Norman Invasions

by John Norman

  January 23rd, 20—.

  I lied to them. It is not always doors. Not literally, not always.

  Sometimes it is a narrow crevice, or an opening, sometimes like that of a cave. I do not know what is in the cave. Something may come out of it. I am afraid of what may come out of the cave.

  I want to be left alone.

  I have hurt no one.

  I do not want these things.

  January 27th, 20—.

  They do not believe me. I do not blame them.

  February 6th, 20—.

  I suppose I am mad. I am not mad.

  February 16th, 20—.

  It is dreams, all dreams, then. The doors, the holes, the cave.

  Does that make them not real? I am very tired. Can one dream while one is awake? Was I awake? Did I dream? Was I asleep, and awake? Can that be? Sleep calls to me. I will not be afraid. But I am afraid.

  In my fine bed I am safe.

  I must sleep. I am afraid to sleep.

  I burned the books. I will do the exercises no more. I do not want the strength they give me. I do not want to see what they show me.

  February 17, 20—.

  Sometimes it is like a curtain. Or is it a dream? Maybe it is something like a dream. I seem to be awake. That is not unusual in a dream.

  February 18th, 20—.

  Why did I lie to them?

  Why did I tell them there were doors. But there are doors. I know that now. I tried to lie. I wanted to lie. But I told the truth.

  If I might comment on these entries, briefly, and rather in general, I might suggest that the illusionist, in his bizarre way, appears to be open to the possibility that reality is diverse, multiplex, and perhaps discontinuous, that there may be realities other than our own, some perhaps similar, and others perhaps quite different, perhaps even inconceivable to us. One thing that seems extremely clear is that these other conjectured realities, from these entries, and, as clearly, from others I omit, are not matters of ghosts or spirits, or intangibles, or such. There seems to be nothing abstract or mystical here. We are not dealing with speculations or shadows. Whereas these postulated alternative realities may be inaccessible, or “elsewise,” so to speak, at least some of them, at least some of the time, or most of the time, they are understood to be as fully real as ours. They are as tangible in their way as ours is to us. They are not less real, they are other reals. They are understood to be as tangible as the touch of falling snow on an upturned face, as a kiss, as a wound, as a knife.

  March 4th, 20—.

  No, it is not like a hole, not now, not like the opening of a cave. It is more like a tunnel. It is far off. I see it when I sleep. That is strange. It is a large opening. There are clouds. When the wind comes up, from my left, the clouds move away, and I see the tall grass, and, here and there, trees. I can see to the horizon. It seems far off.

  I am supposing the incoherence of the entries is obvious to the reader, containing even apparent inconsistencies, literal contradictions. Unless, of course, these are alternative realities, different “doors” so to speak. It is interesting to note that the nature of the subject’s delusions seems to become less chaotic, though no less pathetically deranged, as we proceed. The delusions seem to become narrower now, more centered; perhaps the subject senses himself coming closer to a particular “door.”, Or, alternatively, I suppose, one might speak of one of these other “doors,” or, better, it seems, worlds, like a material body in an unusual space, if such is the right word, drifting closer, and closer, perhaps eventually, for a moment, to touch another world, ours.

  March 8th, 20—.

  Last night I had the dream again, the fields, seeing a long way off, the grass. I can smell the grass.

  I am safe in my bed.

  March 9th, 20—.

  The field is far off. There is nothing there. I am not afraid.

  March 10th, 20—.

  The field, again. Beautiful. Fresh wind. Blue sky, soft clouds.

  Peaceful. But on the horizon, dots, two, far off, something?

  I am not alone?

  March 11th, 20—.

  The fields, the grass. Again. Something is out there, far off, I am sure of it.

  The wind is behind me. It blows toward the horizon.

  March 15th, 20—.

  This is the first entry since I recorded the dream, I think it is a dream, of the night of March 10th.

