CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED

von H. G. Wells

Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp’s closest neighbor among the villa owners, was dozing in his summer house when the chaos at Kemp’s place began. He was one of the few who dismissed the talk about an Invisible Man as nonsense. His wife, however, believed it wholeheartedly, a fact he would soon be reminded of. He strolled through his garden, acting as if everything was perfectly normal, and settled down for his usual afternoon nap.

He slept through the sound of shattering glass, only to wake suddenly with an unsettling feeling that something was off. Rubbing his eyes, he glanced over at Kemp’s house and blinked again. He swung his legs over the edge of his chair and listened intently. “This is absurd,” he muttered, but the sight before him was undeniable. The house looked abandoned, as if it had been through a violent riot. Every window was shattered, and except for the study on the upper floor, all were covered with internal shutters.

“I could have sworn everything was fine,” he said, checking his watch. “That was just twenty minutes ago.”

He became aware of distant, rhythmic thuds and the sound of glass clashing. As he sat there, mouth agape, something even more astonishing happened. The shutters of the drawing-room window flew open, and the housemaid, dressed in her outdoor hat and clothes, appeared, struggling to lift the window sash. Suddenly, a man joined her—Dr. Kemp! In an instant, the window was open, and the maid scrambled out, pitching forward and disappearing into the shrubs.

Mr. Heelas jumped to his feet, exclaiming in disbelief at the unfolding drama. He saw Kemp leap from the window and dart along the path in the garden, ducking as he ran, as if trying to avoid being seen. He vanished behind a laburnum tree, only to reappear climbing over a fence that led to the open down. In a flash, he tumbled over and took off down the slope toward Mr. Heelas.

“Oh my God!” Mr. Heelas exclaimed, struck by a realization. “It’s that Invisible Man! It’s true after all!”

For Mr. Heelas, thinking was synonymous with action. His cook, watching from the top window, was astonished to see him sprinting toward the house at a good nine miles an hour. Doors slammed, bells rang, and Mr. Heelas’s voice boomed like a bull. “Shut the doors! Close the windows! Lock everything! The Invisible Man is coming!”

Instantly, the house erupted into chaos, filled with screams and frantic movements. He dashed to secure the French windows that opened onto the veranda. Just then, Kemp’s head and shoulders appeared over the garden fence. In moments, he had crashed through the asparagus patch and was racing across the tennis lawn toward the house.

“You can’t come in!” Mr. Heelas shouted, bolting the door. “I’m sorry if he’s after you, but you can’t come in!”

Kemp’s terrified face pressed against the glass, pounding and shaking the French window in desperation. Realizing it was futile, he dashed along the veranda, vaulted over the end, and pounded on the side door. Then he ran around to the front of the house and onto the hill road. Mr. Heelas, staring from the window in horror, barely saw Kemp disappear before the asparagus was trampled by unseen feet. In a panic, Mr. Heelas fled upstairs, and the rest of the chase was beyond his view. But as he passed the staircase window, he heard the side gate slam shut.

Emerging onto the hill road, Kemp instinctively headed downhill, running the very race he had observed so critically from his study just four days earlier. He ran well for a man out of shape, his face pale and slick with sweat, but his mind remained sharp. He took long strides, crossing patches of rough ground, sharp flints, and bits of glimmering glass, leaving the invisible feet behind to take their own path.

For the first time, Kemp felt the hill road was vast and desolate, and the town far below seemed strangely distant. Running had never felt so slow or painful. The gaunt villas, basking in the afternoon sun, looked locked and barred—no doubt they were, by his own orders. But couldn’t they have kept a lookout for something like this? The town was rising now, the sea hidden behind it, and people were starting to stir below. A tram was just pulling into the hill foot. Beyond that was the police station. Was that footsteps he heard behind him? He pushed himself to run faster.

The crowd below was staring at him, some people were running, and he could feel his breath catching in his throat. The tram was just ahead, and the “Jolly Cricketers” pub was loudly shutting its doors. Beyond the tram, there were posts and piles of gravel from the drainage work. For a fleeting moment, he considered jumping onto the tram and slamming the doors shut behind him, but then he decided to head for the police station instead.

