Chapter 20 What is it?

I must confess that I am not confident enough to describe the strange thing that has happened to me.The incident which I intend to relate in detail is so peculiar that I am fully prepared for suspicion and ridicule.I was prepared in advance for all this skepticism and ridicule.I believe I have the courage to write in the face of doubt.After much deliberation, I have resolved, as far as I can, to relate, in as simple and direct a manner as I can, some factual situation which I saw last July, which has not yet been quite equal to it in the natural scientific record of mysterious phenomena. I live at a certain number on Twenty-sixth Street in New York.In some ways the house was strange.It has gained a reputation of being haunted for the past two years.It is a large and stately house, once surrounded by a garden, but the garden is now only a fenced green used for drying clothes.A dry pool, formerly a fountain, with several fruit trees, jagged and untrimmed, indicate that the place was once a pleasant, leafy respite, full of fruit trees and flowers, and There is a soft and pleasant sound of water.

The house is very spacious.A rather spacious foyer leads to a wide spiral staircase which spirals upwards from its centre, and the rooms are also of good size.It was built some fifteen or twenty years ago by Mr. A., a well-known businessman in New York who, five years earlier, had shocked the business world with a spectacular bank fraud.It is well known that Mr. A fled to Europe and soon died of despair.Almost immediately after the news of his death reached the country and was confirmed, there were rumors on Twenty-sixth Street that the so-and-so was haunted. The former owner's widow was legally evicted, and only the housekeeper and his wife lived in it.The houses fell into the hands of realtors who put them there in an attempt to rent or sell them.These people claimed they were bothered by strange noises.The door was opened by something invisible, and the remaining furniture was scattered in each room, but was piled up one by one by an invisible hand during the night.Invisible feet went up and down the stairs in broad daylight, with the rustle of invisible silks, and invisible hands gliding along the solid railings.

The caretaker and his wife declared that they would no longer live there.The realtors laughed and fired them and put others in their place.The noise and paranormal activity continued.The neighbors seized on this statement, so no one lived in the house for three years.A few people came to talk about buying a house, but somehow they always heard the unpleasant gossip before closing the deal and refused to take the deal any further. It was under such circumstances that my landlady had the bold idea of ​​taking the house at XXVIIXth Street.She was running a boarding house on Bleecker Street and wanted to move closer to the city centre.It just so happens that her apartment has a rather courageous and optimistic set of tenants.So she set before us her plans, and told us all she had heard about the haunted house, and said she wanted us to move there.All Mrs. Moffat's tenants announced that they would move with her into the haunted house, except for two timid people—a sea captain and a returning Californian, who immediately notified their landlord that they were going. , Her move this time is quite samurai style.

We moved in May, and we were mesmerized by our new home.Our house is on Twenty-sixth Street, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, in one of the most pleasant parts of New York.The gardens at the back of the house, stretching down almost to the Hudson River, are perfect as a verdant avenue in summer.The air is pure and invigorating, and the wind blows straight from the Weehawken Heights across the Hudson River.Even the garden that surrounds the house, with its jagged trees and pulling too many clotheslines on laundry days, still gives us a green lawn to enjoy and a place to enjoy on summer evenings. Cool resting place.We smoked cigars in the twilight and watched the fireflies flash their dimly lit lanterns in the long grass.

Naturally, as soon as we settled down in this house at No. XX, we began to expect the ghosts to come.We absolutely can't wait for them to arrive.Our dinner conversation was about the paranormal.A tenant who bought a copy of Mrs. Crowe's "Nature Evenings" for his own private amusement was considered a public enemy by all the tenants because he bought only one copy instead of twenty.When he read this book, his life was extremely miserable.A system of espionage was set up, and he was the victim.If he accidentally put the book down for a moment and left the room, the book was immediately seized and read aloud to a select few in some secret place.I found myself a hugely important figure because it was revealed that I was quite well versed in the paranormal and had written a story in which the main character was a ghost.If, while we were gathered in the great living room, a table or a wall paneling happened to bend, there would be an instant silence, each ready to immediately hear the jingle of chains and see a ghostly figure.

After a month of psychological excitement, we were forced to admit with great disappointment that nothing even remotely approaching the supernatural had ever come to light.On one occasion, the Negro butler claimed that something unseen blew out his candle just as he was about to undress for bed.But as I more than once found the black gentleman in such a state that one candle appeared to him as two candles, I thought it possible that he had drunk a little more, and that the matter Possibly the other way around, he didn't see a candle when he should have seen one. That was the way it was then, but suddenly something happened, so terrible and so inexplicable that my mind was thrown into confusion by the memory of it.

