Weird Tales volume 38 number 03 Canadian (18 page)

Tt had been a week ago that he had first noticed. A week ago that his reflection had rebelled. A week ago that his mirrored personality had begun defying him. It might have begun sooner, He hadn't noticed . . . until . . .

Until one morning it had winked obscenely at him. And ever since . . .

TTE REMEMBERED, now, me an-*■*• cient Germanic legend of the man who had met his double. It had been wringing its hands. Death. He fought himself, but his eyes shot toward his reflection. It was grinning . . . wringing its hands. . . .

The psychiatrist wielded his pen with sure, broad strokes. A man untroubled by personal ghosts. A man who slew the morbid fancies and terrorizing thoughts of others. He scratched a last notation, his lips forming the inaudible words ''psychosis . . . aattHsaggestiotf. . . ."

Jay squirmed forward in his chair as

3—

the psychiatrist leaned bark and studied him.

"Does . % - does it mean I am crazy?"

The other's full, rich carefully practiced tones fell upon Jay Swarz like a protective benediction: "No. Absolutely not. You are as sane as . . . well, as I am." This last accompanied by a resonant chuckle.

"Then the thing I see can't hurt mc?"

"It is impossible for it to hurt you. Impossible, because you do not see it."

"But Doctor—"

"Please. A moment." Well-manicured fingers interlaced themselves across a well-padded stomach. "From what you hare-told me, you are a man pursued by phantoms. It is not you fault, Mr. Swarz. You have related how your boyhood was completely dominated by a thorough abnegation of healthy emotion. No outlets. No outlets at all. Well, sir, what is the result?"

"What?''

"As you grew older, Mr. Swarz, you cast of? the narrow outlook with which you were most effectively swaddled. You didn't know it, but you did. And, due to the inexorable law of nature, you began to think for yourself. That, of course, brought its . . . er . . . problems.

I . . . don't understand."

"Let us put it this way. A man who has been perishing of thirst will not allow logic to stand in his way when he is confronted with plenteous water. He will drink and drink until he is uncomfortably sated. If undeterred he will become rather sick. You, Mr. Swarz, are that thirsty man."

"I . . , see. . . ."

"Exactly. You had a thirst for normalcy. It was, during your childhood, consistently denied to you. You left

THE MIRROR

home and found yourself with an all-consuming thirst for being a healthy ego . , for being natural. You follow me." It wasn't a question, but Jay Swarz frit constrained to answer "Yess." It was gutting- so clear now, so normally explainable, that he had to show his improvement b> joining in, and approving of, the logical explanaliun.

"Well, sir, you overdid yourself. The abrupt change to a normal way of living, and acting, stirred up half-forgotten vistas of your unfortunate youth. Subconsciously, that is. Once again you were being threatened with unfair punishment. Inwardly, of course. You probably never even perceived . . . suspected. The first sign was the product of an overworked—though, to you, unsuspected —imagination. The fear complex. The worry over being hideously punished— as you told me you were—because you were doing something that is unalterably natural."

"But, Doctor, my remaining fear of mirrors . . ."

"You are not afraid,"

'T , . ."

"Mr. Swarz. Believe me. You only think you arc afraid. That is why you have been avoiding mirrors with such careful conscientiousness these past few years. As the snake struggles to shed its skin, so are you struggling. And—forgive the comparison—as the reptile finally emerges in new, shining armor, so are you emerging."

"Then, what shall I do?"

"Face your phantom, Mr. Swarz. Defy it. Gaze into your mirror steadily— without fear. Your clouded imagination will be cleared by the calm, cooling breezes of reason."

"L-look into my mirror steadily?"

"Precisely. Drive out the false visions that have been plaguing you so unfairly. Once gone they will never return. 0:i tliat I stake my reputation."

TT WAS a new Jay Swarz who turned the key of his small apartment. It was a new Jay Swarz that tossed bis coat onto his bed. It was sometbii had wanted to do all his life, a life given to circumspectly genuflecting to all the hallowed proprieties. That was over. Done. He was a snake shedding its dull skin for a brighter one ... a butterfly emerging in innocent glory from its dull chrysalis ... a man.

