Ernst - The Doctor Satan MEGAPACK♭: the Complete Series From Weird Tales

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Here are fascinating tales about that weird genius of crime who calls himself Doctor Satan. He is no madman, but is as sane as you or I. An immensely rich man, he has turned to crime for the thrill of it, and strikes down those in his path ruthlessly, heartlessly, and thoroughly. He is master of amazing powers that make him the worlds weirdest criminal. If you have not yet made the acquaintance of this fearsome master of crime, meet him today in The Doctor Satan MEGAPACK !

Enjoy!

John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

ABOUT THE SERIES

Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, Whos the editor?

The MEGAPACK ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildsides authorswho often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK ebook series? Wed love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://wildsidepress.forumotion.com/ (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if its been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. Well fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above.

DOCTOR SATAN, by Paul Ernst

Originally published in Weird Tales , August 1935.

CHAPTER I

Business was being done as usual in the big outer office of the Ryan Importing Company. Calls came over the switchboard for various department heads. Men and girls bent over desks, reading and checking order blanks, typewriting, performing the thousand and one duties of big business.

Yet over the office hung a hush, more sensed than consciously felt. The typewriters seemed to make less than their normal chatter. Employees talked in low tones, when they had something to communicate to one another. The office boy showed a tendency to tiptoe when he carried a fresh batch of mail in from the anteroom.

The girl at the switchboard pulled a plug as a call from the secretary of the big boss, Arthur B. Ryan, was concluded.

The office boy looked inquiringly at her as he passed.

Hows the old man?

The girl shook her head a little. I guess hes worse. That last call was important, and he wouldnt take it himself. He had Gladys take it for him.

Whats the matter with him, anyhow?

A headache, said the girl.

Is that all? I thought from the way everybody was acting like this was a morgue, that he was dying or something.

I guess this is something special in the way of headaches, the switchboard girl retorted, smoothing down the blonde locks at the back of her head. And it came up awful sudden. He walked past here at nine, two hours ago, and grinned at me like he felt great. Then at ten he phoned down to the building drugstore for some aspirin. Now he wont take a call from the head of one of the biggest companies in the city! I guess he feels terrible.

A headache? snorted the office boy. Well, why dont he go see a doctor?

I put through a call for Doctor Swanson on the top floor of the building, ten minutes ago. He was busy with an appointment, but said hed be down soon.

A headache! And he cant take it! Wonder what hed do if he got something serious the matter with him.

He swaggered on and the hush seemed to deepen over the office. A premonitory hush? Were all in the big room dimly conscious of the sequence of events about to be started there? Later, many claimed they had felt psychic warnings; but whether that is a fact or imagination will never be known.

A hush, with a drone of voices and machines accentuating it in the outer office. A silence, in which the doors of the executives, in their cubicles along the east wall of the office space, remained closed. A quiet that seemed to emanate from the blank, shut door marked Arthur B. Ryan, President.

And then the hush was cracked. The silence was torn, like strong linen screaming apart as a great strain rips it from end to end.

From behind the door marked President came a shriek of pain and horror that blanched the cheeks of the office workers; a yell that keened out over the hush and turned busy fingers to wood, and which stopped all words on the suddenly numbed lips that had been uttering them.

Ryans secretary, pale, trembling, ran from her desk outside the office door and sped into Ryans office.

Oh, my God! the shriek came more clearly to the general office through the opened door. My head oh, my God!

And then the screams of the man were swelled suddenly by the high shriek of the secretary. Look, look

There was the thud of a body in Ryans office, telling the plain message that she had fainted; an instant later the agonized shrieks of the man in there were stilled.

For a second all in the general office were gripped by silence, paralyzed, staring with wide eyes at the door to the private office. Then the sales manager stepped to the open door.

He glanced into Ryans office, and those outside saw his face go the color of ashes. He tottered, caught at the door to keep from falling.

Then, with the air of a man dazed by a physical blow, he closed the door and stumbled toward the switchboard.

Phone the police, he said hoarsely to the girl. My God, call the police though I dont know what they can do. His head

What whats the matter with his head? the girl faltered as her fingers stiffly manipulated the switchboard plugs.

The sales manager stared at her without seeing her, his eyes looking as if they probed through her and into unplumbed chasms of horror behind her.

A tree growing out of his head, he gasped. A tree pushing out of his skull, like a plant cracking a flower-pot it outgrows, and sending roots and branches through the cracks.

He leaned against the switchboard.

A tree, killing him. Hurry! Get the

He lunged for her, but was too late; the switchboard girl had slid from her chair, unconscious. Blindly, with fingers that rattled against the switchboard, the man put through the call himself.

That was at eleven in the morning of July 12th, 193, a day that made criminal history in New York.

At eleven-ten, in a great Long Island home, the second chapter was being written.