GROPING AT THE UNKNOWN
Wilton Grant was at that time just under forty. He was a tall, spare
man of muscular build, lean but not powerful. His smooth-shaven face
was large-featured, rough-hewn, with a shock of brown hair above
it--hair turning grey at the temples. Beneath heavy brows his grey
eyes were deep-set, somber. His ruddy-brown complexion, the obvious
strength of his frame at a quick glance gave him an out-of-doors look;
a woodsman cast in the mould of a gentleman. Yet there was something
poetic about him as well; that wavy, unruly hair, the brooding quality
of his eyes. When he spoke, those eyes frequently twinkled with the
good nature characteristic of him. But in repose, the somberness was
there, unmistakable; an unvoiced, brooding melancholy.
Yet there was nothing morbid about Wilton Grant. A wholesomeness,
mental and physical, radiated from him. He was a jolly companion, a man
of intellectuality and culture. His deep voice had a pleasing resonance
suggestive of the public speaker. Normally rather silent, chary of
speech, he could upon occasion draw fluently from a vocabulary of which
many an orator would be proud.
He was a bachelor. I often wondered why, for he seemed of a type that
would be immensely attractive to women. He did not avoid them; the pose
of a woman-hater would have been abhorrent to him. Yet no woman to my
knowledge had ever interested him, even mildly. Except his sister. They
were orphans and she was his constant companion. They were both in
fact, rather chary of friends; absorbed in their work, in which she
took an active part. Their home and laboratory was an unpretentious
frame cottage in a Westchester village of suburban New York. They lived
quietly, modestly, with only one automobile, and no 'plane.
Will opened the door for me himself, smiling as he extended his big,
hearty hand. "Well! You came, Rob? You're very forgiving--that's the
mark of a true friend." He led me into the old-fashioned sitting room.
"I'm not going to apologize--"
"Don't," I said. "I knew of course you had some reason--"
We were seated. He said with a nod, "Yes. A reason--you'll hear it
now--tonight--"
His voice trailed away. It made my heart beat faster. He had changed. I
saw him suddenly older.
"Where's Bee?" I asked out of the silence.
He jerked himself back from his reverie. "Upstairs. She'll be down in a
moment. She's been ill, Rob."
"But you said not seriously."
"No. She's better now. It's been largely mental--she's been frightened,
Rob. A terrible strain--that's why I thought it better for us to
isolate ourselves for a while--"
"Oh, then that's why--"
"That's why I wrote you so peremptorily not to come to see us any more.
I was upset myself, I needn't have been so crude--"
"Please don't apologize, Will. I--I didn't understand, but--"
"I'm not. I'm just telling you. But now Bee thought we should have
you with us. Our best friend, you understand? And it will make things
easier for her--naturally she's frightened--"
My hand went to his arm. What I had meant to say I do not know, for
Bee at that moment entered the room. A girl of twenty-four. Tall, slim
and graceful.
She was dressed now in a clinging negligee which seemed to accentuate
the slim grace of her. But the marks of illness were plain upon her
face; a pallor; her eyes, though they smiled at me with the smile of
greeting upon her lips, had the light of fear in them; her hand as I
took it was chill, and its fingers felt thin and wan.
"Bee!"
"It's good to see you, Rob. Will has been apologizing for us, I
suppose--"
These friends of mine calling me to them in their hour of need. I had
been annoyed, hurt; I had not realized how deep was my affection for
them ... for Bee.... Vaguely I wondered now if their trouble--this
fear that lay so obviously upon them both--concerned the coming of the
ghosts....
Bee sat close beside me, as though by my nearness she felt a measure of
protection.
* * * * *
Will faced us. For a moment he was silent. Then he began, "I have a
good deal to say, Rob--I want to be brief--"
I interrupted impulsively, "Just tell me this. Does it, this thing,
whatever it is--does it concern the ghosts?"
I was aware of a shudder that ran over Bee. Will did not move. "Yes,"
he said. "It does. And these ghosts have changed. We knew they
would--we've been expecting it."
"That poor girl," Bee said softly. "Dead--dead in her bed of fright.
You read about it, Rob?"
"A menace," Will went on. "The world is just realizing it now. Ghosts,
changing from shadow to substance--" He stopped, then added abruptly,
"We've never told you much about our work--our business--have we?"
They had in truth always been reticent. I had never been in their
laboratory. They were engaged, I understood, chiefly with soil
analysis; sometimes people would come out to consult them. Beyond such
a meager idea I knew nothing about it.
