Fear

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “I am always lonely without you, Jim.”

  He kissed her and felt that this must be the way a priest might feel touching the foot of his goddess.

  “And the other thing, Jim?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, Mary. I have no idea where I was between a quarter of three and a quarter of seven. Four hours gone out of my life. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t delirious. Four hours, Mary.”

  “Maybe you fell and struck something.”

  “But there is no bruise.”

  “Maybe you don’t know all there is to know about malaria.”

  “If it blanks out a mind, then it is so serious that the patient isn’t going to feel as well as I do now. No, Mary. It . . . it was something else. Tommy and I were talking about demons and devils and . . . and he said that maybe I should not have attacked them in that article. He said they might be trying . . . well— The world is a good place, Mary. It isn’t filled with evil things. Man has no reason to walk in the shadow of dread because of phantoms.”

  “Of course he hasn’t, Jim. Tomorrow you may find out what happened. It might be something perfectly innocent.”

  “You think so, Mary?”

  “Certainly. Now you lie down there and get some sleep.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, Jim?”

  “I feel . . . well . . . I feel as though something horrible had happened to me and that . . . that something even more horrible is going to happen soon. I don’t know what it is. If I could only find out!”

  “Lie down and sleep, Jim.”

  “No. No, I can’t sleep. I am going out and walk and maybe the exercise will clear my head and I’ll remember—”

  “But you are ill!”

  “I can’t lie here any longer. I can’t stay still!”

  He put down the window and began to dress. She watched him resignedly as he slipped into a jacket.

  “You won’t be gone very long?”

  “Only half an hour or so. I feel I must walk or explode. But don’t disturb yourself on my account. Go to sleep.”

  “It’s nearly midnight.”

  “I feel—” He stopped, beginning again with a different tone. “This afternoon I felt I had an appointment somewhere at a quarter to three. Maybe I went somewhere— No. I don’t know where I went or what I did. No. I don’t know! Mary . . .”

  “Yes, Jim?”

  “You’re all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right.”

  He buttoned up his topcoat and bent over and kissed her. “I’ll be back in half an hour. I feel I . . . well, I’ve just got to walk, that’s all. Good night.”

  “Good night, Jim.”

  Chapter Three

  The night was clean and clear and, as he poised for a moment on top of the steps, the smell of fresh earth and growing things came to him and reawakened his memories. It was the kind of night that makes a child want to run and run forever out across the field, to feel the earth fly from beneath his feet, driven by the incomprehensible joy of just being alive. On such a night he and Tommy had once visited a cave a mile out of town which was supposed to be haunted and had succeeded in frightening themselves out of their wits by beholding a white shape which had turned out to be an old and lonely horse. The memory of it revived Lowry: Tommy’s fantastic imagination and his glib tongue!

  And how Tommy loved to devil his slower and more practical friend; that had just been devilment today. Witches and spooks and old wives’ tales, devils and demons and black magic. How Tommy, who believed in nothing, liked to pretend to beliefs which would shock people! How he adored practically knocking his students out of their seats by leaning over his desk and saying, in a mysterious voice, “To be polite, we call this psychology, but, in reality, you know and I know that we are studying the black goblins and fiendish ghouls which lie in pretended slumber just out of sight of our conscious minds.” How he loved such simile! Of course, what he said was true, absolutely true, but Tommy had to choose that way of putting it; it was such a dull world, so drab; why not enliven it a little and stick pins into people’s imaginations? Indeed, dear Tommy, why not?

  The top of his head was cold and he reached up to discover that he had forgotten his hat, and, discovering that, remembered that he had lost it. Because his gear was mainly tropical he had only one felt hat, and one did not walk around Atworthy in a sola topi; not Atworthy! The loss of it troubled him. And his best tweed ruined beyond repair! But then his hat had his name in the band, being a good hat, and some student would find it where the wind had taken it and return it to the dean’s office— Still, there was something wrong in that; there was a deeper significance to having lost his hat, something actually symbolic of his lost four hours. Part of him was gone; four hours had been snatched ruthlessly from his life and with them had gone a felt hat. It struck him that if he could find the hat he could also find the four hours. Strange indeed that anything should so perplex him, the man whom little had perplexed.

  Four hours gone.

  His hat gone.

  He had the uneasy feeling that he ought to walk along the street toward Tommy’s and see if the hat was there under a bush; it seemed a shame to leave a good hat on some lawn; it might rain.

  Yes, most certainly, he had better find that hat.

  He started down the steps to the walk, glancing up at the hurrying fleece between earth and the moon. He had been down these steps thousands of times; when he reached the “bottom” he almost broke his leg on an extra step.

  He stared at his feet and hastily backed up, swiftly to discover that he could not retreat. He almost fell over backward into space! There were no steps above him, only a descent of them below him. Glassy-eyed, he looked down the flight, trying to take in such a length of steps. Now and then they faded a little as they went through a dark mist, but there was no clue whatever of what might lie waiting at the bottom.

