The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales from Fantasy Adventures

THE WISHING STONE, by Philip E High

A drunk gave it to me in Vallas’s place on Twenty-fifth Street. When I say drunk, he was not too drunk to know what he was doing — he knew that all right. He was getting rid of an object that was becoming too hot for him to handle. An object that might have handed him the Earth but he was too nervous to use.

“Well, to be absolutely honest, it’s a kind of magic, I call it a wishing stone.”

He held it out for my inspection and I saw that it was a perfectly round sphere the size of a snooker ball. It fitted comfortably into my palm, which I placed around it.

It looked like any other round stone save that it was a funny color. An undecided color, actually. First glance said bright green and the next, a kind of pale shimmering blue. One was never quite certain quite what color it was.

“And it does magic?”

He nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, you can take my own word on that.”

“What kind of magic?”

“I thought I explained that, it’s a Wishing Stone. You wish for something and you get it.”

“Oh come on! It can’t be that easy.”

“Easier, old chum, but it’s only fair to tell you the dangers. You wish for a small fortune in bank notes, any currency, and it will appear. Then you start asking yourself those very awkward questions. Suppose this money comes from a robbery and the numbers are known? Suppose the whole damn lot is counterfeit? The idea of swaggering into the bank you mentally blow out of the water before you’ve started on your journey.”

He paused and waved his finger at me, warningly. “Mind you, old son, when you start trying things out for yourself, you have to be specific. It’s no good saying you want a pint of beer, it will just splash on the floor in front of you. You have to state that you want a glass of — or a bottle of—. You do understand me?”

“Oh, yes, fully.” Needless to say, I didn’t believe a single word he said but it was an interesting con and I wanted to see how it would work out. On the other hand, the alleged stone was interesting in appearance and could join my other collection of curios — a hobby of mine.

I said pointedly: “How much?”

He appeared taken aback. “Well, I hadn’t actually thought about selling — but, of course, given away, you would have considered it worthless and would never have taken it. Tell you what, I’m no con man, you’re obviously a man of means, so a compromise, eh? The big bottle of Vodka, on the shelf, just left of the barman’s head there.”

I must confess I was surprised, this was no obvious con trick. I am a financial advisor to a major industry; I could have bought the whole damn bar if necessary.

I bought him the drink and he placed the stone in my hand. “Good luck, friend,” he said.

I smiled at him, feeling I had got the best out of the deal. “Tell me, please, if you can remember it, what was your last wish before deciding to give this stone up?”

“Oh, no problem there, sir, none at all. I wished I could find the sucker stupid enough to take the damn thing off my hands.”

It was at that moment that the door to the bar burst open and there was a virtual invasion of people. They were twined with colored ribbons, they carried balloons, they wore silly cardboard hats and they blew on idiotic tin trumpets. Obviously they were an overspill from a nearby party but they flooded the place and, in the crowd, I lost him.

He left me with the odd feeling that I had been cheated but I failed to see how. The cost of the bottle meant nothing to me and I had an interesting curio for my collection. There is no need to stress that I believed not a single word of this alleged magic. I must confess, however, that the stone was unique. It was not cold to the touch and it was not exactly warm, somehow it retained a curious neutrality between the two.

I will be honest; although dismissing these magic stories as rubbish, I fully intended to put them to the test. Maybe an old witch doctor, or whoever had made the damn thing, had pressed some hypnotic thoughts into it before letting it go. It was a theory which might account for my drunken friend’s belief in its powers.

I did see his moral argument; suddenly acquired wealth, it had to come from somewhere even if was from a madman’s imagination.

Twenty minutes later my chauffer was driving me home and my thoughts turned to some sort of test. Something simple, wholly personal but which did not impinge on other people. Hang on, you’re thinking as if there really was some truth in this rubbish.

Something simple, how about that thought which came to you earlier. You wondered where the damn thing came from, you ask the question and wish for an answer.

It had to be in private, I called my manservant, Palmer, and told him I was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Then I settled down in my favorite chair and made my wish.

It might have been imagination but it seemed to me that the stone moved slightly in my hand. For a few seconds I was disoriented and then became conscious of a beating noise, close and around. Some of the beating was very heavy, almost thunderous, others faint and almost shrill.

I had the impression I was in a huge cavern, lit by a shimmering, green light. Somewhere there were people dancing. I could not see them but their distorted black shadows rose and fell on the cavern walls. Then, abruptly, the drumming and the dancing stopped and a heavy silence fell on everything, even the green light that became thick and murky.

