Fear

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Why, about you and Jebson. She and Mrs. Jebson are pals, and it’s all over the place now. It’s doubtful if she’d have called on Mary, anyway. I’m ruining my social status sitting with you. It’s very funny, the way they carry on. As if you even felt bad about a fool like Jebson.”

  “I do feel bad. A little.”

  “Why? You’ve gotten a release from the sink of ennui. You’ll be free at last from teas. You don’t know when you are fortunate.”

  “What about Mary?”

  “Mary has been dying to travel with you, and now you can’t say no. If you weren’t taking it so hard, she would probably be giggling like a kid. Think of telling Mrs. Hawkins not to call! Why, can’t you see it, Jim? She kicked the Mrs. Hawkins straight in the teeth.”

  “We will sing,” said a distant voice, “Hymn No. 197.”

  The organ began to wheeze and complain, and everyone got up and dropped books and shuffled and coughed; then the nasal voice of Parson Bates cut through the scrape and din, the choir lifted tremulous wails and the service was on.

  Throughout the sermon, Lowry’s eyes were centered upon the back of Jebson’s head; not a particularly intent gaze, but one that was broken now and then by Jebson’s twisting uncomfortably. However, Lowry was barely seeing Jebson at all, but, half-lulled by Bates’ dreary rhythm, was adrift out of himself, casting restively about in search of an answer.

  An answer.

  He knew he had to have an answer.

  He knew that if he did reach an answer—

  Four hours gone. And now he dimly realized that if he did not find them he was doomed, as Tommy had indirectly said, to future madness. And yet he knew instinctively and no matter how dimly, that he dared not find those four hours. No, he dared not. And yet he must!

  He was on his feet again, staring blankly at the hymnbook and singing more from memory than either the notes or the organ. And then he wasn’t singing, but was oblivious of everything.

  Some soft substance had touched against his leg.

  He was afraid to look down.

  He looked down.

  There was nothing there.

  Dry-throated and trying not to shiver, he focused his gaze upon the book and picked up the hymn. He glanced at Tommy, but Tommy was crooning along in his mellow baritone, unaware of anything at the moment but the glory of God.

  The congregation was seated and a plate went the rounds while Bates read some announcements for the week. Lowry tried not to look at his feet and sought not to pull them up under the bench. He was growing more and more tense, until he did not see how he could sit there longer.

  Something soft touched against his leg.

  And though he had been looking straight at the spot—

  There was nothing!

  He clutched Tommy’s sleeve, and with a muttered “Come with me,” got up and started up the aisle. He knew that eyes were upon him, he knew that he dared not run, he knew that Tommy was staring at him in astonishment, but was following dutifully.

  The sun was warm upon the street, and the few fresh leaves made sibilant music in the gentle wind. A kid in rags was sitting on the curb tossing a dime up and down that somebody had given him for wiping off their shoes. The chauffeur drowsed over the wheel of Jebson’s car, and up the street a sleepy groom held the horses of the eccentric Mrs. Lippincott, who always came in a surrey. The horses lazily swished their tails at the few flies and now and then stamped. The headstones of the cemetery looked mellow and kind above the quiet mounds of reborn grass, and an angel spread masonry wings over “Silas Jones, RIP.” There was the smell of fresh earth from a lawn which was being sodded, and the spice of willows from a nearby stream.

  Lowry’s pace slowed under the influence of the day, for he felt better now out in the open where he could see for some distance on every side. He decided not to tell Tommy, and Tommy was asking no questions.

  But as they crossed the gleaming white pavement of High Street, something flickered in the corner of Lowry’s eye. It was nothing very positive, just an impression of something dark and round traveling along beside him. He jerked his head to stare at it—but there was nothing there. He glanced up to see if it could have been the shadow of a bird but, aside from some sparrows foraging in the street, there were no birds. He felt the tension begin to grow in him again.

  Again he caught the faintest glimpse of it, but once more it vanished under scrutiny. And yet, as soon as he turned his head front, he could sense it once more.

  Just the merest blob of darkness, very small.

