Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 30, No. 13, Mid-December 1985

The Wish Peddler by L. W. Cantrell

The path through Graham Park was lined with aged oak trees that had, over the years, grown to need each other. Their gnarled old branches held hands overhead, and one passing underneath and looking upward could not be sure which arthritic limb belonged to which distended trunk. Despite their antiquity, new foliage was busy emerging, for it was spring and though the trees were old they were not yet too tired to try.

A slippery breeze cavorted between spatters of moonbeams and did surface dives through the balmy air. There was the scent of greenness, of the ripening year, of things new and renewed. The evening wrapped itself languidly on the park and sidled down the path and around the trees. It was a velvet night, a honeyed night, the perfect accompaniment — complete with cricket murmurings and silvered moonlight — to the moment when one Randall P. Wodenhaus became dead.

Not that Mr. Wodenhaus immediately recognized this august happening for what it was (he had declined setting the precise time and place of his demise himself, opting for the added enjoyment of spontaneity). Rather the reverse, in fact, for several moments had passed before the first inkling of what was transpiring tickled the edges of Mr. Wodenhaus’s reverie. By then it was much too late to change his mind (had he wished to), and the faint stirring of rebellion that was his initial response fizzled out. An Epilogue was, after all, an Epilogue and should be greeted as such with dignity and a certain amount of savoir-faire — if, that is, one was getting what one asked for; and that was exactly what Mr. Wodenhaus was getting, for he had bought and paid for twenty-four hours of death.

Mr. Wodenhaus glanced at his wristwatch. Eight P.M. on the dot.

It was mildly interesting to note, thought Mr. Wodenhaus, that so far none of the venerable prophecies had come to pass. Mr. Wodenhaus was unsure whether or not to be disappointed (some forecasts were a bit intense for his taste), and decided to reserve judgment. He had harbored no fear of suddenly finding himself flung into a fiery furnace, as it were (though it didn’t hurt to have this belief confirmed); nor had he expected to be greeted by a heavenly host of angels gloriously in chorus. Mr. Wodenhaus had never suffered from the religious illusions or cultist superstitions that plagued so many.

Yet death had always held a strange fascination for him, particularly as the years advanced and its dark spectre loomed more and more ominously on Mr. Wodenhaus’s horizon. Perhaps its status as the sole inevitability of life (taxes could be gotten around) caused the question of what death would be like to gnaw with increasing voracity at Mr. Wodenhaus’s patience until at last he decided to jump the gun a mite (no pun intended). It was important, thought Mr. Wodenhaus, to be prepared. Mr. Wodenhaus had always liked to know beforehand just what he was getting into and didn’t mind paying for the knowledge. His contract with the Wish Peddler had cost him more than he’d wanted to pay, but once a rider had been attached assuring that no physical harm would come to him during the twenty-four hour period and guaranteeing his safe return at the end of that time, Mr. Wodenhaus had been quite satisfied.

Drat! He’d forgotten to pay special attention to the initial feel of being dead. Then he realized it was not too late, for looking over his shoulder he discovered his body was still in the process of settling to the ground. It was as though “he” had simply walked on while “his body” had stopped its forward movement and slowly begun to crumple.

Freedom was the word that popped up first regarding his temporary state, yet that single word fell just short of perfect. Mr. Wodenhaus searched for an appropriate analogy and conjured up a somewhat too vivid picture of a snake slithering out of its skin — then discarded it for the more pleasant image of a butterfly, flitting with capricious abandon from its cocoon. Ah, yes. A butterfly. That was much more to his taste. A yellow butterfly.

Mr. Wodenhaus continued to regard his body, which was still involved in its slow-motion slump. It lent a certain graceful symmetry to his angular frame. Mr. Wodenhaus smiled, seeing himself through new eyes and liking what he saw. Death wasn’t so bad. It smoothed the creases, rounded the edges, eased the pace—

For just a moment, something scratched at a door in the back of his mind, something cold and ghoulish. Mr. Wodenhaus tightened his lips and bolted the door firmly shut.

Mr. Wodenhaus looked around at the world he would inhabit for the next twenty-four hours. Right off, he could detect no major changes. The trees were still trees, their budding branches at rest now in the absence of the earlier breeze. The path continued on its winding way through the park. The crickets — wait a minute, what had happened to the crickets? Only moments before, the night air had been filled with their raspy songs. In fact, their chirring was not the only sound Mr. Wodenhaus now realized was missing. He no longer heard the muted rumble of the evening traffic over on Fifty-fourth Street... nor the soft strands of guitar music coming from the young man seated on a bench farther back along the path... nor the occasional twitter of an awakened bird... nor a dog barking... nor... big deal. Noise could be so distracting to one’s peace of mind — yes! yes, of course — that was it! Peace. Quiet. That was part of death, wasn’t it? “The Silence of the Grave” and all that rot (uh, no pun intended). Something to enjoy. For twenty-four hours.

