The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories

by Jeff Vandermeer; Ann Vandermeer

  ‘Why? Because there’s more work with them?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, my dear boy. I’m afraid of them, do you understand? I’m afraid of old flues that haven’t been touched for years by a brush or scraper. It’s better to demolish such chimney and put up a new one than to have someone clean it.’

  I glanced at Kalina’s face at that moment. It was strangely altered by fear and aversion.

  ‘What’s the matter, Master?’

  And he, as if he hadn’t heard, continued on, staring somewhere ahead: ‘Soot is dangerous, particularly when it accumulates in narrow, dark spaces unreachable by the rays of the sun. And not just because it can easily catch fire. No, not just because of that. Consider this, we chimney sweeps battle our entire lives with soot, we prevent its excessive accumulation, and so prevent an explosion. But soot is treacherous, my boy, soot lays dormant inside dark smoke chambers and stuffy furnances, and it lies in wait – for an opportunity. Something vindictive resides in soot, something evil lurks there. You never know what will emerge from it, or when.’

  He became silent and glanced at me. Even though I didn’t understand what he had said, his words, uttered with such strong conviction, had their effect on me. But he smiled his good, kindhearted smile, and added soothingly: ‘Maybe I’m wrong, maybe something completely different has happened here. Cheer up! We’ll find out everything in a moment. We’ve arrived at our destination.’

  Indeed, we had reached the brewery. Through the open entrance gate, I followed the master to the wide courtyard, from which a multitude of doors led to the various buildings of the brewery. At the threshold of one door sat the gardener’s wife, a child at her breast; while beyond her, leaning against the door sill, stood her husband. Seeing us, the man became confused and with visible uneasiness came out to greet us: ‘You’ve come to see us about the chimney?’

  ‘Of course, you,’ the master answered coldly, ‘but not because of the chimney, but because of the two people I sent to clean it.’

  The gardener’s uneasiness increased; his eyes shifted continually.

  ‘My men haven’t yet returned from this brewery!’ cried out Kalina passionately, glaring at him. ‘What happened to them? You’re responsible for them!’

  ‘But, sir,’ the gardener mumbled, ‘I really don’t know what happened to them. We thought that the first one had already turned up, and as for the second one – I just don’t know. Yesterday afternoon, in my presence, he entered the chimney through the door in the kitchen wall: for some time I clearly heard him scraping the soot away. I would have remained to the end of the operation if I hadn’t been called out to the courtyard. Afterward, I left my home for a couple of hours, and when I returned, nothing was said about the chimney or your man. I thought that he had done his job and returned to the city, so we closed the ventilation door for the night. Only now, when I saw the both of you entering our courtyard, did I become troubled. It suddenly occurred to me that something terrible has been happening here for the last two days. I see that I am right. But what is going on, Master Kalina? What can be done?’ He spread out his hands in a sign of innocence. ‘I’m not to blame.’

  ‘At least you shouldn’t have closed the door to the chimney, fool!’ Kalina cried out angrily. ‘After me, Peter!’ he shouted, pulling me by the arm. ‘We don’t have a second to lose.’ And to the gardener: ‘Take us to the chimney!’

  The terrified gardener led us inside. We soon found ourselves in the kitchen.

  ‘Here, in the corner,’ said the gardener, pointing to the rectangular chimney door.

  Kalina took a step toward it, but, anticipating him, I moved quickly and opened the small door.

  A smell of smoke blew over us, and a little soot fell to the floor.

  Before the master could interfere, I was already kneeling at the inlet, my arms stretched upward in preparation for a climb.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Kalina’s angry voice responded. ‘Let me go up! This is my affair. You set up the ladder to the roof and get on top to guard the outlet.’

  For the first time in my life I did not listen to him. A mad stubbornness and a desire to uncover the truth possessed me completely.

  ‘Why don’t you go to the roof yourself, Master!’ I responded. ‘I promise to wait here until you give me the signal.’

  Kalina uttered an ugly curse, and whether he liked it or not, he had to surrender to my command.

  Soon I heard his distancing steps. Then I tied a silk mask tightly over my mouth and nose, adjusted the straps at my belt, and gripped the hatchet. Before you could say two Hail Marys I heard the knocking of the ball that had been lowered down the chimney: Kalina was already on the roof and was giving me the agreed-upon signal.

  I crawled on all fours into the throat of the chimney and, groping about, found the ball. I pulled on it three times in a sign that I had received the signal and was commencing my journey.

  After passing the turn in the chimney, I straightened up, instinctively protecting my head with the hatchet.