  He looked anxiously overhead and was relieved to find that the moon was still there; he was standing so that his eyes were above the level of the yard and he felt that he could reach over to the indefinite rim and somehow pull himself out. He reached, but the rim jerked away from him and he almost fell. Breathless, he stared down the flight to mystery. The moon, the steps, and no connection between himself and the porch.

  Somewhere he thought he heard a tinkle of laughter and glared about, but it was evidently nothing more than a set of Japanese wind chimes on the porch. Somehow he knew that he dared not reach the bottom, that he had not sanity enough to face the awful thing which waited there. But then, all he had to do was descend two more steps and he would be able to reach up to the rim and haul himself forth. He descended; the rim retreated. That was no way to go about it, he told himself, glancing at his empty hands. He would back up—

  Again he almost went over backward into a void! The two steps he had descended had vanished away from his very heels.

  There was that laughter again—no, just the sweet chording of the wind chimes.

  He peered down the angle of the flight, through the strata of dark mist, into a well of ink. Wait. Yes, there was a door down there, on the side of the flight, not thirty steps below him. That door must lead out and up again; the very least he could do would be to chance it. He went down, pausing once and glancing over his shoulder. How odd that these steps should cease to exist as soon as he passed along them! For there was now nothing but a void between himself and the front of his house; he could still see the lights shining up there. What would Mary think—

  “Jim! Jim, you forgot your hat!”

  He whirled and stared up. There was Mary on the porch, staring down into the cavity which had been a walk.

  “Jim!” She had seen the hole now.

  “I’m down here, Mary. Don’t come down. I’ll be up in a moment. It’s all right.”

  The moonlight was too dim for him to see the expression on her face. Poor thing, she was probably scared to death.

  “Jim! Oh, my God! Jim!”

  Wasn’t h
is voice reaching her? “I’m all right, Mary! I’ll be back as soon as I reach this door!” Poor kid.

  She was starting down the steps, and he cupped his hands to shout a warning at her. She could do nothing more than step out into space! “Stop, Mary! Stop!”

  There was a peal of thunder and the earth rolled together over his head, vanishing the moonlight, throwing the whole flight into complete blackness.

  He stood there trembling, gripping the rough, earthy wall.

  From far, far off he heard the cry, dwindling into nothing, “Jim! Oh, my God! Jim!” Then it came again as the merest whisper. And finally once more, as soundless as a memory.

  She was all right, he told himself with fury. She was all right. The hole had closed before she had come down to it, and now the trap up there was thickening and making it impossible for her voice to get through. But he felt, somehow, that it was all wrong. That she wasn’t up there now. He began to quiver and feel sick, and his head spun until he was certain that he would pitch forward and go tumbling forever into the mystery which reached up from the bottom—the bottom he dared not approach.

  Well, there was a door ahead of him. He couldn’t stand here whimpering like a kid and expect to get out of this place. He’d seen the door and he’d find it. He groped down, feeling for each step with a cautious foot and discovering that their spacing was not even, some of them dropping a yard and others only an inch. The wall, too, had changed character under his hands, for now it was slimy and cold, as though water had seeped down from above for ages, wearing the stone smooth and glossing it with moss. Somewhere water was dripping slowly, one drop at a time, frighteningly loud in the corpse-quietness of this place.

  He’d been in worse, he told himself. But it was funny, living in that house all those years without ever suspecting the existence of such a flight at the very bottom of his front steps.

  What was he doing here, anyhow? He’d told himself that he had to find something—

  Four hours in his life.

  A felt hat.

  Where the devil was that door? He had come thirty steps and his questing hands had yet to find it. Maybe he could back up now, but when he tried that he found that the steps had kept on vanishing as he went over them. If he had passed the door he could never get back to it now! A panic shook him for a moment. Maybe the door had been on the other side of the stairs! Maybe he had gone by it altogether! Maybe he would have to go down—all the way down to— To what?

  Something sticky and warm drifted by his cheek and he recognized it as probably being a stratum of mist; but what strange mist it was! Warm and fibrous, and even vibrant, as though it was alive! He strung several strands of it with his hands, and then, as though he had caught a snake, it wriggled and was gone.

  He rubbed his palms against his coat, trying to rid them of the tingling feeling. He stepped lower, and now the mist was clinging to him like cobwebs, sticking to his cheeks and tangling about his shoulders.

  Somewhere he heard a faint call. “Jim! Jim Lowry!”

  He tried to surge toward it, but the mist held him with invisible, sticky fingers.

  “Jim Lowry!”

  What an empty voice!

  With all his strength he tore at the mist, expecting it to string out and tear away; but instead, it was like being released all at once, and he nearly fell down the steps he could not see. Again he sought the wall and felt his way along, now and again hopeful that the steps above had not vanished, but finding always that they had. There must be a door somewhere!

  The shock of light blinded him.

  He was standing on what seemed to be solid earth, but there was no sun—only light, blinding and harsh. Seared earth, all red and raw, stretched away for a little distance on every side; great gashes had been washed out of gratey stone.

  A small boy sat unconcernedly upon a small rock and dug his initials out of the stony earth. He was whistling a nonsensical air, badly off key, with whooshes now and then creeping out with his whistle. He pulled his straw hat sideways and glanced at Lowry.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello,” said Lowry.

