A Medicine for Melancholy and Other Stories

by Ray Bradbury

  “I’ll go to Mars. They have tombs there. I’ll find more like myself!”

  “No,” said McClure. “The executive order went through yesterday. All of the tombs are being deprived of their bodies. They’ll be burned in the next week.”

  They fell together to the floor. Lantry got his hands on McClure’s throat.

  “Please,” said McClure. “Do you see, you’ll die.”

  “What do you mean?” cried Lantry.

  “Once you kill all of us, and you’re alone, you’ll die! The hate will die. That hate is what moved you, nothing else! That envy moves you. Nothing else! You’ll die, inevitably. You’re not immortal. You’re not even alive, you’re nothing but a moving hate.”

  “I don’t care!” screamed Lantry, and began choking the man, beating his head with his fists, crouched on the defenseless body. McClure looked up at him with dying eyes.

  The front door opened. Two men came in.

  “I say,” said one of them. “What’s going on? A new game?”

  Lantry jumped back and began to run.

  “Yes, a new game!” said McClure, struggling up. “Catch him and you win!”

  The two men caught Lantry. “We win,” they said.

  “Let me go!” Lantry thrashed, hitting them across their faces, bringing blood.

  “Hold him tight!” cried McClure.

  They held him.

  “A rough game, what?” one of them said. “What do we do now?”

  The beetle hissed along the shining road. Rain fell out of the sky and a wind ripped at the dark green wet trees. In the beetle, his hands on the half-wheel, McClure was talking. His voice was susurrant, a whispering, a hypnotic thing. The two other men sat in the back seat. Lantry sat, or rather lay, in the front seat, his head back, his eyes faintly open, the glowing green light of the dash dials showing on his cheeks. His mouth was relaxed. He did not speak.

  McClure talked quietly and logically, about life and moving, about death and not moving, about the sun and the great sun Incinerator, about the emptied tombyard, about hatred and how hate lived and made a clay man live and move, and how illogical it all was, it all was, it all was. One was dead, was dead, was dead, that was all, all, all. One did not try to be otherwise. The car whispered on the moving road. The rain spattered gently on the windshield. The men in the back seat conversed quietly. Where were they going, going? To the Incinerator, of course. Cigarette smoke moved slowly up on the air, curling and tying into itself in gray loops and spirals. One was dead and must accept it.

  Lantry did not move. He was a marionette, the strings cut. There was only a tiny hatred in his heart, in his eyes, like twin coals, feeble, glowing, fading.

  I am Poe, he thought. I am all that is left of Edgar Allan Poe, and I am all that is left of Ambrose Bierce and all that is left of a man named Lovecraft. I am a gray night bat with sharp teeth, and I am a square black monolith monster. I am Osiris and Bal and Set. I am the Necronomicon, the Book of the Dead. I am the house of Usher, falling into flame. I am the Red Death. I am the man mortared into the catacomb with a cask of Amontillado … I am a dancing skeleton. I am a coffin, a shroud, a lightning bolt reflected in an old house window. I am an autumn-empty tree, I am a rapping, flinging shutter. I am a yellowed volume turned by a claw hand. I am an organ played in an attic at midnight. I am a mask, a skull mask behind an oak tree on the last day of October. I am a poison apple bobbling in a water tub for child noses to bump at, for child teeth to snap … I am a black candle lighted before an inverted cross. I am a coffin lid, a sheet with eyes, a foot-step on a black stairwell. I am Dunsany and Machen and I am the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I am The Monkey’s Paw and I am The Phantom Rickshaw. I am the Cat and the Canary, the Gorilla, the Bat. I am the ghost of Hamlet’s father on the castle wall.

  All of these things am I. And now these last things will be burned. While I lived they still lived. While I moved and hated and existed, they still existed. I am all that remembers them. I am all of them that still goes on, and will not go on after tonight. Tonight, all of us, Poe and Bierce and Hamlet’s father, we burn together. They will make a big heap of us and burn us like a bonfire, like things of Guy Fawkes’ day, gasoline, torches, cries, and all!

