Lewis Stillman dropped the empty rifle at his feet and threw out his hands. "Listen," he pleaded, "I’m really one of you. You’ll all be like me soon. Please, listen to me."
But the circle tightened relentlessly around Lewis Stillman. He was screaming when the children closed in.
Nightmare on the Nose
by Evelyn E. Smith
The gifting of animals with human speech is scarcely an unique idea—see Dal Stivens’ THE UNDOING OF CARNEY JIMMY—the idea of a talking horse goes back at least to the siege of Troy, for certainly there must have been some dialogue amongst the Greek warriors enclosed in the wooden horse’s belly. But we think you’ll agree that Miss Smith’s filly has something special. Incubus won every race but one. Yet though in this respect she matched Man o’ War’s record she wasn’t actually a horse at all.
Every time he lost money at the track Phil Watson had a nightmare. They grew increasingly frequent as his bankroll dwindled and his hopes of getting rich dwindled accordingly.
The night after he had dropped two hundred dollars at Jamaica, the nightmare grew particularly oppressive. In the darkness he could see her red eyes glowing at him as she sat on his chest.
"Would you mind not turning over so much?" she asked, seeing that he was awake. "It makes me uncomfortable."
"It makes you uncomfortable!" he moaned. "How would you like to have a couple of tons of horse sitting on you?"
"I do not weigh a couple of tons!" she snapped. "And furthermore I assure you I’m sitting on your chest out of duty, certainly not out of pleasure. If you don’t think I have lots better things to do with my nights than go around sitting on people . . ." Her large white teeth gleamed in a significant leer.
He sighed and squirmed again. A sharp hoof kicked him in the side. "That’ll learn you not to wiggle, Watson. Since you’re not sleeping," she added, "how about a couple of games of Canasta?"
"I’ve been losing enough on the races—I’m not going to start gambling with a supernatural card shark."
"Listen here." The nightmare bristled. "I can beat you at any game without the use of supernatural powers. You’re known as the number-one sucker at all the tracks."
"That’s right. That’s right. Kick a man when he’s down."
"I’m sorry," she apologized. "I didn’t mean to be unsporting. But you get me so mad!"
"Unsporting . . ." he mused— then sat up as a terrific idea hit him.
"Watch your step, Watson," the nightmare warned when the sudden movement nearly threw her off the bed. "I’ve been standing for a lot from you but—"
"Listen, can you run?"
"Run? Whaddya mean run?"
"How fast can you go?"
"Well, I’ll be honest with you. Down—where I come from I’m known as ‘Old Slow Poke.’ I can’t move much faster than speed of sound while all the other girls have the velocity of light. But that’s the way it is—some are born with brains and some with speed."
"The velocity of sound is good enough," Watson decided. "Look here, Nightmare, how’d you like to run in a race?"
"A race?" Then the nightmare chuckled evilly to herself. "Oho, I see what you mean! But that wouldn’t be cricket, would it?"
"Cricket and horse-racing are two distinct sports!" Watson stated. Then, alluringly, "How’d you like to run down the track five lengths ahead of all the other horses, with the band playing and the crowd cheering? You’d be led into the winner’s circle and they’d drape flowers all over you. People would yell ‘Nightmare, Nightmare!’ You’d be a popular figure, a celebrity. This way nobody knows you. You work at night, alone—unappreciated and unsung . . ."
"That’s so true" the nightmare murmured. "I really haven’t received the adulation I deserve. Here I’ve done my job faithfully for years, scared thousands of people into fits—and what thanks do I get? None!" She sobbed. "Other people get all the credit and glory. I just work, work, work like a horse."
"If you work for me," Watson said, "you’ll only run a mile or so two or three times a week, get the finest of care and"—he pointed out significantly— "your nights will be your own."
"Watson," the nightmare assured him, "I’m sold. When do we start?"
"It isn’t as easy as all that." Watson rose and paced up and down the room. "First of all you’re not in the stud book. We’ll have to forge some papers and pass you off as an Argentinian horse."
"Si, si, señor," said the nightmare, wriggling with pleasure. "Hablo muy bien el espanol. El estrivo de mi padre es en el establo de mi madre. Yo soy del Rancho Grande. Olé!"
"It isn’t necessary for you to speak Spanish. As a matter of fact you won’t get to do any talking at all. Horses don’t talk."
"But I do," she said, wounded. "Where I come from I am known as a witty and distinguished raconteur. You know the one about the two geldings?"
"Never you mind," he told her. "From now on you don’t talk— except to me. Get it?"
"Yeah," the nightmare agreed. "All right, Watson, I’ll give it a whirl. I’ve always wanted to be in the public eye."
For the sake of expediency Watson decided to give the nightmare, now officially registered as Incubus, her preliminary workouts himself— although he was no trainer. But then Incubus really needed no workouts. It merely looked well to take her around the track a few times.
"Remember, Inky," he whispered, "not too fast. We want to give ‘em a big surprise at the meet."
"I dig you," she whispered back. Reuben Godlove, the well-known trainer, sauntered past and looked at Incubus. "My God," he told Watson, "what kind of a monster are you running! She’s got a face like a gargoyle and a rear like a hippopotamus."
"You want I should clout him in the crupper?" Incubus whispered.
"No, no! " he whispered back. "I’m glad he doesn’t take to you, because if he thought you were any good he might claim you."
"Claim me? Whaddya mean?"
"Well, you see," he explained, "since you’re unknown and have no record I’ve had to enter you in a claiming race. That means anybody who’s running another horse in the same race can put in a claim for you before the race, for the price I set on you, and become your owner."
"What’s the price you set on me?" Watson hemmed and hawed. "Three thousand dollars," he admitted.
Incubus cocked an eye at him. "You selling me down the river for a mess of pottage, Watson?"
"No, no," he assured her, "I can’t help it—this is some goddam silly racing rule. You have no reputation so I’ve got to enter you in a maiden claimer."
Incubus raised an eyebrow. "A maiden claimer?"
"A maiden horse," he explained austerely, "is one which has never won a race."
"Oh-h-h-h," she said. "Sorry."
"Now, if the worst comes to the worst and you do get claimed we can figure out ways and means of getting you back. Can’t we, Inky?"
Incubus laughed richly. "Clout him in the crupper!" she chortled. "Oh, man!"
*
The day dawned when Incubus was to make her debut at Belmont. The odds on her were a hundred to one. Laughing softly to himself, Watson put five hundred dollars on her nose.
"You crazy, fella?" the seller said to him. "The horse to bet on is Godlove’s Pamplemousse. He’s a natural