  “You ain’t got any hat on,” said the boy.

  “No. So I haven’t.”

  “And your hands are dirty,” said the boy, returning to his aimless task.

  “What’s your name?” said Lowry.

  “What’s yours?” said the boy.

  “Mine’s Jim.”

  “That’s funny. Mine’s Jim, too. Only it’s really James, you know. Looking for something?”

  “Well—yes. My hat.”

  “I saw a hat.”

  “Did you? Where?”

  Solemnly the boy said, “On my father’s head.” He gave vent to a wild peal of laughter at his joke. Then he reached into his pocket. “Want to see something?”

  “Why, I suppose so. If it’s worth seeing.”

  The boy took out a rabbit’s foot and held it admiringly toward Lowry. Then there was just a rabbit’s foot hanging there, and darkness reached in from the outskirts of the land and swallowed even that. Lowry took a step and again almost fell down the stairs. He inched his way along; water was dripping somewhere; the steps were more and more worn with age; from the moss on them it was doubtful if many had passed this way.

  Below he saw a dull gleam which seemed to emanate from a side entrance. Well! There was a door down there, after all! Why hadn’t he walked off into the harsh red land and so found his way back to the top again? But, never mind, here was a door ahead of him, and a door meant egress from these stairs. Thank God he did not have to go to the bottom!

  Mist swirled briefly and the door was faded out, but in a moment it had again appeared, clearer than before except that it was now closed and the light came from an indefinable source on the stairs themselves. He was not particularly frightened now, for he was intent upon a certain thing: he knew that somewhere he would find his hat and the four hours. He felt he should have asked the boy.

  When he stood before the door he breathed heavily with relief. Once away from these steps he knew he would feel better. He tried the handle, but the portal was locked from within, and there was no sign of a knocker. He bent over to squint through the keyhole, but there was no keyhole. He straightened up and was not surprised to discover that a knocker had appeared before him; the thing was a verdigris-stained head of a woman out of whose head grew snakes—the Medusa. He dropped it, and the sound went bouncing from wall to wall down the steps as though a stone was falling. He waited a long while before he heard any sound from within, but just as he was about to raise the knocker again there came out a grating of rusty bars which were being removed and then the latch rattled and the door swung wide and the acrid smell of burning herbs and a thick, unclean cloud of darkness rolled from the place; two bats squeaked as they flew forth, hitting Lowry with a soft skin wing. The smell of the place and the smoke got into his eyes so that he could not clearly see the woman; he had an impression of a wasted face and yellow teeth all broken and awry, of tangled, colorless hair and eyes like holes in a skull.

  “Mother, I would like to leave these stairs,” said Lowry.

  “Mother? Oh, so you are polite tonight, James Lowry. So you’d like to flatter me into thinking you are really going to stand there and try to come in. Hah-hah! No, you don’t, James Lowry.”

  “Wait, Mother, I don’t know how you know my name, for I have never been here before, but—”

  “You’ve been on these stairs before. I never forget a face. But now you are coming down, and then you were going up, and your name was not James Lowry, and every time you went up another step you would kick away the one below, and when you came here you laughed at me and had me whipped and spat upon my face! I never forget!”

  “That is not true!”

  “It will do until there’s something that is true in this place. And now I suppose you want your hat.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it. My hat. But how did you know that I was looking—”

 
“How do I know anything? Hah-hah. He’s lost his hat. It went like a bat. Now what do you think of that? He’s lost his hat! Well, now, James Lowry, that’s a very silly thing to do, to do, to do. To lose your hat. You are old enough to know better, and your head is big enough to keep a hat on. But that isn’t all you’ve lost, James Lowry.”

  “Why—no, it isn’t.”

  “You’ve lost four hours, just like that! Four whole hours and your hat. Want advice?”

  “If you please, Mother, can’t we come in off these stairs?”

  “You can’t leave them. You walked up them, and now you’ll walk down them all the way to the bottom. You must do it, that’s all there is to it. You can sag and drag and gag and wag, but you’ve got to go to the bottom. All the way down. All the way down. All the way, way, way, way, way, way, way down! Down! Down! Down! Want some advice?”

  “If you please.”

  “Then give me your pocket handkerchief.”

  He gave it to her, and she violently blew her nose upon it and threw it out into the darkness. In a moment one of the bats came back, bringing it. She threw it away and the other bat came back.

  “Runaways!” she scolded them. “Want some advice, James Lowry?”

  “Please, Mother.”

  “Don’t try to find your hat.”

  “Why not, Mother?”

  “Because if you find your hat you’ll find your four hours, and if you find your four hours, then you will die!”

  Lowry blinked at her as she stuffed the pocket handkerchief into his coat and reached out, talon-fingered, toward his throat. But though he felt the bite of her nails, she was only straightening his tie.

  “Want advice, James Lowry?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Hats are hats and cats are cats, and when the birds sing there is something awry in the world. Bats are bats and hats are hats, and when it is spring the world is only bracing itself for another death. Rats are rats and hats are hats, and if you can’t walk faster then you’ll never be a master. You have a kind face, James Lowry. Want some advice?”