  And what a wailing will we put up. The world will be clean of us, but in our going we shall say, oh what is the world like, clean of fear, where is the dark imagination from the dark time, the thrill and the anticipation, the suspense of old October, gone, never more to come again, flattened and smashed and burned by the rocket people, by the Incinerator people, destroyed and obliterated, to be replaced by doors that open and close and lights that go on and off without fear. If only you could remember how once we lived, what Halloween was to us, and what Poe was, and how we gloried in the dark morbidities. One more drink, dear friends, of Amontillado, before the burning. All of this, all, exists but in one last brain on earth. A whole world dying tonight. One more drink, pray.

  “Here we are,” said McClure.

  The Incinerator was brightly lighted. There was quiet music nearby. McClure got out of the beetle, came around to the other side. He opened the door. Lantry simply lay there. The talking and the logical talking had slowly drained him of life. He was no more than wax now, with a small glow in his eyes. This future world, how the men talked to you, how logically they reasoned away your life. They wouldn’t believe in him. The force of their disbelief froze him. He could not move his arms or his legs. He could only mumble senselessly, coldly, eyes flickering.

  McClure and the two others helped him out of the car, put him in a golden box, and rolled him on a roller table into the warm glowing interior of the building.

  I am Edgar Allan Poe, I am Ambrose Bierce, I am Halloween, I am a coffin, a shroud, a Monkey’s Paw, a Phantom, a Vampire …

  “Yes, yes,” said McClure, quietly, over him. “I know. I know.”

  The table glided. The walls swung over him and by him, the music played. You are dead, you are logically dead.

  I am Usher, I am the Maelstrom, I am the MS Found In A Bottle, I am the Pit and I am the Pendulum, I am the Telltale Heart, I am the Raven nevermore, nevermore.

  “Yes,” said McClure, as they walked softly. “I know.”

  “I am in the catacomb,” cried Lantry.

  “Yes, the catacomb,” said the walking man over him.

  “I am being chained to a wall, and there is no bottle of Amontillado here!” cried Lantry weakly, eyes closed.

  “Yes,” someone said.

  There was movement. The flame door opened.

  “Now someone is mortaring up the cell, closing me in!”

  “Yes, I know.” A whisper.

  The golden box slid into the flame lock.

  “I’m being walled in! A very good joke indeed! Let us be gone!” A wild scream and much laughter.

  “We know, we understand …”

  The inner flame lock opened. The golden coffin shot forth into flame.

  “For the love of God, Montresor! For the love of God!”

  Zero Hour

  Oh, it was to be so jolly! What a game! Such excitement they hadn’t known in years. The children catapulted this way and that across the green lawns, shouting at each other, holding hands, flying in circles, climbing trees, laughing. Overhead the rockets flew, and beetle cars whispered by on the streets, but the children played on. Such fun, such tremulous joy, such tumbling and hearty screaming.

  Mink ran into the house, all dirt and sweat. For her seven years she was loud and strong and definite. Her mother, Mrs. Morris, hardly saw her as she yanked out drawers and rattled pans and tools into a large sack.

  “Heavens, Mink, what’s going on?”

  “The most exciting game ever!” gasped Mink, pink-faced.

  “Stop and get your breath,” said the mother.

  “No, I’m all right,” gasped Mink. “Okay I take these things, Mom?”

  “But don’t dent them,” said Mrs. Morris.

  “Thank you, thank you!�
�� cried Mink, and boom! she was gone, like a rocket.

  Mrs. Morris surveyed the fleeing tot. “What’s the name of the game?”

  “Invasion!” said Mink. The door slammed.

  In every yard on the street children brought out knives and forks and pokers and old stovepipes and can openers.

  It was an interesting fact that this fury and bustle occurred only among the younger children. The older ones, those ten years and more, disdained the affair and marched scornfully off on hikes or played a more dignified version of hide-and-seek on their own.

  Meanwhile, parents came and went in chromium beetles. Repairmen came to repair the vacuum elevators in houses, to fix fluttering television sets, or hammer upon stubborn food-delivery tubes. The adult civilization passed and repassed the busy youngsters, jealous of the fierce energy of the wild tots, tolerantly amused at their flourishings, longing to join in themselves.

  “This and this and this,” said Mink, instructing the others with their assorted spoons and wrenches. “Do that, and bring that over here. No! Here, ninny! Right. Now get back while I fix this.” Tongue in teeth, face wrinkled in thought. “Like that. See?”

