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Fanfare, November 1950

Page 15

of the forest.
It thumped on through the forest, toward the house.

Now, It didn't look like a beast anymore, for It had the dead man's body and his shape, and his brain. It was almost human.
But a biting voice way down inside of It told It that It wasn't human.

As it knocked on the door of the house It realized It was cold, and that It wanted to be in the warmth of the house.
A woman answered the door. A real woman, that could breathe, and talk, and think. A human woman!
"John," she said, "you're late for supper. Bring anything? Well don't just stand there. Come on inside."
It thumped into the house.
"Well, sit down, don't just stand there," she said. "Why didn't you bring something home for us to eat?"
She had a nice voice, It thought.
"Answer me."
She shrugged in disgust, and motioned It into the kitchen.
"Then I guess you'll have to be satisfied with what we have. Do you hear me?"
It slouched in the kitchen chair, staring contentedly at her.
"What's wrong with you today?" She got off Its lap, and drew away from It. "Your lips are chaste as snow. Peak to me before I go crazy."
Its lips moved wonderingly, and words came out.
"Are you for real?" It gushed.
Why, It could actually speak, just like she did. It was in Its glory.
"It you're trying to be funny, let me tell you I'm not one bit amused. This isn't like you at all. Where's your rifle?"
No answer.
"Why, you must have left it in the forest. I'd better go get it. You must be very tired."
A few minutes later she was in Its arms, shivering and cold, her face blue with fright.
"Darling, there's something out there in the forest. It's a monster. It's dead, I think. I've never seen anything so horrible."
That, It thought, was an insult to Its pride.
But she was too nice to kill. It sort of---liked her.
It patted her head reassuringly, as if it were all but a dream.
"Oh dear, I guess it was only a dream, but it seemed so real, I'm not sure. You'll look in the morning and see if it's still there, won't you?"
It nodded, a smile playing over Its face.
"All right. I'm so tired. We'd better go to bed now."
So they went, hand in hand, up the stairs and got into bed together.

When the morning came, it found Sheriff Jones plodding through the forest toward their house, the only one in miles.
He passed something in the brush on the way, something resembling a giant chunk of bloody muck, but thought no more about it. After all, it was dead!
Mrs. Smith was amazed, when trying to wake It up, that part of Its left foot had turned into a slimy yellow muck.
"John," she stuttered unbelievingly, "it's time to get up."
It nodded wearily, and flopped itself out of the bed into a pair of slippers.
But upon contact with one of the slippers, one of Its feet fell off, onto the floor.
Not really a foot---more of a chunk of bloody-red muck.
"John," she screamed, "what is it? What's wrong with you?" She

Saving...

of the forest. It thumped on through the forest, toward the house. Now, It didn't look like a beast anymore, for It had the dead man's body and his shape, and his brain. It was almost human. But a biting voice way down inside of It told It that It wasn't human. As it knocked on the door of the house It realized It was cold, and that It wanted to be in the warmth of the house. A woman answered the door. A real woman, that could breathe, and talk, and think. A human woman! "John," she said, "you're late for supper. Bring anything? Well don't just stand there. Come on inside." It thumped into the house. "Well, sit down, don't just stand there," she said. "Why didn't you bring something home for us to eat?" She had a nice voice, It thought. "Answer me." She shrugged in disgust, and motioned It into the kitchen. "Then I guess you'll have to be satisfied with what we have. Do you hear me?" It slouched in the kitchen chair, staring contentedly at her. "What's wrong with you today?" She got off Its lap, and drew away from It. "Your lips are chaste as snow. Peak to me before I go crazy." Its lips moved wonderingly, and words came out. "Are you for real?" It gushed. Why, It could actually speak, just like she did. It was in Its glory. "It you're trying to be funny, let me tell you I'm not one bit amused. This isn't like you at all. Where's your rifle?" No answer. "Why, you must have left it in the forest. I'd better go get it. You must be very tired." A few minutes later she was in Its arms, shivering and cold, her face blue with fright. "Darling, there's something out there in the forest. It's a monster. It's dead, I think. I've never seen anything so horrible." That, It thought, was an insult to Its pride. But she was too nice to kill. It sort of---liked her. It patted her head reassuringly, as if it were all but a dream. "Oh dear, I guess it was only a dream, but it seemed so real, I'm not sure. You'll look in the morning and see if it's still there, won't you?" It nodded, a smile playing over Its face. "All right. I'm so tired. We'd better go to bed now." So they went, hand in hand, up the stairs and got into bed together. When the morning came, it found Sheriff Jones plodding through the forest toward their house, the only one in miles. He passed something in the brush on the way, something resembling a giant chunk of bloody muck, but thought no more about it. After all, it was dead! Mrs. Smith was amazed, when trying to wake It up, that part of Its left foot had turned into a slimy yellow muck. "John," she stuttered unbelievingly, "it's time to get up." It nodded wearily, and flopped itself out of the bed into a pair of slippers. But upon contact with one of the slippers, one of Its feet fell off, onto the floor. Not really a foot---more of a chunk of bloody-red muck. "John," she screamed, "what is it? What's wrong with you?" She