The Shadow Fan Fiction Short Stories: The Evil from the Hills by Greg Daulton

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Fan Fiction: Short Stories

The Evil from the Hills
by Greg Daulton

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Author's Note:
This story has many direct influences, one being an actual radio episode of The Shadow called The Hounds In The Hills. Other inspirations include vampires, witches and various elements of horror. The Shadow pulp, The Voodoo Master, plus modern Shadow comic books drawn by Michael Kaluta were also great influences, as well as the 1940 movie serial, The Shadow, starring Victor Jory (the greatest portrayal of The Shadow ever done), and the old silent film Nosferatu. This work stands as really more of a Harry Vincent story than a direct Shadow story, but The Shadow of course still plays an important role.

Chapter 1 - The Next Mission

NEW YORK CITY - 1942

  On a clear but cold October night in the heart of the city, a group of mobsters sat in the main storage facility of a nearly vacant warehouse hideout. They were stooped over a long table, involved in some grueling card game. The place was damp, with a putrid smell that would warn anyone near to stay away. Each thug at the table was more contemptible than the next.

  "Say Mac," one of them spoke, "when the Boss gets back with our dough, are we gonna go out?"

   "For a night on the town? Yeah, sounds good," another goon replied, leaning back in his chair, trying noticeably too hard to keep his poker face.

   "Yeah, that's if he gets back," a third man uttered. "You know The Shadow is on the Boss's trail."

   "Oh there he goes again, talking about that Shadow character," an additional thug spoke.

   The man who had mentioned The Shadow was Cliff Marsland, who in reality was one of his agents. Marsland was a tough guy, with a mysterious past. He roamed the underworld with the reputation of a stone cold killer, and was easily placed into any gang or racket that The Shadow selected.

  "Jeez Cliff, why is it you're the only guy who ever worries about The Shadow?"

   "I dunno fellas, just cautious I guess. I hear he ain't human," Marsland responded.

  "Enough talk about that guy," a husky thug declared, standing up from the table and throwing his cards down. "I don't like it boys… I think Marsland is a double crosser."

  "Naw, think about what you're sayin'," a goon said, defending Cliff Marsland. "Cliff has been with us for a long time."

  "No, I think you're right. He's always goin' off by himself at the strangest times and he rarely talks," another gangster muttered standing up from the table, drawing a revolver and quickly pointing it at Cliff Marsland's head.

  "Now listen boys, this is ridiculous. Think about it. Me, in cahoots with The Shadow. I've been with you guys for far too long," Cliff responded.

  "You're a double crosser and I'm gonna blow you're head off," the goon said, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Suddenly, as the goon was ready to fire, ominous laughter echoed all around the room, as if a specter was haunting the already intimidating joint. It seemed that these harsh gangsters were no longer alone.

  "What the hell was that?" another thug questioned, nearly falling out of his chair.

  "I know, it was The Shadow," the armed mobster joked sarcastically.

  Abrupt laughter escaped the other gangster's mouths but was promptly interrupted by a sinister shape appearing on the far wall. It indeed was the silhouette of The Shadow. The gangsters quickly stood up to draw their pistols, then started hammering round after round at the wall where the mysterious silhouette stood.

  Unarmed and growing nervous, Cliff Marsland turned and ran, hiding behind some large wooden boxes stacked against the wall on the other side of the warehouse. These particular boxes no doubt housed various illegal shipments.

  The gangster's gunfire persisted, until the hideout's heavy, steel access door was raised. In walked the gang leader, Samuel Zorrin.

  "What the hell is going on here?" the crime boss inquired with great hostility.

  "Boss, it's The Shadow. He's here," one of the thugs answered nervously.

  As the mobsters glanced slowly, over toward the wall, a dark figure materialized right in front of them… A black cloak covered the mysterious form, which bore a broad brimmed fedora, as black as night; and a blood red scarf-like mask, which covered the lower half of his face, like a sinister bandit.

  "Well don't just stand there you idiots. Shoot 'em," Zorrin ordered.

  Just as the gangster's aimed their firearms, The Shadow produced two identical .45 automatic pistols. The Shadow's automatics began blazing as soon as they had appeared, striking each of Zorrin's gangsters with a deadly blow. As each gangster was shot, they rapidly fell to the floor.

  Suddenly, Samuel Zorrin drew a powerful .45 Magnum and commenced firing directly at The Shadow. The Shadow ran, with every shot from Zorrin's gun at his heels. With a quick jump and not a second glance back, The Shadow dove headfirst behind the wooden boxes where his agent, Cliff Marsland was hiding.

  Unexpectedly, a distinct and terrifying voice seemed to come from nowhere.

  "Crime Does Not Pay… The Shadow knows," declared The Shadow, throwing his voice from behind the crates.

  What seemed like a few minutes passed as Zorrin waited for the mysterious Shadow to appear from behind the wooden crates. Becoming anxious, the crime boss charged toward his strange aggressor, but was promptly stopped in his tracks, as roaring gunfire briskly echoed throughout the warehouse. The despicable mobster had been gunned down from behind.

  Using his ability to cloud men's minds, The Shadow had moved, miraculously unseen from his hiding place, to the other side of the warehouse. Gradually becoming visible, the dark figure wandered slowly toward Zorrin's cadaver, wielding his powerful automatics.

  A few nights later, Harry Vincent was having a drink at the bar within his residence, The Hotel Metrolite. The bar was like any other sports bar, crowded and noisy, full of smoke and liquor. The bartender was making his rounds and asked Harry if he desired another drink. Harry declined, grabbing his overcoat from the barstool next to him.