He turned toward the bathroom. He couldn't help the feeling of aversion . . . of fear . . .

But wasn't he now a man? He was. incontestably.

Hand upon the door . . . fear . . » twist the knob . . . no . . . think . . . psychiatrist's advice ... a learned man . . . helps people who need guidance . . twist the knob . . . try . . . sweat forming on a corrugated forehead . . . Twist the knot . . . everything explained . . . logically . . . exactly . . . mathematically

. truthfully . . . that last very important. . . . (wist the knob, . . ,

And he was inside.

Walk up to the mirror , . . boldly . . . stare steadily . . . unafraid . . . bio: out the false phantoms . . . do it. it's easy . . . one leg before the other . . . go ahead . . . hesitation only hurts . . . makes things harder . . . foolish . . . nothing to be worried about ... all carefully explained . . . habits of a lifetime . . . lurking . . . unfair . . . no substance ... all explained . . . figments . . . palpably worthy of derision . . . go ahead. . . .

THE MIRROR

And he was before the mirror.

Open your eyes . . . stare . . . steadily . . , optn your eyes . . . nothing can hurt you ... it will help . . . teach you the truth . . . help you . . . open broad lanes ... to happiness . . . wipe out the past. . . the gray past . . . the punishing past . . . open your eyes . . . see the new world . . . your world . . . open your eyes. . . .

And he opened his eyes.

His reflection . . . nothing to worry about ... it looked at him ... as he looked at it . . . calm . . . both calm . . . as it should be . . . expressions the same ... as they should be . . . psychiatrist right .": . as he should be . . . learned man . . wise man . . . helpful man . . . good advice . . . best advise ... go ahead . . stare at it. . . staring . . . pride . .. strength . . . new feeling of . . . of . . . no! Can't be! Impossible. Psychiatrist said no . . . learned man . . . wise man . . . look again. . .. NO! Reflection . . . laughing . . . silently . . , utterly impossible . . . wise man said so . . . wealth of experience . . . cant be wrong . . . good advice . . . best advice . . . heed it . . . heed it . . . stare at reflection . . . glare at reflection . . . don't give up . . . must win . . . must win . . . don't give up . . . stare . . . gl— . . .

And he screamed And he screamed.

He caught himself. Lurched oul of the bathroom.

This was no time to give way to disordered, mental stabs. More than evident that his ancient enemy was weakening; employing last hopeless trickery. This was triumph . . . triumph.

Get a bit of help. Nothing shameful about using all the means at one's disposal to rid one's self of a dying enemy.

Nothing to do with one's manliness. The enemy must be destroyed. That is the only important thing.

A NSWERING the telephone call, the ^* psychiatrist finally arrived. A bit put out because he'd been disturbed at his meal: but cloaking his irritation and impatience with the thought of adding a substantial amount to an already padded bill.

"Look, Doctor ... the mirror."

"What about it?"

"Can't you see?"

"No."

"You can't?"

"All I see is that yon have a reflection . . . which is as it should be."

"But it reacts differently. That is why I called you. . . ■"

"I don't understand."

"Don't you see? It—my enemy—is still there. However, I am not afraid. It is a figment. I know it. You told me so. But it is there ... to be destroyed. Isn't that progress?"

The psychiatrist backing up . . . professionally polite . . . words . . . words that have no meaning . . . professional . . . backing to the door . . . understanding . . . understanding.

"I'm sorry I troubled you, sir. It was nothing. Nothing at all."

"Quite all right, Mr. Swarz. Just take my advice. Don't be afraid . . . don't be afraid . . ." and he was gone.

Failure I The psychiatrist had lied. Evident. He had seen it too. Wouldn't admit it. Have to help one's self. The only way . use any means....

^Anv means.

