Bradbury Stories: 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales by Ray Bradbury
They went up the stairs taking the lamps, advancing in an ever-moving aura of trembling white glow. The house was as silent as snow falling. “God,” he whispered. “Damn, I don’t like women crying like that.”
It sounded like the whole world crying, he thought. The whole world dying and needing help and lonely, but what can you do? Live in a farm like this? Far off the main highway where people don’t pass, away from all the stupidity and death? What can you do?
They left one of the lamps lit and drew the covers over their bodies and lay, listening to the wind hit the house and creak the beams and parquetry.
A moment later there was a cry from downstairs, a splintering crash, the sound of a door flung wide, a bursting out of air, footsteps rapping all the rooms, a sobbing, almost an exultation, then the front door banged open, the winter wind blowing wildly in, footsteps across the front porch and gone.
“There!” cried Martha. “Yes!”
With the lamp they were down the stairs swiftly. Wind smothered their faces as they turned now toward the Witch Door, opened wide, still on its hinges, then toward the front door where they cast their light out upon a snowing winter darkness and saw nothing but white and hills, no moon, and in the lamplight the soft drift and moth-flicker of snowflakes falling from the sky to the mattressed yard.
“Gone,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“We’ll never know, unless she comes back.”
“She won’t. Look.”
They moved the lamplight toward the white earth and the tiny footprints going off, across the softness, toward the dark forest.
“It was a woman, then. But . . . why?”
“God knows. Why anything, now in this crazy world?”
They stood looking at the footprints a long while until, shivering, they moved back through the hall to the open Witch Door. They poked the lamp into this hollow under the stairs.
“Lord, it’s just a cell, hardly a closet, and look . . .”
Inside stood a small rocking chair, a braided rug, a used candle in a copper holder, and an old, worn Bible. The place smelled of must and moss and dead flowers.
“Is this where they used to hide people?”
“Yes. A long time back they hid people called witches. Trials, witch trials. They hanged or burned some.”
“Yes, yes,” they both murmured, staring into the incredibly small cell.
“And the witches hid here while the hunters searched the house and gave up and left?”
“Yes, oh, my God, yes,” he whispered.
“Rob . . .”
“Yes?”
She bent forward. Her face was pale and she could not look away from the small, worn rocking chair and the faded Bible.
“Rob. How old? This house, how old?”
“Maybe three hundred years.”
“That old?”
“Why?”
“Crazy. Stupid . . .”
“Crazy?”
“Houses, old like this. All the years. And more years and more after that. God, feel! If you put your hand in, yes? Would you feel it change, silly, and what if I sat in that rocking chair and shut the door, what? That woman . . . how long was she in there? How’d she get there? From way, way back. Wouldn’t it be strange?”
“Bull!”
“But if you wanted to run away badly enough, wished for it, prayed for it, and people ran after you, and someone hid you in a place like this, a witch behind a door, and heard the searchers run through the house, closer and closer, wouldn’t you want to get away? Anywhere? To another place? Why not another time? And then, in a house like this, a house so old nobody knows, if you wanted and asked for it enough, couldn’t you run to another year! Maybe”—she paused—“here . . . ?”
“No, no,” he muttered. “Really stupid!”
But still, some quiet motion within the closeted space caused both, at almost the same instant, to hold their hands out on the air, curious, like people testing invisible waters. The air seemed to move one way and then another, now warm, now cold, with a pulsation of light and a sudden turning toward dark. All this they thought but could not say. There was weather here, now a quick touch of summer and then a winter cold, which could not be, of course, but there it was. Passing along their fingertips, but unseen by their eyes, a stream of shadows and sun ran as invisible as time itself, clear as crystal, but clouded by a shifting dark. Both felt if they thrust their hands deep, they might be drawn in to drown in a mighty storm of seasons within an incredibly small space. All this, too, they thought or almost felt but could not say.
They seized their frozen but sunburned hands back, to stare down and hold them against the panic in their breasts.