That was July 10th.After supper I went out into the garden, as usual, with my friend Dr. Hammond, and I smoked my pipe.There is no spiritual resonance between me and the doctor, we are connected by a vice.We all smoked opium.We know each other's secrets and respect it.Together we enjoyed that wonderful moment of imagination, that incredible heightened awareness.We seem to be connected with the whole universe, when we experience that infinite sense of existence—in short, an incredible spiritual bliss, which I would not part with even for the throne, but That feeling, I hope you, reader, never—never experience it.

The moments of my secret opium-smoking pleasures with the doctor are ruled by a scientific precision.We're not blindly sucking on this heavenly drug, and we don't let our dreams be pure chance.While inhaling, we carefully steer our conversation along the bright and calm channels of thought.We talked of the East, and tried to recall its bright and magical vistas.We criticize those poets who most inspire beauty—the poets who paint life as wholesome, bright, and passionate, because they have youth, strength, and beauty, and life is full of joy under their pens.If we talk about Shakespeare's The Tempest, we adore Ariel but avoid Caliban.Like the Zoroastrians, we turn our faces to the east and see only the bright side of the world.

This skilful embellishment of our thought-track is painted with a corresponding hue in the ensuing imagination.The gorgeous light of the Arabian wonderland colors our dreams.We ambled across that narrow meadow with regal gait and posture.As he leaned against the gnarled bark of the plum tree, the birdsong sounded like the melody of a gifted musician.Houses, walls, and streets vanished like rain clouds, and a landscape of incredible splendor stretched before our eyes.This is a warm friendship.We enjoy that great joy all the more fully because, even in our most ecstatic moments, we are aware of each other.Our joy, when we are alone, is also double, vibrating and responding to a musical beat.

On the night of the accident, July 10th, the doctor and I fell into an unusual and supernatural emotional state.We lit our respective gigantic meerschaum pipes, filled them with the best Turkish tobacco, and lit in its center a little black opium, like a fairy-tale nutlet, in its tiny husk Inside, there is a miracle that even the emperor can't experience.We paced back and forth, talking.A strange anomaly dominates our stream of thought. The stream of our thoughts does not want to flow along the sunlit channel, although we try to divert it and flow into it.For some inexplicable reason, the stream of thought often forks into dark and lonely riverbeds where melancholy and depression are constantly pregnant.In our old fashion we poured ourselves into the shores of the East, and spoke of its merry bazaars, its splendors in the days of Harang, its harems and golden palaces, but it was in vain.Black demons kept rising from the depths of our conversation, puffing and expanding like the ones a fisherman releases from a copper vase, until they blotted out everything bright from our view.We succumb unconsciously to this mysterious force which affects us, and give ourselves up to melancholy contemplation.We'd been talking for a while about the propensity of the human mind for mysticism, and the almost universal taste for horror, when suddenly Hammond said to me, "What do you think is the most important element of horror?"