Out with logic. Forswear what is fallaciously taught. Seek that which can really help. Seek that which is ridiculed

THE MIRROR

and mocked .. . but secretly feared. Seek the strange powers that all gibe at . . . because the true answer is there ... for the asking. . . .

Many libraries . . . many . . , many bookstores . . . laughing faces . . . incredulous faces . . . sneering faces . . . lie knows! He knows! They sneer and mock because they are afraid . . . cannot seek truth as he does . . . tirelessly ... and then . . . then . . .

And old bookshop . . . and old man . . . incredibly . . . nodding . . . understanding . . . tottering to an inner room ... a book . . . musty . . . ancient . . . refusal of payment . . . smiling. . . .

JAY SWARZ entered his apartment. He opened the book and studied. He smiled. It was all so easy. How much simpler if he had done this first. He read on. ...

There was the diagram to chalk upon the floor. He drew it. There were the multi-syllabled invocations to intone. He intoned them, There were the careful passes through the air . . . the repetition of certain odd phrases . . . the lit match that must scorch his fingertips. . . .

And, as it must be, the crouching shape was there. Motionless. The shape

that would rid him of the rebellious reflection in the mirror. The shape that would take the horror out of his life. It would exact a tribute. That was to be expected.

Jay Swarz was happy. Truly happy. He cast a sidelong glance at his mirrored reflection. Could it be? Yes. It was already losing its shape . . . becoming tenuous . . . transparent . . . wearing a look that Jay knew . . . knezv . . . was one of helpless pleading. Ko time for mercy . . . too many years of subjugation . . . destroy . . . without conscience destroy . . . the reflection of him was wavering . . . almost gone . . . fighting , . . hopelessly . . . going . . . gone. . . .

And the crouched figure stirred itself. Slowly unbent Looked up for the first time.

Jay Swarz threw a frantic look at Ins mirror. No reflection. No reflection at all. Blank. Blank.

The figure straightened and Sto over the chalked lines. It was going to exact its tribute. Jay Swarz knew this.

He also knew that he had incarnated his double . . . brought it to life ... it was wringing its hands . . . hands which suddenly swooped to Jay Swarz' throat.

He knew so many things . . . too late.

Rj)ide the El to Doom

By ALICE B. HARCRAFT

They said the iron horse on stilts had to come down — but there are singular forces beyond our ken that must be reckoned with firstl

JACK LARUE sat In the first half-empty coach of the elevated. His left hand was hooked over an old black lunchbox, his right elbow leaned on the rust-streaked window sill. The el clattered and vibrated along and Larue peered out at the dingy squalor that d the window in three and four-story uniformity. The slanting rays of afternoon sun caught the train in ;nce, but there was nothing left to sparkle or shine and the brightness only served to show up the worn seats and the lustreless metal and iron.

The train bent its stiff-jointed rigidity ari und a curve. The wheels groaned and squealed, and the clattering became a wooden-like rumbling as the cars headed up an incline onto the West River Bridge. Larue lifted his eyes from the swirling muddy water that ran beneath to the city beyond. He never failed to L'et a kick out of coming home from the foundry in the evening and seeing the city before him. His part in construction was small and humble, yet he never failed to marvel at the shining ; -v.ers and edifices, evidence of the d rner purpose and achievement of a b*ade he felt a small part of.

Larue got to his feet and started heavily up the aisle toward the front. To the right of the aisle in his little compartment was the motorman. From long familiarity. Jack jerked the door open.

"C'mou, Pete," be yelled abo. chtter of the train, "you're gonna be late pulling into 109th Street!"

The aged man hunched over the controls as though a part of them, made

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a noise that fell unrecognized over the growl and rumble of the train.

"You got the grumps, eh?" said I making as it to playfully push the motorman.

"Don't do that, Jack," said the engineer, "I tol' you when I'm running this here train . . ."

"Aw, you're as old and grouchy as the ei." said Jack. "Soon they'll come along and pull yon down." The old man stiffened at that. The two said no more for a while.