“You need not,” I said. “Let’s drop the whole matter, and in the morning
you can make your amends to Laura.”
Anthony shook his head.
“It’s not pleasant to talk about, but that was not my reason for
hesitating. I was afraid you would not believe me if I did tell you.
Sometimes truth strains one’s credulity too much. But I will tell you. It
may do me good to talk about it, and, anyhow, it will explain why I acted
as I did.
“Your wife came in just after we entered. She had not yet removed her
veil or gloves. They were gray. So was her dress. Her shoes—everything
was gray. And she stood there, her hand outstretched—all in that color—a
body covered with gray. I can’t help shuddering. _I can’t stand gray!_
It’s the color of death. Can your nerves stand the dark?”
I rose and switched off the lights. The room was plunged into darkness,
save for the flicker of the flames in the fireplace and the intermittent
flashes of lightning. The rain beat through the leafless branches outside
with a monotonous, slithering _swish_ and rattled like ghostly fingers
against the windows.
“The light makes it hard to talk—of unbelievable things. One needs the
darkness to hear of hell.”
He paused. The _swir-r-r_ of the rain crept into the stillness of the
room. My companion sighed. The firelight shone on his face, which floated
in the darkness—a disembodied face, grown suddenly haggard.
“A good night for this story, with the wind crying like a lost soul in
the night. How I hate that sound! Ah, well!”
There was a moment of silence.
“It was not like this, though, that night when we started up the Amazon.
No. Then it was warm and soft, and the stars seemed so near. The air was
filled with scent of a thousand tropical blossoms. They grew rank on the
shore.
“There were four of us—two natives, myself and Von Housmann. It is of
him I am going to tell you. He was a German—and a good man. A great
naturalist, and a true friend. He sucked the poison from my leg once,
when a snake had bitten me. I thanked him and said I’d repay him some
day. I did—sooner than I had thought—with a bullet! I could not bear to
see him suffer.”
The man sat there, gazing into the flames—and I listened to the dripping
rain fingering the bare boughs and _tap-tap-tapping_ on the roof above.
My friend looked up.
“I was seeing his face in the flames. God help him!... We had traveled
for days—weeks—how long does not matter. We had camped and moved on; we
had stopped to gather specimens—always deeper into that evil undergrowth.
And as we moved on, Von Housmann and I grew close; one either grows to
love or hate in such circumstances, and Sigmund was not the sort of man
one would hate. I tell you, I loved that man!
“One day we struck into a new place. We had long before left the tracks
of other expeditions. We _trekked_ along, unmindful of the exotic beauty
of our surroundings, when I saw our native, who was up ahead, stop short
and sniff the air.
“We stopped, too, and then I noticed what the keener, more primitive
sense of our guide had detected first.”
* * * * *
“It was an odor. A strange odor, indefinable and sickening. It was filled
with foreboding—evil. It smelt—_gray_! I can not describe it any other
way. It smelt dead. It made me think of decay—decay, and mould and—ugly
things. I shuddered. I looked at Von Housmann, and I saw that he, too,
had noticed it.
“‘What is that smell?’ I asked.
“He shook his head.
“‘Ach, dot iss new. I haf not smelled it before. But—I do not lige it. It
iss not goot. Smells is goot or bat—und dot is not goot. I say, I do not
lige dot smell.’
“Neither did I. We went ahead, cautiously now. A curious sense pervaded
the air. It puzzled me. Then it struck me: _silence_. Silence, as though
the music of the spheres had suddenly been snuffed out. It was the utter
cessation of the interminable chirping and chattering of the birds and
monkeys and other small animals.
“We had become so accustomed to that multitudinous babel that its
absence was disturbing. It was—eerie. Yes, that’s the word. It made that
first impression of lifelessness more intense. Not death, you understand.
Even death has in it a thought of life, an element of being. But this was
just—lifelessness.
“The gray odor had become so strong it was wellnigh unbearable. Then we
saw our guides running back to us. They rebelled. They refused to go
beyond the line of trees ahead. They said it was _tabu_.
“That ended it. No promise, no threat, nothing would move them. Do you
know what a savage’s _tabu_ is? It is stronger than death. And this place
was _tabu_. So we left them there with our stuff, and Sigmund and I went
on alone. We reached the farthest line of trees and stopped on the edge
of a clearing.
“I can’t describe that sight to you. But I can see it—good God, how I
can still see it! Sometimes I wake up in the night with that nightmarish
picture in my eyes, and my nostrils filled with that ghoulish stench.
“It was a field of gray; almost, I might have said, a field of _living_
gray. And yet, it did not give the impression of life. It moved, although
there was not a breath of wind; not a leaf on the trees quivered, but
that mass of gray wiggled and crawled and undulated as though it were a
huge gray shroud that was thrown over some monstrous jelly-like Thing.
