Horrible Imaginings

by Fritz Leiber

  Everything proved to be in perfect order, so our fears were allayed. But John continued to rehearse scare stories of carbon monoxide poisoning, such as the tragic end of Andre’s balloon expedition to the Arctic, and remained fidgety and restless—and all of a sudden he decided to snowshoe into Terrestrial for some spare radio parts and other unnecessary oddments. I asked him wasn’t the bi-weekly trudge down to meet the farmer’s car enough for him, and why in any case pick the coldest day of the year? But he merely snorted, “That all you know about our weather?” and set out. I’m a bit bothered, though he certainly must know how to take care of himself.

  Maybe my presence does upset him. After all, he’s lived alone here for years, except for infrequent trips—practically a hermit. Having someone living with him may very well disorder his routine of existence—and of creative work—completely. Added to that, I’m another writer—a dangerous combination. It’s quite possible that, despite our friendship (friendship would have nothing to do with it), I get on his nerves. I must have a long talk with him when he returns and sound him out on this—indirectly, of course.

  But now to my monsters. They have a scene that is crying out in my brain to be expressed.

  Later: The snag in my writing is developing into a brick wall. I can’t seem to figure out any plausible way of getting my monsters to Earth. There’s a block in my mind whenever I try to think in that direction. I certainly hope it’s not going to be the way it was with so many of my early stories—magnificently atmospheric prologues that bogged down completely as soon as I was forced to work out the mechanics of the plot; and the more impressive and evocative the beginning, the more crushing the fall—and the more likely it would be to hinge on some trifling detail that persisted in thwarting my inventiveness, such as how to get two characters introduced to each other or how does the hero make a living.

  Well, I won’t let it defeat me this time! I’ll go right ahead with the later portion of the story, and then sooner or later I’ll just have to think through the snag.

  I thought I had the thing licked when I started this noon. I pictured the monsters with a secret outpost established on Earth. Using Earth’s energy resources, they are eventually able to work out a means of transporting their entire race here—or else dragging off the Earth and Sun to their own dead solar system and sacred home planet across the trackless light-years of interstellar space, like Prometheus stealing fire from heaven, humanity being wiped out in the process.

  But, as should have been obvious to me, that still leaves the problem of getting the outpost here.

  The section about the outpost looks very good though. Of course the pioneer monsters will have to keep their presence hidden from humanity while they “try out” our planet, become acclimated to Earth, develop resistance to inimical bacteria strains, et cetera, and measure up man from close range, deciding on the best weapons to use against him when the time for extermination arrives.

  For it won’t be entirely a one-sided struggle. Man won’t be completely powerless against these creatures. For instance, he could probably wipe out the outpost if he ever discovered its existence. But of course that won’t happen.

  I envisage a number of shivery scenes—people getting glimpses of the monsters in far, lonely places—seeing spidery, shadowy shapes in deep forests—coming on hurriedly deserted mountain lairs or encampments that disturbingly suggest neither human beings nor animals—strange black swimmers noted by boats off the usual steamship lanes—engineers and scientists bothered by inexplicable drains on power lines and peculiar thefts of equipment—a vague but mounting general dread—the “irrational” conviction that we are being listened to and spied on, “measured for our coffins”—eventually, as the creatures grow bolder, dark polypous forms momentarily seen scuttling across city roofs or clinging to high walls in the more poorly lighted sections, at night—black furry masks pressed for an instant against windowpanes—

  Yes, it should work out very nicely.

  I wish John would get back though. It’s almost dark, and still no sign of him. I’ve popped out several times for a look-see, but there’s nothing except his snowshoe tracks going over the hill. I confess I’m getting a bit edgy. I suppose I’ve frightened myself with my own story—it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to a writer. I find myself looking quickly at the window, or listening for strange sounds, and my imagination insists on playing around unpleasantly with the “odd phenomena” of the past few days—the violet auroral beam, the queer patterns in the frost, my silly notions about telepathic powers. My mental state is extraordinarily heightened and I have the illusion, both pleasurable and frightening, of standing at the doorway of an unknown alien realm and being able to rend the filmy curtain with a twitch of my finger if I choose.

  But such nervousness is only natural, considering the isolation of the place and John’s delay. I certainly hope he isn’t going to snowshoe back in the dark—at a temperature like this any accident or misjudgement might have fatal consequences. And if he did get into trouble I wouldn’t be any help to him.

  As I get things ready for supper, I keep the radio going. It provides a not unpleasant companionship.

  Jan. 12: We had quite a high old time last night. John popped in well past the supper hour—he’d gotten a ride with his farmer. He had a bottle of fantastically high-proof rum with him (he says when you have to pack your liquor, you want as much alcohol and as little water as possible) and after supper we settled down for a long palaver. Oddly I had trouble getting into the spirit of the evening. I was restless and wanted to be fiddling with my writing, or the radio, or something. But the liquor helped to lull such nervous impulses, and after a while we opened our minds to each other and talked about everything under the sun.