Will said abruptly, "Our real work we have never told anyone. It
concerns--well, a research into realms of chemistry and physics
unknown. I have been delving into it for nearly ten years, and then Bee
grew old enough to help me. We've made progress--" His smile was very
queer. "Tonight--I'm ready to show you something that I can do."
They seemed to torture Bee, these words of her brother's. I heard the
sharp intake of her breath, saw her white fingers locked tensely in her
lap.
"Not--not tonight, Will."
"Tonight--as good a night as any other.... Rob, would it surprise you
to know we anticipated the coming of the ghosts years ago? Not that
they would come, but the possibility of it. Ghosts! What do you think
they are, Rob?"
"Why ghosts--ghosts are--"
"Spirits of the dead made visible?" His manner was suddenly vehement;
his tone contemptuous. "Earth-bound spirits! Astral bodies housing
souls whose human bodies are in their graves! Rubbish! These are not
that sort of ghosts."
I stammered, "But then--what are they?"
"Call them ghosts, the word is as good as any other." His voice grew
calmer; he went on earnestly, "I want you to understand me--it's
necessary--and yet I must not be too technical with you. Let me ask
you this--you'll see in a moment that none of this is irrelevant. How
many dimensions has a point?"
At my puzzled look he smiled. "I'd better not question you, Rob, but
you won't find me hard to understand. A point--an infinitesimal point
in space--has no dimension. It has only location. That's clear, isn't
it? A line has one dimension--length. A plane surface has length and
breadth; a cube, length, breadth and thickness. The world of the cube,
Rob, is the world we think we live in--the world of three dimensions.
You've heard of that intangible something they call the fourth
dimension? We think it does not concern us--but it does. We ourselves
have four dimensions. We are the world of the fourth dimension. But the
fourth is not so readily understood as the other three."
He paused for an instant, then added, "The fourth dimension is time,
Rob. Not a new conception to scientists--think a moment--how would you
define time?"
"Time," I said, "Well, I read somewhere that time is what keeps
everything from happening at once."
* * * * *
He did not smile. "Quite so. It is something in the universe of our
consciousness along which we progress in measured rate from birth to
death--from the beginning to the end.
"We are living in a four-dimensional world--a world of length, breadth,
thickness and time. The first three, to our human perception, have
always been linked together. Time--I do not know why--seems to our
minds something essentially different. Yet it is not. Our universe is a
blending of all four.
"Let me give you an example. That book there on the table--it exists
because it has length, breadth and thickness. But Rob, it also has
duration. It is matter, persisting both in space and in time. You see
how the element time is involved? I'll go further. We know that two
material bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time. With
three of the dimensions only--that is, if theoretically we remove the
identical time-factor--they do not conflict. You're confused, Rob?"
"I'm not quite sure what you're aiming at," I said.
"You'll understand in a moment. Matter, as we know it, is merely a
question of vibration. It is, isn't it?"
"I know light is vibration," I responded. "And sound. And heat, and--"
He interrupted me. "The very essence of matter is vibration. Do you
know of what matter is composed? What is the fundamental substance? Let
us see. First, we find matter is composed only of molecules. They are
substances, vibrating in space. But of what are molecules composed?
Atoms, vibrating in space. Atoms are substance. Of what are they
composed?"
"Electrons?" I said dubiously.
"Protons and rings of electrons. Let us cling to substance, Rob. These
electrons are merely negative, disembodied electricity--not matter,
but mere vibration. They--these electrons--revolve around a central,
positive nucleus. This then, is all the substance that matter has. But
when you penetrate this inner nucleus, what do you find? Substance?
Not at all. This proton, as they sometimes term it, this last inner
strong-hold of substance, is itself a mere vortex--a whirlpool in
space!"
I groped at the thought. Matter, substance, everything tangible in
my whole conscious universe, robbed of its entity, reduced to mere
vibration in empty space. Vibration of what?
"It's appalling, Rob, the unreality of everything. Metaphysicians
say that nothing exists save in the perception of it by our
human senses.... I was talking of the dimension, time. It is the
indispensable factor of vibration. That's obvious. Motion is nothing
but the simultaneous change of matter in space and time. You see how
blended all the factors are? You cannot deal with one without the
others. And mark you this, Rob--you can subdivide matter until it
becomes a mere vortex in empty space. Can you wonder then--"
I had noticed Bee gazing intently across the room. "Will!" she said
suddenly; her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "It's there now,
Will!"
* * * * *
The room was brightly illuminated by a cluster of globes near the
ceiling. Will left his seat, calmly, unhurried, and switched them off.
