The Brave and the Bold: The Creeper and Deadman

A Case of the Creeps

by Immortalwildcat

“Pete, you’ve got to be kidding me! Fired?”

“I’m sorry, Jack, but the main office didn’t like the fact that you disappeared on us during the Invasion. The biggest news event since the Crisis, and Jack Ryder wasn’t on the air.” Pete Caponi shrugged as his hot-tempered news anchor paced the office.

“Nobody was on the air, Pete! Those damned aliens had all of Earth’s transmissions blocked.”

“Only part of the time. When we got clear air again, we had to go on the air with Rob Curtis.” Pete passed a manila folder across his desk. “I’m sorry, Jack. Your last check is in there, and I took the liberty of typing up a reference letter.”

Jack picked up the folder and scanned its contents. “Thanks, Pete. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know. But I wanted to.”

As Jack walked out of the WHAM-TV studios, he reflected on the irony of his situation. He wasn’t there for the newscast because he was out fighting the alien invaders in his other guise as the Creeper. It wasn’t the first time his life as Jack Ryder had taken a back seat to the Creeper’s oft-misunderstood heroics, and he doubted it would be the last time.
***

 

Three days later, Jack Ryder received a call from an old friend. Tom Clasper had left WHAM-TV two years earlier, to take a job with the new WOLF network. As the first challenger to the big three in two decades, WOLF had quickly established a reputation for off-the-wall programming. Tom had played a part in that, serving as the development coordinator for such shows as “Most Wanted”, “Tales of the Witness Protection Program”, “Behind the Mask”, and “Flatfoots”. Having heard that Jack Ryder was available, another brainstorm had struck him.

“It’s perfect for you, Jack. Just picture it: the most infamous haunted house in a city renowned for ghosts. It’s Halloween night, and there’s Jack Ryder, cynic extraordinaire, right in the thick of it. We can build it up for weeks, and people all over the country will tune in for it.”

“I don’t know, Tom. After all, spooks are pretty damned rare. How can you guarantee that anything will happen?”

“What do you think, I’m stupid or something? The guys at Commercial Light and Magic are already coming up with the ghosts for it. So what do you say? You want in on this?”

Jack considered the offer for a moment. The money was good, and WOLF had already started promoting an upcoming news series. Perhaps he could get in on the ground floor with this. Halloween was only a month away, so at worst, he’d only be wrapped up in this for four weeks.

“OK, Tom, I’m in.”

***

Halloween in New Orleans was almost as big a party as Mardi Gras. All over the city, parties were being held inside and out. Just walking down one of the streets, Jack was drawn into one of them, and it took him nearly an hour to find his way out. Not that he was trying all that hard.

The house in question was the leFarge estate. On the edge of the old city, the house had not been occupied for more than a few weeks at a time since the end of World War II. Legends abounded, telling of a spectral woman who awaited the return of her lover, who had fallen in the trenches of France. It was said that she died of a broken heart days after hearing of his demise, but that her spirit lingered on, waiting for him to join her. It was said that she was only the latest in a long line of residents who still inhabited the rambling old home.

The WOLF crews had run special power lines from neighboring properties to handle the requirements of their transmission equipment. Special cameras were set up throughout the house, in hopes of recording any otherworldly manifestations.

True to Tom’s word, advance promos for the show started running the second week of October. Jack noted that he hadn’t seen a publicity blitz since the fiasco surrounding Al Capone’s vault in Chicago, two years previous. He hoped that this would be more successful.

Somebody else also took note of the publicity. Watching a late-night infomercial for a psychic, he grinned.

“This ought to be interesting. If it’s typical WOLF fare, they’ll have the producer’s kids running around the joint with floral bed sheets over their heads.” He raised a hand with the remote control, and turned off the television. Then, letting his borrowed body collapse back onto the pillow of the bed, Deadman took his leave and exited through the roof. “Maybe I should zip on down there, and see if I can’t liven things up a little.”
***

 

“Good evening, America, my name is Jack Ryder, and I’m coming to you live from New Orleans. Tonight, we bring you the Most Haunted House In America, the leFarge manor. In a city famed for hauntings and ghost sightings, this house holds a special honor. For nearly three decades, nobody has lasted so much as a single month under its roof. Perhaps it is the full moon that rouses the restless spirits within its walls, to chase the living out and leave undisturbed its unholy halls?”