  One thing I’m glad we settled: any ideas I had about my presence annoying John are pure moonshine. He’s pleased to have a comrade out here, and the fact that he’s doing me a big favor really makes him feel swell. (It’s up to me not to disappoint his generosity.) And if any further proof were needed, he’s started a new story this morning (said he’s been mulling it in his mind the past couple of days—hence his restlessness) and is typing away at it like sixty!

  I feel very normal and down-to-earth this morning. I realize now that during the past few days I have been extraordinarily keyed up, both mentally and imaginatively. It’s rather a relief to get over a mental binge like that (with the aid of physical binge!) but also faintly depressing—a strange bloom rubbed off things. I find my mind turning to practical matters, such as where am I going to sell my stories and how am I going to earn a living writing when my small savings give out? John and I talked about it for quite a while.

  Well, I suppose I should be getting to my writing, though for once I’d rather knock around in the snow with John. The weather’s moderated.

  Jan. 13—evening: Got to face it—my writing has bogged down completely. It’s not just the snag—I can’t write anything on the story. I’ve torn up so damn many half pages! Not a single word rings true, or even feels true while I’m writing it—it’s all fakey. My monsters are miserable puppets or papier-mâch and moth- eaten black fur.

  John says not to worry, but he can talk that way—his story is going great guns; he put in a herculean stint of typing today and just now rolled into bed after a couple of quick drinks.

  I took his advice yesterday, spent most of the day outdoors, practicing snowshoeing, chopping wood, et cetera. But it didn’t make me feel a bit keener this morning.

  I don’t think I should have congratulated myself on getting over my “mental binge.” It was really my creative energy. Without it, I’m no good at all. It’s as if I had been “listening” for my story and contact had been suddenly broken off. I remember having the same experience with some of my earlier writing. You ring and ring, but the other end of the line has gone dead.

  I don’t think the drinking helps either. We had another bottle session last night—good fun, but it dulls the mi
nd, at least mine. And I don’t believe John would have stopped at a couple even this evening, if I hadn’t begged off.

  I think John is worried about me in a friendly way-considers me a mild neurotic case and dutifully plies me with the more vigorous animal activities, such as snowshoeing and boozing. I catch a clinical look in his eyes, and then there’s the way he boosts the “healthy, practical outlook” in our conversations, steers them away from morbid topics.

  Of course I’m somewhat neurotic. Every creative artist is. And I did get a bit up in the air when we had our carbon monoxide scare—but so did he! Why the devil should he try to inhibit my imagination? He must know how important it is to me, how crucial, that I finish this story.

  Mustn’t force myself, though. That’s the worst thing. I ought to turn in, but I don’t feel a bit sleepy. John’s snoring—damn him!

  I think I’ll fish around on the radio—keep it turned low. I’d like to catch another of those scientific programs—they stimulate my imagination. Wonder where they come from? John brought a couple of papers and I looked through the radio sections, but couldn’t find the station.

  Jan. 14: I’d give a good deal to know just what’s happening here. More odd humpy patterns this morning—there’s been another cold snap—and they weren’t altogether in the frost. But first there was that crazy dual sleepwalking session. There may be something in John’s monoxide theory—at any rate some theory is needed.

  Late last night I awoke sitting up, still fully clothed, with John shaking me. There was a frozen, purposeful look on his face, but his eyes were closed. It was a few moments before I could make him stop pushing at me. At first he was confused, almost antagonistic, but after a while he woke up completely and told me that he had been having a fearful nightmare.

  It began, he said, with an unpleasant moaning, wailing sound that had been torturing his ears for hours. Then he seemed to wake up and see the room, but it was changed—it was filled with violet sparks that showered and fell and rose again, ceaselessly. He felt an extreme chill, as of interstellar space. He was seized by the fear that something horrible was trying to get into the cabin. He felt that somehow I was letting it in, unknowingly, and that he must get to me and make me stop, but his limbs were held down as if by huge weights. He remembers making an agonizing, protracted effort.

  For my part, I must have fallen asleep at the radio. It was turned on low, but not tuned to any station.

  The sources of his nightmare are pretty obvious: the violet auroral beam, the “nightmarish” (prescient!) static of a few evenings ago, the monoxide fear, his partially concealed worry about me, and finally the rather heavy drinking we’ve both been doing. In fact, the whole business is nothing so terribly out of the way, except for the tracks—and how, or why, they should tie in with the sleepwalking session I haven’t the ghost of an idea.

  They were the same pattern as before, but much thicker— great ridgy welts of ice. And I had the odd illusion that they exuded a cold more intense than that of the rest of the frost. When we had scraped them away—a difficult job—we saw that the glass reproduced the pattern more distinctly and in a more pronounced hue. But strangest of all, we have traced what certainly seems to be a faint continuation on the inner windowsill, where the tracks take the form of a cracking and disintegration of the paint—it flakes off at a touch and the flakes, faintly lavender, crumble to powder. We also think we’ve found another continuation on the back of the chair by the window, though that is problematic.

  What can have produced them is completely beyond us. Conceivably one of us might have “faked” them in some bizarre sleepwalking state, but how?—there’s no object in the cabin that could produce that sinuous, chainy pattern with hairlike border. And even if there were, how could we possibly use it to produce a ridged pattern? Or is it possible that John is engineering an elaborate practical joke—no, it couldn’t be anything like that!