  The chimney was wide, navigable with ridges, and thickly packed with soot. Here at the bottom, right beside the door, layers of easily flammable ‘enamel’ glowed with a cold metallic luster in the faint light coming from the top of the chimney.

  I threw a glance upward – and shuddered.

  Above me, several feet beyond the blade of my hatchet, I saw in the half-light of the flue a snow-white being staring at me with a pair of huge, owlish yellow eyes.

  The creature – part monkey, part large frog – was holding in his front claws what seemed like a human arm, which hung limply from a corpse, vaguely outlined in a twisted shape next to the neighboring wall.

  Drenched in cold sweat, I propped myself against the sides of the chimney with my legs and raised myself up slightly. Then, from the creature’s long mouth came a savage predatory sound, and he ground his teeth menacingly. My movement seemed to have alarmed him, and he apparently changed position, for at that moment a wider shaft of light rushed into the depths of the chimney and lit up the horrible picture more clearly.

  Attached through some miracle, as if stuck to the wall with the bottom of his toes, the creature held Biedron tightly with his arms. His rear limbs, covered with white, downy fur, wrapped in a crosswise grip the legs of his victim, while the greedy proboscis of his elongated snout now adhered to the temple of the unfortunate man.

  A rage enveloped me, and overcoming my fear, I climbed up a couple more feet. The white creature, apparently upset, turned to me again and started to prick his spoonlike ears and grind his teeth ever more loudly, but he didn’t move from his place.

  I saw his vain endeavors as he wanted to spring down on me or escape up the chimney. But his movements were unusually awkward and ponderous; it seemed that he had grown torpid, as a snake does after swallowing a victim, or that he had become drunk on an overabundance of sucked blood; only his bulging eyes, round like plates, buried themselves into me with increasing severity, and he threatened me with his look and sound…

  But my anger predominated over my terror. I drew back the hatchet swiftly and with all my might let it go on the horrible white skull.

  The blow was strong and accurate. In one moment the light in his large eyes died out, something brushed by me, and I heard a dull groan below; the strange being had fallen to the bottom of the chimney, pulling down his victim in the process.

  A shudder of disgust shook me to the core; I didn’t have courage to go down and check the result of my blow. The only thing left for me to do was to go up to the roof. Besides, I was already at the halfway point in the chimney, from whose outlet I heard Kalina’s voice.

  I began a quick climb to the top, using all my strength to dig into the sides of the chimney with my elbows and legs. But who can relate my horror when a couple of feet higher I saw, hanging on a hook sticking out of the wall, the carcass of Antarek?

  The body of the poor man was in a terrible state – incredibly gaunt and shriveled up to a sliver –
almost skin and bones. It seemed half-cured by exposure to smoke, and was stretched out like a string, and dry and hard like a piece of wood.

  With trembling hands I unhooked the carcass, and winding its middle a few times with the rope from the ball, I pulled twice on the cord as a signal to Kalina.

  A couple of minutes later, I found myself on the roof, where the master was waiting for me, Antarek’s body by his side. He greeted me sullenly, with knitted brows. ‘Where’s Biedron?’ he asked tersely.

  In a few words I told him everything.

  After we had carefully lowered Antarek to the ground along the ladder, he said calmly:

  ‘The White Wyrak. That was him. I had a feeling it would be him.’

  In silence we went through the hall and two rooms, and returned to the kitchen. There wasn’t a living soul here; the gardener and his family had slunk away to some wing of the building.

  Placing Antarek’s body by the wall, we advanced to the opening of the chimney. Sticking out of it were a pair of stiff, naked legs.

  We pulled out Biedron and placed him on the floor by his comrade.

  ‘See those two small wounds they have on their temples?’ asked Kalina in a subdued voice. ‘That is his sign. He cuts into his victims there and consumes them.’ And he repeated a couple of times: ‘The White Wyrak! The White Wyrak!’

  ‘I have to finish him off,’ I replied stubbornly. ‘Maybe he isn’t dead yet.’

  ‘I doubt it. Apparently he can’t stand light. Let’s take a look, though.’

  And we gazed into the depths of the opening.

  Deep inside we vaguely saw something white. Kalina glanced about the kitchen and spotted a long pole with an iron hook at its end. He picked up the pole and shoved it into the chimney opening. Then he started to draw it out…

  Slowly a white mass began to emerge from the darkness, a sort of snowy, downy fleece that came closer and closer to the ventilator.

  But along the way, the Wyrak’s corpse seemed to melt and contract. When Kalina finally drew out the entire pole, there hung from its iron tip only a small, milk-white substance; it was flaky and disarranged, and resembled a soft hide or fluff.