This question stumps me.A lot of things are scary, I know.Stumbling over a dead body in the dark; or, as I once experienced, seeing a woman float down a deep, swift river, arms flailing wildly, face turned upwards in horror Man, she floated down with a piercing scream, while we, the bystanders, stood frozen at the window, which was perched sixty feet above the river, unable to Made the slightest effort to save her, could only silently watch her dying agony, watch her disappear; suddenly encountered a broken ship wreck, not a living thing to be seen on it, listless at sea Floating on the ground, this is also a terrifying object, because it suggests a great horror, and its horror is partially covered up.But now, for the first time, it occurred to me that there must be the embodiment of a great and all-overriding fear—the king of terror, to whom all other terrors must submit.What will it be?Under what circumstances does it exist? "I admit, Hammond," I replied, "that I've never thought about it before. There must be, I feel, something more terrifying than all the rest. But I can't do anything about it. most vaguely defined." "I'm a bit like you, Harry," he replied, "and I feel capable of experiencing something far more terrifying than the human mind can conceive—some combination of elements hitherto considered contradictory." , a combination of the frightening and the unnatural. Brockden Brown's novel The Land of Terror is terrible; so is Bulwer's The Inhabitant of the Threshold in Zanoy; but," he Shaking his head gloomily, he added, "There's something scarier than that." "I say, Hammond," I replied, "let's drop this subject, for God's sake! We'll suffer for it, you'll see." "I don't know what's the matter with me tonight," he replied, "and all the weird and terrible things are going on in my head. I feel as if I could write a story like Hoffman's tonight, if I have mastered the craft of writing a literary genre of words." "Oh, I'll go back to bed if we want our conversation to be Hoffmanian. Opium and nightmares should never be mixed together. What a sweltering day! Good night, Hammond." "Good night, Harry. I wish you sweet dreams." "May you melancholy fellow dream of demons, ghouls and sorcerers." We parted and went back to our own rooms.I quickly undressed and got into bed.According to my usual habit, I took a book, and usually I would let myself read it until I fell asleep.I opened the book as soon as my head was on the pillow, and threw it across the room right away.It was Gordon's History of Demons, a curious French book which I had recently acquired from Paris, but which, in my state, was by no means a pleasant companion.I decided to go to bed at once, so I turned down the gas lamp so that only a blue spot flickered at the top of the pipe, and settled myself to rest. The room was dark.The lit gas atoms illuminated no more than three inches around the head of the lamp.I tried to press one arm over my eyes, as if trying to keep the darkness out, trying to think of nothing.But it is futile.Those nasty things Hammond talked about kept popping into my head.I wrestle with them.I want to use the blank space of intellectual activity as a barrier, and build this barrier to keep those annoying thoughts out.Yet they still keep coming.I lay quietly like a dead body, hoping that through the complete stillness of the body, I could find peace and rest mentally as soon as possible.Just then, a terrible event happened.Something fell, it seemed to fall from the ceiling, and landed straight on my chest, and the next moment I felt two bony hands grab my throat, trying to strangle me. I'm not a coward, and quite strong.This sudden attack not only did not stun me, but made every nerve of mine highly tense.Before my brain had time to realize the horror I was in, my body acted instinctively.I immediately wrapped my two strong arms around the thing, and pressed it tightly against my chest with all my strength in a hurry.After a few seconds, the two bony hands on my throat let go and I can breathe freely again.Then a very tense fight ensues.I was in the thickest darkness, utterly ignorant of the nature of the thing that suddenly assails me, I find that every moment I hold something slipping, and by reasoning, the assailant seems to be completely naked, With its razor-sharp teeth on my shoulders, neck and chest, I have to defend my throat every second from a pair of strong and agile hands that cannot be restrained by my best efforts. Live - the situation is complicated and requires all my strength, skill and courage to fight. Finally, after a silent, exhausting struggle to the death, I pinned my assailant under me by a series of incredible efforts.Once I got my knees on him where I could identify his chest, I knew I was the winner.I took a break to catch my breath.I heard the thing beneath me panting in the dark, and felt a heart beating violently.It's clearly as exhausting as I am.This is a consolation.Then I remembered that I used to put a large yellow silk handkerchief under my pillow before I went to bed.I immediately reached out to see if it was there, and there it was.After a few seconds, I used it as a rope and bound the thing's arms. I feel pretty safe now.There was nothing left to do but turn on the gas.The first sight of this thing that attacked me in the middle of the night shocked the whole house.I must admit that from a certain pride I had not raised the alarm; I wished I had seized the thing alone, without assistance. Without letting go of what I was holding for a second, I slipped off the bed and onto the floor, dragging what I was holding with me.It was only a few steps to the gas lamp.I walked these few steps with extreme care, my hands gripping it like a vice.At last I came within reach of the blue light that told me where the gas lamp was, as soon as I stretched out my arms.I loosened one hand as fast as lightning, and turned the lamp to the brightest.Then, I turned to look at my catch. I can't even describe how I felt the moment I turned on the light, and I can't even try to describe it.I supposed