Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “On my right, bare woodwork—and old, horribly old. I felt something under my fingers as I moved along—a carved panel of wood, and, involuntarily groping for the doorknob, my fingers closed over a heavy metal latch of some kind. I hesitated—and then, even in my dream, I remembered. There’s no door in that wall.

  “Of course,” he said, checking my comment with an uplifted hand, “just a dream. But I can’t hope to convey the sense of shock, the horrible disorientation of the moment. Then, too, I heard something that was quite distinctly not the disturbing creaking of the woodwork around me—a soft, rubbing sound, as though of some heavy body scraping itself against the door; and I felt the latch quiver in my hand.

  “Almost involuntarily I compressed the latch, and abruptly the door was flung open—pulled violently away from me. Remember, I could see nothing. Just blackness—and two little points of light that sprang into existence just ahead of my face. Amber lights, like the eyes of a cat. Then I woke up.”

  Keene watched me closely, and I forced from my face the concern that I felt. “You need a rest,” I said. “This house is old—but I always thought you were pretty hard-headed, Ed.” I laughed, and a flash of anger crossed his face. It was gone swiftly.

  “Trying to laugh me out of it? I wish it would work. No—when I asked you if you saw anything in the hall, I wanted to find out if you saw what I did.”

  “And that is?”

  “Eyes. Amber cat’s-eyes, watching me. I can see them now, in the doorway. Two disembodied eyes.” He began to tremble violently, and I realized the intense nervous strain under which he labored. “Good God, can’t you understand how I’ve fought against it, told myself the damned things can’t exist? That it’s hallucination, and if I don’t want to lose my mind I’ll have to ignore them—and they watch, they watch me, always! No expression in them. Always keeping the same distance ahead of me—but they can’t cross the threshold of this room. I don’t know why.”

  I saw that Keene was mad, or going mad. He got up and strode about the room, his gaze continually returning to the doorway. I went to the door, intending to close it, but his voice stopped me.

  “No—don’t! It’s worse when it’s shut. I can’t tell what it’s doing, but I know it’s behind there. And when I open the door it’ll be waiting. If it would only give me some hint of its purpose—what it wants, what it intends to do! Am I mad, Johnny?”

  “No,” I said. “But you’re on the right road, unless you come to town with me and see a doctor—a specialist maybe.”

  “It’s no good.” His haggard face was covered with perspiration. “It follows me. Even in the doctor’s office I could see those two cat’s-eyes, watching—he couldn’t see them. Gave me pills, the fool—and wanted to send me to a sanitarium.” Keene laughed wildly. “Oh, no—I know what would happen there. I’d break and start raving, and then they’d put me in a strait-jacket, and I’d have to lie there and watch the eyes without being able to move. I’d go crazy then, all right.”

  “Listen, Ed,” I commanded. “You’ve got to snap out of it. You’ve got sense enough to know that this is a hallucination, caused by overwork, perhaps. The thing to do is to get you in good condition, not your imaginary eyes.”

  KEENE was watching the doorway. “Imaginary eyes,” he repeated. “Imaginary eyes—God, what a huge joke! The worst of it is I don’t know whether I’m right or you are—whether I’m going crazy, or——” He stopped suddenly, a violent shudder shaking his slender frame. His dark eyes were haunted.

  “Overwork might have caused it,” I said, realizing that I had to get Keene to a doctor as soon as possible. “Or nervous strain—eh?”

  “I’ve not been under a nervous strain,” he murmured. “Not till that dream. If you want to know what caused it, come here!”

  There was another door in the room and he led me to this, opening it. Twilight was falling over the valley—a somber, brooding hush had dropped upon the hills, stilling even the bird-songs. Keene stepped into a weed-covered garden and drew me along the side of the house.

  “See that?” he asked, pointing. I could see nothing but the bare, rotting wood, flaked and withered by the weather. I told him as much.

  “Oh, there’s nothing to see. That’s the worst of it. As nearly as I remember, that’s the point in the hallway where, in my dream, I opened the door. And look here.”

