CHAPTER XVIII. THE INVISIBLE MAN SLEEPS

by H. G. Wells

Exhausted and wounded, the Invisible Man refused to accept Kemp’s assurance that his freedom would be respected. He inspected the two windows in the bedroom, pulled up the blinds, and opened the sashes to confirm that an escape was possible. Outside, the night was calm, and the new moon was setting over the hills. Next, he checked the keys for the bedroom and the two dressing-room doors, ensuring they could provide him with a means of escape. Satisfied, he stood on the hearth rug, and Kemp heard him yawn.

“I’m sorry,” the Invisible Man said, “but I can’t share everything I’ve done tonight. I’m completely worn out. It’s absurd, I know. It’s horrifying! But believe me, Kemp, despite what you argued this morning, it’s entirely possible. I’ve made a discovery. I wanted to keep it to myself, but I can’t. I need a partner. And you... we can accomplish incredible things together... but tomorrow. Right now, I feel like I’m about to collapse.”

Kemp stood in the middle of the room, staring at the headless garment. “I guess I should leave you,” he said. “This is unbelievable. Three things happening like this, overturning everything I thought I knew—it's enough to drive me mad. But it’s real! Is there anything else you need?”

“Just say goodnight,” Griffin replied.

“Goodnight,” Kemp said, shaking an invisible hand. He moved sideways toward the door. Suddenly, the dressing gown rushed toward him. “Understand this!” it said. “No attempts to trap me or capture me! Or—”

Kemp’s expression shifted slightly. “I thought I gave you my word,” he replied.

He closed the door quietly behind him, and immediately turned the key. As he stood there, a look of stunned amazement on his face, he heard rapid footsteps at the dressing-room door, which was locked as well. He slapped his forehead in disbelief. “Am I dreaming? Has the world gone mad—or have I?”

He laughed, placing his hand on the locked door. “Locked out of my own bedroom by this ridiculous situation!” he exclaimed.

He walked to the top of the staircase, turned, and stared at the locked doors. “It’s real,” he said, touching his slightly bruised neck. “An undeniable reality!”

“But—”

He shook his head in despair, turned, and went downstairs.

He lit the lamp in the dining room, took out a cigar, and began pacing the room, muttering to himself. Occasionally, he would argue with his own thoughts.

“Invisible!” he said.

“Is there such a thing as an invisible creature? ... In the sea, yes. Thousands—millions. All the larvae, all the tiny nauplii and tornarias, all those microscopic beings, jellyfish. In the ocean, there are more invisible things than visible ones! I never thought of that before. And in ponds too! All those little pond creatures—specks of colorless, translucent jelly! But in the air? No way!

“It can’t be.

“But then again—why not?

“If a man were made of glass, he would still be visible.”

His thoughts deepened. He had gone through three cigars, their ashes now scattered on the carpet, before he spoke again. It was just an exclamation. He turned away, walked out of the room, and entered his small consulting room, lighting the gas there. It was a modest space, as Dr. Kemp didn’t rely on his practice for a living, and it contained that day’s newspapers. The morning paper lay carelessly opened and discarded. He picked it up, flipped through it, and read about a “Strange Story from Iping” that the sailor at Port Stowe had painfully recounted to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read quickly.

“Wrapped up!” he said. “Disguised! Hiding it! ‘No one seems to have been aware of his misfortune.’ What on earth is his game?”

He dropped the paper and searched for more. “Ah!” he exclaimed, grabbing the _St. James’ Gazette_, still folded as it had arrived. “Now we’ll get to the truth,” Dr. Kemp said, tearing the paper open. A couple of columns greeted him. “An Entire Village in Sussex Goes Mad,” read the headline.

“Good heavens!” Kemp said, eagerly reading the incredible account of the events in Iping from the previous afternoon, which had already been described. On the next page, the report from the morning paper had been reprinted.

He read it again. “Ran through the streets, striking right and left. Jaffers unconscious. Mr. Huxter in great pain—still unable to describe what he saw. Painful humiliation for the vicar. A woman terrified! Windows smashed. This extraordinary story is probably a fabrication. Too good not to print—_cum grano_!”

He dropped the paper and stared blankly ahead. “Probably a fabrication!”

He picked up the paper again, re-reading the entire story. “But when does the tramp come into this? Why on earth was he chasing a tramp?”

He abruptly sat down on the surgical bench. “He’s not just invisible,” he said. “He’s mad! Homicidal!”

As dawn broke, blending its pale light with the glow of the lamp and the lingering cigar smoke in the dining room, Kemp was still pacing back and forth, trying to wrap his mind around the unbelievable events of the night before.

He was far too restless to sleep. His servants, stumbling down the stairs in a sleepy haze, found him in this state and suspected that he had overworked himself. He gave them unusual but clear instructions to prepare breakfast for two in the study with the balcony view, and then to keep themselves confined to the basement and ground floor. Once they left, he resumed his pacing until the morning paper arrived.

The paper had plenty to say but little of substance, mostly confirming what he already knew from the previous evening and offering a poorly written account of another strange incident from Port Burdock. This article provided Kemp with the details of what had occurred at the “Jolly Cricketers” and mentioned a man named Marvel. “He has made me stay with him for twenty-four hours,” Marvel had claimed. There were a few additional details about the Iping incident, including the cutting of the village’s telegraph wire. However, there was no information connecting the Invisible Man to the Tramp, as Marvel had not disclosed anything regarding the three books or the money he had received. The initial skepticism had faded, and a swarm of reporters and curious onlookers were already digging deeper into the story.

Kemp devoured every word of the report and sent his housemaid out to gather every morning paper she could find. He read them all hungrily.

“He’s invisible!” he exclaimed. “And it sounds like his rage is escalating into madness! Just think of the things he could do! And he’s upstairs, free as a bird. What on earth should I do?”

He pondered, “For instance, would it be a betrayal if—? No.”

He moved to a small, cluttered desk in the corner and began to write a note. Halfway through, he tore it up and started again. After reading it over and considering his words, he took an envelope and addressed it to “Colonel Adye, Port Burdock.”

At that moment, the Invisible Man stirred awake, his mood foul. Kemp, alert to every sound, heard the patter of feet racing across the bedroom above him. Suddenly, a chair crashed to the floor, and the tumbler from the washstand shattered. Kemp rushed upstairs and knocked eagerly on the door.