I must have screamed in terror, for within a minute my room was filled with the people who lived in the house.I still shudder when I think of that terrible moment.What I saw was nothing!Yes, I have one arm clasped tightly to a breathing, panting, solid figure, and my other hand is desperately clasped to a throat as warm as my own , and apparently physical.In the bright light of the gas-lamp, however, I saw absolutely nothing, though the living creature was clutched by me, its body pressed against my own.It doesn't even have an outline—it's shapeless, like a gas. Even now, I don't understand the situation I was in.I cannot recall all the circumstances of that appalling incident.My imagination tried in vain to understand that terrible contradiction. It's breathing.I can feel its warm breath on my cheek.It struggled violently.It has hands.Its hands grab me.Its skin is smooth, like my own.There it was, pressed against me, hard as a rock—and yet, completely invisible! I found it odd that I didn't pass out or go crazy in that split second.There must be some kind of instinct sustaining me.Because, I never let go of that horrible and incredible thing. At the moment I felt the horror, I seemed to gain more power, and I held it tighter with amazing strength. gotta tremble. That's when Hammond burst into my room ahead of the rest of the house.As soon as he saw my face--my face, I supposed it must look terrible, he hurried up, and cried, "My God, Harry! What's the matter?" "Hammond! Hammond!" I cried, "Come here! Oh, it's terrible! I was attacked by something in bed, and I grabbed it, but I couldn't see it—I saw Don't see it!" Undoubtedly struck by the real, not feigned, terror on my face, Hammond took a step or two forward, eager and bewildered.Others who came into my room giggled audibly.This suppressed laughter made me furious.Laugh at a man in my position!It is an act of cruelty of the most heinous kind.Now I can understand why it would seem comical for a man to wrestle violently with what seems to be invisible, and to ask for help in his struggle with this phantom.But, back then, I was so angry at the crowd laughing at me that if I had the power, I would have beaten them to death. "Hammond! Hammond!" I cried again in despair: "for God's sake, come to me, I can hold this--this thing now, but it won't last a while. .It's overpowering me. Help me! Help me!" "Harry," whispered Hammond, coming closer to me, "you've taken too much opium." "I swear to you, Hammond, it's not an illusion," I replied in the same low voice, "don't you see how its struggle makes me shake all over? If you don't believe me, prove it yourself .feel it—touch it." Hammond stepped forward and placed his hand where I indicated.He uttered a wild and terrifying cry.He feels it! Immediately he found a long rope somewhere in my room, and immediately tied and knotted it around the invisible figure with which my arms were clasped. "Harry," he said, his voice hoarse and agitated, for though he retained his sanity he was deeply shaken, "Harry, it's safe now. You can let go, old chap, if you're tired." .This thing can’t move.” Exhausted, I happily let go. Hammond stood, grasping the end of the rope to which the invisible thing was tied, and the rope twisted around his hand, before him, as if supporting himself, he grasped a knot and crossed The rope that binds tightly binds an empty space.I have never seen a person so completely stunned by fear.However, his face showed all the grit and determination, qualities I knew he possessed.His lips, though white, were firmly shut, and one only glanced at him to see that he was not intimidated, though shocked by terror. The confusion that ensued among the tenants is beyond description.These are the people who witnessed that particular scene between Hammond and me, who witnessed the tying up of this struggling thing, and who saw me nearly collapse from exhaustion at the end of my "prisoner watch" mission. on the ground.As these bystanders saw all this, they were seized with confusion and terror beyond description.The weaker ones fled from the room.The few remaining men huddled against the door, nothing could bring them nearer to Hammond and the thing he was bound to.There was still an expression of disbelief amidst their fear.They do not have the courage to allow their curiosity to be satisfied, but they still doubt. In vain I begged some people to come closer, touch it, and verify for myself the presence of an invisible creature in this room.They doubt, but dare not bring themselves to see the truth.How could a solid, living, breathing creature not see, they asked.My answer was this, I made a gesture to Hammond and the two of us controlled the fear and disgust of touching the creature, lifted it off the ground, and just let it be strapped, let it go to my bed.It weighs about as much as a 14-year-old boy. "Now, friends," I said as Hammond and I lifted the creature over the bed, "I can give you self-evident proof that there is a solid, weighty body here, although you can't see it. It. Just watch the surface of the bed." I was amazed at my courage to deal with this miracle with such calm.But I've recovered from my initial fear and have a scientific pride in the matter that dominates every other feeling. Onlookers' eyes immediately turned to my bed, and at an agreed signal, Hammond and I let the creature drop.There was a dull sound, the sound of a heavy object falling on the soft bed.The wood on the bed creaked.A deep imprint marked its presence visibly on the pillow and on the bed.With a low cry the witnesses rushed from the room, leaving only Hammond and me with our mysterious creature. We stayed silent for a while, listening to the low, irregular breathing of the creature on the bed, and the rustle of the sheets as it struggled feebly to free itself from its restraints.Then, Hammond spoke. "Harry, this is terrible." "Ah, terrible." "But it's not unexplainable." "Not inexplicable! What do you mean? There's never been such a thing in history. I don't know what to think, Hammond. God knows I'm not mad. It's