoke and she looked truly hopeless.
Now, I'm a businessman, just trying to earn a nickel, but this bimbo sittin' here crying her eyes out and me leaving her high and dry just didn't sit well with yours truly, see? I couldn't believe that I was about to throw myself into this mess. "I better get made a Ser for this," I moaned as I took a notepad from my shirt pocked and flipped it open. Uncapping my fountain pen I leaned forward and prepared to write down the case. "Miss Sandwich, I'm gonna try--against my Better judgement--to help you and your lover boy, but if this don't work out or it gets too weird for me, I'm gonna have to drop you off somewhere safe and I'll have to call up some ORRA boys to deal with your sorcerer's apprentice. Now, what's the first thing I should know? Why in the Prophet's Name--May He Rest in Peace--did he open a flap-jacking portal to the Other Side? And why did you act like you were being tailed on your way in?"
She stared at the clock on the wall behind me. It was from an old Yankee Telegraph office and it had Yankee Doodle on it, giving a wink. As she watched the second hand tick by, she said, "He wanted to summon the spirit of his grandmother, to ask her is she was proud of him."
I snorted, "Well, I'm sure she'd be a
lot more proud if he didn't open up damn portals to the netherworld, wouldn't she?"
She continued, ignoring my acidic commentary, telling me, "She passed when he was just a young thing, but she was the world to him. He's at Benedict Arnold University now, studying to be a doctor. He just wanted some confirmation from her and thought it sounded exciting to try to contact her. He's always been fascinated with the Other Side."
"Okay, okay," I said, jotting down a few lines. "What's with the acting like you were tailed here? What are you not telling me?"
She bit her lip as she continued to watch Yankee Doodle's smaller arm circle around the old clock. "I think he has let things through which should not be let through. I believe he has recited incantations from the
Magick Grimoire."
My mouth hung open in shock. If I was smoking when she said it I would have dropped my Morton again. "THE
Magick Grimoire?" I asked incredulously. "Surely no B.A.U.B. student would be foolish enough to recite the spells of that cursed book just to say 'toodle-loo' to Grandma Sue! Where would your Archie even get somethin' so evil?" The
Magick Grimoire is a legendary book supposedly written by an outcast member of the Council of Jehovah named Brother Sparrow, way back in the 1850s. I sure as heck didn't want to believe it was real. And why on earth would a good Fundie B.A.U.B. student read it even if he could procure it? I was already thinking about calling ORRA when I it suddenly clicked. She was worried the forces of darkness itself were tailing her. This little blonde number was leading who-knows-what right to my doorstep!
More tears came down her face and she said, "I don't know. I told him not to mess with things he didn't understand unless he was an ordained minister and trained by the Tobias Institute, but he performed the rites two nights ago, in the parlor of his home at Beacon Hill. He kept going on about how the stars were aligned and how the time was right."
Still terrified I had some kinda demon outside my office door waiting for me, I asked immediately, "What was following you?! What came out of the portal?"
Her face fell to rest on the desk and her arms went over her head as she cried even more hysterically. She blubbered, "Oh, Mr. Roberts, it was horrible. They had bright yellow eyes, and the cackled and cackled! I fear Archie has let harpies and bugaboos into Boston!"
I gulped, poured a shot of rum for myself, and downed it in one go. I shuddered. I knew who I had to call. "Miss Sandwich, where is Archie now?"
She looked up and answered, her eyes bloodshot, "At his h-h-home. When I left him he was... he was trying to read i-incantations from the book to s-seal the portal." She was trembling like a leaf. I felt sorry for her.
Against all my better judgement, I looked her dead in the eye and told her, "It'll cost you. I know you can afford it. But yeah, I'll help you best I can. But if it gets
too crazy, I'm gonna call up ORRA and they'll have to take over the case. You dig?"
She looked at me, looking hopeful for the first time. "Yes! Thank you, sir! Me and Archie will never forget this!"
"Yeah, yeah," I said, waving my hand. "I just better not regret this."