  We carefully inspected the other windows, including the one in the storeroom, but found no similar patterns.

  John is planning to remove the pane eventually and submit it to a physicist for examination. He is very worked up about the thing. I can’t quite make him out. He almost seems frightened. A few minutes ago he vaguely suggested something about our going into Terrestrial and rooming there for a few days.

  But that would be ridiculous. I’m sure there’s nothing inexplicable about this business. Even the matter of the tracks must have some very simple explanation that we would see at once if we were trained physicists.

  I, for one, am going to forget all about it. My mind’s come alive on the story again and I’m itching to write. Nothing must get in the way.

  After supper: I feel strangely nervous, although my writing is going well again, thank God! I think I’ve licked the snag! I still don’t see how I’m going to get my monsters to the Earth, but I have the inward conviction that the right method will suddenly pop into my mind when the time comes. Irrational, but the feeling is strong enough to satisfy me completely.

  Meanwhile I’m writing the sections immediately before and after the first monster’s arrival on Earth—creeping up on the event from both sides! The latter section is particularly effective. I show the monster floundering around in the snow (he naturally chooses to arrive in a cold region, since that would be the least unlike the climate of his own planet). I picture his temporary bewilderment at Earth’s radiation storms, his awkward but swift movements, his hurried search for a suitable hiding place. An ignorant oaf glimpses him or his tracks, tells what he has seen, is laughed at for a superstitious fool. Perhaps, though, the monster is forced to kill someone….

  Odd that I should see all that so clearly and still be completely blind as to the section immediately preceding. But I’m convinced I’ll know tomorrow!

  John picked up the last pages, put them down after a moment. “Too damned realistic!” he observed.

  I should be pleased, and yet now that I’m written out for the day I suddenly find myself apprehensive and—yes—frightened. My tired, overactive mind persists in playing around in a morbid way with the events of last night. I tell myself I’m just frightening myself with my story, “pretending” that it’s true—as an author will—and carrying the pretense a little too far.

  But I’m very much afraid that there’s more to it than that— some actual thing or influence that we don’t understand.

  For instance, on rereading my previous entries in this diary, I find that I have omitted several important points—as if my unconscious mind were deliberately trying to suppress them.

  For one thing, I failed to mention that the color in the glass and on the windowsill was identical with that of the violet beam.

  Perhaps there is a natural connection—the beam a bizarre form of static electricity and the track its imprint, like lightning and the marks it produces.

  This hint of a scientific explanation ought to relieve me, I suppose, but it doesn’t.

  Secondly, there’s the feeling that John’s nightmare was somehow partly real.

  Thirdly, I said nothing about our instant fear, as soon as we first saw the patterns in the frost, that they had been produced by some, well, creature, though how a creature could be colder than its environment, I don’t know. John said nothing, but I knew he had exactly the same idea as I: that a groping something had rested its chilled feeler against the windowpane.

  The fear reached its highest pitch this morning. We still hadn’t opened our minds to each other, but as soon as we had examined the tracks, we both started, as if by unspoken agreement, to wander around. It was like that scene reproduced so often in movies—two rivals are looking for the girl who is the object of their affections and who has coyly gone off somewhere. They begin to amble around silently, upstairs and down, indoors and out. Every once in a while they meet, start back a bit, nod, and pass each other by without a word.

  That’s how it was with John and me and our “creature.” It wasn’t at all amusing.

 
But we found nothing.

  I can tell that John is as bothered by all this as I am. However, we don’t talk about it—our ideas aren’t of the sort that lend themselves to reasonable conversation.

  He says one thing—that he wants to see me in bed first tonight. He’s taking no chances of a repetition of the events that led up to the sleepwalking session. I’m certainly agreeable—I don’t relish an experience like that any more than he does.

  If only we weren’t so damnably isolated! Of course, we could always get into Terrestrial at a pinch—unless a blizzard cut us off. The weatherman hints at such a possibility in the next few days.

  John has kept the radio going all day, and I must confess I’m wholeheartedly grateful. Even the inanest program creates an illusion of social companionship and keeps the imagination from wandering too far.

  I wish we were both in the city.

  Jan. 15: This business has taken a disagreeable turn. We are planning to get out today.

  There is a hostile, murderous being in the cabin, or somehow able to enter it at will without disturbing a locked door and tight-frozen windows. It is something unknown to science and alien to life as we know it. It comes from some realm of eternal cold.

  I fully understand the extraordinary implications of those words. I would not put them down if I did not think they were true.

  Or else we are up against an unknown natural force that behaves so like a hostile, murderous being that we dare not treat it otherwise.

  We are waiting for the farmer’s car, will ride back with him. We considered making the trip afoot, setting out at once, but John’s injury and my inexperience decided us against it.

  We have had another sleepwalking session, only this one did not end so innocuously.

  It began, so far as we are able to reconstruct, with John’s nightmare, which was an exact repetition of the one he had the night before, except that all the feelings, John says, were intensified.