CHAPTER XVII. DR. KEMP’S VISITOR

von H. G. Wells

Dr. Kemp had been lost in his writing when the sharp sound of gunshots jolted him from his thoughts. Crack, crack, crack—they echoed in quick succession.

“Hello?” he muttered, popping his pen into his mouth as he listened intently. “Who’s firing guns in Burdock? What on earth are they up to now?”

He moved to the south window, flung it open, and leaned out, gazing down at the maze of windows, gas lamps, and shops that lit up the town at night. “Looks like there’s a crowd down the hill,” he noted, spotting the commotion near “The Cricketers.” He stayed there for a moment, watching. His eyes drifted across the town to the distant twinkling lights of ships and the pier, which glowed like a little gem of yellow light. The moon hung low over the western hill, and the stars shone brightly, almost tropical in their clarity.

After five minutes of letting his mind wander into distant thoughts about the future of society, Dr. Kemp shook himself from his reverie with a sigh, pulled the window down, and returned to his writing desk.

About an hour later, the front doorbell rang. He had been writing somewhat lazily, his focus slipping since the shots. He listened closely, hearing the servant answer the door, but when she didn’t come upstairs, he wondered, “What was that?”

He attempted to get back to work but found himself unable to concentrate. Rising from his desk, he went downstairs to the landing, rang the bell, and called out to the housemaid as she appeared in the hall below. “Was that a letter?” he asked.

“Just a runaway ring, sir,” she replied.

“I’m feeling restless tonight,” he murmured to himself. He returned to his study, determined to tackle his work with renewed vigor. Soon, he was engrossed again, the only sounds filling the room were the ticking clock and the soft scratch of his quill moving across the paper, illuminated by the warm glow of his lamp.

It was two o’clock by the time Dr. Kemp finally finished for the night. He stretched, yawned, and headed downstairs to bed. He had already taken off his coat and vest when he realized he was thirsty. Grabbing a candle, he made his way to the dining room in search of a siphon and whiskey.

As he crossed the hall, his keen observational skills—honed by years of scientific inquiry—picked up on a dark spot on the linoleum near the mat at the foot of the stairs. He continued upstairs, but then a nagging thought made him pause. What could that spot be? Some instinct compelled him to turn back. He set down the siphon and whiskey, bent down, and touched the spot. It felt sticky and had the color of drying blood.

He picked up his burdens again and returned upstairs, glancing around as he tried to make sense of the bloodstain. On the landing, something caught his eye, and he stopped, astonished. The doorknob of his own room was stained with blood.

He looked at his own hands—they were clean. Then he remembered that the door had been open when he came down from his study, so he hadn’t touched the handle at all. With a calm demeanor, perhaps a bit more resolute than usual, he stepped into his room. His gaze fell on the bed, where he noticed a pool of blood on the counterpane, and the sheet was torn. He hadn’t seen this before because he had walked straight to the dressing table. On the far side, the bedclothes were indented, as if someone had recently been sitting there.

Then he had a strange impression that he heard a low voice say, “Good heavens!—Kemp!” But Dr. Kemp was not one to believe in voices.

He stood there, staring at the rumpled sheets. Was that really a voice? He scanned the room again, but all he saw was the disordered, blood-stained bed. Suddenly, he heard a movement near the washstand. Despite his education, a flicker of superstition crept in. An eerie feeling washed over him. He closed the door behind him, approached the dressing table, and set down his burdens.

Then, with a start, he noticed a coiled, blood-stained bandage hanging in mid-air, suspended between him and the washstand.

He stared at it in disbelief. It was an empty bandage, properly tied but completely devoid of any content. He would have reached out to grab it, but a voice spoke close to him, halting him in his tracks.

“Kemp!” said the voice.

“Eh?” Kemp replied, his mouth agape.

“Keep your nerve,” the voice urged. “I’m an Invisible Man.”

Kemp remained silent for a moment, simply staring at the bandage. “Invisible Man,” he echoed, still processing the revelation.

“I am an Invisible Man,” the voice confirmed again.

The story that he had mocked just that morning raced through Kemp's mind. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel much fear or shock at that moment. The reality of it all hit him later.