  He nodded toward a crumbled wooden slab, half embedded in the weeds, a few feet away. I bent low, straining my eyes in the twilight.

  “Ori—ori something,” I said. “I can’t make it out.”

  “Origo malt,” Keene completed. “That’s all. The origin of the evil.”

  He turned back to the house, and, back within the studio room, lit an old-fashioned oil lamp. His eyes were startlingly black in the sickly yellow of his face that shone, mask-like in the lamplight.

  “I’m not sure, of course,” he told me, pulling a chair up to a rickety table. “But remember I mentioned that a witch was once supposed to have lived in this house?”

  I nodded.

  “She died here, too. I wandered around the hills, and visited a few farms. One old man told me a lot. Just tales, and fragmentary; he’d had them from his father. About an old woman who lived here long ago, and died and was buried outside the house. I rather imagine”—he watched me closely—“that that slab you just saw is what’s left of her headstone.”

  His eyes went to the threshold, and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. Involuntarily I turned my head.

  Only the dark rectangle of the doorway was there, of course.

  “I haven’t told you the worst,” Keene said. He pillowed his head on his arms, and the table creaked under his weight. His voice came muffled. “I get sleepy, at the first hint of nightfall. Every night since that first one I’ve dreamed.”

  I looked at the top of his head, and saw, with a sudden shock, that there were gray hairs among the glossy black ones.

  “Ed,” I said to him sharply. “You’re coming——”

  “I dream,” he interrupted me dully. “Each night I have the same dream. I go down the passage in the darkness till I feel that cold metal latch under my hand.

  The door opens, and I don’t wake up, as I did the first time. Nor do I see the amber eyes. They’re in the hall, at my side . . .

  HIS VOICE died away in a mumble, and his head rolled aside. But before I could move he went on almost inaudibly. “I’ve got to go in the—whatever it is. Not a room. I’ve got to step across the threshold, pass that doorway that doesn’t exist—there’s a horrible compulsion pushing me—and . . . each night I step a little further toward it. Last night I put one foot over the threshold . . .

  For a long time there was utter silence. Woodwork creaked eerily around me. The lamp burned unevenly, casting heavy, misshapen shadows on the walls. I thought of that hideous little wooden slab outside the house, and shivered. The drive back to town would not be a pleasant one.

  Minutes passed. Suddenly Keene spoke again, halting me as I was about to rise from my chair.

  “The witch died. She couldn’t live forever. But she had discovered a way to live again—not her body, buried and long ago rotted into dust, but her soul. She waited in her grave for someone to enter this house.

  “They came at last, but only after a long time, for the witch had been feared. From the grave a spell was cast upon that man, so that he dreamed of a door. The moment the door was opened . . . he was doomed. No matter where he fled, he would dream again . . . and again . . . until finally, in his dream, he would step over the threshold.

  “When he did that, his body would be vacant, and the soul of the witch would enter it.”

  I heard a faint noise from behind me. I turned to stare at the doorway. Black emptiness.

  The low voice droned on.

  “Such changes are not easily wrought. A strong vessel, a strong body, was needed to survive the metamorphosis and hold the soul of the witch. The first man died . . . and many oth
ers died . . . and still the witch had found no body strong enough to hold her soul.”

  “Listen!” I said peremptorily, and stared at the doorway. I had heard something that sounded like the rattling of metal.

  Then, unmistakably, I heard a door slam. I got up quickly, realizing that my breath no longer came evenly. Without moving I waited, watching the doorway. But there was no further sound.

  KEENE had lifted his head, and was staring at me. For a moment the horrible thing escaped me. Then I saw, and, I think, I screamed.

  Keene’s face had changed. Like a dark veil, impalpable and intangible, an expression was upon it that I can only describe as sheer evil. It was still Keene’s face, but it was at the same time the face of a demon. But it wasn’t that which sent abysmal horror lancing through me, making me shudder with frightful nausea. The eyes that stared from Keene’s ghastly face were no longer dark—they were amber cat’s-eyes!