Mr. Wodenhaus glanced over his shoulder once more, only to be a bit disconcerted now by the sight. His body seemed suspended... immobile... one knee slightly bent, the foot turned sideways and pointed inward ... an arm just beginning to act upon orders from the brain to prepare for an impending fall... head tilted back, eyes staring... staring... dead eyes... dead, dead eyes...

Should be closed, thought Mr. Wodenhaus, repressing an involuntary shudder, zeroing in on a point he could deal with and, for the moment at least, disavowing knowledge of the cold thing tapping on the door in the back of his mind.

Resolutely Mr. Wodenhaus approached the body, intent only on closing the gaping, sightless eyes. He pressed thumb and forefinger to the lids — and immediately recoiled. There was no sense of touch. He put his hand out toward, then through his body.

Mr. Wodenhaus walked through his body.

He did it again.

He went over to a tree and mimicked the act.

He waved his arm through a bush.

He scooped his hand through the ground.

But Mr. Wodenhaus could not close his body’s eyes; and for some reason, at the moment, this was the only thing Mr. Wodenhaus really wanted to do.

Mr. Wodenhaus shrugged. Apparently certain norms were in effect here, just as in the real world. There were a million things one could do, and a million things one couldn’t. Just different things. Adjustments could be made and Mr. Wodenhaus would make them. After all... it was only for twenty-four hours.

The best thing to do, decided Mr. Wodenhaus, was to branch out a bit and see what other new accomplishments he had acquired. This was going to be fun. Mr. Wodenhaus chuckled merrily. It was like being invisible. Who hadn’t pondered the possibilities of such a state? He headed toward Fifty-fourth Street. First a little snack, then — wait a minute ... he couldn’t eat!

Never mind, never mind. He didn’t need to eat. He was dead — temporarily dead, he amended — and there were infinite... uh, lots of other things to do. Mr. Wodenhaus’s agile mind flicked over a wide range of activities: from such trivialities as playing fiendish tricks on some of his cronies to more serious endeavors such as altering bank records and property titles. But how was he to do any of those things when his fingers wouldn’t hold a pen?... when his hands passed through solid objects?... when he had no substance, no effect, no—

Stop it! This would not do. It would not do at all! There was no real problem. Maybe it wasn’t turning out so well after all, but it would soon be over. Nothing could go wrong, the Wish Peddler had assured him of that; and besides, it was all neatly spelled out in his contract. Mr. Wodenhaus patted his pocket. Right there in the fine print just above the line where he’d signed his name (in blood, of all things, but the Wish Peddler had been a stickler on this point, no pun intended). Mr. Wodenhaus always read fine print, particularly read fine print, so he knew that in exactly the specified time his contract would become null and void — without exception!

Mr. Wodenhaus was ashamed of himself. His twenty-four hours was just beginning and here he was already allowing emotionalism to replace logic. He’d never done so in life, why should he in death? Temporary death, he quickly amended. He must simply get his thoughts in order, adjust his thinking. Mr. Wodenhaus resumed walking. So what if taste and sound and touch were denied him during his tenure here. He could see, couldn’t he? And there was so much to see.

Oof! Mr. Wodenhaus staggered backward. He’d walked into something solid. He didn’t see anything — Mr. Wodenhaus put out a tentative hand — but there was something in his way. He moved his hand up and down, left and right. There was an invisible barrier of some sort. Mr. Wodenhaus drew back his hand. He glanced around him, looked above him, suddenly recalling one of those “venerable prophecies” — something about restless spirits doomed to spend eternity within the spatial limits of their earthly passing. Could this barrier possibly extend—

Something cold started pounding on the back door in Mr. Wodenhaus’s mind. It was the ghoul. It wanted out. It had something to tell him.

No no, not now, thank you. Not now. Don’t want to know now, thank you very much. Not now...

Mr. Wodenhaus moved back from the barrier. He didn’t look at his body again. He sat down on the ground instead, his back toward it. He couldn’t feel the ground, but that didn’t matter. He had to make plans. There were other things he could do, he was sure of it. Mr. Wodenhaus glanced at his wristwatch. Eight P.M. on the dot. He must not waste any of his precious time. After all, he only had twenty-four hours...