In the next moment, he passed the entrance of the “Jolly Cricketers” and found himself in the sweltering end of the street, surrounded by people. The tram driver and his assistant, halted by the sight of his frantic rush, stared at him with the horses unhitched. Further along, he spotted the astonished faces of laborers peering over the gravel mounds.

His pace faltered for a moment, but then he heard the quick footsteps of his pursuer and surged forward again. “The Invisible Man!” he shouted to the workers, gesturing vaguely. In a burst of inspiration, he leaped over the excavation and positioned a hefty group of men between himself and the chase. Abandoning the idea of the police station, he veered into a narrow side street, darted past a greengrocer’s cart, hesitated for a split second at the door of a candy shop, and then headed toward an alley that led back to Hill Street.

A few small children were playing there; they screamed and scattered at the sight of him, and soon doors and windows opened, revealing anxious mothers. He burst back onto Hill Street, three hundred yards from the tram line, and immediately noticed a chaotic uproar and people running.

He glanced up the street toward the hill. Just a few yards away, a large laborer was sprinting, cursing and swinging a spade wildly, with the tram conductor hot on his heels, fists clenched. Others were following, shouting and striking out. Down toward the town, men and women were running, and he distinctly saw a man emerging from a shop with a stick in hand. “Spread out! Spread out!” someone yelled. Kemp suddenly realized the situation had changed. He stopped and looked around, panting. “He’s close! Form a line across—”

Before he could finish, he felt a hard blow under his ear, and he staggered, trying to turn toward his unseen attacker. He barely managed to stay on his feet and swung out wildly, but then he was struck again under the jaw and fell to the ground. In an instant, a knee pressed against his chest, and two eager hands grabbed his throat. One grip was weaker than the other; he seized the wrists, heard a cry of pain from his assailant, and then a laborer’s spade came whirling through the air, striking something with a dull thud. A drop of moisture landed on his face. Suddenly, the grip on his throat loosened, and with a desperate effort, Kemp freed himself, grabbed a limp shoulder, and rolled on top.

“I’ve got him!” Kemp shouted. “Help! Help—hold him! He’s down! Hold his feet!”

In an instant, a rush of people descended on the struggle. Anyone watching from the street might have thought an unusually brutal game of rugby was underway. There was no shouting after Kemp’s cry—only the sound of blows, footsteps, and heavy breathing.

Then came a tremendous effort as the Invisible Man shook off a couple of his attackers and rose to his knees. Kemp clung to him like a hound to a stag, while a dozen hands gripped and clawed at the unseen figure. The tram conductor managed to grab the neck and shoulders, pulling him back.

The heap of struggling bodies collapsed again and rolled over. There was, I’m afraid, some brutal kicking. Then suddenly, a wild scream of “Mercy! Mercy!” erupted, only to fade quickly into a sound that resembled choking.

“Get back, you fools!” shouted Kemp’s muffled voice, and there was a vigorous shove as people stepped back. “He’s hurt, I tell you. Stand back!”

There was a brief struggle to clear a space, and then the eager faces in the crowd saw the doctor kneeling, seemingly holding invisible arms to the ground. Behind him, a constable gripped invisible ankles.

“Don’t let go of him,” shouted the big laborer, clutching a blood-stained spade. “He’s faking it.”

“He’s not faking,” the doctor replied, cautiously lifting his knee. “I’ll hold him.” His face was bruised and already turning red; he spoke thickly through a bleeding lip. He released one hand and began feeling around the face. “The mouth’s all wet,” he said, and then, “Good God!”

He stood up abruptly and knelt beside the unseen figure. There was pushing and shuffling as more people arrived to crowd the scene. The doors of the “Jolly Cricketers” swung wide open. Very little was said.

Kemp felt around, his hand gliding through empty air. “He’s not breathing,” he said, then added, “I can’t feel his heart. His side—ugh!”

Suddenly, an old woman, peering beneath the arm of the large laborer, screamed sharply. “Look there!” she exclaimed, pointing with a gnarled finger.

Everyone turned to where she indicated and saw, faint and transparent as if it were made of glass, the outline of a hand—limp and lying flat. As they stared, it began to grow clouded and opaque.

“Hey!” shouted the constable. “Here are his feet showing!”