not a crazy fancy." "Let's be reasonable, Harry. Here we're touching a solid body, but we can't see it. The fact is so extraordinary that we're shocked with horror. There's nothing like it, though. eh? Get a clear piece of glass. It's corporeal and transparent. Some kind of chemical grit makes it so opaque that it's completely invisible. Note that making such a piece won't reflect a single ray of light It is not impossible in theory. The atoms of this glass are very pure and single in nature. Once the sun's rays pass through it, it is refracted but not reflected as it passes through air. We cannot see air, but we Can feel the air." "That's all true, Hammond, but those are inanimate matter. Glass doesn't breathe, and air doesn't breathe. But this thing has a beating heart—a will that makes the heart beat, that makes sounds, that breathes." lungs." "You've forgotten a phenomenon we've been hearing about a lot lately," replied the doctor gravely, "that invisible hands are stuffed into the hands of people sitting at tables at 'Elf Circle' parties—warm , fleshy hands, seem to have the pulse of normal life." "What? So, you think, this thing is—" "I don't know what it is," was his grave reply, "but I will investigate it thoroughly with your assistance, if possible." We watched by the bed together all night and smoked a lot while the monster tossed and turned and gasped until it was visibly exhausted.We then knew it was asleep by its low, regular breathing. The next morning, the whole house was in a commotion.The tenants flocked to the landing outside my room, and Hammond and I became celebrities.We had to answer a lot of questions about the condition of our particular prisoner, because no one in the house dared to enter my room except the two of us. The monster woke up.This was evident from the writhing of the sheets as it tried to escape.There was something terrifying in seeing the indirect signs of its terrible writhing and agonizing struggle to get free, while the movement itself was invisible. Hammond and myself racked our brains that long night to find some means by which we might show the shape and general aspect of this monster.As far as we can tell by running our hands over its shape, its body and facial features are human.There was a mouth; a round, smooth head with no hair on it; a nose, though it was hardly higher than the cheeks; and hands and feet which felt like those of a boy.At first, we wanted to place it on a smooth surface and trace it with chalk, the way a shoemaker would outline a foot.This attempt was abandoned as worthless.Such an outline is useless for understanding its construction. I came up with a great idea.We can make a mold for it out of plaster of paris.This will give us a solid shape that meets all our expectations.But how?The movement of the monster interferes with the plastering and distorts the cast.Had to think of another idea.Why not anesthetize it with chloroform?It has respiration--it breathes, and that's the proof of respiration.Once it's in a state of anesthesia, we can do what we want.We sent for Dr. X, and as soon as the venerable doctor had recovered from the initial shock, he began chloroform anesthesia. At the end of three minutes we were free from its binding cords, while a modeler was busy painting its invisible form with damp clay.In another five minutes we had a cast, and before night we had a rough replica of the monster.It was shaped like a man—twisted, grotesque, and terrifying, but a man nonetheless.It was relatively small, only four feet and a few inches tall, and its limbs showed an asymmetrical muscular development.Its face was more hideous than any hideous thing I had ever seen.Never had Gustave Doré, or Carlot, or Tony Yohanot conceived anything so terrible.The face in an illustration drawn by the latter somewhat resembles the visage of the monster, but is not yet comparable.This is what I imagined a ghoul would look like.It looks as if it can feed on human flesh. After satisfying our curiosity and restricting the secrecy of everyone in the house, what to do with our monster became a problem.It was impossible to keep such a horror in the house; it was equally impossible to release such a horror.I admit I would gladly vote to destroy this monster.But who will bear the responsibility?Who will execute this terrible, human-like monster? Day after day, this question is seriously discussed.The tenants all left the house.Mrs. Moffat was in desperation, and threatened Hammond and me with all legal punishment if we did not get this ghastly monster out of the house.Our answer was this: "We'll go if you like, but we refuse to take this monster with us. Take it yourself if you like. It came out of your house." The responsibility falls on you." Naturally, she had no answer to these words.Mrs. Moffat couldn't even find a single person who would approach the mysterious monster, whether for fun or money. The strangest aspect of this incident is that we have absolutely no idea what this animal was used to eating.We put every nutritious thing we can think of before it, but it never touches it.Day in and day out, standing by and watching the sheets writhe and hear the heavy breathing and knowing it was starving to death was scary. Ten days, twelve days, two weeks passed and it was still alive.However, the beating of the heart has become weaker and weaker, and it is almost stopped now.Apparently, the monster was dying from lack of food.This horrific struggle for life goes on, and it pains me.I can't sleep.Terrible as this monster was, it was pitiful when one considered the torment it had suffered. Finally, it died.Hammond and I found it cold and hard in bed one morning.The heart stopped beating, the lungs stopped breathing.We hurriedly buried it in the garden.It was a strange funeral where we lowered an unseen corpse into a damp pit.I sent a cast of its figure to Dr. X, who has it in his museum on Tenth Street. I'm going on a long trip and probably won't be back.Just the night before my departure, I wrote about this incident, which is the strangest thing I know.