It took an effort for Jack to keep from wincing as he read the teleprompter set up in the yard before the crumbling old mansion. I thought I spouted some awful stuff as the Creeper, he thought, but this would make the Purple Piledriver blush.

“Tonight, as fortune would have it, the moon is indeed full, and our WOLF camera teams are stationed throughout leFarge Manor. Stay with us through this brief commercial break, and join us for a tour of the Most Haunted House in America!”

“Annnnd, we’re clear!” shouted Andy Pickard, the director. “Nice job, Jack. Now, let’s get you into the foyer for the next segment.”

“You betcha, Andy,” replied Jack. As they walked through the tall grass that had already started rising back from the trampling they had given it during the day’s rehearsals, neither of them realized that they were being watched from the trees bordering the estate.
***

 

“Oh, this is just terrific, Mick. Brilliant idea, putting the money from that Krinks job in an old abandoned house. No problem, you says, we’ll just stick it in this old place that nobody comes around and leave it here, then come back after the heat dies down.”

“That’s enough, Don. How was I to know that a bunch of reporters were gonna camp out here for Halloween?”

“Gosh, it’s a good thing I saw that commercial for this show while watching Darkfeather Drake this morning!” The others turned to the tall, thin man who had spoken last and hushed him.

“Sheesh, Gary, keep it down! We’ve got to get in there and grab that loot before anybody finds it!” Mick was a short, rat-faced man with oversized ears. He crouched low and moved from one tree to another, making his way closer to the old house. The paunchy, big-nosed Don followed him, with the tall, skinny Gary bringing up the rear. As they crept through the tall grass behind a garden shed, their approach was seen from above.

“Oh, will you look at these rubes! They can’t be up to anything good for Ryder and his buddies. Guess I better hang out and keep an eye on them for a while.” Hovering unseen above the trio of crooks, Deadman stretched himself out on an air current and prepared to watch the show.
***

 

In the main entry of the mansion, Jack Ryder stood with a microphone in his hand. “Here, ladies and gentlemen, is the great staircase where Amelia leFarge is rumored to appear each night, coming to the door in hopes of finding her lost love returned home at last. Our cameras will remain trained on these steps all evening, so if she appears, you will be the first to know it.”

Sheesh, who did Tom recruit to write this stuff? thought Jack as they cut for another commercial.

“Begone! Begone, mortals!” cried a voice from above. Jack, Andy and the cameraman turned and looked for the source of the voice. At the top of the staircase, a macabre figure stood. It looked vaguely humanoid, but grossly misshapen. It was pale gray in color, and waved what passed for arms in the air as it spoke. “Nothing but death await you in these halls!”

“This one of your boys, Andy?” asked Jack, gesturing with his microphone.

“Are you kidding?” replied the director. “Do you think out budget could come up with something like that?”

“Well, then, I don’t know about you, but I’m heading for cover!” Jack dove toward the nearest doorway, even as Andy sputtered.

“Wait, you’re the one whose supposed to report on these ghosts! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Once out of sight, Jack activated a miniaturized device embedded under his skin. Bio-electrical impulses carried its signal throughout his body, activating the previously intangible clothing and make-up that had become a permanent part of him years earlier. His tan jacket, brown slacks, white shirt and the rest of his clothes disappeared, to be replaced by green trunks and a red, furred cape over his otherwise bare, yellow body. His close-cropped black hair was replaced by wild curly green locks.

“Jack Ryder isn’t going anywhere, but the Creeper is coming out to play!”
***

 

“Oh, man, that guy looks like something from a county fair sideshow. Can’t believe that reporter guy was spooked by it.” Deadman watched the scene in the entry hall unfold. “That guy dumped some syrup, water and flour from the catering truck over a sheet, and suddenly they think he’s a ghost?” The spirit of circus aerialist Boston Brand slipped through a wall as the spook retreated through a doorway.