PART TWO
"I
definitely regret this, Miss Sandwich," I said with a sigh as I pulled us up outside the stately manor on Beacon Hill. There was a sense of dread hanging over the whole place that really dug down to the pit of my stomach and made me more than a little uneasy. I was sitting inside my 1922 Runabout, Miss Sandwich at my side. I took a copy of the Fundie Bible out of my glovebox and handed it to the lady, telling her, "Recite some verses if anything crazy starts going down, you understand?"
Miss Sandwich, her blonde locks now tied back in a loose bun and her eyes tired as ever, only shook her head. "Okay... I can do that. Please don't hurt Archie, sir."
I frowned and drew my .38 from my underarm holster. "I'll do my best. So tell me, how long you known Archie? Has he ever displayed... diabolical tendencies before?"
She frowned back and replied, "Why, no, he's the perfect image of an American boy. He's wonderful."
I chuckled disingenuously. "Yeah," I huffed, "Just swell. Except for the part where he read incantations from the world's most evil book. Other than that, he's peaches." The broad didn't have a comeback for that one. As we walked down the cobblestone path to the ancient stone porch, she clung to my arm, the Bible in her other hand. I eyed the massive front door rather warily as we grew nearer, our steps on the stones the only sound to be heard. As we ascended the three steps to the door, I checked my gun one last time. Then I braced myself and turned the knob.
The 18th century door creaked open like a coffin, revealing the dimly-lit interior of the colonial mansion. Rather than use the electric bulbs clearly visible on the ceiling, tealights were all over the house, basking it in an eerie glow. "He said the candles were necessary," Sandwich told me. "He says the spirits hate electricity... or something, I don't know."
"Where is the parlor at? You said that was where he performed the rites?" I asked. I was so infinitely creeped out by this place that I was starting to think I should just turn around and call ORRA in.
She pointed down the hall to the left and answered, "That way. I do hope he is still there."
I raised an eyebrow. "Does he have plans for a bloody vacation in CoCaro?" I asked with no small amount of sass and annoyance. "Where
else would he be?"
She shrugged tensely. "I don't know. He mentioned something about how he needed to go to the graveyard. King's Chapel, on the Freedom Trail. I didn't understand everything perfectly. He was rather scattered in his explanations."
I grabbed her arm and stopped her. "Are you not telling me everything? Why does he need to go to King's Chapel? They stopped burying people there ages ago. No way in hell is his grandma there. You sure he ain't just some heathen on a bender?"
She bit her lip and looked like she was about to confess something. She was avoiding eye contact, a dead giveaway. "No!" she said. "Archie is better than that! Just because he dabbles in things he shouldn't doesn't make him evil."
"Dabbles?" I asked, my temper rising. "You make it sound like it's his damn hobby, lady! I though this was a one-time attempt by a sad boy to see his dead nana, not some warlock. You sure he didn't intend to open this portal? After all, how did he even get the Grimoire? He was seeking darkness out! And Pennsylvania Jack don't do seeking darkness, honey. If your boy isn't in that parlor, cursed book ready to burn, then we're gonna be having an interesting phone call to the Tobias Institute in a few minutes."
"Look," she said, once again making eye contact. "I am a Plymouth Sandwich. My family is well-known for exotic and rare book collecting. We have over 30,000 books in our library, all first editions, all unusual or classic. Archie kept asking me to let him see my father's study bookcase, where he keeps the most rare or interesting ones. I kept telling him no, but when he agreed to marry me if I showed him the book, I broke and did it. He said he wanted to speak to his grandmother again to get her blessing for the marriage."
I was absolutely furious she happened to leave these juicy tidbits out. "Oh, that's
great," I said, "Kid wants to contact the Other Side and gets his dumb blonde gal-pal to help him talk to a bunch of bugaboos. Lady, I
swear, if he's not in that parlor, we're calling in backup. Let's go!" I charged forward, gun at the ready. In a flash, I busted into the parlor, kicking the door in; I was not in a mood for seeing if it was locked or not. The room was a typical New England sitting room, with lace doilies on knobby-legged tables and large bookcases on each wall. There were more tealights at the center of the room, arranged in a circle. Inside the circle was a bald eagle, the national bird, a symbol of America, with its throat torn out. Various cursed-looking items sat around the corpse of the poor creature, and the smell of sulfur hung heavy in the air.