  It is difficult for me to remember what happened after that. I think the monster that was Keene rose up from the table, and smiled very terribly, piercing me with those demoniac eyes. I think I screamed again, as I remembered the sound from the hall—the sound of a door slamming—and realized that Edward Keene had dreamed again, and had stepped over the fearsome threshold he had dreaded so much. And I know that the light suddenly faded from the amber eyes, and a lean body collapsed on the floor and lay quite still . . . and when I finally forced myself to feel for a pulse there was none.

  That was two nights ago. I left the witchhouse and drove like mad to the city, seeking only to escape the tentacles of fear that had closed around me. As I drove I kept remembering words I had heard:

  . . . a strong body was needed to hold the soul of the witch. The first man died . . . and many others died. . .

  What thing had spoken to me with Edward Keene’s lips? There can be but one answer, and it is an answer so fantastic that no sane man could entertain the possibility of its accuracy. But I am no longer sane.

  At least, I hope I am not sane. For if what I saw in the witch-house was more than the crazy phantoms of a disordered mind, the fate that overtook Edward Keene is one on which I dare not speculate. Also, sitting here alone in this modern hotel room in Boston, I keep remembering certain phrases: “From the grave a spell was cast on that man, so that he dreamed of a door.

  “The moment that the door was opened . . . he was doomed . . . he would dream again and again until finally he would step over the threshold . . .

  I DREAMED last night. In a modern hotel, in modern Boston, I dreamed of a dark passage along which I fumbled my way, and of a latch that turned beneath my hand . . . and of a door that opened.

  As I write, my eyes stray to the doorway of my bedroom, and the amber points of light I see there.

  It is twilight. An irresistible drowsiness has crept up and overwhelmed me. My head nods continually, and my eyelids are very heavy. Presently I shall fall asleep and dream of a threshold beyond which waits horror unimaginable.

  And that is something I cannot and dare not face.

  So—I suppose—I must kill myself.

  “TELEPATHY IS NEWS”

  Walter Hatch, the telecaster, learns the amazing secret of telepathy from the great scientist, Manning, as he lay dying there in the road! It is Hatch’s duty now to protect this wonderful power from ruthless hands!

  WALTER HATCH, Globe Telecaster’s ace columnist of the air, hurried into his office, glancing at his wristwatch. “Two minutes to spare,” he said to Jean Hill, his secretary. “What’s the latest?”

  She put a few strips of tape on his desk as he sat down. “Just these.”

  “Yeah.” Hatch scanned them hastily, his lean, dark face taut. Ten years of newswork hadn’t managed to accustom him to the nervous excitement of his task—scooping other newscasters. “The usual stuff. No lead headline?”

  Jean shook her head. “Not a thing.”

  “Well, here’s where I lose another friend,” Hatch grunted. He pulled the televisor into position before him, arranged his notes deftly. “I promised to keep this under my hat, but—it’s news.”

  A warning buzz sounded. The televisor screen glowed red. Hatch was on the air. His voice came, crisp and clear.

  “Flash! Here it comes, folks—the biggest news item since Australia seceded back in 1970. Your reporter got on the track of it just today. Take my word for it, when we enter the twenty-first century in two years, we’ll be living in an entirely different world. I learned today that Doctor Albert Manning, Los Angeles psychologist, has discovered the secret of telepathy!

  “Get it, folks! Communication without words—every brain an open book! No more secrets! No more telling your wife you were working late at the office—she’ll read your mind instead of smelling your breath. Telepathy isn’t new; it was proved possible by the Duke University experiments in 1938. And in the Harvard Medical School it was found that the human brain emitted energy—alpha waves. Doctor Manning started from those crude beginnings, and I predict that within the year all Earth will be telepathy-conscious. We’ll communicate as ants do, by waves, by mind-radio. And here’s another theory of Doctor Manning’s—try and believe it!—he says that the telepathic function is a recessive characteristic in man, and that before the dawn of history, it was dominant. Prehistoric man may have been a mind-reader!—just as you’ll be in a year or two. Public enemies, make a note of this! The day telepathy becomes known to all, your alibis will be useless!”