  A third time he tried to see it, and a third time it was gone.

  “Tommy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Look. You’re going to think I’m nuts. Something touched my leg in church and there wasn’t anything there. Something is coming along beside me now. I can’t see it clearly, and it vanishes when I look at it. What is it?”

  “I don’t see anything,” said Tommy, muffling his alarm. “Probably just some sun in your eye.”

  “Yes,” said Lowry. “Yes, that’s it! Just some sun in my eye.”

  But the merest spot of shadow, so near as he could tell, or whatever it might be, followed slowly. He increased his stride, and it came, too. He slowed in an attempt to let the thing get ahead of him, so that he could find out what it was. But it also slowed.

  He could feel the tension growing.

  “You’d better not say anything about this to Mary.”

  “I won’t,” promised Tommy.

  “I don’t want to worry her. Last night I know I did. But you won’t worry her with any of this, will you?”

  “Of course not,” said Tommy.

  “You’d better stay over at our house tonight.”

  “If you think you’ll need me.”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” said Lowry miserably.

  They walked on, and Lowry kept edging away from the thing he could almost see, so that he nearly made Tommy walk in the gutter. He was deadly afraid that it would touch him again, for he felt that if it did he would go half mad.

  “Tommy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you walk on my right?”

  “Sure.”

  And then Lowry could barely get an impression of it from out of the corner of his left eye. His throat was choked as if with emery dust.

  When they came to the walk before Lowry’s house they paused. “No word of this to Mary,” said Lowry.

  “Naturally not.”

  “You’ll stay for dinner and for the night, won’t you?”

  “As you will,” smiled Tommy.

  They went up the steps and into the hall, and at the sound of their entrance Mary came out of the living room and threw her arms about Lowry’s neck and kissed him. “Well! So you’ve been to church, you old heathen. Hello, Tommy.”

  He took her extended hand. “Mary, as lovely as ever.”

  “Don’t let the current sweetheart hear you say that,” said Mary. “Staying for dinner, I hope?”

  “I hope.”

  “Good. Now you boys go take off your coats and hats and come in here and tell me what Mrs. Hawkins looked like when I forbade her to come to tea.”

  “She looked awful,” said Tommy. “Like she had always smelled a dead cheese in this place, anyway.”

  They chattered on while Lowry stood near the cold fireplace. As long as there was very deep shadow he found he could not get glimpses of the thing. That is, not at first. But when he would turn his head it would briefly seem to appear in the middle of the room. Now and then he tried to catch it napping, but each time it swiftly scuttled back. He attempted to turn his head slowly so as to lead up on it, but then, too, it kept just out of sight.

  He felt that if he could only find out what it was he would feel all right about it, no matter what it was. But until he saw it— He shuddered with dread at the thought of it touching him again.

  “Why, Jim!” said Mary, breaking off her conversation with Tommy. “You’re shivering again.�
� She put her hand upon his arm and led him toward the door. “Now you go right upstairs and take ten grains of quinine and then lie down for a little nap. Tommy will help me put the dinner on and keep me company, won’t you, Tommy?”

  “Anything for a friend,” said Tommy.

  It made Jim vaguely uneasy to leave them together. But, then, Tommy must have been here many times while he was gone in just as innocent a capacity. What was wrong with him? To think that way about Tommy! About his best and really only friend? He started up the stairs.

  And step by step the “thing” jumped along with him. He pressed himself against the wall to avoid any possibility of contact with it, but the presence of the wall, barring any dodge he might make, made him feel even more nervous.

  What was the thing, anyhow?

  Why was it tagging him?

  What would it do to him?

  What would make it go away?

  He shivered again.

  In his room he found his quinine and, taking it to the bath to get a glass of water, was accompanied by the “thing.” He could see it very indistinctly against the white tile. And then he grew cunning. He guided it by slowly turning his head, and then, springing sideways and out the door, he banged the door behind him. He felt better as he downed the quinine and water. For a moment he had the inane notion that he ought to go and tell Mary not to open this door, but then, of course, it would be a much better idea to lock it. He found a key in a bedroom door and carried it to the bath. In a moment the lock clicked home. He almost laughed aloud, and then caught himself up. That wouldn’t do. Whatever the thing was, it was perfectly explainable. Something wrong with his eyes, that was all. It was just malaria. Something the doctors hadn’t discovered about it.