  “Yayyyy!” shouted the kids.

  Twelve-year-old Joseph Connors ran up.

  “Go away,” said Mink straight at him.

  “I wanna play,” said Joseph.

  “Can’t!” said Mink.

  “Why not?”

  “You’d just make fun of us.”

  “Honest, I wouldn’t.”

  “No. We know you. Go away or we’ll kick you.”

  Another twelve-year-old boy whirred by on little motor skates. “Hey, Joe! Come on! Let them sissies play!”

  Joseph showed reluctance and a certain wistfulness. “I want to play,” he said.

  “You’re old,” said Mink firmly.

  “Not that old,” said Joe sensibly.

  “You’d only laugh and spoil the Invasion.”

  The boy on the motor skates made a rude lip noise. “Come on, Joe! Them and their fairies! Nuts!”

  Joseph walked off slowly. He kept looking back, all down the block.

  Mink was already busy again. She made a kind of apparatus with her gathered equipment. She had appointed another little girl with a pad and pencil to take down notes in painful slow scribbles. Their voices rose and fell in the warm sunlight.

  All around them the city hummed. The streets were lined with good green and peaceful trees. Only the wind made a conflict across the city, across the country, across the continent. In a thousand other cities there were trees and children and avenues, businessmen in their quiet offices taping their voices, or watching televisors. Rockets hovered like darning needles in the blue sky. There was the universal, quiet conceit and easiness of men accustomed to peace, quite certain there would never be trouble again. Arm in arm, men all over earth were a united front. The perfect weapons were held in equal trust by all nations. A situation of incredibly beautiful balance had been brought about. There were no traitors among men, no unhappy ones, no disgruntled ones; therefore the world was based upon a stable ground. Sunlight illumined half the world and the trees drowsed in a tide of warm air.

  Mink’s mother, from her upstairs window, gazed down.

  The children. She looked upon them and shook her head. Well, they’d eat well, sleep well, and be in school on Monday. Bless their vigorous little bodies. She listened.

  Mink talked earnestly to someone near the rose bush—though there was no one there.

  These odd children. And the little girl, what was her name? Anna? Anna took notes on a pad. First, Mink asked the rosebush a question, then called the answer to Anna.

  “Triangle,” said Mink.

  “What’s a tri,” said Anna with difficulty, “angle?”

  “Never mind,” said Mink.

  “How you spell it?” asked Anna.

  “T-r-i—” spelled Mink slowly, then snapped, “Oh, spell it yourself!” She went on to other words. “Beam,” she said.

  “I haven’t got tri,” said Anna, “angle down yet!”

  “Well, hurry, hurry!” cried Mink.

  Mink’s mother leaned out the upstairs window. “A-n-g-l-e,” she spelled down at Anna.

  “Oh, thanks, Mrs. Morris,” said Anna.

  “Certainly,” said Mink’s mother and withdrew, laughing, to dust the hall with an electro-duster magnet.

  The voices wavered on the shimmery air. “Beam,” said Anna. Fading.

  “Four-nine-seven-A-and-B-and-X,” said Mink, far away, seriously. “And a fork and a string and a—hex-hex-agony—hexagonal!”

  At lunch Mink gulped milk at one toss and was at the door. Her mother slapped the table.

  “You sit right back down,” commanded Mrs. Morris. “Hot soup in a minute.” She poked a red button on the kitchen butler, and ten seconds later something landed with a bump in the rubber receiver. Mrs. Morris opened it, took out a can with a pair of aluminum holders, unsealed it with a flick, and poured hot soup into a bowl.

  During all this Mink fidgeted. “Hurry, Mom! This is a matter of life and death! Aw—”

  “I was the same way at your age. Always life and death. I know.”

  Mink banged away at the soup.

  “Slow down,” said Mom.

  “Can’t,” said Mink. “Drill’s waiting for me.”

  “Who’s Drill? What a peculiar name,” said Mom.

  “You don’t know him,” said Mink.

  “A new boy in the neighborhood?” asked Mom.

  “He’s new all right,” said Mink. She started on her second bowl.

  “Which one is Drill?” asked Mom.