  Suddenly this substance slid off the hook and fell to the ground. And then a strange change occurred in it; in the twinkling of an eye, the white material turned a coallike color, and at our feet lay a large mass of soot – glittering and black like tar.

  ‘That’s all that remains of him,’ whispered Kalina, plunged in thought.

  And after a moment he added, as if to himself:

  ‘From soot you came, and to soot you shall return.’

  And placing our unfortunate comrades on a stretcher, we carried off their bodies to the city.

  Shortly afterward, the master and I got a peculiar outbreak on our skins. Over our entire bodies appeared large white pimples, resembling pearly grits. After several weeks, these pimples disappeared as quickly and as unexpectedly as they had arrived, leaving not a trace of their repulsive presence.

  The Night Wire

  H. F. Arnold

  H. F. Arnold (1902–1963) was an American pulp-era writer who wrote only three published stories. Despite this low output, ‘The Night Wire’ (1926), first published in Weird Tales, is considered the most popular story from the first golden age of that magazine. Lovecraft is said to have loved this story. ‘The Night Wire’ is perhaps remarkable in still being able to chill the reader today despite using elements that could have made the story feel dated. It is a perfect example of how the weird creates not just unease, but dislocation. Details about the writer’s life are scarce, without even confirmation that ‘H. F. Arnold’ was his real name. Some have speculated that he must have been a journalist.

  New York, September 30 CP FLASH

  Ambassador Holliwell died here today. The end came suddenly as the ambassador was alone in his study…

  There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here on the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore – they’re your next-door neighbors after the street lights go dim and the world has gone to sleep.

  Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receiving operators doze over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and suicides. Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with a casualty list as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almost in his sleep, picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.

  Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You’ve heard of someone you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe they’ve been promoted, but more probably they’ve been murdered or drowned. Perhaps they just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made it interesting enough to get in the news.

  But that doesn’t happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and tap, tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.

  Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and I haven’t got over it yet. I wish I could.

  You see, I handle the night manager’s desk in a western seaport town; what the name is, doesn’t matter.

  There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, a fellow named John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a sober, hardworking sort.

  He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a ‘double’ man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and type the stories on different typewriters at the same time. He was one of the three men I ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after hour, and never make a mistake.

  Generally, we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when it was late and the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stations would open a second wire, and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a wizard, a mechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but was without imagination.

  On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. It was the first and last time I had ever heard him say a word about himself, and I had known him for three years.

  It was just three o’clock and we were running only one wire. I was nodding over reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him, when he spoke.

  ‘Jim,’ he said, ‘does it feel close in here to you?’

  ‘Why, no, John,’ I answered, ‘but I’ll open a window if you like.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘I reckon I’m just a little tired.’

  That was all that was said, and I went on working. Every ten minutes or so I would walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked up neatly beside the typewriter as the messages were printed out in triplicate.

  It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed he had opened up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought it was a little unusual, as there was nothing very ‘hot’ coming in. On my next trip I picked up the copy from both machines and took it back to my desk to sort out the duplicates.

  The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I just looked over it hurriedly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. I remembered it particularly because the story was from a town I had never heard of: ‘Xebico’. Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate of it from our files:

  Xebico, Sept. 16 CP BULLETIN

  The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over the town at 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic has stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is constantly growing heavier.

  Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred before in the history of the city.

  At 7 p.m. last night municipal authorities…(more)

  That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureau headquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of the name of the town.

  It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over for anot
her batch of copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switched his green electric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and hit only the top of the two typewriters.

  Only the usual stuff was in the righthand pile, but the lefthand batch carried another story from Xebico. All press dispatches come in ‘takes,’ meaning that parts of many different stories are strung along together, perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming through at a time. This second story was marked ‘add fog.’ Here is the copy:

  At 7 p.m. the fog had increased noticeably. All lights were now invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness.

  As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompanied by a sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experienced here.

  Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and the initials of the operator, JM.

  There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire. Here it is:

  2nd add Xebico Fog

  Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly. Among the most unusual is that of the sexton of the local church, who groped his way to headquarters in a hysterical condition and declared that the fog originated in the village churchyard.

  ‘It was first visible as a soft gray blanket clinging to the earth above the graves,’ he stated. ‘Then it began to rise, higher and higher. A subterranean breeze seemed to blow it in billows, which split up and then joined together again.

  ‘Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist into queer forms and figures. And then, in the very thick midst of the mass, something moved.

  ‘I turned and ran from the accursed spot. Behind me I heard screams coming from the houses bordering on the graveyard.’

  Although the sexton’s story is generally discredited, a party has left to investigate. Immediately after telling his story, the sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital, unconscious.