  He went to his bedroom and took off his jacket and stretched out on his bed. The warm air from the open window was very soothing, and in a little while he drifted off into a quiet sleep, untroubled by dreams.

  Some three hours later he roused himself. The sun was shining upon his face and he felt too warm. Downstairs he heard Mary calling to him that dinner was ready. Wasn’t dinner a little late for Sunday? It must be nearly four, according to the sun.

  He got up, yawning and stretching and feeling much better for his rest; he felt good about something he had done, but he could not quite remember, in his half-awake state, just what it was.

  The pleasant sound of very high, musical laughter came to him, and for a moment he thought it was Mary. But then he knew that it could not be, for Mary had a low, husky laugh that made him feel warm and comfortable inside, and this laugh—there was something unearthly about it. Hadn’t he heard it before?

  He leaped up and opened the hall door, but it was not coming from downstairs. He went to the window and looked out, but there wasn’t anyone on the walk or in the yard. Where was the laughter coming from? What was it that was laughing?

  And then he saw a movement as though something had run down the wall to get behind him. He whirled. There was a flurry as if something had dived behind him again. He spun around.

  But it was to no avail. And the thing he had so carefully locked away was still with him—and the thing was the source of the laughter.

  What a mad laugh it was!

  He felt very tired. Best to ignore it, whatever it was; best to walk around and not hear and not see it; best to pretend that it wasn’t there at all. Would Mary and Tommy hear it?

  Resignedly he went to the bathroom and washed.

  “Jim? Jim, you old ox, aren’t you ever coming down?”

  “Coming, Mary.” He’d better not appear too shaken.

  When he entered the dining room the table was spread with bright crystal and silver and china, and a big capon was steaming away on a platter flanked by mashed potatoes and green peas.

  “Well, sir! You look better,” said Tommy.

  “He didn’t get any sleep last night,” said Mary. “Come, Jim, m’lad, up with the tools and carve away.”

  He sat down at the head of the board, and Tommy sat at his right. He looked down the table at Mary and smiled. How beautiful was this wife of his, and how tingly she made him feel when she looked at him that way. To think he would wonder about whether she loved him or not! No woman could look at a man that way unless she truly loved him.

  He picked up the knife and carving fork and started to pin down the capon. Then, suddenly, the knife was shaking so that he could not hold it. There was a clatter as it fell against china.

  Just a shrill, musical laugh right behind him!

  “Tommy,” he said, trying to speak distinctly, “Tommy, would you mind doing the honors? I guess I’m pretty shaky.”

  Mary was instantly concerned, but somehow Jim passed it off. Tommy went to work on the capon and Mary served up the vegetables—stealing quiet glances of wonder at Jim. Then everything was all served and they were ready to begin.

  “Some chicken,” said Tommy.

  “Ought to be, what it cost!” said Mary. “The price of food can’t go any higher and still let the clouds go by.”

  “Yeah,” said Tommy in a slow drawl, “and wages stay the same. That is what is known as economic progress—get everything so high that nobody can buy so that there will be a surplus which the government can buy and throw away so that the taxpayer will have less money with which to buy higher-priced goods. Yes, we’ve certainly improved civilization since the days when we lived in caves.”

  Mary laughed and, shockingly, the thing laughed, too, behind Jim. But it was an accidental combining; for a moment later, at a serious statement from Tommy, it laughed again.

  Jim had picked up his knife and fork two or three times. But another strange thing was occurring. Each time he started to touch his plate it moved. Not very much, just a little. A sort of easy, circular motion which ceased as soon as he did not choose to touch it again; but when he did, it did. Very carefully he found cause to help himself to more gravy, and then, swiftly, glanced under the cloth and the pad. But there was nothing wrong. He put back the plate and once more addressed himself to it. Once more it moved.

