Authors: Richard Matheson
He began to cry.
It was not a man’s crying, not a man’s despairing sobs. It was a little boy sitting there in the cold, wet darkness, hurt and frightened and crying because there was no hope for him in the world; he was beaten and lost in a strange, unloving place.
Later, when it was safe, he limped home, chilled to the bone.
A frightened, wretched Lou put him to bed. She kept asking him what had happened, but he wouldn’t answer. He just kept shaking his head, face expressionless, his small head rustling slowly on the pillow, back and forth, endlessly back and forth.
Waking was a gradual itemization of pains.
His throat felt scraped and dry, feeling like a raw, juiceless wound. His face contorted as he swallowed. Whimpering softly, he twisted on his side. The pain of rubbing his lacerated temple against the screw head stabbed him into wakefulness.
He started to sit up, then sank back with a gasp, hot barbs ripping across the muscles of his back. He lay staring up at the dust-coated insides of the water heater. He thought: It’s Thursday; there are three days left.
His right leg was throbbing. The knee felt swollen. He flexed the leg experimentally and winced when the dull ache flared into needling pain. He lay there quietly a moment, letting the pain ebb. He felt his face, his fingers stroking over the blood-caked scratches and tears.
Finally, with a groan, he shoved himself up and stood shakily, holding on to the black wall for support. How could he have got so mauled in such a few days? He’d been in the cellar for almost three months and it had never been like this before. Was it his size? Was it because the smaller he got the more perilous life became for him?
He climbed over the wall slowly and he walked along the metal shelf to the leg. He kicked aside the few tiny scraps of crackers left there, then climbed down the leg with slow, careful movements until he stood dizzily on top of the cement block. Thursday. Thursday. His tongue stirred like a piece of thick dry cloth in his mouth. He needed water.
He climbed down the block and looked into the thimble. Empty. And all the water on the floor had dried up or flowed into the small holes drilled in the cement. He stood there staring dully into the thimble
cave. That meant he’d have to climb down the endless thread to the other thimble under the water tank. He sighed drearily and shuffled over to the ruler.
Three-sevenths of an inch.
Stolidly, as if it were something he had planned and not sudden disgust, he pushed the ruler over, and it clattered onto its side. He was sick of measuring himself.
He started walking toward the cavern in which the water pump clanked and chugged. Then he stopped, remembering the pin. His gaze moved slowly over the floor, searching. It was not in sight. He went over to the sponge and looked under it. He looked under the box top. There was no pin. The giant must have kicked it away, or else the head of it had become embedded in the sole of those gargantuan shoes.
His gaze moved over to the hose-high carton under the fuel tank. It looked miles away. He turned from it. He wasn’t going to get another one. I don’t care, he thought. It doesn’t matter; let it go. He started again for the water pump.
There was another point, he decided, a point below that at which a man either laughed or broke. There was one more step down to the level of absolute negation. He was there now. He didn’t care about anything. Beyond the simple plane of bodily function, there was nothing.
As he moved from beneath the mammoth legs of the clothes tree, his gaze slid up the cliff wall. He wondered if the spider were up there. Probably it was, crouching seven-legged and silent in its web, perhaps sleeping, perhaps chewing up some bug it had killed.
It might have been himself.
Shuddering, he looked back at the floor. He’d never resign himself to the spider, no matter how depleted his spirit became. It was too alien a form to adjust to. Horror and revulsion toward it were too deeply engrained in him. It was better not to think of it at all. Better not to think that today the spider was as tall as he was, its body three times the volume of his, its long, black legs the thickness of his legs.
He reached the edge of the cliff and looked down into the vast canyon. Was it really worth it? Maybe it would be better just to forget about water altogether.
His throat labored dryly. No, water was not something you could forget about. Shaking his head like a sorrowing old man, he got on his
knees and lowered himself over the edge of the step, then began easing himself down the thread. Fifty feet, two days before. Seventy-five today, probably. Tomorrow?
What if the spider is waiting down there? he thought. It frightened him to think it, but he kept descending, too weak to stop himself. He tried not to think about climbing back up. Why hadn’t he had the foresight to make knots at regular intervals in the thread? It would have made ascent so much easier.
