Return to Otherness

by Henry Kuttner

  Michaela came into view. “This is Mr. Garr. I phoned him today.”

  Garr’s leathery face cracked into a grin. “Got my name in the phone book under about everything,” he said. “Wiring, plumbing, painting - plenty of folks get trouble that ain’t just in one line. Like your furnace.” He walked over to examine it. “Tinsmith - furnace man - electrician - you got to be all of ‘em to get along. What’s the matter with the thing?”

  “The blower doesn’t work,” Melton said, avoiding Michaela’s accusing stare.

  Garr used a flashlight, traced wires, and did things with a screwdriver. Sparks scattered. He finally examined the hydrostat atop the boiler, lifted its cap, and clucked. “Leak,” he said. “See the steam coming out? All rusted. The wires are grounded.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Gotta get another hydrostat. I’ll pick one up, Mr. - uh - Melton. You don’t need a blower much anyway. That all?”

  Michaela said firmly, “No, it isn’t. We put a few shovels of coal in that furnace three days ago, and it’s still going.”

  Garr didn’t seem impressed. He looked into the furnace, nodded in a pleased sort of way, and asked, “How many shovels didja say?”

  “Four,” Melton told him.

  “Ain’t enough,” Garr said helpfully. “You keep the coal a few inches lower than the door, see? That way, you get better heat.”

  “The house is too hot now. How do you make a furnace go out?”

  “She goes out. Just leave her alone. Or shake her down through the grate.”

  “She won’t shake. Try it yourself.”

  Garr tried it. “That’s right. Guess she’s fused. I’ll have to get some tools and new grates to fix that, maybe.” He straightened and peered around the cellar. “Darn nice house you got here, though. She’s well built. Good, solid beams.”

  “Mice,” Melton said.

  “Li’l field mice. You get ‘em all around this part of the country. You keep a cat?”

  “No.”

  “Keep one,” Garr advised. “I got one, but she’s always having kittens. Next time she has a batch, I’ll save one for you. Yep, you got a nice house here. Anything else need fixing?”

  Melton refrained from mentioning that Garr hadn’t fixed anything yet. “You might look at the refrigerator,” he suggested. “It’s been giving some trouble.”

  Upstairs, in the kitchen, the refrigerator looked as though butter would melt in its mouth, which was true. The ice cubes were still red, but Garr no doubt decided the Meltons were freezing strawberry pop or cherry juice. He produced a can of oil and squirted some into the motor. “Don’t ever use heavy oil on this,” he observed. “She’ll gum up on you.” He indicated bottles of beer in the refrigerator. “Good brand, that. I always get it.”

  “Have a glass,” Melton said. He poured for the two of them. Michaela refused beer and went in search of the dregs of her cocktail. Melton perched himself on the edge of the sink, kicking his long legs idly, and watched the refrigerator balefully.

  “I was thinking there might be a short somewhere,” he suggested. “I - uh - got a bit of a shock when I opened the thing yesterday.”

  Garr set down his glass. “Yeah? Let’s see.” He unscrewed the metal wall plate and blinked at what he saw. “Funny. I never saw a hook-up like that.” Melton leaned forward. “That so?” “Hm-m-m. She’s D.C., but - somebody screwed this up for you, Mr. Melton.” “How?”

  “Amateur electricians,” Garr said scornfully. “What’s this wire doing here? And this thing - what is it, anyhow?”

  “Plastic?”

  “Part of a thermometer, maybe. I dunno. Hm-m-m.” Garr wagged his head, made sparks fly with his screwdriver, and jerked a little. “I better throw the switch.”

  “I’ll do it,” Melton said. He went down into the cellar, studied a few fuse boxes, and located the master switch. He threw it to the “Off” position, yelling the news up to Garr. After a moment Garr yelped. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Garr, rubbing his hand, appeared. “You didn’t throw the switch,” he said reproachfully.

  “Sure I did,” Melton said. “Look.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Well, maybe -” He fumbled around. Presently he unscrewed some of the fuses. “You go up in the kitchen and lemme know when the refrigerator stops working. I plugged it in again.”

  Melton obeyed. Michaela came to watch. “Find anything?” she asked.