There was a flash and a small sphere of dull green light appeared, in the center of which was the stone. Neither the flash or the sphere were spectacular but what came with them, was a rush of warm heated air which by itself would have been revolting. It stank. It stank of corruption and decay, of something festering and held close to the face.

Worse than this, however, but beyond description, was the feeling of absolute malevolence that made one want to run in terror.

Then, suddenly, I was back in my own room, sitting in my favorite chair. I cannot deny for one minute that I was frightened, terrified even.

I had to fight down something close to sheer panic by logic and rational thinking alone. My earlier assumptions had been right, of course, some old witch doctor or ancient adept had hypno-impressed the stone.

It was a wholly reasonable and logical explanation save, at the time, it failed to convince me. I was still terrified and the smell of decay seemed to cling to me and my very clothing.

I wanted to call up my private plane and get the pilot to fly far out over the ocean. There, from a great height, I would drop this diabolical ball into the deepest part of the ocean.

It was a logical save that I knew I couldn’t do it. In some odd and inexplicable way, I was bound to the bloody thing. The only way I could ever rid myself of it was on its own terms. I had to wish it away. I began to understand now why the drunk had called me a sucker.

It was not easy giving away or even trying to sell a round stone. Most people, lest caught off guard and in the right mood, as I had been, would steer well clear of the offer.

I was slowly regaining my nerve and logic was taking over from past terror. My first assumption had been correct, the experience had been impressed by some old witch doctor into the stone. Those people were still capable of arousing the primitive parts of the mind.

Within an hour I had almost fully convinced myself that the experience had been wholly subjective.

I called Palmer for a drink and, as usual, he was very quick. He poured my favorite concoction right beside me on the small vine tables. As he did so, he sniffed. “My God, Mr. Ventris, has something gone wrong with the air conditioning?”

His words made me go cold inside but I kept a grip on myself.

“No, not as far as I know, Palmer.”

“Sir, the smell! I have a very sensitive nose and I am not mistaken. It’s a veritable reek, sir.”

“Then, perhaps, it’s lucky that I have a slight head cold, Palmer.”

“I would agree there in full, sir. I will get on to the suppliers right away.”

When he had gone, it took a long time for my stomach to stop shivering and to warm up. I had imagined the whole experience to be subjective but this, clearly, was not the case.

In no way could anyone explain how Palmer could register my subjective experience.

Once again, I thought of dropping the damn thing into the depths of the ocean and knew, yet again, that I was hooked. I had to wish it away onto another unfortunate before I could rid myself of it. Worse, deep down, I was half fascinated by its possibilities — where would it lead?

There was another unpleasant factor also which I found out in the first few days — it would not let one alone. It prodded and pulled at the mind continually and demanded to be used.

There was no question of shutting it away some dark place and forgetting it.

I found myself beginning to search desperately for something to wish. It was not easy, a horrible experience like that last one must be avoided at all costs. Even apparently simple and innocuous wishes often adversely affected other people.

It was by pure chance that two news items almost handed me something on a platter. One of my business friends had been badly injured in an air crash. A second, while waiting for his car outside his club, had been mugged and badly beaten up.

The answer seemed obvious and safe. I wished to be protected.

I had thought about it for some hours and had gone into the idea thoroughly. I had remembered to be specific and I think I covered everything. I asked for protection against any conceivable type of accident, man-made or natural, murderers and maniacs, miscarriages of justice and the like. The most important of all to me, which I stressed, was protection against psychic attack.

I did not think I was making myself immune. I fully realized, in purely basic terms, I was the fumbling amateur competing against the professional but, at least, I was able to sleep more soundly.

The repercussions came five days later in the form of a uniformed detective and a constable.

“Mr. Ventris — Mr. Adrian Ventris?”

“Yes, yes — what can I do for you?”

They introduced themselves, then: “You have a thief-proof electronic fence surrounding your estate, sir?”

“Yes, yes, but the voltage is not lethal, deterrent only.”

“Yes, sir, that we already know. These men, however, had broken the circuit and had already cut through part of the steel barrier beyond. These were dangerous and ruthless men, sir, and both were heavily armed. It is unlikely, therefore, that any rival villains would have risked trying to take over.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Inwardly I had already half guessed and dreaded what followed.

“Perhaps it would be better if you came and saw for yourself, sir.”

The two men lay sprawled under an oak tree, about two metres from the breech in the fence.

For reasons unknown their faces were unmarked but their distorted expressions were frightening enough.

As for their bodies— Dear God! They looked as if they had been run over several times by a heavy tractor or, perhaps dropped from a great height beyond the atmosphere.

Hands and arms protruding from their sleeves retained shape only, no bone structure was left, only a red jelly.

