The Father-Thing by Philip K. Dick

Author:Philip K. Dick [Dick, Philip K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7953-1713-2
Publisher: RosettaBooks
Published: 2011-03-28T04:00:00+00:00

It had been there, hiding in the shadows. Crouched in the darkness watching them. Its calm, emotionless voice, a dreadful parody of his father’s, rumbled close to his ear as it pulled him relentlessly toward the garage. Its cold breath blew in his face, an icy-sweet odor, like decaying soil. Its strength was immense; there was nothing he could do.

“Don’t fight me,” it said calmly. “Come along, into the garage. This is for your own good. I know best, Charles.”

“Did you find him?” his mother called anxiously, opening the back door.

“Yes, I found him.”

“What are you going to do?”

“A little spanking.” The father-thing pushed up the garage door. “In the garage.” In the half-light a faint smile, humorless and utterly without emotion, touched its lips. “You go back in the living room, June. I’ll take care of this. It’s more in my line. You never did like punishing him.”

The back door reluctantly closed. As the light cut off, Peretti bent down and groped for the b.b. gun. The father-thing instantly froze.

“Go on home, boys,” it rasped.

Peretti stood undecided, gripping the b.b. gun.

“Get going,” the father-thing repeated. “Put down that toy and get out of here.” It moved slowly toward Peretti, gripping Charles with one hand, reaching toward Peretti with the other. “No b.b. guns allowed in town, sonny. Your father know you have that? There’s a city ordinance. I think you better give me that before—”

Peretti shot it in the eye.

The father-thing grunted and pawed at its ruined eye. Abruptly it slashed out at Peretti. Peretti moved down the driveway, trying to cock the gun. The father-thing lunged. Its powerful fingers snatched the gun from Peretti’s hands. Silently, the father-thing mashed the gun against the wall of the house.

Charles broke away and ran numbly off. Where could he hide? It was between him and the house. Already, it was coming back toward him, a black shape creeping carefully, peering into the darkness, trying to make him out. Charles retreated. If there were only some place he could hide…

The bamboo.

He crept quickly into the bamboo. The stalks were huge and old. They closed after him with a faint rustle. The father-thing was fumbling in its pocket; it lit a match, then the whole pack flared up. “Charles,” it said. “I know you’re here, someplace. There’s no use hiding. You’re only making it more difficult.”

His heart hammering, Charles crouched among the bamboo. Here, debris and filth rotted. Weeds, garbage, papers, boxes, old clothing, boards, tin cans, bottles. Spiders and salamanders squirmed around him. The bamboo swayed with the night wind. Insects and filth.

And something else.

A shape, a silent, unmoving shape that grew up from the mound of filth like some nocturnal mushroom. A white column, a pulpy mass that glistened moistly in the moonlight. Webs covered it, a moldy cocoon. It had vague arms and legs. An indistinct half-shaped head. As yet, the features hadn’t formed. But he could tell what it was.

A mother-thing. Growing here in the filth and dampness, between the garage and the house.

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