  “I dunno,” Melton said, listening to the low purr of the motor. “The previous tenant probably rewired the house.”

  “Who was he?” Michaela murmured. “Einstein? Or a Martian?”

  “Probably a ham electrician who thought he knew more than he did.”

  Michaela stroked the sleek white enamel of the refrigerator. “Only two years old. It really hasn’t been weaned yet, Bob. The wrong kind of juice might upset its digestion.”

  “If I had the variety of food inside me that that icebox has in its innards, I’d be screaming for soda bicarb,” Melton said. “Hello, Mr. Garr. Fix it yet?”

  Garr’s withered brown face looked troubled. “She’s still running, huh?” he remarked. “Never stopped once?”

  “Not once.”

  “She ain’t on any of those fuses, then. I’d have to tear down the wall to trace the circuit.” He looked doubtfully at the wall socket.

  “Listen,” Melton said, “I’ve a pair of rubber gloves somewhere. Would they help?”

  “Yep,” Garr nodded. “I’ll just finish my beer while you get ‘em. Goes flat in a hurry, don’t it?”

  “Mike,” Melton said, “replenish Mr. Garr’s glass.” He departed.

  “Yep,” Garr said. “Mm-m … Thanks, Miz Melton. You got a nice place here. I was telling your husband. Well built.”

  “It’ll do, for a while. Later on I want to get a lot of new stuff in the kitchen. Those glass-fronted ovens and refrigerators - you know?”

  Garr made a face. “I seen the ads. Ain’t practical. Glass,” he said plaintively, “what’s the use of it? O.K. to let the sun in, maybe, but - nuts, if you’ll pardon the expression, Miz Melton.”

  “Sure,” Michaela said.

  “A glass front on the ice box. She’ll frost up. Same with the oven - steam. Might as well have good, solid metal. Visible this, visible that, all over the kitchen.” He pointed to a metal container on the floor. “Visible garbage. That’s where it’ll end.”

  “I could do without that.”

  “All that stuff’s O.K., I suppose, but the average guy won’t want it. I wouldn’t. I got my house fixed up the way I want. I’m handy around the place. Got my lamps rigged so they’ll slide up and down their poles. Fixed a cut-off on the phone so I won’t be bothered nights. A man monkeys around his house and fixes it up to suit himself.”

  “Here’re the gloves,” Melton said, coming back. “I think you can pretty much tell what a man’s like by seeing where he lives.”

  Garr nodded emphatically. “That’s right. A place fixed up like in one of them home-furnishing magazines - it may be pretty, but you don’t dare set down in a chair without dusting your pants.”

  “Well,” Michaela said practically, “this house was empty when we moved in.”

  “First time I’ve been in it for ten years,” Garr said. “People named Courtney lived here then. Contractor, he was. The whole family went to California, and a guy named French moved in.”

  “What was he like?” Melton asked quickly.

  “I never seen him. He didn’t go out much.”

  “He never called you for repair work?”

  “Guess he did it himself,” Garr said, with a scornful look at the wall socket. “I’ll fix this.” He did, with swift accuracy. After he had screwed the plate back in and plugged the socket into place, he stood up with a grunt. “That’ll do it. Anything else?”

  “The bell.”

  “Won’t she work?”

  “Not exactly,” Melton said. “That is -”

  “Mind going out
and trying her?” Garr suggested.

  “O.K.”

  Michaela watched Garr. After a few seconds Garr gave her a quick glance. “She’s all right,” he said. “No short there, anyway.”

  “You, uh, heard the bell?”

  “Sure I heard it. Why? Didn’t you?”

  “I - yes, I heard it,” Michaela said, though she had only felt it. “It works now, Bob,” she added, as Melton came back into the kitchen.

  “It does?”

  “Right as a trivet,” Garr said. “Well, I’ll be getting along, then.”

  “What do I owe you?” Melton asked.

  Garr named a low sum. Melton paid it, they had another beer, and Michaela said, “There’s the bell. Excuse me.”