“Damn,” whispered Robert Webb. “Oh, damn!”
He backed off and went to open the front door again and look at the snowing night where the footprints had almost vanished.
“No,” he said. “No, no.”
Just then the yellow flash of headlights on the road braked in front of the house.
“Lotte!” cried Martha Webb. “It must be! Lotte!”
The car lights went out. They ran to meet the running woman half up the front yard.
“Lotte!”
The woman, wild-eyed, hair windblown, threw herself at them.
“Martha, Bob! God, I thought I’d never find you! Lost! I’m being followed, let’s get inside. Oh, I didn’t mean to get you up in the middle of the night, it’s good to see you! Jesus! Hide the car! Here are the keys!”
Robert Webb ran to drive the car behind the house. When he came back around he saw that the heavy snowfall was already covering the tracks.
Then the three of them were inside the house, talking, holding onto each other. Robert Webb kept glancing at the front door.
“I can’t thank you,” cried Lotte, huddled in a chair. “You’re at risk! I won’t stay long, a few hours until it’s safe. Then . . .”
“Stay as long as you want.”
“No. They’ll follow! In the cities, the fires, the murders, everyone starving, I stole gas. Do you have more? Enough to get me to Phil Merdith’s in Greenborough? I—”
“Lotte,” said Robert Webb.
“Yes?” Lotte stopped, breathless.
“Did you see anyone on your way up here? A woman? Running on the road?”
“What? I drove so fast! A woman? Yes! I almost hit her. Then she was gone! Why?”
“Well . . .”
“She’s not dangerous?”
“No, no.”
“It is all right, my being here?”
“Yes, fine, fine. Sit back. We’ll fix some coffee—”
“Wait! I’ll check!” And before they could stop her, Lotte ran to the front door, opened it a crack, and peered out. They stood with her and saw distant headlights flourished over a low hill and gone into a valley. “They’re coming,” whispered Lotte. “They might search here. God, where can I hide?”
Martha and Robert glanced at each other.
No, no, thought Robert Webb. God, no! Preposterous, unimaginable, fantastic, so damned coincidental the mind raves at it, crows, hoots, guffaws! No, none of this! Get off, circumstance! Get away with your goings and comings on not neat, or too neat, schedules. Come back, Lotte, in ten years, five years, maybe a year, a month, a week, and ask to hide. Even tomorrow show up! But don’t come with coincidence in each hand like idiot children and ask, only half an hour after one terror, one miracle, to test our disbelief! I’m not, after all, Charles Dickens, to blink and let this pass.
“What’s wrong?” said Lotte.
“I—” said Robert.
“No place to hide me?”
“Yes,” he said. “We’ve a place.”
“Well?”
“Here.” He turned slowly away, stunned.
They walked down the hall to the half-open paneling.
“This?” Lotte said. “Secret? Did you—?”
“No, it’s been here since the house was built long ago.”
Lotte touched and moved the door on its hinges. “Does it work? Will they know where to look and find it?”
“No. It’s beautifully made. Shut, you can’t tell it’s there.”
Outside in the winter night, cars rushed, their beams flashing up the road, across the house windows.
Lotte peered into the Witch Door as one peers down a deep, lonely well.
A filtering of dust moved about her. The small rocking chair trembled.
Moving in silently, Lotte touched the half-burned candle.
“Why, it’s still warm!”
Martha and Robert said nothing. They held to the Witch Door, smelling the odor of warm tallow.
Lotte stood rigidly in the little space, bowing her head beneath the beamed ceiling.
A horn blew in the snowing night. Lotte took a deep breath and said, “Shut the door.”
They shut the Witch Door. There was no way to tell that a door was there.
They blew out the lamp and stood in the cold, dark house, waiting.
The cars rushed down the road, their noise loud, and their yellow headlights bright in the falling snow. The wind stirred the footprints in the yard, one pair going out, another coming in, and the tracks of Lotte’s car fast vanishing, and at last gone.
“Thank God,” whispered Martha.