There was only the small table light left. It cast a yellow circle of
light downward; most of the room was in shadow. And over in a corner
I saw the glowing apparition of a recumbent man no more than ten feet
from us.
Will said, "Come here, Rob--let me show you this." His voice was grave
and unflurried. As I crossed the room hesitatingly, Bee was with me,
forcing herself to calmness. She said, "It's here most of the time.
Watching us! It seems to be on guard--always watching--"
Will drew me beside him. Together we stood within a foot of the
spectre. It took my courage, but after a moment the grewsome element
seemed to leave me for Will stood as though the thing were a museum
specimen, explaining it.
I saw, so far as I can put the sight into words, the vibrating white
shape of a man reclining on one elbow. It was slightly below the level
of the floor, most of it within or behind the floor, the outlines of
which were plainer than the apparition mingled with them. The head and
shoulders were raised about to the level of our ankles.
A man? I could not call it that. Yet there was a face which after a
moment I could have sworn was human-featured; I could almost think I
saw its eyes, staring at me intently.
Will stooped down and passed his hand slowly through the face. "You can
feel nothing. It has visibility--that property only in common with us.
Try it."
I forced my hand down to the thing, held it there. It was like putting
one's fingers into a dim area of light.
"Is it--it is alive?" I asked.
"Alive?" Will's tone was grim. "That depends on what you mean by alive.
It can reason, if that answers you."
"I mean--can it move?"
"It moves," said Bee. "It watches us--follows us--" She shuddered.
The details of the figure? I stepped back to see it better. It seemed
now a man clothed in normal garments ... a malevolent face, with eyes
watching me.... Was that face my imagination, or did I really see it?
* * * * *
I must have stammered my thoughts aloud, for Will said, "What we see,
and what really exists, has puzzled metaphysicians for centuries. Who
knows what this thing really looks like? You do not, nor do I. Our
minds are capable of visualizing things only within the limits of an
accustomed mould. You see that thing as a man of fairly human aspect,
and so do I. The details are elusive; but stare at them for a day and
your imagination will supply them all. That's what you do in infancy
with the whole material world about you--mould it to fit our human
perceptions. But what everything really looks like--who can tell?"
"Can it--can it hear us?" I demanded.
"No--I do not think so. It can see us, no more. And it has no fear."
With a belligerent gesture he added humorously, "Get up, you, or I'll
wring your neck!"
"Will, don't joke like that!" Bee protested.
He turned away and switched on the main lights. I could still see the
thing there, but now it was paler--wan like starlight before the coming
dawn. Will turned his back on it and sat down. His face had gone solemn
again.
"These things are materializing, Rob. They have become a menace. That's
why what I'm planning to do should be done at once.... Bee! Will you
please not interrupt me!" It was the first time I had ever heard
his tone turn sharp with her, and I realized then the strain he was
under. "Rob, listen to me. Science has given me the power to do what
I'm planning, but we won't discuss that now. Call this anything you
like. What I want you to know is--there is another realm about us into
which--under given conditions--our consciousness can penetrate. Call
it the Unknown. The realm of Unthought Things. A material world? I've
shown you, Rob, that nothing is substance if you go to the inside of
it."
Dimly I was groping at a hundred will-o'-the-wisps, my mind trembling
upon the verge of his meaning, my imagination winging into distant
caverns of unthought things that hid in the elusive dark. Could this be
science?
He was saying, "My mind cannot fathom such another realm, nor can
yours. You think of land, water, trees, houses, people. Those are only
words for what we think we see and feel. But there are beings--sentient
beings--in this other state of consciousness, we can now be sure. For
Rob, they are coming out! Don't you understand? They have already come
into the borderland between the consciousness of their realm and ours."
He would not let me interrupt him. "Wait, Rob! Let us say they have
a lust for adventure--or a lust for something else--they are coming
out nevertheless. A menace to us--that girl in Kansas is dead." He
swept his hand in gesture at the apparition behind him. "That thing is
watching me. As Bee says, it is on guard here. Because, Rob, I found a
way of transmuting my identity out of this conscious realm of ours into
that same borderland where these things we call ghosts are roaming. And
they know it--and so they're on guard--watching me."
He paused for the space of a breath. Bee, white-faced, tremulous,
turned to me. "Don't let him do it, Rob!"
"I must," he declared vehemently. "Rob, that's why we needed you
here--to wait here with Bee. I'm going in there tonight--into the
shadows, the borderland, whatever it is. These--nameless things are
striving to come out--but I'm going to turn them back if I can!"