Sitting on the floor in front of the gruesome portal or whatever it was a young man with with jet black hair, shadows obscuring his face. He wore pinstriped trousers, a light blue shirt with white cuffs, and a black vest. A half-undone black tie wrapped around his neck, and a nasty-looking book was in his lap. He looked up at me, his eyes flaming blue, massive black circles under them. "Doris?!" he screamed in a wretched, almost mechanical voice. "Doris! I told you not to doublecross me, woman! The rites must go uninterrupted! I am almost done!"
I stared down the creature of a man, sweat pouring from my face as I pointed the gun at him. "You, son, just messed with the wrong God-fearing American! Killing a bald eagle is a capital offense, you
bastard!"
He laughed with glee and pointed a wagging, pale finger at me. "You think I care? I'm about to raise the dead and you think I care about some dumb bird? You fool! When I welcome the Great Beasts to this world, I shall have your eyes pecked out by vultures!"
"Great Beasts? What in the name of the Void are those?" I asked, contemplating shooting him right there. But... I wanted to know what he was doing. It was so bizarre. I just wanted an answer.
He smiled demonically, a smile unnaturally stretching seemingly from ear to ear. "The harpees and bugaboos shall rise from Hell itself and destroy the Republican Union! Starting with Boston! I shall be the vessel for
Phaedra Magno to destroy this God-forsaken country once and for all! The New Jerusalem shall burn, Yankee pig-dog!"
I had just about heard all I could stand. With rage pumping through my American veins, I squeezed the trigger. Sandwich kept screaming with every bullet, the dumb broad. I pumped all six rounds into the kid and watched his body slump forward, limp as a dead fish, onto his precious portal. "Well," I said, blowing the smoke off the end of my gun, "One demonic college kid less in the world. Good riddance, Archie."
The bimbo ran over to his corpse, hysterical. "Oh God,
no! Archie! I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I never should have brought him here! Speak to me, Archie!"
I saw a nearby liquor cabinet. I holstered my pistol and helped myself to a glass of whiskey. Calmly sipping it, I went over to the nearby candlestick phone. "Hello, operator," I said into the mouthpiece. "This is Jack Roberts, Private Eye. I need to report Un-American activity on Beacon Hill. Old Williams place."
"
Hold please," said the female operator.
I loud click later and another voice was on the line. A gruff, male voice. "
All hail! You are speaking with Comrade-Patriot Thorne, Boston ORRA. How can I help you today, citizen?"
"All hail!" I greeted in return before taking another sip of booze. "Yes, this is Jack Roberts, Private Eye. You might remember me from the Addams case a few months ago, not that I want to toot my own horn or anything."
After a long pause, as if to scratch his head, Thorne replied, "N..no, I don't remember you."
I sighed. "It was a big hubbub, mac. Old lady Addams was swindling her family to feed her absinthe habit."
The officer seemed more annoyed now, telling me, "No, bub. I don't. Boston's a big place. Do you have an emergency, 'sir?'"
"Yes, I do. I need ORRA boys down to the Old Williams place on Beacon Hill. Black magic case. Open and shut though. Just need the boys down here to clean up and make it legal."
"Wait, so someone's
dead?" the ORRA man asked, concerned.
"Yes," I replied. "He was doing some kookie ceremony to summon demons. Ghastly stuff, pal."
He sounded flustered. "Ugh, we need to take yous guys' licenses to kill away, dammit. Fine, I'll get a RUMP squad out there in a couple hours. We have a patrol coming through at 3 am anyway. Just leave everything like it is."
It was my turn to be flustered. "No, this is a shitshow, officer. It needs to be cleaned up now, and ORRA needs to look into it. It gives me the heebies, pal. The
Magick Grimoire is here. You know, that one book that allows you to summon demons from the underworld and destroy the planet. You know,
that one."
