It wasn’t the abnormal beings Hayward wrote about so much as the masterly impression of reality he managed to create in the reader’s mind—the ghastly idea that he wasn’t writing fiction, but was simply transcribing on paper the stark, hellish truth. It was no wonder that the jaded public avidly welcomed each new story he wrote.
Bill Mason had telephoned me that afternoon at the Journal, where I worked, and had read me an urgent telegram from Hayward asking -in fact, begging- us to come at once to his isolated cottage on the beach north of Santa Barbara. Now, beholding him, I wondered at the urgency.
He didn’t seem ill, although his thin face was more gaunt than usual, and his eyes unnaturally bright. There was a nervous tension in his manner, and I got the odd impression that he was intently listening, alert for some sound from outside the cottage. As he took our coats and motioned us to chairs, Mason gave me a worried glance.
Something was wrong. Mason sensed it, I sensed it. Hayward filled his pipe and lit it, the smoke wreathing about his stiff black hair. There were bluish shadows in his temples.
“What’s up, old man?” I hazarded. “We couldn’t make head nor tail of your wire.”
He flushed. “I guess I was a little flurried when I wrote it. You see, Gene—oh, what’s the use—something is wrong, very wrong. At first I thought it might be my nerves, but—it isn’t.”
From outside the cottage came the shrill cry of a gull, and Hayward turned his face to the window. His eyes were staring, and I saw him repress a shudder. Then he seemed to pull himself together. He faced us, his lips compressed.
“Tell me, Gene—and you, Bill—did you notice anything— odd—on your way up?”
“Why, no,” I said.
“Nothing? Are you sure? It might have seemed unimportant— any sounds, I mean.”
“There were the seagulls,” Mason said, frowning. “You remember, I mentioned them to you, Gene.”
Hayward caught him up sharply. “Seagulls?”
“Yes,” I said. “That is, birds of some kind—they didn’t sound quite like seagulls. We couldn’t see them, but they kept following the car, calling to each other. We could hear them. But aside from the birds—”
I hesitated, astonished at the look on Hayward’s face—an expression almost of despair. He said, “No—that’s it, Gene. But they weren’t birds. They’re something—you won’t believe,” he whispered, and there was fright in his eyes. “Not till you see them—and then it’ll be too late.”
“Mike,” I said. “You’ve been overworking. You’ve—”
“No,” he interrupted. “I’m not losing my grip. Those weird stories of mine—they haven’t driven me mad, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m as sane as you are. The truth is,” he said very slowly, choosing his words with care, “I am being attacked."
I groaned inwardly. Delusions of persecution—a symptom of insanity. Was Hayward’s mind really crumbling? Why, I wondered, were his eyes so unnaturally bright, and his thin face so flushed? And why did he keep shooting quick, furtive glances at the window?
I turned to the window. I started to say something and stopped.
I was looking at a vine. That is, it resembled a thick, fleshy vine more than anything else, but I had never seen any plant quite similar to the rope-like thing that lay along the window ledge. I opened the window to get a better look at it.
It was as thick as my forearm, and very pale—yellowish ivory. It possessed a curious glossy texture that made it seem semi-transparent, and it ended in a raw-looking stump that was overgrown with stiff, hair-like cilia. The tip somehow made me think of an elephant’s trunk, although there was no real similarity. The other end dangled from the window ledge and disappeared in the darkness toward the front of the house. And, somehow, I didn’t like the look of the thing.
“What is it?” Mason asked behind me.
I picked up the—the—whatever it was. Then I got a severe shock, for it began to slip through my hand! It was being pulled away from me, and as I stared the end slipped through my fingers and whipped into the darkness. I craned out the window.
“There’s somebody outside!” I flung over my shoulder. “I saw—”
I felt a hand seize me, shove me aside. “Shut that window,” Hayward gasped. He slammed it down, locked it. And I heard a gasping inarticulate cry from Mason.
He was standing in the open doorway, glaring out. His face was changing, becoming transfigured with amazement and loathing.
From outside the portal came a shrill, mewing cry—and a blast of great winds. Sand swirled in through the doorway. I saw Mason stagger back, his arm flung up before his eyes.
Hayward leaped for the door, slammed it. I helped the now shuddering Mason to a chair. It was terrible to see this usually imperturbable man in the grip of what could only be called panic. He dropped into the seat, glaring up at me with distended eyes. I gave him my flask; his fingers were white as they gripped it. He took a hasty gulp. His breathing was rapid and uneven.
Hayward came up beside me, stood looking down at Mason, pity in his face.
“What the devil’s the matter?” I cried. But Mason ignored me, had eyes only for Hayward.
“G-God in heaven,” he whispered. “Have I—gone mad, Hayward?"
Hayward shook his head slowly. “I’ve seen them, too.”
“Bill,” I said sharply. “What’s out there? What did you see?”
He only shook his head violently, trying to repress the violent paroxysms of trembling that were shaking him.
I swung about, went to the door, opened it. I don’t know what I expected to see—some animal, perhaps—a mountain lion or even a huge snake of some kind. But there was nothing there—just the empty white beach.
It was true there was a disk-shaped area of disturbed sand nearby, but I could make nothing of that. I heard Hayward shouting at me to close the door.
I shut it. “There’s nothing there,” I said.
“It—must have gone,” Mason managed to get out. “Give me another drink, will you?”
I handed him my flask. Hayward was fumbling in his desk. “Look here,” he said after a moment, coming back with a scrap of yellow paper. He thrust it at Mason, and Bill gasped out something incoherent. “That’s it,” he said, getting his voice under control. “That’s the—the thing I saw!”
I peered over his shoulder, scrutinizing the paper. It bore a sketch in pencil, of something that looked as if it had emerged from a naturalist’s nightmare. At first glance I got the impression of a globe, oddly flattened at the top and bottom, and covered with what I thought at first was a sparse growth of very long and thick hairs. Then I saw that they were appendages, slender tentacles. On the rugose upper surface of the thing was a great faceted eye, and below this a puckered orifice that corresponded, perhaps, to a mouth. Sketched hastily by Hayward, who was not an artist, it was nevertheless powerfully evocative of the hideous.
“That’s the thing,” Mason said. “Put it away! It was all—shining, though. And it made that—that sound.”
“Where did it go?” Hayward asked.
“I—don’t know. It didn’t roll away—or go into the ocean. I’m sure of that. All I heard was that blast of wind, and sand blew in my eyes. Then—well, it was gone.”
I shivered.
“It’s cold,” Hayward said, watching me. “It always gets cold when they come.” Silently he began to kindle a fire in the stone fireplace.
“But such things can’t exist!” Mason cried out in sudden protest. Then in tones of despair: “But I saw it, I saw it!”
“Get hold of yourself, Bill,” I snapped.
“I don’t give a damn what you think, Gene,” he cried. “I saw something out there that—why, I’ve always laughed at such things—legends, dreams—but, God! when one sees it—oh, I’m not trying to fool you, Gene. You’ll probably see the thing yourself before long.” He finished with a curious note of horror in his voice.