  Melton finished his beer in a hurry. He hadn’t heard anything. Michaela reappeared, said, “It’s Phil. He wants a drink,” and left the cocktail shaker on the sink. Garr shook hands cordially and departed. Melton sighed, glanced up thoughtfully at the bell annunciator on the wall, and opened the icebox. A ghastly blue radiance hit him in the face. His left hand, outstretched to seize a tray of ice cubes, started to tremble. The skin and flesh was gone from it. He slammed the door, then looked at his hand again. It had returned to normal.

  Melton picked up a bottle and several glasses, and went into the living room, where Phil Barclay, his brother-in-law, was slouched casually on the couch. Phil was a small, slender man of forty, immaculately dressed as always, with a round, mild face that was slightly bloated at the moment. He cocked a blond eyebrow at Melton.

  “Straight, Bob?”

  “Straight,” Melton said grimly. “You’ll take it and like it.”

  “I always do,” Phil said. He poured whiskey down his throat, shivered, and relaxed. “Ah. A hair of the dog. Oooh.”

  “Hangover?” Michaela asked sympathetically.

  “Certainly,” Phil said with dignity, fumbling in a pocket. He handed a folded paper to his sister. “Here’s the check on ‘Nymph’s Secret.’ Wesley had it for me down at the Gallery Friday.”

  “Not bad at all,” Michaela said, examining the check.

  “Not bad for a week’s work on that canvas. Well, put it in the family fund. No more work for me for months at least. Another drink, please.”

  “You look like you’ve had plenty,” Melton said.

  Phil gave him a long, probing stare. “You don’t look too good yourself,” he said. “In fact, you’re sweating.”

  “It’s hot.”

  “It’s too hot,” Phil agreed. “You’ll use up all the coal in a month at this rate. Or is it oil?”

  “Coal,” Melton said, “and we won’t use it up. Not in this house.”

  “I don’t like it either,” Phil said unexpectedly. Michaela put her palms together and leaned forward.

  “What is it, Phil?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Nothing. This is the first time I’ve been inside here, you know. No, I don’t want to look around. I - came up here day before yesterday.”

  “Weren’t we home? You had a key, though.”

  “I had a key,” Phil said, staring at nothing, “but I decided not to use it. The bell wasn’t working, so I knocked on the door. Then -”

  Melton’s tongue circled his lips. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Phil said flatly. “Nothing at all.”

  “Then why -”

  “I was a little high. I was jittery. There weren’t any ghosts. There was -” Phil paused. “I really don’t know, Bob. But I decided to go back to town.”

  “Were you afraid?” Michaela asked.

  Phil shook his head. “That was odd. I wasn’t afraid, really. There was nothing to be afraid of. I simply decided against coming in.”

  “But why?” Michaela wanted to know. Her voice was high-pitched. “That’s no reason, and you know it.”

  Phil poured the last drops from the bottle, and held it up. “See this? It’s empty. But you know what’s been in it. You can smell the whiskey.” Melton slammed his fist down on his knee. “That’s it,” he snapped. “That so-and-so French! Who was he? And what did he do to this house? Hex it?”

  Quite suddenly there was a sound, a mournful, hooting cry with a curious timbre of hollow distance. Melton felt a second’s disorientation. Then he identified it: a tug, on the twilit river.

  “You’ve got it bad,” Phil said quietly. “If that can make you jump -”

  “So I need a sedative. I’ve been working hard.”

  “Well,” Phil said, getting up, “I guess I’ll look around the joint, after all. Stay put, Mickey. I’ll find my way. O.K., if you insist, Bob.”

  They went through the house. Melton said very little, but he switched on the light in the upstairs hall and waited for Phil’s reaction. Phil didn’t remark on it. But he was oddly intrigued by the cellar. He poked and probed around there a good deal.

  “What are you looking for?” Melton inquired. “A secret vault?”

  “Huh? Well, no” Phil gave a last, long look at the bare wall and headed for the stairs. “You say a chap named French lived here last?”

  “John French. It’s on the title search papers. But as far as I can find out, nobody ever saw French. He had his stuff delivered. Never had any mail. No telephone.”

  “What about recommendations? He must have had some when he moved in.”

  “Ten years ago. I checked that, too. Ordinary stuff - a bank, an attorney.”

  “Profession?”

  “Retired.”

