32

The Thing crept beyond the trapezoid of light thrown by the window. Rain streamed down its arms, and what was left of its face.

The living were still here. They had come for Him. They wanted to take Him back to the place of the dead. He hated the living, and wanted to destroy them. They were everything He was not.

He had been listening to their stupid, birdlike voices. He had seen them pawing through the possessions that were not theirs. He had smelled them—they smelled of warmth. Food.

He would destroy everything about them. The chimney smoke was dragged down to the trees by the rain. So He would punish them, like so much smoke.

The air hissed through his nonface. He was afraid of them, too. He was not alive, as they were. What could a Thing do, but wait, and hide? He was good at waiting. The dead do nothing but wait.

He made a noise like a laugh, but it was not a laugh. At first He had thought they would leave. There was nothing for them here. This was a place for creatures that were not alive. These chattering, lively beasts strolled from room to room. He crept from window to window, listening, watching.

He climbed up the rusting pipe and crawled along the roof. He could easily work one of these windows loose, and slip inside. He was good at slipping, and hiding. He was made of shadow. He knew how shadow crawls, when no one is watching, like the approach of night.

He made His noise again, His snort of anguish. Why were they here? It was because they knew He was here. They wanted to take Him back to the bronze husk, and leave Him there in a cold stew that would last forever. He crept along the peak of the roof, the very spine, where the roof would bear His weight without a whisper. Rain streamed into the holes in His head that emitted breath.

He crouched behind the chimney. The stones were warm, and He could not hear their mindless voices. The living had nothing to say. What could they report to one another? They knew nothing.

The not-living knew. They were the creatures with secrets. He gnawed at his hand, angrily.

He climbed along the roof, and slipped down the pipe. He panted, listening.

He was good at waiting. And he had a plan. It was a trap. They wanted to be here. Now they could not leave. He would wait for them to separate, and then He would take them. It would not be an act of cruelty, although they deserved pain. It would perfect them.

Even now He heard their voices. Brittle, empty voices, worse than the bleating of the lowest animal. But He would wait. He had waited for many years. A night, or two, more was no time at all.

A wait like this is like turning into stone. The Thing turned to granite. There were no sounds. There was no rain. No world. Only the wait. Not even a single point of fire in His mind. Nothing.

Vacant. Cold.

And then: One of them was gone. Steps, the door shutting. The one that fled did not matter. What mattered was that He could return to the place He belonged to.

This would be easy. His hands would have to touch them, and that would be no pleasure. The living were so disgusting in their warmth, simmering, quick.

The thought of touching one was nauseating. The crawlspace under the house was a good hiding place. The trees all around were good hiding places. But this was not the time to hide.

He could almost love the living, if only they were not so greasy with ignorance.

It was better to be dead than to be alive, especially if you were dead like this, supreme, and with a new life, a life the living could not dream of, that would last forever.

He would forgive these living creatures, but not now. Now they needed to be cast down, broken like a potter’s vessel. He would show them how mistaken they were, with their quick emptiness.

How foolish were the living, with their many words. How they violated the silence with their chirps, and soiled the air with their laughter. The living fouled the dark with their naked light.

He would destroy them.