  On the night of the 11th, I think I saw them, for something, it seemed, turned my way, and looked in my direction, so still, so alertly, but so far off. It is odd; how continuous, how coherent, these dreams are. That is unusual, is it not? Then I feared, though I could not see them, that they had seen me, or somehow knew of my presence. Then, in the dream, for that it must be, I sensed them separate, one to the left, and one to the right. I could not see them,and they were far off, but I was sure then, somehow, they were coming closer, and closer. The wind blew toward them, and this moved the grass. I could see no movement in the grass, save for the wind. I detected nothing. Then I awakened. On the night of the 12th I saw them, suddenly only yards away, one on the left, one on the right, rising from the grass, large, strange, tawny things, lengthy, and sinuous; now perhaps four feet high at the shoulder; before they must have been crouching, their bellies close to the ground; their rib cages moved almost imperceptibly; clearly they are air-breathing things;four legs, no wings; they came closer, quickly, a step or two, then stopped, and then closer, again, another step or two, again quickly, and then again stopped; now they were only feet away; paws large, wide, soft. muddied a little; it had rained; their haunches seemed to gather under them, excitedly; their bodies seem to quiver, almost imperceptibly. They are unnaturally still now; yellow eyes, large, rounded, intent; distended nostrils, moisture about half-opened jaws, wet, dark tongues, whitish teeth, long, fanglike, moist, curved, turned inward, powerful, graceful, strange, savage things, eager, intent; something of that evolved feline beauty which seems nature’s optimum design for a land predator. But then there was something strange about their sides, as though something were living, moving, beneath their skins. Is this part of them? But they were now regarding one another more balefully than me. Each seemed then more concerned with the other than with me. I was afraid. I took a step backward. One raised his paw, snarling, watching the other, and lashed out, toward the other, and I heard a tearing of wood, and I awakened, screaming. I threw myself from the bed, but clutched at its side. My fingers touched the wood. I cried out, rose up, and fled to the light switch. All seemed the same, nothing amiss, all in its place, with but one hideous exception. In the side of the bed near the foot, on the left side, there was a long, deep, splintered furrow, a foot long, a half inch deep in the wood, as though some spiteful vandal had intentionally defaced the wood with a metal tool. I am afraid to sleep.

  At this point it is doubtless clear to the reader what is going on. On the assumption that pure charlatanry is not involved, that this was not intended, somehow, via publicity or whatever, to result in a refurbishing or reestablishing of our illusionist’s abandoned career, his unstable and deluded mind manufactured everything, weaving together from the threads of disappointment and paranoia a fabric of indisputable madness. Obviously the beasts of his dream are suggested by the carvings on his bedposts. It is true that I have inspected the frame of the bed and it does, indeed, bear a disfigurement of the sort described in the diary, but, obviously, this could have been inflicted by the subject himself, either subconsciously, in a fit of madness, or, deliberately, as a supposed evidence of the veridicality of his unusual tale, designed to impress naive readers of tabloids. My own first reaction was irritation that a fine piece of Baroque craftsmanship should have been damaged, whether accidentally or wantonly.