  Phil experimentally turned on the sink faucets. “It’s a - bad house,” he said. “Yet it isn’t haunted, or evil, or anything in the Gothic line. Why is it so hot?”

  Melton explained.

  Then, on impulse, he looked up, through the open door of the kitchen. In the dining room adjoining someone was standing motionless watching him. His reaction, he felt with curious objectivity, was extremely odd.

  For, at first, after a very brief doubt, he felt that the figure’s presence was normal enough; his racing mind jumped at logic - a delivery boy, the mailman - and then, instantly after that, came a shocking sense of utter disorientation and realization that the person in the next room didn’t belong there. Hard on the heels of that jarring impact came the sudden knowledge that the silent figure was -

  Was Michaela.

  That was the worst of all. He hadn’t known her at all. For that short, shocking passage of time, he had seen her as a total stranger. His stomach was sweating, and he felt his heart pounding. The whole incident was over so quickly that no one noticed; Michaela came on into the kitchen, and Melton turned hurriedly to get a fresh bottle out of the cupboard.

  “How do you like the place?” Michaela asked. Phil smiled crookedly.

  “Very efficient,” he said, and Melton swallowed.

  “Do you believe in the psychic impregnation of the inanimate?” Phil asked two days later, as he pushed a pillow under his head and curled up on the couch.

  “What?” Melton said. It was early morning, and Melton was drinking coffee and watching the clock. They’d brought out the tiny alarm clock, since the electric model didn’t run too well.

  “An old, old theory,” Phil said lazily. “If a man lives in a house for a long time, his psychic emanations seep into the walls and spoil the wallpaper. Or something. You know.”

  “No,” Melton said. “Shut up. I’ve got a headache.”

  “So have I. And a hangover, too. Hm-m-m. I can see that a coffin might acquire psychic emanations, but that’s merely because it’s functional. If a man sees a coffin, he knows what it’s for.”

  “I’d like to see your coffin,” Melton remarked without malice. “And you in it.”

  “Well, I thought you’d like to know I didn’t believe in that crap either. It’s my opinion that Mr. French fixed up this house to suit himself. He must have been a strange man. Man? Well, anyhow, have you noticed the woodwork?”

  “It’s got shellac on it, if that’s what you mean.”

  �
��It’s got something on it, but not shellac. I made some tests. You can’t get the stuff off. There’s a coating on every inside wall, ceiling, floor, and door in this house. Like insulation.”

  “Well, it isn’t. There isn’t even insulation in the attic. Maybe I’ll have rock wool put down.”

  “If you do, we’ll roast alive.”

  Melton was moving his own train of thought. “Renovating’s what the place needs. I think I’ll have exterminators come.”

  “What for?”

  “Mice. In the walls.”

  “Mice! Oh, no.”

  “What, then?” Melton inquired. “Rattlesnakes?”

  “Machinery.”

  “You’re crazy. I went up in the attic and looked down between the walls.”

  “Did you see any mice?”

  “No, but they probably saw me. That’s why I didn’t see them.”

  “Now you’re confusing me,” Phil said unhappily. “Besides, we’re not talking about the same thing. I don’t mean turbines and dynamos and atom-smashers. Machines can be so simple they’re unrecognizable. Like that poker over there.”

  “That’s no machine.”

  “It’s a lever, isn’t it?” Phil said, and his brother-in-law snorted.

  “All right, so we’ve got levers in the walls. Who uses ‘em? That poker won’t pick itself up and -” Melton stopped suddenly and looked at the poker. Then he met Phil’s gaze. Phil was grinning.

  “Yeah,” he said cryptically.

  Melton rose, flinging his napkin to the table. “Machines in the walls, hell,” he remarked.

  “Very simple and very complicated. And unrecognizable. Paint is just paint, but you can do a Mona Lisa with it”

  “So French coated the inside walls with paint that acts like a machine?”

  “Invisible and intangible - how should I know? As for those noises at night -” He hesitated.

  “Well?”

  “I think the house is just recharging itself,” Phil said, and Melton fled, muttering under his breath.

  He lunched with Tom Garrett, the technician from Instar Electric. Garrett was a fat little butterball of a man with a gleaming bald head and thick spectacle lenses through which he blinked myopically. And he had little to advise on the matter of the house.