Stanley Grauman Weinbaum
The Dark Other
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Table of contents
1 Pure Horror
2 Science of Mind
3 Psychiatrics of Genius
4 The Transfiguration
5 A Fantasy of Fear
6 A Question of Science
7 The Red Eyes Return
8 Gateway to Evil
9 Descent into Avernus
10 Rescue from Abaddon
11 Wreckage
12Letter from Lucifer
13 Indecision
14 Bizarre Explanation
15 A Modern Mr. Hyde
16 Possessed
17 Witch-Doctor
18 Vanished
19 Man or Monster?
20 The Assignation
21 A Question of Synapses
22 Doctor and Devil
23 Werewolf
24 The Dark Other
25 The Demon Lover
26The Depths
27 Two in Hell
28 Lunar Omen
29 Scopolamine for Satan
30 The Demon Free
31 "Not Humanly Possible"
32 Revelation
1 Pure Horror
"That isn't what I mean," said Nicholas Devine, turning his eyes on his companion. "I mean pure horror in the sense of horror detached from experience, apart from reality. Not just a formless fear, which implies either fear of something that might happen, or fear of unknown dangers. Do you see what I mean?""Of course," said Pat, letting her eyes wander over the black expanse of night-dark Lake Michigan. "Certainly I see what you mean but I don't quite understand how you'd do it. It sounds—well, difficult."She gazed at his lean profile, clear-cut against the distant light. He had turned, staring thoughtfully over the lake, idly fingering the levers on the steering wheel before him. The girl wondered a little at her feeling of contentment; she, Patricia Lane, satisfied to spend an evening in nothing more exciting than conversation! And they must have parked here a full two hours now. There was something about Nick—she didn't understand exactly what; sensitivity, charm, personality. Those were meaningless cliches, handles to hold the unexplainable nuances of character."It is difficult," resumed Nick. "Baudelaire tried it, Poe tried it. And in painting, Hogarth, Goya, Dore. Poe came closest, I think; he caught the essence of horror in an occasional poem or story. Don't you think so?""I don't know," said Pat. "I've forgotten most of my Poe.""Remember that story of his—'The Black Cat'?""Dimly. The man murdered his wife.""Yes. That isn't the part I mean. I mean the cat itself—the second cat. You know a cat, used rightly, can be a symbol of horror.""Indeed
yes!" The girl shuddered. "I don't like the treacherous
beasts!""And
this cat of Poe's," continued Nick, warming to his subject.
"Just think of it—in the first place, it's black; element of
horror. Then, it's gigantic, unnaturally, abnormally large. And then
it's not all black—that would be inartistically perfect—but has a
formless white mark on its breast, a mark that little by little
assumes a fantastic form—do you remember what?""No.""The
form of a gallows!""Oh!"
said the girl. "Ugh!""And
then—climax of genius—the eyes! Blind in one eye, the other a
baleful yellow orb! Do you feel it? A black cat, an enormous black
cat marked with a gallows, and lacking one eye, to make the other
even more terrible! Literary tricks, of course, but they work, and
that's genius!
Isn't it?""Genius!
Yes, if you call it that. The perverse genius of the Devil!""That's
what I want to write—what I will write some day." He watched
the play of lights on the restless surface of the waters. "Pure
horror, the epitome of the horrible. It could be written, but it
hasn't been yet; not even by Poe.""That
little analysis of yours was bad enough, Nick! Why should you want to
improve on his treatment of the theme?""Because
I like to write, and because I'm interested in the horrible. Two good
reasons.""Two
excuses, you mean. Of course, even if you'd succeed, you couldn't
force anyone to read it.""If
I succeed, there'd be no need to force people. Success would mean
that the thing would be great literature, and even today, in these
times, there are still people to read that. And besides—" He
paused."Besides
what?""Everybody's
interested in the horrible. Even you are, whether or not you deny
it.""I
certainly do deny it!""But
you are, Pat. It's natural to be.""It
isn't!""Then
what is?""Interest
in people, and life, and gay times, and pretty things, and—and
one's self and one's own feelings. And the feelings of the people one
loves.""Yes.
It comes to exactly the point I've been stressing. People are sordid,
life is hopeless, gay times are stupid, beauty is sensual, one's own
feelings are selfish. And love is carnal. That's the array of horrors
that holds your interest!"The
girl laughed in exasperation. "Nick, you could out-argue your
name-sake, the Devil himself! Do you really believe that indictment
of the normal viewpoint?""I
do—often!""Now?""Now,"
he said, turning his gaze on Pat, "I have no feeling of it at
all. Now, right now, I don't believe it.""Why
not?" she queried, smiling ingenuously at him."You,
obviously.""Gracious!