  I did see our illusionist, according to my records, on business, on March 19th of the year above, a matter having to do with a clien
t’s inquiry as to an item known to be in his collection. Predictably, it was not for sale. It later fetched better than four thousand dollars at auction. At this meeting his mental disintegration was evident. He seemed haggard, incoherent, and agitated. I wondered if he had slept, for days. At this time, of course, I had no knowledge of what was going on his life. I did express concern, which was genuine enough, and for which I think he was grateful. I also recommended that he see a physician, as I supposed him to be suffering from some severe, but ordinary, easily treatable indisposition. He promised to do so, but I do not think he did. I saw him again, on the 22nd of March. The motivation for this visit, as far as I can determine, though it was years ago, was my concern for him. After my visit of the 19th, I was alarmed for his health. Too, I suspected, ruefully, that I might be the closest thing he had to a friend. This meeting was troubling in more than one way. If anything, he seemed more miserably distraught than on the 19th, and, worse, was bandaged here and there, about the chest and arms, and, in several places, it seemed that blood had soaked through the gauze. It was at this time, as well, that I first discerned the damage to the frame of the bed. I was not sure the blood was genuine, and, naturally, I assumed that he himself had inflicted the injury to the bed. I became suspicious that these matters were tied together somehow and were supposed to play some role in his career, that a hoax was in process. He was evasive in response to my questions, and this further aroused my suspicions. Doubtless he was contemplating some master illusion; perhaps he was projecting a coup that would be the triumph of a lifetime, and the envy and despair of lesser practitioners of the deceptive arts. But, too, his stress seemed genuine, and I feared then greatly for his sanity, much more than hitherto. But far exceeding my suspicions, and my reservations pertaining to his honesty, and my awareness of his unexampled showmanship, was my sense of his tragic physical and mental condition. Any sense of indignation or offended righteousness which I might have felt, or been tempted to feel, was overcome by my concern, and pity. That was the last time that I saw him alive.

  Naturally I sought the entry for the night of the 21st, the night before my visit of the 22nd.

  March 22, 20—.

  I shall recount, as simply as possible, what occurred last night. The beasts came for me. On their sides, grown from their forequarters, writhing, lashing about, snakelike, are strange appendages, spined, constrictive, restless. They coiled about me; I struggled, helplessly. I could not escape. I could not breathe. The two heads, massive and shaggy, leaned toward me, whitish fangs, long, moist, back-curving, I sensing the breath, fetid, saliva about the jaws, eyes tense, lustrous, eager, low noises, eager, anticipatory, rumbling, from great throats, but a hissing, too, from the appendages.

  The appendages have eyes! And mouths, too! Two things perhaps evolved together, a genetic madness? A symbiotic anomaly? Once, anciently? No, now at least it is one thing. One thing, with diverse living parts. The beasts lifted their heads, across my body, but inches from one another. Their heads swayed. They snarled, menacingly at one another. Then both roared, fiercely, as though in anger, as though challenging one another, and I awoke, gasping, drenched with sweat, and bleeding. There were marks on my body, discolorations, encircling it, and within these marks numerous small holes, bleeding, as though a hundred small nails had penetrated the skin. I know now they will come for me. Alan came again today. He is a good man. He is kind, but does not wish to appear so. He thinks I am a liar. Perhaps I am. I did not show him the wounds but I could not conceal the blood. He is annoyed at the gouging on the bed. I could not blame him. It is a fine piece. He doubtless thinks I did it. Perhaps I did. I do not know. He thinks I am up to something. I wonder if I am. I put off his questions.

  He probably thinks me mad, as it is. There is no point in furthering his suspicions. He is a simple man, and a kindly one. I could not speak to him, of course. I could not speak to anyone. Who would believe me? Some sort of psychosomatic conversion response must be involved here, as the subconscious mind, under hypnotic suggestion, can produce blisters, marks on the skin, and so on. I do not think I shall see Alan again. I think I do know what I shall see again. They are hungry, terribly hungry, the things. One cannot blame them. I do not blame them. They are not evil, they are only powerful, and very hungry, even starving.

  I wonder how long it has been since they have eaten.

  That is the last entry in the diary.

  I called upon him the next afternoon, but found police in his apartments. The body had been found last night by the building superintendent, who had responded to a call from another tenant, who had heard some sort of disturbance. The body had not yet been moved, and two detectives were present, and two uniformed officers, and three members of a forensic team.. An ambulance I had noted, was parked in front of the building. I was invited in and questioned for some time, to some extent with respect to my business there and my relation to the victim, but largely with respect to his known acquaintances and associates. They were particularly interested in any motives which might exist for what had occurred, and any enemies which our illusionist might have had. Too, when they learned of my business relationship with him, they asked me to examine the collection and see if anything was missing. As far as I could see, without a careful examination, there was nothing missing.