I admit, I fought down a desire to vomit, not from the bodies alone but because of my own sense of guilt.

This, in a way, was my responsibility. Be specific, the man had said and I had failed the warning miserably. I had merely asked for protection, never realizing that others might be killed horribly to provide it.

Inwardly I almost flew into a panic. I wish no more killing in my protection.

Almost it was a prayer and I hoped to God it worked.

I estimate that it was at least four hours later before I could sit and think rationally. I am not a religious person bat I literally prayed that the ‘no kill’ wish worked.

I found out next day and it brought me little consolation. Quite by accident I had struck up a friendship with a local cop. We discovered we shared an interest in foreign stamps and, for reasons unknown, strong bonds build up between philatelists.

As it happened, he caught me waiting outside the complex while my chauffeur was making desperate efforts to get the Mercedes across a line of traffic to pick me up.

“Good day, Mr. Ventris, glad I’ve seen you, you had a narrow escape only a few hours ago. I was too far away to help at the time, but I saw it all.”

I had gone a little cold inside and, candidly, I didn’t want to hear the rest. I knew, by his tone of voice, that whatever he told me was going to be unpleasant.

“Yes, Mr. Ventris, I saw the whole thing in detail. Later, one of our street cameras got the lot. Ira Mintz had you in his sights and if Mintz got to work on you he would have taken everything you possessed and you would never have known until you tripped. Only then would you discover that he had taken everything including your shoelaces, if you know what I mean, sir. Mintz is one of the best dips — pickpockets — on this continent. It is said that he once won thirty grand on his skill alone. Someone bet him that he couldn’t take the bras off three women without them knowing within an hour and he won. Thirty minutes, he took, so they say.”

The policeman paused and shook his head. “Won’t do that no more. As he got near you, something happened, I don’t know what. Some medical experts, back at base, think it was some kind of fit but I have never seen anything like it. My wife’s cousin is an epileptic, sir, and I’ve seen a few attacks, but nothing like this. He’ll never walk again—”

After that it took me at least four hours to think rationally.

A greater part of my thinking was self-examination, past and present. I was shocked when I forced myself to face facts. The damn thing was taking over my life and, by slow degrees, enslaving me. I was missing several of my favorite musical recitals, visits to the club, things like that. Yes, golf, also, to miss a weekend round before all this had once been unthinkable.

Again there was the dog; we were missing many of our usual walks. I knew that exercise with Palmer or one of the other servants was not quite the same thing to him.

I loved the dog, his loyalty and blind devotion — it was not being fair to him. Yet lately, I must confess, he added to my fears. All too often, lately, he would lift his head and stare at something beyond me. Then he’d growl, low and threateningly, deep in his throat.

I knew what he was growling at, something I was beginning to sense, all too frequently. I can only describe it as a dark and threatening shadow but daily it seemed to draw closer.

I thanked God my wife was away, taking care of a sick sister on another continent. I didn’t want her involved in this.

Here, too, I had to be honest with myself, this was not noble or protective. I had been married to Moira for fifteen years but, somewhere along the line, love had died, flaked away into nothing. Those endearing differences of speech and gesture have degenerated to irritating mannerisms. My wife is still a beautiful woman but her beauty does not touch me.

I wish her no harm, I do not dislike her and we lead our separate lives. To have her here, mixed up in all this business would make things many times worse. Together, she gets on my damn nerves, constantly.

Even as I sat, forcing myself to face facts, the pressure never stopped.

Make a wish.

Wish for something.

I found it difficult to keep a grip on myself. Mentally, I wanted to shout back, “Leave me alone! Get off my back, blast you!”

I admit I gave way. Something harmless, innocuous, something which would exert no pressure on anyone.

How is my sick sister-in-law, Geraldine, doing?

As is often the case, I was suddenly there, as if mentally transported, seeing it all.

And Geraldine was doing fine.

Geraldine was practising high dives in her home’s private swimming pool.

Where the hell was her loving sister. Moira? “Geraldine is not really well enough to talk but she sends her love.”

Needless to say I fell into the trap. I wished I knew what my wife was doing.

I sat in my favorite chair for a long time just staring at nothing but I must admit that I was inwardly grateful that I no longer loved her. Had I done so, the consequences would have been tragic, even so—.

Moira was kicking a lot of high spots, miles away, at a coastal resort with a boyfriend.

The cow! The two-faced bitch! All those messages on her sister’s health every evening.

I had not been hurt emotionally. I acknowledge that, but, hell, my pride had. I was being made to look an idiot. No doubt those who knew were secretly laughing. A top exec’ being taken down by his wife, not so damn smart, is he?