  He felt ill.

  “Would . . . would you two please excuse me? I . . . I guess I don’t feel very well.”

  “Jim!”

  “Better let me send for a doctor,” said Tommy. “You look very white.”

  “No. No, I’m all right. Just let me lie down for a little while.”

  “I’ll keep your dinner warm,” said Mary.

  “It was such a good dinner, too,” said Lowry with a sad grin. “Don’t worry about me. Just go ahead.”

  And then the laughter sounded again, higher and shriller, and the dark shadow scuttled along beside him as he hurried through the door and back to his bed. He flung himself down. And then, thinking better of it, he leaped up and shot home the bolt. Again he lay down, but he found he did not have sufficient control over himself. Tight-throated and half sick, he began to pace a narrow circle around his room.

  Chapter Five

  A clock downstairs struck eleven in long, slow strokes. Lowry, face down upon his bed, stirred uneasily and came up through the kindly oblivion of a doze. He woke to the realization that something horrible was about to happen to him, but, lying for a while in stupor, pushing back the frontiers of his consciousness, he picked up memory after memory, inspected it and cast it aside. No, no one of these things had any bearing on his present condition, there was nothing that he knew about which might have caused—

  A shrill tinkle of laughter reached him.

  He came up quivering in every muscle and saw the thing scurry around the bottom of his bed and get out of sight. If only he could get a full glimpse of it!

  There was paper rattling somewhere, stirred by the warm night breeze, as though something in the room was sorting out his letters. And though the room seemed empty to him, after a little a single sheet, drifting on the air, came fluttering down to the carpet by his feet. He stared at it, afraid to pick it up. He could see writing upon it. Finally his curio
sity overcame his fear, and he opened it and tried to read. But it was written in some ancient, incomprehensible script that blurred and ran together. The only thing legible was a time, and he could not even be sure of that.

  “. . . 11:30 to . . . ”

  He peered into the shadows of the room, but aside from what had dived under his bed, he was apparently alone. Had this thing come floating in with the wind?

  Eleven-thirty? Was this a bid for an appointment somewhere? Tonight? He shuddered at the thought of going forth again. But, still, wasn’t it possible that he might have a friend somewhere who was volunteering to help him find his four hours? And tonight he would be wary and step down no steps which he did not know had something solid at the bottom.

  He got up, and instantly the little dark thing got behind him, permitting him only the slightest of glimpses. Within him he could feel a new sensation rising, a nervous anger of the kind men feel in remembering times when they have shown cowardice.

  For he knew very clearly that he was being a coward. He was letting these things drag the reason out of his mind without even offering to combat them; he was being thrust about like a scarecrow in a hurricane, and the things were laughing at him, perhaps even pitying him! His fists clenched into hard hammers; God knows he had never been found lacking in courage before, why should he cower like a sniveling cur and allow all things to steamroller him? His jaws were tight, and he felt his heart lunging inside him, and he ached to join in wild battle and put down forever the forces which were seeking to destroy him.

  He took a topcoat from the closet and slipped into it. From a drawer he drew a Colt .38 and pocketed it. Into his other pocket he put a flashlight. He was through being a coward about this. He would meet his ghosts and batter them down.

  Eleven-thirty? Certainly something would lead him to the rendezvous. Perhaps something was waiting for him out in the street now.

  The high laughter tinkled again, and he spun around and sought to kick the dark object, but again it eluded him. Never mind—he would deal with that later.

  Quietly he slipped out of his room. Mary’s light was off, and her door was closed. There was no use disturbing her. Tommy must be in the guest room at the head of the stairs, for the door there was slightly ajar. Masking the flashlight with his fingers so that a small segment of its light played upon the bed, he looked at Tommy. Without his cynically twisted grin, Tommy was really a very beautiful fellow, thought Lowry. And Tommy, in sleep, looked as innocent as a choirboy. Lowry crept down the stairs and out the front door, to stand in the shadow of the porch and stare at the walk.