The Dark Other

“That isn’t what I mean,” said Nicholas Devine, turning his eyes on his companion. “I mean pure horror in the sense of horror detached from experience, apart from reality. Not just a formless fear, which implies either fear of something that might happen, or fear of unknown dangers. Do you see what I mean?”

“Of course,” said Pat, letting her eyes wander over the black expanse of night-dark Lake Michigan. “Certainly I see what you mean but I don’t quite understand how you’d do it. It sounds⁠—well, difficult.”

She gazed at his lean profile, clear-cut against the distant light. He had turned, staring thoughtfully over the lake, idly fingering the levers on the steering wheel before him. The girl wondered a little at her feeling of contentment; she, Patricia Lane, satisfied to spend an evening in nothing more exciting than conversation! And they must have parked here a full two hours now. There was something about Nick⁠—she didn’t understand exactly what; sensitivity, charm, personality. Those were meaningless cliches, handles to hold the unexplainable nuances of character.

“It is difficult,” resumed Nick. “Baudelaire tried it, Poe tried it. And in painting, Hogarth, Goya, Dore. Poe came closest, I think; he caught the essence of horror in an occasional poem or story. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know,” said Pat. “I’ve forgotten most of my Poe.”

“Remember that story of his⁠—‘The Black Cat’?”

“Dimly. The man murdered his wife.”

And suddenly, squarely in the center of the road, another car, until now concealed by the arch of the bridge, appeared almost upon them. There was a heart-stopping moment when a collision seemed inevitable, and Pat felt the arm against her tighten convulsively into a bar of steel. She heard her own sobbing gasp, and then, somehow, they had slipped unscathed between the other car and the rail of the bridge.

“Oh!” she gasped faintly, then with a return of breath, “That was nice, Nick!”

Beyond the bridge, the road widened once more; she felt the car slowing, edging toward the broad shoulder of the road.

“There was danger,” said her companion in tones as emotionless as the rasping of metal. “I came to save it.”

“Save what?” queried Pat as the car slid to a halt on the turf.

“Your body.” The tones were still cold, like grinding wheels. “The beauty of your body!”

He reached a thin hand toward her, suddenly seized her skirt and snatched it above the silken roundness of her knees. “There,” he rasped. “That is what I mean.”

“Nick!” Pat half-screamed in appalled astonishment. “How⁠—” She paused, shocked into abrupt silence, for the face turned toward her was but a remote, evil caricature of Nicholas Devine’s. It leered at her out of bloodshot eyes, as if behind the mask of Nick’s face peered a red-eyed demon.

“No,” he said, still in those cold tones. “This is an experiment.”

“An experiment!”

“Yes. An experiment in evil.”

“I don’t understand,” she repeated.

“I said you wouldn’t.”

“Do you mean,” she asked, struck by a sudden thought, “that discussion of ours about pure horror? What you said that night last week?”

“That!” His voice was icy and contemptuous. “That was the drivel of a weakling. No; I mean evil, not horror⁠—the living evil that can be so beautiful that one walks deliberately, with open eyes, into Hell only to prevent its loss. That is the experiment.”

“Oh,” said Pat, her own voice suddenly cool. “Is that what you wish to do⁠—experiment on me?”

“Yes.”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“First you are to drink with me.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “I see⁠—dimly. I am a subject, a reagent, a guinea pig, to provide you material for your writing. You propose to use me in this experiment of yours⁠—this experiment in evil. All right!” She picked up the tumbler; impulsively she drained it. The liquor, diluted as it was, was raw and strong enough to bring tears smarting to her eyes. Or was it the liquor?

“All right!” she cried. “I’ll drink it all⁠—the whole bottle!” She seized the flask, filling her tumbler to the brim, while her companion watched her with impassive gaze. “You’ll have your experiment! And then, Nicholas Devine, we’re through! Do you hear me? Through!”

She caught up the tumbler, raised it to her lips, and drained the searing liquid until she could see her companion’s cold eyes regarding her through the glass of its bottom.

She saw the seat with its lone occupant, and hastened her steps. Nicholas Devine was sitting exactly as he had on that other occasion, chin cupped on his hands, eyes turned moodily toward the vast lake that coruscated now with the reflection of stars and many lights. As before, she moved close to his side before he looked up, but here the similarity of the two occasions vanished. Her fears were realized; she was looking into the red-gleaming eyes and expressionless features of his other self⁠—the demon of Saturday evening!

“Sit down!” he said as a sardonic half-smile twisted his lips. “Aren’t you pleased? Aren’t you thrilled to the very core of your being?”

Pat stood irresolute; she controlled an impulse to break into sudden, abandoned flight. The imminence of the crowded walks again reassured her, and she seated herself gingerly on the extreme edge of the bench, staring at her companion with coolly inimical eyes. He returned her gaze with features as immobile as carven stone; only his red eyes gave evidence of the obscene, uncanny life behind the mask.

“Well?” said Pat in as frigid a voice as she could muster.

“Yes,” said the other surveying her. “You are quite as I recalled you. Very pretty, almost beautiful, save for a certain irregularity in your features. Not unpleasant, however.” His eyes traveled over her body; automatically she drew back, shrinking away from him. “You have a seductive body,” he continued. “A most seductive body; I regret that circumstances prevented our full enjoyment of it. But that will come. Yes, that will come!”