“And that Thing was writhing and twisting. The gray mass extended as far
as I could see ahead; to the right the sandy shore of the river stopped
it; and to the left and in front of us it terminated at a distance of a
few yards away from the trees where a belt of sand intervened.
“I don’t know how long we stood there, my friend Von Housmann and I. It
fascinated us. At last he spoke.
“‘_Heilige Mütter. Was kommt da?_ Vat in der name off all dot iss holy do
you call dot? Nefer haf I seen such before. Eferyvere I haf traffeled,
but nefer haf I seen a sight lige dot. I tell you, it makes my flesh
crawl!’
“‘It makes me sick to look at it,’ I answered. ‘It looks like—like living
corruption.’
“The old German shook his head. He was baffled. We knew we were looking
upon something that no living mortal had ever gazed upon before. And our
flesh crawled, as we watched that Thing writhing beneath its blanket of
gray.
“We walked slowly and cautiously across the strip of sand to the edge of
the gray patch. As I bent over, the pungency of the odor bit into the
membrane of my nostrils like an acid, and my eyes smarted.
“And then I saw something that drove all other thoughts from my mind.
The mass was a mosslike growth of tiny gray fungi. They were shaped like
miniature mushrooms, but out of the top of each grew a countless number
of antennae that twisted and writhed around ceaselessly in the air.
“They seemed to be feeling and groping around for something, and it was
this incessant movement that gave to the patch that quivering undulation
which I had noticed before. I stared until my eyes ached.
“‘What do you make of it?’ I asked my friend.
“‘_Ach_, I do not know. It iss incompbrehensible. I haf nefer seen such
a—a t’ing in my whole, long life. It iss, I should say, some sort off
a fungoid growt’. Ya, it iss clearly dot. But der species—um, dot iss
_not_ so clear. Und dose liddle feelers; on a fungus dot iss new. It iss
unheard off. See, der _veddammte_ t’ings iss lige lifting fingers; dey
svay und tvist lige dey vas feeling for somet’ings, not? I am egseedingly
curious. Und, I am baffled—und, my frient, I do not lige dot.’
“Impatiently, he reached out a stick he was carrying: a newlycut, stout
cudgel of dried wood. He stirred around with it in the growth at his
feet. And then a cry broke from his lips.
“‘_Ach, du lieber Gott—gnadig Gott im Himmel! Sieh’ da!_’
“I looked where he was pointing. His hand trembled violently. And little
wonder! The stick, for about twelve inches up, was a mass of gray!
“And as I watched, I saw, steadily growing before my eyes, that awful
gray creep up and surround the wood. I’m not exaggerating; I tell you,
in less time than it takes to tell, it had almost reached Von Housmann’s
hand. He threw it from him with an exclamation of horror.
“It fell in the gray growth and instantly vanished. It seemed to melt
away.”
* * * * *
“Sigmund looked at me. He was pale. At last he sighed.
“‘So-o-o! Ve learn. On vood it grows. I might haf guessed. Dot iss der
reason dot no trees are here. It destroys dem. But so _schnell_; _ach_,
lige fire it growed. My frendt, I lige dot stuff lesser _als_ before. It
is not healt’y. But vat vill it not eat?’
“I handed him my rifle. He took it, and with the muzzle poked the growth.
Man, my hair fairly stood on end! Do you know anything about fungi? No?
Well, I have never known or heard of any vegetable growth that would
attack blue steel. But that stuff, I tell you, that rifle barrel sprouted
a crop of that gray moss as readily and as quickly as had the wood!
“I grabbed the gun and lifted it out of the patch. Already several inches
of steel had been eaten—literally _eaten_—off. I held it up and watched
that damnable gray crawl along the barrel. It just seemed to melt the
metal. It melted like sealing wax, and great gray flakes dropped off to
the ground.
“Nearer and near it came; to the rear sight, the trigger-guard, the
hammer. It was uncanny—like a dream. I stood there, paralyzed. I could
not believe what my eyes told me was true. I looked at Sigmund. His mouth
was open and his face was white as death. I laughed at his face. That
seemed to tear away the mist. He yelled and pointed, and I looked down.
“Not two inches from my hand was that mass. I could see those feelers
reaching out toward my hand and I was sick. Instinctively, I threw the
gun from me; aimlessly, blindly. It fell on the sand belt outside the
gray mass.
“Hardly had it struck the sand before the growth had reached the butt,
and then there was nothing to be seen but a tiny patch of that gray,
poisonous Thing. And as we looked, it began to melt. Gradually, steadily,
it was disappearing.
“‘Quick, quick,’ shouted Von Housmann, and we ran over to the spot. By
bending over, we could see what was happening.
