CHAPTER XV. THE MAN WHO WAS RUNNING

von H. G. Wells

In the early evening, Dr. Kemp sat in his study at the belvedere on the hill overlooking Burdock. The room was cozy, featuring three windows facing north, west, and south, lined with bookshelves filled with volumes and scientific journals. A broad writing table occupied the center, and beneath the north window, a microscope sat alongside glass slides, tiny instruments, cultures, and scattered bottles of reagents. Although the sky still glowed with the remnants of sunset, Dr. Kemp had lit his solar lamp, leaving the blinds up since there was no one around to pry into his work. He was a tall, slender young man with flaxen hair and a nearly white mustache, and he hoped that the research he was engaged in would earn him a fellowship with the Royal Society, a goal he held in high regard.

As he worked, his gaze drifted from his notes to the vibrant sunset painting the sky behind the hill opposite his own. For a moment, he sat there, pen poised in his mouth, admiring the rich golden hues above the crest. Then, something caught his eye—a small, dark figure sprinting over the hill toward him. The man was short and wore a high hat, running so fast that his legs seemed to twinkle.

“Another one of those fools,” Dr. Kemp muttered to himself. “Just like that idiot who nearly knocked me over this morning, shouting about the ‘Visible Man’ coming. I can’t understand what drives these people. You’d think we were living in the thirteenth century.”

He stood up, moved to the window, and peered at the dusky hillside where the little figure was racing down. “He’s in a real hurry,” Dr. Kemp remarked, “but he doesn’t seem to be making much progress. If his pockets were filled with lead, he couldn’t run any slower.”

“Spurted, sir,” he added dryly.

In a moment, the higher villas that had climbed up the hill from Burdock obscured the running figure. He reappeared briefly, darting between three detached houses, and then vanished again behind the terrace.

“Idiots!” Dr. Kemp exclaimed, turning on his heel and returning to his writing table.

But those who caught sight of the man up close, recognizing the sheer terror etched on his sweating face, didn’t share the doctor’s disdain. He pounded down the road, and as he ran, he jingled like a purse filled with coins. His eyes were wide, fixed straight downhill toward the street where lamps were being lit and crowds were gathering. His mouth hung open, and a frothy foam gathered on his lips as he gasped for breath.

Everyone he passed stopped and stared, exchanging anxious glances, puzzled by the urgency of his flight.

Then, a dog playing in the road yelped and darted under a gate, and just as they were still trying to comprehend what was happening, a sound rushed by—a rhythmic pad, pad, pad, like heavy, labored breathing.

Panic erupted. People screamed and leaped off the pavement. The commotion surged down the hill like a wave. Shouts filled the air before the man was even halfway there. People bolted into their homes, slamming doors behind them as the news spread. He heard the chaos and pushed himself to run faster, desperation fueling his flight. Fear raced ahead of him, sweeping through the town in an instant.

“The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!”