“OK, Gary, that’s a good start,” said Mick as his partner returned from his first attempt at frightening off the television crew. “Don’s down in the basement, working on the electrical system. I think he figured out how to wire the house’s system into the lines that the TV people brought in.”

“Gosh, we could have some fun with that. You think he can rig it so we can control their equipment, too?”

Sounds like my cue, thought Deadman. He stopped in mid-glide, did a three-quarters back flip, and dove down through the floor. As he passed through the room below, he heard a startled gasp.

“Who, what are you?” asked a feminine voice.

The ghostly hero stopped in mid-dive. He looked around, recognizing the room as a solarium. Seated by a window that once looked out over expansive gardens, was a young woman. Not wanting to scare her any more than necessary, Deadman settled to the floor and walked toward her. “I’m a friend, miss. There are some bad apples running around this place, and I’m going to take care of them.” He sat down in a nearby chair. “Before I do that, though, what’s your story?”

“My story? I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir. I’m just waiting for Adrian to come home.” She looked more closely at the garishly-clad ghost. “Have you just come from a Mardi Gras celebration? That’s a very odd costume you’re wearing.”

“I, I am a circus performer. I am performing later tonight. Umm, look, how long have you been waiting for this Adrian guy?”

“Oh, it seems like I’ve been waiting forever. He told me he would come back for me, though. I’m sure he has just been delayed, and he will come for me soon.”

“Yeah, well, I better get going. If I see Adrian, I’ll let him know you’re here.” Deadman walked out the door before diving down through the floor into the basement.

“What the hell is that?” screamed Mick, diving through a doorway as a yellow, green and red cyclone swept through the room.

“I don’t know, but we shoulda had that to scare the TV crew!” responded Gary as he struggled to free himself of his disguise. The sheet was heavy with syrup and flour, and he was still disentangling himself with a fist slammed into his head.

“Silly man, aren’t you a little old for trick or treat?” uttered the bizarre creature as he seeming bounced away from the punch toward Mick. “Now, where’s your friend?”

“Right here, you damned freak!” screamed Mick, swinging a tire iron at the Creeper. The costumed hero flipped back away from the swing, his feet coming up to catch the criminal under the chin. Mick went sailing across the room, slamming into the opposite wall. Checking both men, the Creeper found them both unconscious. He quickly bound them with strips of cloth from the ghost costume.

“Sounded like they had another partner somewhere. I’ll have to track him down before he causes any trouble.”

At that moment, the halogen lights that had been placed throughout the mansion by the television crew all went dark.

“Dad-blasted, frazzing, furgin’ switch box!” A metallic crash echoed through the darkened basement, followed by a stream of muttered curses.

“Hmm, I wonder where the crooked little wannabe electrician might be hiding,” mused Deadman as he drifted down into the basement. The darkness was no impediment to the ghost, as he homed in on the sole living being in the massive space below the mansion. He was just about to dive into the man’s body when a door opened above and the light of a high-powered flashlight flooded the basement.

“Hey, there’s somebody down here!” cried a voice. “Looks like he was messing with the power linkages!” A half-dozen people started down the steps. “Get him out of there, and get that power going before we come back from commercial, or we’re screwed!”

Don Mallard dove away from the switch box, unknowingly evading the unseen Deadman in the process. As the assortment of technicians swarmed through the basement, Don crawled along the floor, seeking an exit. He crawled under a rusting set of laundry tubs, making his way toward a dumbwaiter that he had spotted earlier.

“Blast it, can’t spot his aura in this crowd now, and I still ain’t seen his face.” Deadman hovered over the scene, trying to spot his quarry.

Looking back toward the crowd, Don rose up on his knees and started lifting the roll-up door on the dumb waiter.

“Thank you kindly!” screeched the Creeper as he burst out from the shaft of the dumbwaiter. “Oddly enough, they don’t have handles on the inside of those things!”

“Gaaah! What are you?” screamed Don. The others turned toward them, watching as a seemingly-normal looking man was attacked by a bizarre figure bursting into the room.