I had no idea my logic was as convincing as that.""Your
logic isn't. The rest of you is.""That
sounds like a compliment," observed Pat. "If it is,"
she continued in a bantering tone, "it's the only one I can
recall obtaining from you.""That's
because I seldom call attention to the obvious.""And
that's another," laughed the girl. "I'll have to mark this
date in red on my calendar. It's entirely unique in our—let's
see—nearly a month's acquaintance.""Is
it really so short a time? I know you so well that it must have taken
years. Every detail!" He closed his eyes. "Hair like black
silk, and oddly dark blue eyes—if I were writing a poem at the
moment, I'd call them violet. Tiny lips, the sort the Elizabethan
called bee-stung. Straight nose, and a figure that is a sort of
vest-pocket copy of Diana. Right?" He opened his eyes."Nice,
but exaggerated. And even if you were correct, that isn't Pat Lane,
the real Pat Lane. A camera could do better on a tenth of a second's
acquaintance!""Check!"
He closed his eyes again. "Personality, piquant. Character,
loyal, naturally happy, intelligent, but not serious. An intellectual
butterfly; a dilettante. Poised, cool, self-possessed, yet inherently
affectionate. A being untouched by reality, as yet, living in Chicago
and in a make-believe world at the same time." He paused, "How
old are you, Pat?""Twenty-two.
Why?""I
wondered how long one could manage to stay in the world of
make-believe. I'm twenty-six, and I'm long exiled.""I
don't think you know what you mean by a make-believe world. I'm sure
I don't.""Of
course you don't. You can't know and still remain there. It's like
being happy; once you realize it, it's no longer perfect.""Then
don't explain!""Wouldn't
make any difference if I did, Pat. It's a queer world, like the
Sardoodledom of Sardou and the afternoon-tea school of playwrights.
All stage-settings and pretense, but it looks real while you're
watching, especially if you're one of the characters."The
girl laughed. "You're a deliciously solemn sort, Nick. How would
you like to hear my analysis of you?""I
wouldn't!""You
inflicted yours on me, and I'm entitled to revenge. And so—you're
intelligent, lazy, dreamy, and with a fine perception of artistic
values. You're very alert to impressions of the senses—I mean
you're sensuous without being sensual. You're delightfully serious
without being somber, except sometimes. Sometimes I feel a hint, just
a thrilling hint, in your character, of something dangerously
darker—""Don't!"
said Nick sharply.Pat
shot him a quick glance. "And you're frightened to death of
falling in love," she concluded imperturbably."Oh!
Do you think so?""I
do.""Then
you're wrong! I can't be afraid of it, since I've known for the
better part of a month that I've been in love.""With
me," said the girl."Yes,
with you!""Well!"
said Pat. "It never before took me a month to extract that
admission from a man. Is twenty-two getting old?""You're
a tantalizing imp!""And
so?" She pursed her lips, assuming an air of disappointment.
"What am I to do about it—scream for help? You haven't given
me anything to scream about."The
kiss, Pat admitted to herself, was quite satisfactory. She yielded
herself to the pleasure of it; it was decidedly the best kiss she
had, in her somewhat limited experience, encountered. She pushed
herself away finally, with a little gasp, gazing bright-eyed at her
companion. He was staring down at her with serious eyes; there was a
tense twist to his mouth, and a curiously unexpected attitude of
unhappiness."Nick!"
she murmured. "Was it as bad as all that?""Bad!
Pat, does it mean you—care for me? A little, anyway?""A
little," she admitted. "Maybe more. Is that what makes you
look so forlorn?"He
drew her closer to him. "How could I look forlorn, Honey, when
something like this has happened to me? That was just my way of
looking happy."She
nestled as closely as the steering wheel permitted, drawing his arm
about her shoulders. "I hope you mean that, Nick.""Then
you mean it? You
really do?""I
really do.""I'm
glad," he said huskily. The girl thought she detected a strange
dubious note in his voice. She glanced at his face; his eyes were
gazing into the dim remoteness of the night horizon."Nick,"
she said, "why were you so—well, so reluctant about admitting
this? You must have known I—like you. I showed you that
deliberately in so many ways.""I—I
wasn't quite sure.""You
were! That isn't it, Nick. I had to practically browbeat you into
confessing you cared for me. Why?"He
stepped on the starter; the motor ground into sudden life. The car
backed into the road, turning toward Chicago, that glared like a
false dawn in the southern sky."I
hope you never find out," he said.
2 Science of Mind
"She's
out," said Pat as the massive form of Dr. Carl Horker loomed in
the doorway. "Your treatments must be successful; Mother's out
playing bridge."The
Doctor gave his deep, rumbling chuckle. "So much the better,
Pat. I don't feel professional anyway." He moved into the living
room, depositing his bulk on a groaning davenport. "And how's
yourself?""Too
well to be a patient of yours," retorted the girl. "Psychiatry!
The new religion! Just between friends, it's all applesauce, isn't
it?""If
I weren't trying to act in place of your father, I'd resent that,
young lady," said the Doctor placidly. "Psychiatry is a
definite science, and a pretty important one. Applied psychology, the
science of the human mind."
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!