Slowly, starting from his hands and feet and creeping along his limbs to the vital centers of his body, that strange transformation continued. It was like the slow spread of poison. First came the delicate white nerves, a hazy gray sketch of a limb, then the glassy bones and intricate arteries, followed by the flesh and skin, initially a faint fogginess that rapidly became dense and opaque. Soon, they could see his crushed chest and shoulders, along with the dim outline of his battered and drawn features.

When the crowd finally parted to let Kemp stand upright, there lay the bruised and broken body of a young man, about thirty, naked and pitiful on the ground. His hair and brow were white—not gray with age, but the stark whiteness of albinism—and his eyes sparkled like garnets. His hands were clenched, his eyes wide open, and his expression was one of anger and despair.

“Cover his face!” a man shouted. “For God’s sake, cover that face!” Three small children, pushing forward through the crowd, were quickly turned around and sent back.

Someone fetched a sheet from the “Jolly Cricketers,” and after covering him, they carried him into that establishment. There, on a shabby bed in a dimly lit, run-down bedroom, surrounded by a crowd of curious and excited onlookers, broken and wounded, betrayed and unpitied, Griffin—the first man to make himself invisible, the most brilliant physicist the world had ever known—met the tragic end of his strange and terrible journey.

**THE EPILOGUE**

So concludes the tale of the bizarre and dark experiments of the Invisible Man. If you wish to learn more about him, you’ll need to visit a little inn near Port Stowe and chat with the landlord. The sign of the inn is an empty board, save for a hat and a pair of boots, and the name is the title of this story. The landlord is a short, stout man with a nose of cylindrical proportions, wiry hair, and a sporadic rosy complexion. If you buy him a drink, he’ll gladly share all the stories of what happened to him after that time, including how the lawyers tried to claim the treasure found on him.

“When they realized they couldn’t prove whose money was whose, I swear,” he says, “they tried to make me out a blooming treasure trove! Do I _look_ like a Treasure Trove? Then a gentleman offered me a guinea a night to tell the story at the Empire Music Hall—just to share it in my own words—except for one detail.”

And if you want to abruptly cut off his flow of reminiscing, just ask him about the three manuscript books in the story. He’ll admit there were indeed three and will explain, insisting that everyone thinks _he_ has them! But bless you, he doesn’t. “It was the Invisible Man who took them to hide when I ran for Port Stowe. It’s that Mr. Kemp who got people thinking _I_ had them.”

Then he’ll fall into a thoughtful silence, watching you furtively, fidgeting with glasses, and eventually leave the bar.

He’s a bachelor—his tastes have always leaned that way, and there are no women in the house. Outwardly, he buttons up—it’s expected of him—but in his more private matters, like his choice of suspenders, he still prefers string. He runs his establishment without much ambition, but with notable decorum. His movements are slow, and he’s a deep thinker. He’s known for his wisdom and a respectable frugality in the village, and his knowledge of the roads of Southern England could rival that of Cobbett.

Every Sunday morning, without fail, he shuts himself off from the world. After ten each night, he retreats to his bar parlor, a glass of gin lightly mixed with water in hand. Once he sets it down, he locks the door, checks the blinds, and even glances under the table. Satisfied that he’s alone, he unlocks a cupboard, then a box inside it, and finally a drawer in that box. He pulls out three volumes bound in worn brown leather, placing them carefully in the center of the table.

The covers are faded and tinged with a green hue, a reminder of their time spent in a ditch, and some pages have been washed blank by dirty water. The landlord sinks into an armchair, filling a long clay pipe slowly, his eyes lingering on the books with a sense of reverence.

He reaches for one, opens it, and begins to study its contents, flipping through the pages with a mix of fascination and concentration. His brow furrows, and his lips move silently. “Hex, little two up in the air, cross and a fiddle-de-dee. Lord! What a mind he had!”

After a moment, he relaxes, leaning back and gazing through the smoke at things only he can see. “Full of secrets,” he murmurs. “Wonderful secrets!”

“If I could just get my hands on them—_Lord_!”

“I wouldn’t do what _he_ did; I’d just—well!” He takes a draw from his pipe, lost in thought.

And so he drifts into a dream, the enduring, magnificent dream of his life. Though Kemp has fished tirelessly, no one but the landlord knows those books are hidden away, holding the subtle secret of invisibility and a dozen other strange mysteries within their pages. No one else will discover them until he takes his last breath.