"
Sir," he said with an uppity voice, "You shot this man, you're gonna have to stand by until RUMP can arrive. We have a very packed schedule here at ORRA. Scrawl some Enochian on the floor by the body, or whatever the hell. This is Boston, the second capital of the Union, and we can't afford to send a squad of America's finest out every time some amateur detective shoots some poor sap in the face for owning some fairy tale book that my pop told me scary stories about before bed."
"
Oh, Sargent Thorne," I smiled, knowing I was about to win the argument with this clincher, "There's a dead bald eagle here in his living room."
"That
bastard!" roared the ORRA man. "Okay, okay, I'll have a squad there in fifteen minutes."
I hung up the phone and made myself comfortable in a nearby Napoleonic era reading chair. I took another sip of my drink as Sandwich continued to lament the loss of her lover. Blood pooled all over the oak floor, and it now covered the front of the poor broad's dress. I grinned smugly as I said to myself, "Wild animals get put down."
Not ten minutes later, three navy blue armored Colonel Ford trucks pulled up outside, sirens roaring. Neighbors had already been gathering since the sound of my deadly gunshots, and now they were milling about, watching about two dozen ORRA officers leave the trucks and come into the house. A thin man in his late twenties with an impressive brown handlebar mustache and a gold-braided uniform was clearly in command. I could also tell that from his magnificent hat. "Alright, men! Lock this place down, nobody in or out!" he ordered. As he stood in front of the portal and Archie's corpse, blood slowly pooling toward the tips of his shiny black boots, he muttered, "What in the Void?" to himself, taking off his pinch-crown hat and scratching his bald spot. He knelt down and examined the book. "Bloody hell," he said with horror, his face aghast, "This book really is real?
My God...."
I walked over to him, extended my hand casually and said, "Jack Roberts, Private Eye, sir. All hail and whatnot. I bagged you a gen-u-ine demonboy, officer."
"So I see, comrade-patriot. Well done, I suppose." He stood again. "Bastard got what he deserved for killing the national symbol. Still, where in the hell did he get this book? This thing is
disgusting."
"Oh, he got it from his girlfriend, Doris Sandwich over there!" I said, pointing at the poor thing. She was now huddled in the corner, still blubbering hysterically. "Of the
Plymouth Sandwiches," I mocked in a nasally, pompous voice.
The ORRA officer knodded, "
Ohhh, is that so? Well, we'll be having a very
interesting conversation with Miss Sandwich," he said, sticking his pinkie finger out like he was having tea with Caesar, "down at the station! Men, arrest that woman over there! She brought this eagle-killing scum a black magick book!" Dutifully, a couple goons nearby closed in and dragged her away, her body limp and finally buckling to exhaustion. He turned to me, "I'm Captain Stewart. I must ask you to accompany me to the station as well to give your testimony. Formality of course. Then you'll be free to go. A grateful Boston thanks you for your service, comrade-patriot. I'll see to it that the mayor learns of this!"
I gave him a salute and smiled. I was finally making a real name for myself. Making it big. I knew this time would come. But I still wondered... "What are you gonna do with the Grimoire?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.
"We'll transport it to the Tobias Institute, where Comrade-Patriot Lovecraft will decide on what step to take next. He'll probably incinerate it. I'll tell you one thing! I'll be happy as a Mick in an absinthe store to get it out of Boston." He cautiously opened the first page before closing it as fast as he could. "
By the Prophet, May He Rest in Peace! This trash will give me nightmares!"
"Yep," I agreed, "I feel the same way." I finished the whiskey before telling Stewart I would drive myself to the station. It was gonna be a long night of paperwork. I sighed, turned the key, and began to follow the departing ORRA truck....
READ THE NEXT ISSUE OF BIZARRE FICTION MONTHLY TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!
Will the Grimoire reveal its secrets? Is Miss Sandwich really an accomplice or a well-meaning fool? Is Archie Williams really gone for good? Read the next issue of this magazine to see what happens when the Magick Grimoire is transported to the Tobias Institute... and how Pennsylvania Jack will handle his continuing adventure against the forces of darkness!