“The feelers, or antennae, which we had noticed before, had vanished, but
instead, at the bases of each individual plant, were similar tendrils.
But more of them—thousands and thousands of them all feeling and groping
frantically about. And as they swayed and twisted and brushed the sand,
one by one they shriveled up and seemed to withdraw into the parent body.
“And gradually this nucleus itself shrank and withered, until it was no
more than a tiny gray speck on the sand. Soon that was all that was left;
a lot of tiny whitish particles, much lighter in color than the original
plant, scattered around on the sand.
“I looked at Von Housmann, and he looked at me. After a long interval, he
spoke. He spoke slowly, almost as though it were a painful effort.
“‘Ant’ony, ve haf seen a—miracle. From vat, or how, or ven, dot
hell-growt’ sprang, I do not know. I do not know how many, many years it
has stood here; may be it has been for centuries. But I do know this: if
dot sand was not here—vell, I shudder to t’ink off vat vould be today.’
“I stared.
“‘You do not understand? _Ach_, so! You haf vat happened to dot stick?
Und to dot gun of steel? So! Look, now.’
“He took off his hat and went over to the border of the patch. He
touched—just barely touched the brim of the hat to the gray matter and
held it up. Already a growth was moving up the linen. He nodded, then
threw it away, onto the sand. Speechless, we watched it fade away under
the merciless attack of that horrible stuff, and then, in turn, the gray
fungoid growth wither and disappear.
“‘Now do you understand? Do you see vat I meant? Vood, steel,
linen—eferyt’ing vat it touches it _eats_. It grows fast—like flame in
dry sticks. All-consuming. Aber—_siest du_—dot sand—ven it touched dot,
it died. It starved. Und see! Look close—more closer still at dot sand.
Do you see anything odd about it?’
“I shook my head. It looked very fine and light, but I could not see
anything unusual.
“‘No? Iss it not glass, dot sand? Look at it und at der sand vere dot
T’ing has not been, and see if it is not so different.’
“I picked up some sand from under my foot. And then I saw what _he_ had
seen at once. The sand in my hand was coarser, dirtier—in short, like
any fine-grained sand you may have seen. But the sand where the Grey had
fallen was clear, glasslike. It was almost transparent, and I saw that
what was there was a mass of silicon particles. I nodded.
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I see now. That stuff has eaten out every particle of
mineral, of dirt and dust, but not the silicon!’
“‘Egsactly! Und dot iss vat has safed us from—Gott only knows vot! I
do not know what dot stuff vill eat, but I _do_ know it vill not eat
silicon. Vy? _I_ do not know. Dot iss yet a mystery. So—it starts,—_ach_,
dot too, I do not know—but it starts somewhere. Und it eats und grows,
und grows and eats, and eferyt’ing vot it touches it consumes—egcept
sand. Sand stops it.
“‘It eats out der stuff in der sand, but not der silica, und starves and
dies. It is a miracle. If der sand vas not here—_ach, Gott!_—it vould
keep on going until—vell—I do not know! I haf nefer seen dot before. I
am intrigued, und I am going to take dot stuff—oh, only a liddle bit—und
I shall not rest until I haf learned something about it. Und, because I
haf seen it does not lige sand, I vill make for it a cage—a liddle box of
glass, und study it lige it vas a bug. Not?’
“We returned to where our natives still stood with our packs. We quickly
fitted together some microscopic slides into a rough box and bound it
about with string. With it, we returned to the edge of the gray patch.
Von Housmann knelt down and carefully scooped up a bit of the fungus with
a glass spatula he had brought along. He dumped this into his box and
waited. In five minutes it had disappeared. He looked up blankly.
“‘You forget, Sigmund,’ I said, smiling at his woeful expression. ‘It
starves on silicon. It won’t live in glass.’
“‘_Ach. Dumkopf!_ Of course! I haf forgot dot. But, ve vill fool dot
hell-plant. He goes yet on hunger-strike—no? Ve try now dot forcible
feeding.’
“He took out his knife and cut from a near-by tree several small
splinters.
“Ve vill feed him, so. Dot vood, it vill be for him a greadt feast, und
he shall eat und eat, und we vill study him und see vot we vill see.’
“Laughing, he bent over and shook out the tiny gray residue which was in
the box. He dropped in a sliver of wood and was bending over to refill
his box when I felt a sting on my foot. I looked down, and my heart stood
still.
“On my shoe, just in between the laces, was a spot of gray. I could not
move. I was cold. I can not describe how I felt, but I seemed turned to
stone. My flesh quivered and shrank and I was sick—very sick. Sigmund
looked up, startled, and then he looked at my feet.
“The next thing I knew I was on my back, my foot in his hand. One slash
of his knife across the thongs which laced my boot, and he jerked it off.
