Eye in the Sky (1957) (28 page)

In the
darkness of the living room the phone began
to
ring.

“And
that, too,” Hamilton said. “What do you suppose she thinks when the
phone rings? We better try to figure it out in advance; what does a ringing
phone mean to a paranoiac?”

“I
suppose it depends on the paranoiac,” Marsha an
swered.
“Obviously, in this case it’s to lure her into the
dark
living room. So we won’t go.”

They waited. Presently, the phone ceased ringing. The
seven of them began to breathe more easily.

“We better stay here in the kitchen,” Laws said, turn
ing around and starting back. “It won’t hurt us; it’s
nice
and cozy.”

“A sort of fortress,” Hamilton said morbidly.

When
Marsha tried to put the second can of peaches
into
the refrigerator, the door refused to open. She stood
holding the can
foolishly, plucking at the inoperative handle until her husband came and gently
urged her
away.

“I’m just nervous,” she murmured. “It’s probably per
fectly all right It always sort of stuck.”

“Did
anybody turn this toaster on?” Mrs. Pritchet asked. On the little kitchen
table the toaster was humming away. “It’s as hot as a stove.”

Hamilton
came over and inspected it. After strug
gling
futilely with the thermostat he finally gave up and
yanked out the cord.
The heating element of the toaster faded into darkness.

“What
can we trust?” Mrs. Pritchet asked fearfully.

“Nothing,”
Hamilton told her.

“It’s so—grotesque,” Marsha protested.

Thoughtfully,
Laws opened the drawer by the sink.
“We
may need protection.” He began rummaging
through the silverware until he found what he wanted, a
heavy-handled,
steel steak-knife. As his fingers closed around it, Hamilton stepped forward
and tugged his
arm away.

“Be
careful,” he warned. “Remember the can of
peaches.”

“But we need this,” Laws said irritably. Evading Ham
ilton, he snatched up the knife. I’ve got to have
something; you’ve got that damn gun there, bulging out like
a brick.”

For an
instant the knife lay resting in the palm of his hand. Then, with a determined
squirm, it forced itself around, quivering skillfully, and plunged itself
directly at the Negro’s stomach. Agilely, Laws eluded it; the knife buried
itself in the wooden panel of the sink
Quick
as a flash, Laws raised his heavy shoe and tramped
down on the handle.
With a metallic tinkle, the handle broke off, leaving the severed blade
embedded in the
wood. There it remained,
straggling uselessly.

“See?” Hamilton said drily.

Weak and fainting, Mrs. Pritchet sank down on a chair
by the table. “Oh dear,” she murmured.
“Whatever will we do?” Her voice trailed off in an indistinct moan.
“Oh …”

Quickly
taking a glass from the drainboard, Marsha reached for the water faucet
“I’ll get you a drink of cold water, Mrs. Pritchet”

But the
fluid that poured from the tap wasn’t water.
It
was warm, thick, red blood.

“The house,” Marsha said faintly, shutting off the flow.
In the white enamel sink, an ugly pool of blood sluggishly,
dribbled reluctantly down the drain. “The house
itself is alive.”

“Absolutely,”
Hamilton agreed. “And we’re inside it”

* * * * *

“I
think we all agree,” Arthur Silvester said, “that we’re going to have
to get outdoors. The question is,
can
we?”

Going to
the back door, Hamilton tried the bolt. It
was
firmly in place; tugging with all his strength he failed
to budge it
“Not that way,” he answered.

That
always stuck,” Marsha said. “Let’s try the front
door.”

“But that means going through the living room,” Laws
pointed out.

“You have a better suggestion?”

“No,”
Laws conceded. “Except that whatever we do, we better do it right
away.”

In single
file, the seven of them moved cautiously through the dark hall toward the pool
of blackness that
was the living room.
Hamilton led the procession; realiza
tion
that, after all, it was his house, gave him a measure
of courage. Perhaps—a dim hope—he could expect
some special dispensation.

From the
furnace vent in the hall came a rhythmic wheezing. Halting, Hamilton stood
listening. The air that billowed out was warm—and fragrant! Not the dead, stale
air of a mechanical appliance, but the per
sonal,
body-warmed breath generated by a living organ
ism. Down in the basement
the furnace was breathing. Back and forth the air moved, as the house-creature
inhaled and exhaled.

“Is it—male or female?” Marsha asked.

“Male,” McFeyffe said. “Miss Reiss is afraid of
men.”

The air
that billowed out smelled pungently of cigar
smoke,
stale beer and masculine perspiration. The tough
composite odors that Miss Reiss must have encountered
on buses,
in elevators, in restaurants. The harsh, garlic-laden scent of middle-aged men.

“That’s probably how her boy friend smells,” Hamilton
said, “when he breathes down her
neck.”

Marsha
shuddered. “And to come home and smell it, all around her …”

Probably,
by now, the electrical wiring of the house
was
a neurological system, carrying the nervous impulses
of the house-creature. Why not? The water pipes
carried
its blood; the furnace pipes carried air to its basement
lungs. Through the living room window Hamilton
could
make out the shape of the
trailing ivy vines that Marsha
had painstakingly induced to climb to the
roof. In the night darkness, the ivy was no longer green: it was a
dull brown.

Like hair.
Like the thick, dandruff-clouded hair of a middle-aged businessman. The ivy
blew slightly in the
wind, an ominous
shudder that sent bits of dirt and stem showering down to the lawn outside.

Under
Hamilton’s feet the floor stirred. At first he failed to notice; it wasn’t
until Mrs. Pritchet began to
wail that he
identified the faint undulation.