  “He’s around,” said Mink evasively. “You’ll make fun. Everybody pokes fun. Gee, darn.”

  “Is Drill shy?”

  “Yes. No. In a way. Gosh, Mom, I got to run if we want to have the Invasion!”

  “Who’s invading what?”

  “Martians invading Earth. Well, not exactly Martians. They’re—I don’t know. From up.” She pointed her spoon.

  “And inside,” said Mom, touching Mink’s feverish brow.

  Mink rebelled. “You’re laughing! You’ll kill Drill and everybody.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” said Mom. “Drill’s a Martian?”

  “No. He’s—well—maybe from Jupiter or Saturn or Venus. Anyway, he’s had a hard time.”

  “I imagine.” Mrs. Morris hid her mouth behind her hand.

  “They couldn’t figure a way to attack Earth.”

  “We’re impregnable,” said Mom in mock seriousness.

  “That’s the word Drill used! Impreg—That was the word, Mom.”

  “My, my, Drill’s a brilliant little boy. Two-bit words.”

  “They couldn’t figure a way to attack, Mom. Drill says—he says in order to make a good fight you got to have a new way of surprising people. That way you win. And he says also you got to have help from your enemy.”

  “A fifth column,” said Mom.

  “Yeah. That’s what Drill said. And they couldn’t figure a way to surprise Earth or get help.”

  “No wonder. We’re pretty darn strong.” Mom laughed, cleaning up. Mink sat there, staring at the table, seeing what she was talking about.

  “Until, one day,” whispered Mink melodramatically, “they thought of children!”

  “Well!” said Mrs. Morris brightly.

  “And they thought of how grown-ups are so busy they never look under rosebushes or on lawns!”

  “Only for snails and fungus.”

  “And then there’s something about dim-dims.”

  “Dim-dims?”

  “Dimens-shuns.”

  “Dimensions?”

  “Four of ’em! And there’s something about kids under nine and imagination. It’s real funny to hear Drill talk.”

  Mrs. Morris was tired. “Well, it must be funny. You’re keeping Drill waiting now. It’s getting late in the day and, if you want to have your Invasion before your supper bat
h, you’d better jump.”

  “Do I have to take a bath?” growled Mink.

  “You do. Why is it children hate water? No matter what age you live in children hate water behind the ears!”

  “Drill says I won’t have to take baths,” said Mink.

  “Oh, he does, does he?”

  “He told all the kids that. No more baths. And we can stay up till ten o’clock and go to two televisor shows on Saturday ’stead of one!”

  “Well, Mr. Drill better mind his p’s and q’s. I’ll call up his mother and—”

  Mink went to the door. “We’re having trouble with guys like Pete Britz and Dale Jerrick. They’re growing up. They make fun. They’re worse than parents. They just won’t believe in Drill. They’re so snooty, ’cause they’re growing up. You’d think they’d know better. They were little only a coupla years ago. I hate them worst. We’ll kill them first.”

  “Your father and I last?”

  “Drill says you’re dangerous. Know why? ’Cause you don’t believe in Martians! They’re going to let us run the world. Well, not just us, but the kids over in the next block, too. I might be queen.” She opened the door.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s lodge-ick?”

  “Logic? Why, dear, logic is knowing what things are true and not true.”

  “He mentioned that,” said Mink. “And what’s im-pres-sion-able?” It took her a minute to say it.

  “Why, it means—” Her mother looked at the floor, laughing gently. “It means—to be a child, dear.”

  “Thanks for lunch!” Mink ran out, then stuck her head back in. “Mom, I’ll be sure you won’t be hurt much, really!”

  “Well, thanks,” said Mom.

  Slam went the door.

  At four o’clock the audiovisor buzzed. Mrs. Morris flipped the tab. “Hello, Helen!” she said in welcome.

  “Hello, Mary. How are things in New York?”

  “Fine. How are things in Scranton? You look tired.”

  “So do you. The children. Underfoot,” said Helen.

  Mrs. Morris sighed. “My Mink too. The super-Invasion.”

  Helen laughed. “Are your kids playing that game too?”

  “Lord, yes. Tomorrow it’ll be geometrical jacks and motorized hopscotch. Were we this bad when we were kids in ’48?”