“The biting grew worse. I heard him gasp, and then I felt a sharp pain.
My head swam and I must have fainted. I regained consciousness—I don’t
know how soon after—and I found myself back under the trees. I looked
at my foot, which was throbbing and burning like fire. It was swathed
in a bandage that Von Housmann had taken from his emergency kit and was
wrapping around the instep. It was deeply stained with blood. I moved,
and he looked up. He smiled when he saw I was conscious.
“‘Dot was a close shave—yes? It had just eaten into der shoe as I pulled
it off und one spot—lige a bencil dot—on your skin vas gray. So I cut it
out and all around it, und so you haf a hole in your foot, but—you haf
your foot. Now so! You lie here, und I get der niggers and ve take you to
bed.’
“A tent was soon erected and I was carried into it. For two days I lay
there, delirious half the time. Sigmund never left my side. He even
slept there. He was insistent that it was his fault. He said one of the
apparently dead fungi had dropped on my shoe and had revived there. That
is, the plant, instead of dying, had shriveled up, but the life-nucleus
was still strong. I shudder even now when I think of what might have been.
“At the end of the third day I was able to hobble about a little with
the aid of a cane. That afternoon Sigmund came to me and asked if I
would care to go with him to fill his little glass box. I refused, and
he laughed. It was the last time I ever heard him laugh. I begged him to
leave that stuff alone.
“Still laughing, he made some light reply and left me. I lay in my cot.
I was filled with forebodings. The heat was intense, and I must have
dropped off to sleep. I dreamed horrible, troublesome, weird dreams. I
awoke, bathed in a cold sweat. I felt sure something was wrong, that some
one was calling for me. I got to my feet and left my tent. No one was in
sight. I tried to laugh at my premonition. I bitterly regretted that I
had allowed my friend to override my persuasions.
“Hurrying as much as was possible, I started toward the clearing. My
wound throbbed and ached. It tortured me. I seemed weighed down. Once I
stumbled in my eagerness. It was horrible. Like a nightmare.
“I must have covered half the distance when I heard a scream. What
a shriek it was! I wake up nights even now hearing it. It was
unrecognizable. Like some unearthly animal. Just that one scream. My
stick hindered me. I threw it away and ran.
“My blood was cold in my veins, but I felt not one twinge of pain in my
_foot_. At last I came to the edge of the clearing. And there—God, it
makes me sick even now to think of it.”
* * * * *
The speaker paused; his face was chalky, and he shuddered and buried his
face in his hands. I think he was crying.
Outside, the wind still howled, dully, monotonously, eerily. Sometimes it
would shriek and scream. Then my friend’s voice again—level, dead, cold.
“I looked out; I saw Sigmund standing on the sand. I can see him as
plainly as though he were here now. His face was ashen. He was looking
down. At his feet were the fragments of the glass box he had made.
“He was holding out his hands, looking at them. They were gray. And they
writhed and twisted, but his arms were still. He was not even trembling.
My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, and my throat was dry—but at
last I called to him.
“‘Sigmund—Sigmund!’ I cried. ‘For God’s sake—’
“He looked up, and, I tell you, I never want to see such a face again!
I can never forget it. The face of a soul in torture. He looked at me
and held out his arms. His hands were gone—flaked off in large, gray,
writhing drops to the sand at his feet!
“He tried to smile, but couldn’t.
“Another gray—Thing—dropped off. I was dizzy with sickness. It was
unbelievable. And then he spoke. His voice was well-nigh unrecognizable.
It croaked and broke:
“‘Done for, my friendt. I feel it eating to my heart. Be merciful and
help me. _Shoot_—quick, through the foreheadt!’
“His words beat through the stupor clouding my brain, I started toward
him—hands out-stretched. I could not speak.
“‘_Um Gottes Willen, bleibt da!_ Stop! Stop!’
“The words brought me up to a stop.
“‘Sigmund! My friend! What—?’
“‘Do not come near me! Vould you also be so tormented? Vat dot Gray
touches it consumes. Do not argue, I say, but _shoot!_ _Heilige Mütter!_
Vy do you not shoot?’
“His voice rose into a shriek of agony. What was left of one arm had
sloughed off—the other was almost gone. A little mound of gray grew
larger at his feet. His flesh was consumed; skin, blood and bone,
absorbed by that vile gray Thing, and he shrieked in agony and prayer.
Both arms were gone, and the stuff at his feet had already begun to cut
through his boots.
“I shot him—between his eyes. I saw him fall, and I fainted. When I came
to, there was only a mound of tiny gray fungi, greedily reaching their
hellish tentacles for sustenance and slowly shriveling up into tiny light
gray specks of dust on a glossy patch of sand.”