  There is not a great deal more to tell, except that the murder, as it was supposed to be, and may well have been, was an unusually grisly one, of a sort which, I gathered, was unusual even in the experience of the detectives, who were doubtless not unaccustomed to tragic examples of what human beings can do to one another. I looked at the body briefly, but turned away. The head was there and some parts of the body. Much of the body, however, was gone. It was as though parts of it had been dragged away. There was much blood about. The jaws of the wooden beasts at the bedposts were thick with it, and it ran down the posts, as though down the sides of necks. Too, it was intertwined with the vinelike decorations at the sides of the frame. The bedclothes and carpeting nearby, on which some bits of flesh lay, had been drenched with blood, now dried. Interestingly there was this dried blood, in gouts, on both sides of the bed, and on the carpeting, as though the body had been torn apart, even fought for, and various parts of it dragged to one side or the other. The mattress seemed torn and twisted, as though it had been the scene of a frightful struggle. I noted that on the part of a leg, on the carpet, there were circular bruises, as though it had been tightly encircled with some broad ropelike substance. Too, within the bruises there were several aligned, small wounds. I would later learn these wounds were better than an inch deep. There was also, oddly, an unpleasant, feral smell about.

  At that time, of course, I was as convinced as anyone that a murder had been committed, and one of dreadful aspect.

  Certainly that was the natural supposition of the police and this belief would underlie their investigation.

  It was only later, after reading the diary, that I wondered, from time to time, if some sort of illusion had been planned here, and that somehow it had gone tragically, terribly, wrong. Such things can happen.

  But such speculations explain little.

  Who would have been the cooperants in such an illusion? Had our illusionist miscalculated on the reliability and fidelity of his confederates?

  The entries in the diary might well have been understood as part of an elaborate hoax, one well worthy of our illusionist, designed to cast a spell of mystery over a planned disappearance, perhaps a way to elude creditors, perhaps a way to prepare for a spectacular and startling reappearance, to reinvigorate a dimming mystique, to inaugurate anew a lucrative career.

  But perhaps his assistants, or confederates, had had projects of their own, and had utilized this opportunity to enact their own scheme of hideous vengeance upon our trusting illusionist.

  That seems the most likely explanation, though who these implacable enemies might have been remains obscure.

  Certa
inly robbery does not seem a likely motive as little, or nothing, was missing. Certainly, as I later determined, the collection was intact.

  As mentioned earlier the collection was auctioned, to satisfy creditors. I myself bid upon, and secured, two items, the diary, from which I have quoted, and the bed.

  Technology

  I dreamed that I had a body.

  It was a nice dream. There is not much else to do in here but dream. It used to be said that one should live one’s dreams, but it is better, really, to live one’s life.

  In a sense I suppose this is all my fault, but if I had not worked out the technology, the myoelectric controls, the circuitry, the theory, the design, someone else, sooner or later, would have done so. There are dynamics and directions, readinesses, and such.

  To be sure, I could not have done this all by myself, but I never, personally, claimed all the credit.

  Journalists, and then historians, simplify things. So school children learn a name, and answer a question in the expected manner, and so on. And something becomes “common knowledge,” which, really, isn’t knowledge at all. There is nothing common, or simple, about truth. It is vast, a thousand truths for each atom, and most of them don’t matter very much. Perhaps the falsehoods are more important; perhaps they make life simple enough to live; perhaps they are what make life worth living. Can it be that mistakes are what, for most, nourish life, and make it endurable? Are truths so terrible, even little ones?

  I am not sure how long I have been in here.

  I think it has been a long time.

  I still regard myself as the same, of course. Others might not, but I do.

  It is perhaps a thousand years, perhaps ten thousand years.

  One loses track.

  A long time.

  I had a body, of course, at one time. I can remember that. It was not much of a body, but it was real.