The cars, honking, whipped around the last bend and down the hill and stopped, waiting, looking in at the dark house. Then, at last, they started up away into the snow and the hills.
Soon their lights were gone and their sound gone with them.
“We were lucky,” said Robert Webb.
“But she’s not.”
“She?”
“That woman, whoever she was, ran out of here. They’ll find her. Somebody’ll find her.”
“Christ, that’s right.”
“And she has no ID, no proof of herself. And she doesn’t know what’s happened to her. And when she tells them who she is and where she came from!”
“Yes, yes.”
“God help her.”
They looked into the snowing night but saw nothing. Everything was still. “You can’t escape,” she said. “No matter what you do, no one can escape.”
They moved away from the window and down the hall to the Witch Door and touched it.
“Lotte,” they called.
The Witch Door did not tremble or move.
“Lotte, you can come out now.”
There was no answer; not a breath or a whisper.
Robert tapped the door. “Hey in there.”
“Lotte!”
He knocked at the paneling, his mouth agitated.
“Lotte!”
“Open it!”
“I’m trying, damn it!”
“Lotte, we’ll get you out, wait! Everything’s all right!”
He beat with both fists, cursing. Then he said, “Watch out!” took a step back, raised his leg, kicked once, twice, three times; vicious kicks at the paneling that crunched holes and crumbled wood into kindling. He reached in and yanked the entire paneling free. “Lotte!”
They leaned together into the small place under the stairs.
The candle flickered on the small table. The Bible was gone. The small rocking chair moved quietly back and forth, in little arcs, and then stood still.
“Lotte!”
They stared at the empty room. The candle flickered.
“Lotte,” they said.
“You don’t believe . . .”
“I don’t know. Old houses are old . . . old . . .”
“You think Lotte . . . she . . . ?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.”
“Then she’s safe at least, safe! Thank God!”
“Safe? Where’s she gone? You really think that? A woman in new clothes, red lipstick, high heels, short skirt, perfume, plucked brows, diamond rings, silk stockings, safe? Safe!” he said, staring deep into the open frame of the Witch Door.
“Yes, safe. Why not?”
He drew a deep breath.
“A woman of that description, lost in a town called Salem in the year 1680?”
He reached over and shut the Witch Door.
They sat waiting by it for the rest of the long, cold night.
THE WATCHERS
IN THIS ROOM THE SOUND of the tapping of the typewriter keys is like knuckles on wood, and my perspiration falls down upon the keys that are being punched unceasingly by my trembling fingers. And over and above the sound of my writing comes the ironical melody of a mosquito circling over my bent head, and a number of flies buzzing and colliding with the wire screen. And around the naked filament-skeleton of the yellow bulb in the ceiling a bit of torn white paper that is a moth, flutters. An ant crawls up the wall; I watch it—I laugh with a steady, unceasing bitterness. How ironical the shining flies and the red ants and the armored crickets. How mistaken we three were: Susan and I and William Tinsley.
Whoever you are, wherever you are, if you do happen upon this, do not ever again crush the ants upon the sidewalk, do not smash the bumblebee that thunders by your window, do not annihilate the cricket upon your hearth!
That’s where Tinsley made his colossal error. You remember William Tinsley, certainly? The man who threw away a million dollars on fly-sprays and insecticides and ant pastes?
There was never a spot for a fly or a mosquito in Tinsley’s office. Not a white wall or green desk or any immaculate surface where a fly might land before Tinsley destroyed it with an instantaneous stroke of his magnificent flyswatter. I shall never forget that instrument of death. Tinsley, a monarch, ruled his industry with that flyswatter as a scepter.
I was Tinsley’s secretary and right-hand man in his kitchenware industry; sometimes I advised him on his many investments.
Tinsley carried the flyswatter to work with him under his arm in July, 1944. By the week’s end, if I happened to be in one of the filing alcoves out of sight when Tinsley arrived, I could always tell of his arrival when I heard the swicking, whistling passage of the flyswatter through the air as Tinsley killed his morning quota.