  As Harry left the bar, he sauntered past a couple of hotel patrons who had clearly had too much to drink. He entered into the massive lobby and went to the front desk, signing his name on the registry. It appeared that he was leaving for the night. This particular establishment was the classiest of joints, and for good measure, kept a notary on when their clients were in and out of the hotel.

  As Harry walked out of the massive lobby to the well-lit street, the city was booming with activity. Car after car lined the avenue and the sidewalks were littered with people who were merely participating in the usual New York City nightlife. Immediately Harry noticed a bright yellow taxicab that appeared brand-new rolling up alongside the curb to collect him. Opening the cab's door, he greeted the driver and entered the cab.

  "Hello Moe, how are you?"

  "I'm fine Mr. Vincent," the driver, Moe Shrevnitz said as the taxi pulled away from the street.

  Moments later, an impressive cab pulled up to a deserted, grimy brick building somewhere in downtown. As the cab door flew open, Harry Vincent exited casually. Moe Shrevnitz' cab suddenly sped away from the dark scene as Harry approached the building's entrance through a dark side alley.

  Harry struck the iron door with a series of short, distinct knocks. Abruptly the door slid into the brick siding, revealing a large entrance with steps descending into a black pit. He stepped inside, following the steps until a dim light appeared through another door. Easily pushing it open, the decisive agent stepped into The Shadow's secret Sanctum.

  With the Sanctum's main purpose being a communication headquarters, The Shadow frequently met his closest companions here, as well as communicated with them through visual means with use of a closed circuit television screen plastered on the wall.

  As Harry entered the main room of The Shadow's lair, he saw the menacing figure seated at a desk, under a blue light and fully cloaked in black.

  "Come in Vincent," The Shadow uttered with a terrible whisper.

  "I got your message at the hotel. What is it Sir?" Harry inquired.

  "I have a mission for you agent."

  "Yes Sir," Harry replied obediently.

  "Vincent, I have kept record of a certain radio broadcast that aired last night. Pay attention, this involves your next assignment."

  From out of the desk, The Shadow pulled a small radio box, which he connected to a telephone wire protruding from the wall. "Listen," The Shadow ordered as he turned on the radio. A scratchy broadcast began streaming through the radio:

In national news, police in a small town in North Carolina say that a series of unsolved murders has locals spooked. The small town of Torenceville has been a stranger to the horrors of crime that most of the country is used to. At present, the murders include four men brutally killed, two hospitalized, names not yet released to the public. No witnesses as of yet…

  The Shadow turned off the radio; Harry Vincent couldn't believe what he heard. "Vincent, one of my other agents from the city of Charlotte, North Carolina is already in Torrenceville assessing the situation. His name is John Rowe. He is staying at a motel just inside Torrenceville called The Happy Inn. He awaits your arrival. Use the universal agent's code to identify yourself to him. You will go there and see what you can find out about these murders. Report directly if you have any information."

  "Understood Sir."

  "Good, an airplane has been chartered under your name. It will leave from the Eastern Manhattan Airstrip tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. You are dismissed, for now. Moe will drive you wherever you need to go for the time being."

  Immediately, Harry left the Sanctum through the heavy iron entrance and returned to the taxicab that was waiting outside.

  The following evening, a dense fog permeated the air as a bright pair of lights shot through the dark sky. A small, single engine airplane was meandering down, releasing the landing gear as if preparing to land. As the plane continued to descend, the fog dissipated. Finally, the tiny aircraft struck the ground with great force, landing in a vacant airfield. It made a few brisk turns, attempting to slow down so it could come to a full stop. Once halted, the plane shut down.

  After a few moments, two figures exited the plane and moved to the back, opening the vessel's storage compartments, removing some luggage.

  "Well Mr. Vincent, is this where I leave you?" the man who had piloted the plane asked Harry Vincent, who was surprised at the heaviness of his luggage.

  "Yes, this is fine. I have a friend meeting me here along that road," Harry informed, pointing to a poorly paved road on the other side of the small airfield. "He'll take me to a nearby motel."

  "Sure is strange Sir, you wanting to vacation out here in the hills of North Carolina in the middle of October. It's mighty cold," the pilot declared.

  "Yes well, I like the adventure."

  "Ha, I'll bet. Would you like me to wait with you, until your ride arrives?"

  "No, I'll be fine if you want to take off. It's a long flight back to New York," Harry uttered, a bit annoyed that the pilot was so persistent.   "Alright then goodbye Mr. Vincent. It has been a pleasure," the pilot said returning to the plane.

  Moments later, the plane took off and soon disappeared into the night sky. From across the field came the bold glow of a car's headlights. Harry Vincent grabbed his heavy bags and raced across the field to a poor dirt road.

  As Harry came to the dirt road, the black car stalled, and out stepped a short, stocky man in a black chauffeur's uniform.

  "Hello Mr. Vincent, my name is Wallace Crump," pronounced the driver in a thick southern accent.

  "Ah yes, you were sent by Mr. John Rowe I believe."

  "That's correct Sir, he regrets not being here now. He told me to get you back to the motel."

  "That's fine. Thank you very much," Harry offered, placing his bags in the back seat, and then entering as the driver began to start the car.

  Suddenly the car roared into life, and backed up to turn around. With that, the vehicle easily accelerated forward en route to The Happy Inn motel.

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Fan Fiction: Short Stories The Evil from the Hills by Greg Daulton

Fan Fiction: Short Stories

The Evil from the Hills
by Greg Daulton