The Dark Other by Stanley G. Weinbaum (new ebook reader .txt) 📕

his gaze was more cat-like than human. She moved her head aside; his eyes, without apparent shift, were still on hers, like the eyes of a pictured face. A resurgence of anger shook her at his immobility; his aloofness seemed to imply that nothing she could do would disturb him.

“Wasn’t it enough?” she screamed. “Wasn’t it? Then look!”

She seized the bottle, poured another stream of the oily liquid into her glass, and raised it to her lips. Again the burning fluid excoriated her tongue and throat, and then suddenly, the tumbler was struck from her hand, spilling the rest of its contents on the table.

“That is enough,” said the icy voice of her companion.

“Oh, it is? We’ll see!” She snatched at the bottle, still more than half full. The thin hand of Nicholas Devine wrenched it violently away.

“Give me that!” she cried. “You wanted what you’re getting!” The warmth within her had reached the surface now; she felt flushed, excited, reckless, and desperately angry.

The other set the bottle deliberately on the floor; he rose, circled the table, and stood glaring down at her with that same inexplicable expression. Suddenly he raised his hand; twisting her black hair in his fist, he dealt her a stinging blow across the lips half-opened to scream, then flung her away so violently that she nearly sprawled from her chair.

The scream died in her throat; dazed by the blow, she dropped her head to the table, while sobs of pain and fear shook her. Coherent thought had departed, and she knew only that her lips stung, that her clear, active little mind was caught in a mesh of befuddlement. She couldn’t think; she could only sob in the haze of dizziness that encompassed her. After a long interval, she raised her head, opened her eyes upon a swaying, unsteady world, and faced her companion, who had silently resumed his seat.

“Nicholas Devine,” she said slowly, speaking as if each word were an effort, “I hate you!”

“Ah!” he said and was again silent.

She forced her eyes to focus on his face, while his features danced vaguely as if smoke flowed between the two of them. It was as if there were smoke in her mind as well; she made a great effort to rise above the clouds that bemused her thoughts.

“Take me home,” she said. “Nicholas, I want to go home.”

“Why should I?” he asked impassively. “The experiment is hardly begun.”

“Experiment?” she echoed dully. “Oh, yes⁠—experiment. I’m an experiment.”

“An experiment in evil,” he said.

“Yes⁠—in evil. And I hate you! That’s evil enough, isn’t it?”

He reached down, lifted the bottle to the table, and methodically poured himself a drink of the liquor. He raised it, watching the oily swirls in the light, then tipped the fluid to his lips while the girl gazed at him with a sullen set to her own lips. A tiny crimson spot had appeared in the corner of her mouth; at its sting, she raised her hand and brushed it away. She stared as if in unbelief at the small red smear it left on her fingers.

“Nicholas,” she said pleadingly, “won’t you take me home? Please, Nicholas, I want to leave here.”

“Do you hate me?” he asked, a queer twisting smile appearing on his lips.

“If you’ll take me home I won’t,” said Pat, snatching through the rising clouds of dizziness at a straw of logic. “You’re going to take me home, aren’t you?”

“Let me hear you say you hate me!” he demanded, rising again. The girl cringed away with a little whimper as he approached. “You hate me, don’t you?”

He twisted his hand again in her ebony hair, drawing her face back so that he stared down at it.

“There’s blood on your lips,” he said as if gloating. “Blood on your lips!”

He clutched her hair more tightly; abruptly he bent over her, pressing his mouth to hers. Her bruised lips burned with pain at the fierce pressure of his; she felt a sharp anguish at the impingement of his teeth. Yet the cloudy pall of dizziness about her was unbroken; she was too frightened and bewildered for resistance.

“Blood on your lips!” he repeated exultingly. “Now is the beauty of evil!”

“Nicholas,” she said wearily, clinging desperately to a remnant of logic, “what do you want of me? Tell me what you want and then let me go home.”

“I want to show you the face of evil,” he said. “I want you to know the glory of evil, the loveliness of supreme evil!”

He dragged his chair around the table, placing it beside her. Seated, he drew her into his arms, where she lay passive, too limp and befuddled to resist. With a sudden movement, he turned her so that her back rested across his knees, her face gazing up into his. He stared intently down at her, and the light, shining at an angle into his eyes, suddenly struck out the red glow that lingered in them.

“I want you to know the power of evil,” he murmured. “The irresistible, incomprehensible fascination of it, and the unspeakable pleasures of indulgence in it.”

Pat scarcely heard him; she was struggling now in vain against the overwhelming fumes of the alcohol she had consumed. The room was wavering around her, and behind her despair and terror, a curious elation was thrusting itself into her consciousness.

“Evil,” she echoed vaguely.

“Blood on your lips!” he muttered, peering down at her. “Taste the unutterable pleasure of kisses on bloody lips; drain the sweet anguish of pain, the fierce delight of suffering!”

He bent down; again his lips pressed upon hers, but this time she felt herself responding. Some still sane portion of her brain rebelled, but the intoxication of sense and alcohol was dominant. Suddenly she was clinging to him, returning his kisses, glorying in the pain of her lacerated lips. A red mist suffused her; she had no consciousness of anything save the exquisite pain of the kiss, that somehow contrived to transform itself into an ecstacy of delight. She lay gasping as