The worst aspect of the whole business, however, was the boyfriend himself.

It was Preston Goff, one of our junior executives. I had never liked the man, loud, pushy and overbearing. A man who was forced to address you as ‘sir’ but made it sound contemptuous.

When he smiled, it could be heard — the thick lips over big uneven teeth.

Goff could not help his physical characteristics, of course, but they were something that added to my anger.

Also I knew, damn well, who was paying for these jaunts to the coast — I was. Moira was funding their adultery through the credit card I had given her.

I sat for a long time fuming, planning revenge and public exposures.

I would stop the credit card, leave her virtually penniless in a top-flight hotel.

Gradually, very gradually, I calmed down. Face it, I was a hypocrite if I told myself that all this was about Moira. I felt no pangs of loss whatever; my real resentment was against Goff. I knew, already, he would be boasting, dropping dark hints that he was bedding a top executive’s wife.

Suddenly I was icy cold and a picture began to form in my mind. At the moment I had almost forgotten about the wishing stone. This was sharp and immediate, I had to cover my back. Therefore no showdowns, no public exposures for Goff or Moira. Such tactics, although inwardly rewarding, were also a public admission of failure. They would only tell the world that this loud mouthed lout had been having my wife behind my back — not good for my position or my business reputation at all.

It took me five whole days of planning and re-planning before I had an answer. It was not a pleasant answer and, yes, it included the evil already looming over me.

I had cursed the whole damn situation at first, seeing it as another cruel trick of fate in the midst of my troubles. After a day or so, however, I came to regard it as something of a blessing. My natural anger had stiffened my determination. Possibly I was sticking my damn neck out but I was suddenly determined to fight this damn thing, if possible, on its own terms.

I am an executive in a position of power, so I took care and I planned everything.

It wanted wishes so it got wishes but perhaps not the sort it liked.

I wish to know.

I wish this point explained—.

It resented it, its anger licked at me like a remote flame but I was learning and the fundamental truth was that it, too, was bound by rules.

One, having answered a wish, it could not reverse or alter it.

Two; it could not go against the natural laws of this world. For example, it could grant me protection but only for my natural lifespan. Immortality, therefore, was out.

I grabbed at this one, I would begin my defiance with its own power. Immortality might be out but within one’s normal lifetime, that was another thing.

By the time I had finished, I was immune to everything. I could not be shot, poisoned or stabbed. I was immune to all disease, injected or otherwise. I could have survived a road crash or stepped, unharmed from the wreckage of a plane.

I rounded the whole lot off with what, I felt, were two body blows.

I wish that you cannot harm me

I wish that you cannot harm me, even if wished to do so when in the possession of another.

This I felt was the decisive wish, and it knew. I sensed the searing flames of resentment, but I was not clear of it yet. I had learned from the first that escape was not a wish that would be granted.

The only escape was to pass it on to another in the same way as I had been landed with it.

I had a plan, I could only pray that it would work. I called my mother in Ellsworth — this is an elite kind of resort for the elderly perched right on the coast. Elderly ladies meet there and exchange gossip. Among these gatherings was another lady— Groff’s mother.

I talked to my mother for a long time. She was an ex-actress of some note, so she would be word and part perfect.

When Mrs. Goff was in the gathering, my mother would ease her way into the conversation, dropping a sentence here and there.

She would say, “This last curio of my son’s, it really is a dreadful thing, only a stone but quite repulsive. I really can’t understand why he won’t get rid of it. He thinks no one will take it as a gift, particularly so, as he thinks it quite worthless.”

“And is it worthless, Mrs. Ventris?”

“Well, from private enquiries I have made, no. It might be worth a considerable amount of money to the right people.”

The bait was on the hook; I knew it was only a question of time.

I had to wait five days and then he caught me in the executives’ common room.

“Excuse me, sir, may I have a word, please.” He was unnaturally polite oat clearly quite sure of himself. He had taken this high-ranking bastard’s wife. He was now about to milk him of a valuable curio.

“Heard you didn’t care for it much, sir, also that it is worthless. I’m a bit of collector myself and I wondered if—”

I invited him home. I hesitated, I humm’d and haa’d. “It is absolutely worthless, you know.”

I did tell him all about it but I could see he did not believe me. Finally he paid me fifty for it. “Must give you something for it, sir, only fair.”

He went away gleefully, thinking of rich profits and, yes, once more taking a top executive for a mug. He had had his wife and now he had taken him for a curio of considerable value.

No, before you ask my conscience is not clear.

It will probably play hell with me in the coming years.

On the other hand, I have rid myself of an evil entity into the hands of a man who richly deserves it.