“That freak must be the one messing with the show!” yelled Andy Pickard. “Get him!”

“Aw, man, not again,” muttered the Creeper as the crowd started chasing him around the basement.

In the darkened basement of the leFarge mansion’s basement, beams of light swept around, seeking the Creeper. Six men spread out, seeking the garish being they believed responsible for blacking out the building and the live television broadcast taking place.

The Creeper, while trying to evade capture, was seeking the true culprit. Unbeknownst to him, another was seeking that same criminal.

Now that the freak show has spooked Donny-boy, I can hop in his body and let Creepster bag him, thought Deadman. As he dove toward the prone criminal, he spotted something more urgent that made him change direction.

“Don’t worry, guys, I’ll bring him down!” cried one of the men, pulling a pistol from his waistband. He held the gun in both hands, sighting down the barrel at the bright yellow patch of skin that was visible in the shadows. Changing direction with a speed possible only for a ghost, Deadman veered over and passed unseen into the body of the gunman. His hand was already squeezing the trigger, but Deadman managed to jerk his arm upward so that the shot missed, and the bullet struck one of the heavy wooden beams supporting the floor above.

The sound of the gunshot made everybody freeze. “Christ, Harv, what the hell did you bring that thing for? You might kill somebody!” Another man reached out to grab the pistol, meeting no resistance as the Deadman-possessed shooter let go of the pistol. The Creeper saw this out of the corner of his eye, and took advantage of the distraction to catch up with Don Mallard, who was moving in a low, crouching walk toward the stairs leading up to an outside exit. As Mallard reached for the door, the Creeper launched himself up the stairs, slamming into the back of the crook. Together, they crashed through to door and into the long untended garden. Two swift punches, and Mallard was no longer in the world of the waking.

Funny, mused the Creeper, I was sure that guy had a clear shot at me. It was almost as if someone got hold of his gun hand or something, but there wasn’t anybody there. Was there?
***

 

After a short delay that was filled with stock footage assembled just in case of a problem with the live broadcast, Jack Ryder was on the air again, escorting his viewers on a televised tour of the mansion. In the kitchen, the hanging pots and pans rattled on cue, just as the special effects people had arranged. The camera on the main staircase remained focused on nothing. Passing through the spot where the fake ghost had appeared earlier, Jack shivered.

“Amelia leFarge may not be here tonight, but it sure feels like something has been here recently,” intoned Jack, with a hint of menace in his voice. The cameraman had to stifle a laugh as he followed.

The show was entering its last few minutes as the tour ended in the solarium. The plan was for Jack to express his regrets that they hadn’t been able to capture the ghosts on the camera that night, and to promise a follow-up special. The camera was then to look out the door over the long-wild gardens, and the credits would roll over that shot.

Jack entered the room, waiting for the temporary lighting to come on as they had rehearsed earlier. When it did not, the cameraman turned on a small spotlight mounted on the camera dolly, and they continued.

“Well, friends, it appears that we have run out of time tonight. Regrettably, Miss leFarge chose not to favor us with her presence tonight, but-”

“I beg your pardon?” Jack started at the sound of the light, feminine voice off to his left. The camera turned, and on the edge of the spotlight they both saw a young woman sitting on a divan that had not been there earlier in the day. “Am I to understand that you are looking for – *gasp.”

“Is, um, something wrong?” asked Jack, hesitation evident in his usual brash voice.

“Adrian! You’ve returned at last!” The ghost of Amelia leFarge started toward Jack, but stopped. “Oh, you’re not him. But you look very much like him.” She turned and looked at a dusty painting on the wall. Both Jack and the cameraman gawked as they saw the image of this same young lady paired with a man bearing a striking resemblance to the reporter.

“Actually, I have returned, my love.” Three heads, two living and one not, turned toward the terrace. There stood the translucent image of a man in a battered World War I infantry uniform. “Thanks to the help of your friend here.” He gestured to his left, but only Amelia leFarge could see the white-faced man in the red and black costume standing there with a smile on his face.