As the days passed, I noted Tinsley’s preoccupied alertness. He’d dictate to me, but his eyes would be searching the north-southeast-west walls, the rug, the bookcases, even my clothing. Once I laughed and made some comment about Tinsley and Clyde Beatty being fearless animal trainers, and Tinsley froze and turned his back on me. I shut up. People have a right, I thought, to be as damned eccentric as they please.
“Hello, Steve.” Tinsley waved his flyswatter one morning as I poised my pencil over my pad. “Before we start, would you mind cleaning away the corpses.”
Spread in a rumpled trail over the thick sienna rug were the fallen conquered, the flies; silent, mashed, dewinged. I threw them one by one in the waste-bin, muttering.
“To S. H. Little, Philadelphia. Dear Little: Will invest money in your insect spray. Five thousand dollars—”
“Five thousand?” I complained. I stopped writing.
Tinsley ignored me. “Five thousand dollars. Advise immediate production as soon as war conditions permit. Sincerely.” Tinsley twisted his flyswatter. “You think I’m crazy,” he said.
“Is that a P.S., or are you talking to me?” I asked.
The phone rang and it was the Termite Control Company, to whom Tinsley told me to write a thousand-dollar check for having termite-proofed his house. Tinsley patted his metal chair. “One thing I like about my offices—all iron, cement, solid; not a chance for termites.”
He leaped from his chair, the swatter shone swiftly in the air.
“Damn it, Steve, has THAT been here all this time!”
Something buzzed in a small arc somewhere, into silence. The four walls moved in around us in that silence, it seemed, the blank ceiling stared over us and Tinsley’s breath arched through his nostrils. I couldn’t see the infernal insect anywhere. Tinsley exploded. “Help me find it! Damn you, help me!”
“Now, hold on—” I retorted.
So
“Stay out!” Tinsley’s yell was high, afraid. “Get away from the door, and stay away!” He flung himself headlong, bolted the door with a frantic gesture and lay against it, wildly searching the room. “Quickly now, Steve, systematically! Don’t sit there!”
Desk, chairs, chandelier, walls. Like an insane animal, Tinsley searched, found the buzzing, struck at it. A bit of insensate glitter fell to the floor where he crushed it with his foot in a queerly triumphant sort of action.
He started to dress me down, but I wouldn’t have it. “Look here,” I came back at him. “I’m a secretary and right-hand stooge, not a spotter for high-flying insects. I haven’t got eyes in the back of my head!”
“Either have they!” cried Tinsley. “So you know what They do?”
“They? Who in hell are They?”
He shut up. He went to his desk and sat down, wearily, and finally said, “Never mind. Forget it. Don’t talk about this to anyone.”
I softened up. “Bill, you should go see a psychiatrist about—”
Tinsley laughed bitterly. “And the psychiatrist would tell his wife, and she’d tell others, and then They’d find out. They’re everywhere, They are. I don’t want to be stopped with my campaign.”
“If you mean the one hundred thousand bucks you’ve sunk in your insect sprays and ant pastes in the last four weeks,” I said. “Someone should stop you. You’ll break yourself, me, and the stockholders. Honest to God, Tinsley—”
“Shut up!” he said. “You don’t understand.”
I guess I didn’t, then. I went back to my office and all day long I heard that damned flyswatter hissing in the air.
I had supper with Susan Miller that evening. I told her about Tinsley and she lent a sympathetically professional ear. Then she tapped her cigarette and lit it and said, “Steve, I may be a psychiatrist, but I wouldn’t have a tinker’s chance in hell, unless Tinsley came to see me. I couldn’t help him unless he wanted help.” She patted my arm. “I’ll look him over for you, if you insist, though, for old time’s sake. But half the fight’s lost if the patient won’t cooperate.”
“You’ve got to help me, Susan,” I said. “He’ll be stark raving in another month. I think he has delusions of persecution—”
We drove to Tinsley’s house.