  Then Hatch went on to other items. In fifteen minutes he went off the air, and leaned back, perspiring. “Cigarette, Jean . . . Thanks.” He blew smoke luxuriously through his nostrils.

  “Is that really true? The telepathy item, I mean?” The girl was wide-eyed.

  “If Hatch broadcasts it, it’s so,” the newscaster quoted, grinning.

  “Sure. I saw Manning today. Had a hard time breaking his shell, too. He swore me to secrecy.”

  Jean’s eyebrows quirked up. “That means a lot.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have released the news if we’d got another headline. But I can’t go on the air without a flash—you know that. Matter of fact, Manning seemed to think I could help him. He was a bit afraid of censorship—thought the government might crack down. I promised I’d let him go on the air if that happened.” Hatch snorted. “But I can see myself doing it. Ray Gerold and his secret police would be on my neck muy pronto. That’d mean a concentration camp—and what would my public do without me?” He hesitated at the look that came into Jean’s eyes. “Oh—sorry, kid.”

  “That’s all right,” But the girl didn’t look happy. Her father had died in a concentration camp for political prisoners. He had been too outspoken in his criticism of the autocratic government that ruled America in 1998. And it was dangerous to criticize either Commander Alford Perrett or his right-hand man, Raymond Gerold, chief of the secret police.

  THE autocracy had come slowly but inevitably. The economic depression of 1945-49 had turned the country into a gunpowder cask. Political leaders and theorists had set up their cults; hunger-crazed mobs had looted whole cities; and a group of northwestern states had talked of secession. But not until 1989 had they carried out their plan, on learning that war had been declared between Western Europe and America for possession of Canada.

  Germany, Italy, and England had formed an alliance; France was dying, her territory ruthlessly absorbed by neighboring countries. The British colonies had cast off their allegiance to the mother country, but only Australia and Canada managed to maintain independence. England refused to give up Canada, and, since America would not permit the landing of foreign troops on the continent, an abortive war had come.

  It had not lasted long. The Soviet-Chinese coalition, a vast Oriental commune, saw its chance to crush Europe, and for a while everything pointed to a cataclysmic struggle that would decimate Earth. But somehow diplomats had poured oil on the waters, and the three great powers subsided into volcanic peace. Then Perrett and Gerold had come into power.
They had gathered an army, marched into the seceding northwestern states, and put down the rebellion. Perrett was the hero of America, and in a whirlwind coup d’etat he had marched on Washington, imprisoned the President, and proclaimed himself ruler of a country under martial law.

  So much the general public knew. Hatch knew a little more—that the British dictator, for example, had secretly agreed to cede Canada to the United States provided Perrett aided the European autocracies in a war to subdue the great Soviet commune. The Hawaiian islands were to provide the spark—and the spark was lit and smouldering.

  Hatch didn’t give a damn. The political situation didn’t touch him directly and so, like innumerable others, he was satisfied because his personal wants were filled. Once in a while, goaded by some murderously oppressive act, he toyed with the idea of broadcasting the details to the world; but Hatch wasn’t a fool. When the secret police made an arrest, the offender vanished into a concentration camp or worse.

  Now he got up and mixed a Scotch-and-soda. “Another day,” he said to Jean. “And another headline to dig up for tomorrow.”

  The teletype crackled. Hatch nodded toward it. “May be the answer to our prayer. Catch it.”

  Jean tore off the tape, read it hurriedly. Her blue eyes held a curious look as she glanced up at Hatch.

  “Well—read it!” he said impatiently.

  Tonelessly the girl read, “Doctor Albert Manning has just been arrested at his Los Angeles home. No details are available.”

  Hatch was perfectly motionless for a moment. Then he took a long drink.

  “That all it says?”

  Jean nodded. Hatch suddenly put down the glass on his desk. “Well?” The girl’s gaze was coolly scornful. “I didn’t say anything.”