“I thought it was all a joke,” he said, his thoughts echoing the arguments he had made earlier. “Do you have a bandage on?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the Invisible Man.

“Oh!” Kemp exclaimed, suddenly snapping back to the present. “But this is nonsense. It’s some kind of trick.” He stepped forward, and as he reached out toward the bandage, his hand brushed against invisible fingers.

He recoiled at the unexpected touch, his face paling.

“Stay calm, Kemp, for God’s sake! I need your help. Don’t move!”

The hand gripped his arm tightly. He instinctively struck at it.

“Kemp!” called the Voice. “Kemp! Stay calm!” The grip tightened even more.

A wild urge to escape surged through Kemp. The hand on his shoulder yanked him backward, throwing him onto the bed. He opened his mouth to scream, but the edge of the sheet was shoved between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him pinned down, but his arms were free, and he fought back, striking and kicking desperately.

“Listen to reason, will you?” the Invisible Man said, holding him down despite the blows to his ribs. “For heaven’s sake, you’re going to drive me mad!”

“Lie still, you fool!” the Invisible Man shouted in Kemp’s ear.

Kemp struggled for a moment longer before finally going limp.

“If you shout, I’ll smash your face,” the Invisible Man warned, releasing his mouth.

“I’m an Invisible Man. This isn’t a trick or magic. I really am invisible. I need your help. I don’t want to hurt you, but if you keep acting like a wild animal, I will. Don’t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, from University College?”

“Let me get up,” Kemp said. “I’ll stay where I am. Just let me sit quietly for a minute.”

He sat up and rubbed his neck.

“I am Griffin, from University College. I’ve made myself invisible. I’m just an ordinary man—a man you’ve known—made invisible.”

“Griffin?” Kemp echoed.

“Griffin,” the Voice confirmed. “I was a younger student than you, almost an albino, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with a pink and white face and red eyes. I won the chemistry medal.”

“I’m confused,” Kemp said. “My mind is racing. What does this have to do with Griffin?”

“I _am_ Griffin.”

Kemp thought for a moment. “It’s horrifying,” he said. “But what kind of madness could make a man invisible?”

“It’s not madness. It’s a process—sane and understandable enough—”

“It’s horrifying!” Kemp interrupted. “How on earth—?”

“It’s horrifying, yes. But I’m injured and in pain, and I’m exhausted... Great God! Kemp, you’re a man. Stay calm. Get me some food and drink, and let me sit down here.”

Kemp watched as the bandaged arm moved across the room, then saw a chair dragged over to the bed. It creaked as it settled, the seat sinking slightly. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. “This beats ghosts,” he said, laughing nervously.

“That’s better. Thank goodness you’re coming to your senses!”

“Or losing them,” Kemp replied, wiping his eyes.

“Give me some whiskey. I’m nearly dead.”

“It didn’t feel that way. Where are you? If I get up, will I bump into you? _There_! Okay. Whiskey? Here. Where should I hand it to you?”

The chair creaked again as Kemp felt the glass being pulled away from him. He reluctantly released it, his instincts screaming against it. The glass hovered in mid-air, about twenty inches above the edge of the chair. He stared at it in utter confusion. “This is—this must be—hypnotism. You’ve suggested that you’re invisible.”

“Nonsense,” the Voice replied.

“It’s insane.”

“Listen to me.”

“I demonstrated this morning,” Kemp began, “that invisibility—”

“Forget what you demonstrated! I’m starving,” the Voice interrupted, “and it’s cold for a man without clothes.”

“Food?” Kemp asked.

The tumbler of whiskey tipped itself. “Yes,” the Invisible Man said, rapping it down. “Do you have a dressing gown?”

Kemp muttered something under his breath as he walked to a wardrobe and pulled out a dingy scarlet robe. “Will this do?” he asked. It was taken from him, hanging limply in mid-air for a moment before fluttering, then buttoning itself up and settling into the chair. “Some drawers, socks, and slippers would be nice,” the Invisible Man said curtly. “And food.”

“Anything. But this is the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced!”