His sandals finally touched bottom and he let go of the thread-rope. At least his fingers had not been scraped as badly, now that they were so small.
The thimble loomed over him like a giant vat, the lip of it a good six feet above his head. If it had been overflowing, he might have caught water in his palms. As it was, he would have to climb to the top.
But how? The side, even with its indentations, was smooth and slightly overhanging. He pushed at the thimble, thinking he might knock it over, but it was too heavy, filled with water. He stood staring at it.
The thread. He limped back to the wall and picked up the heavy end of it, lugging it as far as it would go. It didn’t reach. He let go of it and it slid back to the wall.
He shoved at the thimble again. His arms fell. It was too heavy. No use. He started back for the thread. It’s no use, he thought. I’ll just forget about it. His face was martyred. I’m going to die anyway, what’s the difference? I’ll die. Who cares?
He stopped, biting his lip savagely. No, that was the old way. It was the childish way, the “I’ll punish the world by dying” attitude. He needed water. The thimble had the only water available. Either he got it or he would die, and no one the wiser or the stupider or the worse for it.
Gritting his teeth, he walked around, looking for pebbles. Why do I go on? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Why do I try so hard? Instinct? Will? In many ways it was the most infuriating thing of all, this constant bewilderment at his own motivations.
At first he found nothing. He moved in the shadows, muttering to himself. What if there are other spiders here? What if there are…
It would have been so much better if his brain had lost its toxic
introspections long before. Much better if he could have concluded life as a true bug instead of being fully conscious each hideous, downward step of the way. Awareness of the shrinking was the curse, not the shrinking.
Even thirsty, hungry, the thought stopped him. He stood in the cold shadows, turning it over in his mind.
It was true. He had realized it once, fleetingly, then forgotten it again. Sinking into the physical. But it was true. So long as he had his mind, he was unique. Even though spiders were larger than he, even though flies and gnats could shade him with their wings, he still had his mind. His mind could be his salvation, as it had been his damnation.
He almost left the floor when the pump began.
With a hoarse cry, he slammed back against the wall of the cavern, hands clutching up at his ears. The noise seemed to come in physically tangible waves, pinning him there. He thought his eardrums would burst. Even through his pressing palms the thunderous, shrieking clatter penetrated, hammering jagged spikes into his head. He couldn’t think. Like a mindless beast, he cringed against the wall, drowning in noise, his face twisted, his eyes stark with pain.
When the pump finally shut off, he slumped down bonelessly into a heap, his eyes slitted, his mouth hanging open. His brain felt numb and swollen. His limbs still shook.
Oh, yes, his mind mocked faintly. Yes, so long as you can think, you’re unique.
“Fool,” he muttered weakly. “Fool, fool, fool.”
After a while he stood up and looked for a pebble again. Finding one at last, he pushed it back beside the thimble, then climbed up on it. There were three feet left. He crouched down a little, braced himself, then jumped.
His fingers clawed at the edge of the thimble and caught. His feet kicked about and slipped on the smooth edge as he pulled himself up. Water, he thought, almost tasting it in his mouth. Water. He didn’t notice at first that the thimble was tipping.
Panic speared through him as the thimble started to topple. Seeking lost balance, he tightened his grip spasmodically instead of loosening it. Let go! His mind cried shrilly. He released his hold and dropped heavily, landing on the edge of the pebble, losing balance a second time and falling backward, arms flailing. He flopped back on the cement,
the breath knocked from him. The thimble kept falling. With a cry he flung an arm across his face and went rigid, waiting for the thimble to crash on him.
Only cold water poured across him, blinding and gagging him. Sucking air into his lungs, he struggled to his knees. Another wave of water dashed over him, almost knocking him on his back again. Coughing and spluttering, he stood up, rubbing at his eyes.
The thimble was rocking back and forth, water flooding across its lip and splattering on the cement. Scott stood there shivering, catching his breath, his tongue licking the cold drops from his mouth.