Bending
down, he touched the asphalt tile with the
palm
of his hand. The tile was warm—like human flesh.
The walls, too, were
warm. And not hard. Not the firm, unyielding surface of paint, paper, plaster
and wood—but a soft surface that gave slightly under his
fingers..

“Come on,” Laws said tightly. “Let’s move.

Warily, like trapped
animals,
the seven of them made
their way forward into the darkness of the living room.
Under their feet, the carpet stirred restlessly.
They could
hear it all around them,
the uneasy living presence, rip
pling
and fretting, struggling into irritable animation.

It was a
long trip across the dark living room. On all sides, lamps and books stirred
sullenly. Once, Mrs.
Pritchet gave a
mindless squeak of terror; the cord of the
television set had craftily wrapped itself around her an
kle.
Bill Laws, with a swift yank of his hand, snapped the cord and pulled her
loose. Behind them, the sev
ered cord lashed
furiously, impotently.

“We’re
almost there,” Hamilton said to the indistinct shapes behind him. He could
make out the door and
the doorknob;
already, he was reaching for it. Praying
silently, he groped closer:
three feet, two feet, only one single foot left… .

He seemed to be going uphill.

Astonished,
he drew his hand back. He was on a slant, a rising expanse of material down which
he was
already beginning to slide.
Suddenly, he was rolling and
falling; arms flailing, he fought to get
up. All seven of them slipped and bumped back toward the center of the living
room, toward the hall itself. The hall was
utterly
dark; even the kitchen light had gone off. There
was only the dim
flicker of stars beyond the windows,
tiny
spots of brilliance a long way off.

It’s the
carpet,” Bill Laws was saying, in a muted,
unbelieving whisper. It—licked us back.”

Under
them, the carpet stirred violently. A warm, spongy surface, it was already
becoming moist. Stumbling up, Hamilton collided with a wall—and recoiled.
The wall dripped a thick ooze of wetness, an avid,
leak
ing sheet of anticipatory
saliva.

The
house-creature was getting ready to feed.

Cringing against the wall, Hamilton tried to edge past
the carpet. The tip of it reached
cunningly around, grop
ing for him as he
advanced, sweating and trembling, toward the front door. One step. Two. Three.
Four.
Behind him, other shapes came—but not
all.

“Where’s Edith Pritchet?” Hamilton demanded.

“Gone,”
Marsha said. “Rolled back into the hall”

“The throat,” Laws’ voice came.

“We’re in its mouth,” David Pritchet said faintly.

The warm wet flesh of the creature’s mouth billowed
and pushed against Hamilton. The pressure of it sent
shudders of revulsion through him; struggling
forward,
he groped again for the
doorknob, concentrating on the
small orb of faintly glimmering metal.
This time he managed to catch hold of it; with one great tug he flung the door
wide. The shapes behind him gasped as
the
night became abruptly visible. Stars, the street, dark
houses on the far
side, trees swaying in the uneven wind … and cold, crisp air.

That was all. Without warning, the square outline be
gan to fold up. The doorway became smaller as the walls
squeezed it shut Only a tiny slot remained; like lips, the walls had pressed
together, closing it out of
existence.

From behind them, the garlicky, rancid breath of the
creature billowed out of the hall. The tongue rippled
greedily. The walls sweated saliva. In the gloom
around
Hamilton, human voices
shrilled in hopeless fear; ignor
ing them, he fought to get his hands
and arms into the
dwindling cavity that had
been the front door. Beneath him, the floor began to rise. And the ceiling,
slowly and
inexorably, was coming
down. With rhythmical preci
sion, the two were coming together; in a
moment they
would meet.

“Chewing,”
Marsha gasped, beside him in the darkness.

Hamilton
kicked with all his strength. Putting his
shoulder
against the compressed door, he shoved, fought,
scratched and tore at
the soft flesh. Tatters of organic
substance
came away in his hands; gouging, he dug away
great gobs of it.

“Help me!” he shouted to the shapes struggling
around him. Bill Laws and Charley McFeyffe rose up f
rom the ooze of saliva and began tearing at the
door in
frenzy. An opening appeared; with Marsha and David Pritchet
helping, they managed to tear a circular gap
in
the flesh.

“Out,”
Hamilton snarled, pushing his wife through. Marsha sprawled on the front porch
and rolled away. “You next,” Hamilton said to Silvester. The old man
was shoved roughly through; after him came Laws,
and then McFeyffe. Glaring around, Hamilton saw no other
shapes but
himself and David Pritchet. The ceiling and
floor
had virtually met; there was no time to worry about
anybody else.

“Get
through there,” he grunted, and heaved the boy bodily through the
palpitating gap. Then, twisting and shuddering, he got himself through. Behind,
within the mouth of the creature, the ceiling and floor came together. A sharp
crunch was audible as hard surfaces met. Again and again the crunching sound
came.

Mrs.
Pritchet, who had not gotten out, was being chewed up.

The
surviving members of the group collected in the front yard, safely away from
the house. None of them spoke as they stood watching the creature methodic
ally contract and expand. Digestive processes were
tak
ing place. Finally, the movement ebbed away. A last ripple of
spasmodic activity passed through it, and then the creature was silent.

With a
dull whir, the window shades came down,
forming
opaque shadows that remained in place.
It’s sleeping,” Marsha said
distantly.
Idly, Hamilton wondered what the
garbage men
would say when they came to pick up the garbage. A neat heap
of bones would lie resting on the back porch, a glistening pile that would have
been expertly picked, sucked, and then cast out And, perhaps, a few buttons
and metal hooks.