He rummaged through his drawers for the items, then headed downstairs to search his pantry. He returned with cold cutlets and bread, setting them on a small table in front of his guest. “Forget the knives,” the Invisible Man said, and a cutlet floated in mid-air, accompanied by the sound of chewing.

“Invisible!” Kemp exclaimed, sitting down on a chair.

“I always like to have something around me before I eat,” the Invisible Man said, his mouth full, devouring the food hungrily. “Strange habit!”

“I assume that wrist is okay,” Kemp remarked.

“Trust me,” the Invisible Man replied.

“Of all the strange and wonderful—”

“Exactly. But it’s strange that I should end up in your house for my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyway, I intended to sleep here tonight. You’ll have to deal with that! It’s a real nuisance, my blood showing, isn’t it? There’s quite a clot over there. It becomes more visible as it coagulates, I see. I’ve only changed the living tissue, and only for as long as I’m alive… I’ve been in this house for three hours.”

“But how did you do it?” Kemp asked, his frustration evident. “Honestly! The whole situation is completely unreasonable from start to finish.”

“Not at all,” the Invisible Man replied. “It’s perfectly reasonable.”

He reached for the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the tattered dressing gown. A beam of candlelight shining through a tear in the right shoulder created a triangle of light under the left ribs. “What were the shots about?” he asked. “How did the shooting start?”

“There was a real idiot—a sort of accomplice of mine—curse him!—who tried to steal my money. He succeeded.”

“Is he invisible too?”

“No.”

“Well?”

“Can’t I have something to eat before I tell you all that? I’m hungry and in pain. And you want me to share my story!”

Kemp stood up. “You didn’t do any shooting?” he asked.

“Not me,” the visitor replied. “Some fool I’d never seen fired randomly. A lot of them got scared. They all got scared of me. Curse them! I want more to eat than this, Kemp.”

“I’ll see what I can find downstairs,” Kemp said. “I’m afraid there’s not much.”

After finishing his heavy meal, the Invisible Man asked for a cigar. He bit the end off savagely before Kemp could find a knife and cursed when the outer leaf came loose. It was strange to see him smoking; his mouth, throat, and nasal passages became visible as a swirling cloud of smoke.

“This blessed gift of smoking!” he exclaimed, puffing vigorously. “I’m lucky to have found you, Kemp. You have to help me. Can you believe I stumbled upon you just now? I’m in a terrible mess—I think I’ve lost my mind. The things I’ve been through! But we can still do something. Let me tell you—”

He poured himself more whiskey and soda. Kemp got up, looked around, and fetched a glass from his spare room. “It’s wild, but I suppose I can drink.”

“You haven’t changed much, Kemp, in these dozen years. You fair-haired types don’t change. Cool and methodical—after the initial shock. I must tell you. We will work together!”

“But how did all this happen?” Kemp pressed. “How did you become like this?”

“For God’s sake, let me smoke in peace for a little while! Then I’ll start to explain.”

But the story didn’t come that night. The Invisible Man’s wrist was becoming painful; he was feverish, exhausted, and his thoughts drifted back to the chase down the hill and the struggle at the inn. He spoke in fragments about Marvel, his smoking grew frantic, and his voice turned angry. Kemp tried to piece together what he could.

“He was afraid of me; I could see that he was terrified,” the Invisible Man repeated. “He meant to slip away—he was always looking for an escape! What a fool I was!

“The coward!

“I should have killed him!”

“Where did you get the money?” Kemp asked abruptly.

The Invisible Man fell silent for a moment. “I can’t tell you tonight,” he said.

He suddenly groaned and leaned forward, resting his invisible head on invisible hands. “Kemp,” he said, “I haven’t slept for nearly three days, except for a couple of short naps. I need to sleep soon.”

“Well, take my room—take this room.”

“But how can I sleep? If I sleep, he will get away. Ugh! What does it matter?”

“What’s the shot wound?” Kemp asked suddenly.

“Nothing—just a scratch and some blood. Oh, God! How I want to sleep!”

“Why not?”

The Invisible Man seemed to study Kemp. “Because I have a particular aversion to being caught by my fellow men,” he said slowly.

Kemp flinched.

“Fool that I am!” the Invisible Man exclaimed, striking the table sharply. “I’ve put the idea in your head.”