Finally, when the thimble was rocking less violently, he moved up to it warily and caught the spilling water in his palms. It was so cold it numbed his hands.
When he had finished drinking, he backed away and sneezed. Oh, God, now comes the pneumonia, he thought. His teeth were beginning to chatter. The cotton robe was cold and clammy on his flesh.
With jerky, impulsive movements he dragged the robe over his head. Cold air flooded over him. He had to get out of there. Throwing down the dripping robe, he ran to the thread and started climbing as rapidly as he could.
After he’d gone up ten feet he felt exhausted. Every upward movement became more difficult than the last. Pain seesawed in his muscles, a taut, drawing sharpness as he dragged himself up, a dull, throbbing ache as he hung resting.
He couldn’t rest for more than a few seconds. With every pause he grew more chilled. His white body covered with goose flesh, he kept climbing, gasping at the air between clenched teeth. Half a dozen times he thought he was going to fall as exhaustion welled up in his arms and legs, every muscle seeming to go slack. His hands clutched desperately at the ropelike thread, his legs curled around it. He pressed against the cement face, panting.
Then, in a moment, he began climbing again, not looking up because he knew that if he looked up, even once, he would never reach the top.
He stumbled across the floor, waves of heat and coldness breaking over him. He pressed a shaking hand against his forehead. It was hot and dry. I’m sick, he thought.
He found his old robe lying behind the cement block, crusted with
dirt, but dry. He brushed it off and put it on. It helped a little. Shaking with weariness and anger, and still shivering with cold, he circled around the floor collecting the few damp pieces of cracker left and throwing them on top of the sponge.
It took all the strength he had remaining to drag the box over the sponge. Then he lay in the darkness, his breath a thin, rasping sound that faltered in his throat like steam. The cellar was without sound.
After a few minutes he tried to eat. But swallowing hurt too much. Already he was thirsty again. He rolled over on his stomach and pressed his burning face into the soft sponge, his hands opening and closing in weary, ceaseless movements. After a moment he felt moisture on his face, and he started squeezing hard, remembering that the sponge had been soaking wet the morning before. But the little water he got was so brackish it almost made him lose the food he’d managed to eat.
He rolled onto his back again. What do I do now? he thought despairingly. There was no food left but the pitiful scraps under the box top with him; no water except at the bottom of a cliff he’d never have the strength to climb again; no way of getting out of the cellar. And now, added to everything else, fever.
He rubbed fiercely at his hot forehead. The air felt close and heavy. Heat pressed down on him like a hand. I’m suffocating, he thought. He sat up abruptly, looking around with hot eyes, head lolling on his neck. Unaware, his right hand picked a cracker crumb to bits and flung the shreds aside.
“I’m sick,” he groaned. His thin voice ballooned around him. He sobbed, digging teeth into the knuckles of his left hand until the skin broke. “I’m sick. I’m sick!”
He fell back with a groan and lay there limply, staring up through fever-slitted eyes.
Half-conscious, he thought he heard the spider walking on the box again. One, two, three, his twisting mind began to chant. Four, five, six. Seven legs my true love has.
Distortedly, he remembered the day when he had been twenty-eight inches tall, the height of a one-year-old child—a china doll that shaved real whiskers and bathed in a dishpan and used a baby’s potty chair and wore made-over baby clothes.
He had stood in the kitchen yelling at Lou because he’d suggested that she put him in a sideshow to make some money and she hadn’t
insisted that he shouldn’t say such things; she’d only shrugged.
He’d yelled and ranted, his little face red, stamped his cunning high-topped shoes, glared up at her, until suddenly she’d turned from the sink and shouted back, “Oh, stop squeaking at me!”
In a fury so complete it blinded him, he spun and lurched for the doorway, only to trip over the cat and get badly clawed.
Lou had run to him and tried to make it up. She’d cleaned the jagged scratch on his arm and apologized. But he’d known it wasn’t a woman apologizing to a man, but a woman apologizing to a midget she felt sorry for.
And when she’d finished bandaging him, he’d gone down to the cellar again; the last refuge to which he always fled in those days. And he’d stood there by the steps staring through anger and hurt at the cellar.