Richard Matheson - Other Kingdoms

With all my love

to Ruth Ann,

the one beautiful princess

in my life

My abundant gratitude and love to Diana Mullen for her endless assistance in the preparation of this book. She has been a tower of patient help to me.

And to my son Richard for all his loving support and assistance.

To begin with, my name is not Arthur Black. My family name is White. My given name is Alexander. The publisher of my twenty-seven novels decided that Alexander White was not an appropriate name for the author of the MIDNIGHT serieschoice selections such as MIDNIGHT BLOOD THIRST and MIDNIGHT FLESH HUNGER . Among twenty-four other tasteful items. Accordingly, he gave me the name of Arthur Black. I went along with it. I needed the money. At three thousand dollars a shotlater three-fiveI managed to squeeze by.

Despite the questionable tenor of my thirty-year oeuvre, I hesitated to write this book. Why? Because its true. No matter the wonders and indescribable terrors (which I have nonetheless attempted to describe, anyway), every incident is factual. You will, undoubtedly, question that statement. Rereading my manuscript, I am tempted to question it myself. Yet my account is true; I swear it. Forget the MIDNIGHT series (assuming you have had the poor judgment and loose change to actually read them). This is not (is not, I emphasize) fiction. Bizarre, incredible, bone-chilling though it may be (and I have tried not to overstate the more grotesque elements), there is not a doubt in my mind that they all took place in the year 1918, when I was eighteen years old.

I am eighty-two years old nowwhich gives you some idea of how long I waited to write this book.

Arthur Black (as you know me)

February 9, 1982

Contents

I was born in Brooklyn, New York, on February 20, 1900. The son of Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, and Martha Justine Hollenbeck. I had one sister, Veronica, younger than I, who died the same year these strange incidents began.

Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, was a swine. There, Ive written it down after all these years. He was a total swine. No, he wasnt. He was a sick man. His brain was gnarledshadow ridden, you might say.

Veronica and I (especially Veronica) suffered greatly at his hands. His discipline was iron based. The Navy spared him from being institutionalized, I believe. Where else could his near-demented behavior be permitted? Our mother, tenderhearted and emotional, died before she was forty. I should say, escaped before she was forty. Her wifehood was an extended sojourn in Hell.

* * *

I present a small example:

One day in March 1915, Mother, Veronica, and I received an invitation (an order) to attend a dinner on fathers ship (a supply ship, I recall). None of us wanted to go, but there was scant alternativeDaddys ship for dinner or, for refusing, several weeks (perhaps a month) of indeterminate punishment.

So we donned our respectful bibs and tuckers, and were driven to the Navy Yard, there to discover that Daddys ship was anchored on the Hudson River, which, with driving winds, was being whipped into minor tsunamis.

Would any husband and father in his right mind have permitted his family to face such a perilous experience? I ask you, would any husband and father in his right mind not have canceled the entire crazy venture and taken his family to a decent restaurant? I answer for you. Of course he would. Did Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, behave as though he was in his right mind? One guess. We were scheduled to have dinner aboard the USS WhiteSwine, it should have been named. If we all drowned en routewhat is it the ruffian set says today? tough titties . Regrettable but unavoidable.

We stepped, lurchingly, aboard the Captains gighis private launchand departed. The side awnings were lowered, Dads concession to reality, no doubt. The wind, however, was blowing so tremendously that the awnings kept flapping open at their bottoms, spraying us with Hudson River. Needless to sayI say it regardlessthe waves were more than choppy; they were semi-mountainous. The gig shuddered and bounced, tilted and rocked. Mother pleaded with the Captain to turn back, but he remained adamant, lips compressed and bloodless. We would be arriving at the ship toot-sweethe actually used the phrase, or, should I say, butchered it? Mother held a handkerchief to her lips, no doubt to prevent losing any prior meals that day. Veronica wept. I take that back; attempted (in vain) to keep from weeping, because the Captain loathed her tears, making it abundantly clear that he did with many a dark critical glance.

Somehow, despite my conviction that we were all destined for the bottom of the river, we finally arrivedstill alive but dampat Dads ship, which, dear reader, was scarcely the conclusion of our mal de mer nightmare. There were, you see, no convenient steps to the deck, only an exterior metal ladder, which, because of the leaping waves, was running with water. Up this slip-and-slide companionway climbed the White clan, totally convinced that death of one variety or anotherby falling and/or drowningwas imminent. (Actually falling first, then submersion in the briny deep.)

The spotlight of the gig glared onincreasing our blind ascentwhat with the ships spotlight also onand Mother went first, assisted (poorly) by a terrified sailor. To my amazementand disbelieving reliefshe neither fell nor submerged, achieving the deck, still damp but unscathed. Veronica went next. At that moment, I summoned a hope for guardian angels. Surrendering completely her effort not to weep and offend the Captain, she labored, assisted, up the puddling ladder, slipping more than once and shedding copious tears and sobs. I followed; gripping the cold ladder railing so rigidly, my hands went numb. No assistance for me. Father either assumed I was strong enough to manage on my ownor else harbored a secret hope that I would tumble to a watery grave and relieve him of an irritating son.

Whatever the case, I climbed alone, clutching the ladder railing with both hands. Above meI tried not to look up but did, distracted by the wild flapping of Veronicas skirt, catching sight, at one point, of her underpantsa momentary glimpse of wetness. No surprise. I did the same. I wonder if Mother had, also, suffered alike. The weakness could not possibly have come from Fathers side of the genes. If he had any weakness, it was a total inability to identify with other human beings.

At one point of the death-defying climb, Veronica slipped off the ladder completely, screaming in terror, the high heel of her left shoe (why didnt she wear mountain-climbing boots?) nicking the top of my head (why didnt I wear a firemans helmet?), which began to drip blood. A chancy moment. Was Veronica to hurtle to the river? Was I to bleed to death?

Neither. Veronica, sobbing, stricken to the core, poor sweet dear that she was, regained her footing, assisted by the sailor who was with her, and was hauled up onto the deck by another sailor, a burly, redheaded, chuckling lout of a man. I followed, and so, to my chagrin, did Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, a thin smile on his granite lips. He was amused by the entire event. Im sure Mother could have killed him. Ditto. Twice over.

A few words about my sister. Veronica was a truly gentle soul. Once, in a driving rainstorm, she picked up a bleeding puppy that had been struck (and deserted) by a speeding motorist. She carried it homefive blocksin her arms. By a stroke of ill fortune, the Captain was not away that afternoon and ordered her to remove that damned, whining beast from the premises before it bled all over the handmade Chinese rug.

Only a hysterical, weeping fit by Veronicaand an atypical temperamental foot-stomping by Mothernot to mention a few choice verbal attacks by me, laced with impulsive profanities (for which I later paid a hefty price; I leave that to your imagination) persuaded the outgunned Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, tostifflyallow Veronica to take the shivering, silentstill bleedingmutt to an unused corner of the cellar.