"H.F. Arnold was 24 years old when he published this story in WEIRD TALES magazine. Thankfully, the magazine's publisher didn't see the worth of the story, and so didn't make it a cover story and didn't assign an illustrator to render it.
Good. Because this is another business-like, completely realistic tale, about a man working the night shift on a news wire. Your brain will burn a few gears imagining what's only hinted at by the protagonist. He starts receiving reports from a country that doesn't exist, about...something horrible happening.
Or is the country closer than he thinks?" - Patton Oswalt
The Night Wire
by
H. F. Arnold
"New York, September 30 CP FLASH
"Ambassador Holliwell died here today. The end came
suddenly as the ambassador was alone in his study...."
There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here on
the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a
civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore -- they're your
next-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the world has gone to
sleep.
Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receiving operators doze
over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and suicides.
Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with a casualty list
as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almost in his sleep,
picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.
Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You've heard of some
one you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe they've been
promoted, but more probably they've been murdered or drowned. Perhaps they
just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made it interesting
enough to get in the news.
But that doesn't happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and tap,
tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.
Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and I
haven't got over it yet. I wish I could.
You see, I handle the night manager's desk in a western seaport town; what
the name is, doesn't matter.
There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, a fellow named
John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a sober,
hard-working sort.
He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a "double"
man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and type the stories
on different typewriters at the same time. He was one of the three men I
ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after hour, and never make a
mistake.
Generally, we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when it was late
and the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stations would open a
second wire, and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a wizard, a
mechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but was without
imagination.
On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. It was the
first and last time I had ever heard him say a word about himself, and I had
known him for three years.
It was just three o'clock and we were running only one wire. I was nodding
over the reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him, when he
spoke.
"Jim," he said, "does it feel close in here to you?"
"Why, no, John," I answered, "but I'll open a window if you like."
"Never mind," he said. "I reckon I'm just a little tired."
That was all that was said, and I went on working. Every ten minutes or so I
would walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked up neatly beside
the typewriter as the messages were printed out in triplicate.
It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed he had opened
up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought it was a little
unusual, as there was nothing very "hot" coming in. On my next trip I picked
up the copy from both machines and took it back to my desk to sort out the
duplicates.
The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I just looked
over it hurriedly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. I remembered it
particularly because the story was from a town I had never heard of:
"Xebico." Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate of it from our files:
"Xebico, Sept 16 CP BULLETIN
"The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over
the town at 4 o'clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic has
stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights
of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is
constantly growing heavier.
"Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and
the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred
before in the history of the city.
"At 7 P.M. last night the municipal authorities...
(more)
That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureau
headquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of the name of the
town.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over for another batch
of copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switched his green
electric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and hit only the top
of the two typewriters.
Only the usual stuff was in the righthand pile, but the lefthand batch
carried another story from Xebico. All press dispatches come in "takes,"
meaning that parts of many different stories are strung along together,
perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming through at a time. This
second story was marked "add fog." Here is the copy:
"At 7 P.M. the fog had increased noticeably. All lights
were now invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness.
"As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompanied
by a sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experienced
here."
Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and the initials
of the operator, JM.
There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire. Here it is:
"2nd add Xebico Fog.
"Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly.
Among the most unusual is that of the sexton of the local
church, who groped his way to headquarters in a hysterical
condition and declared that the fog originated in the village
churchyard.
"'It was first visible as a soft gray blanket clinging to
the earth above the graves,' he stated. 'Then it began to rise,
higher and higher. A subterranean breeze seemed to blow it in
billows, which split up and then joined together again.
"'Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist into
queer forms and figures. And then, in the very thick midst of
the mass, something moved.
"'I turned and ran from the accursed spot. Behind me I
heard screams coming from the houses bordering on the
graveyard.'
"Although the sexton's story is generally discredited, a
party has left to investigate. Immediately after telling his
story, the sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital,
unconscious."
Queer story, wasn't it. Not that we aren't used to it, for a lot of unusual
stories come in over the wire. But for some reason or other, perhaps because
it was so quiet that night, the report of the fog made a great impression on
me.
It was almost with dread that I went over to the waiting piles of copy.
Morgan did not move, and the only sound in the room was the tap-tap of the
sounders. It was ominous, nerve- racking.
There was another story from Xebico in the pile of copy. I seized on it
anxiously.
"New Lead Xebico Fog CP
"The rescue party which went out at 11 P.M. to investigate
a weird story of the origin of a fog which, since late
yesterday, has shrouded the city in darkness has failed to
return. Another and larger party has been dispatched.
"Meanwhile, the fog has, if possible, grown heavier. It
seeps through the cracks in the doors and fills the atmosphere
with a depressing odor of decay. It is oppressive, terrifying,
bearing with it a subtle impression of things long dead.
"Residents of the city have left their homes and gathered
in the local church, where the priests are holding services of
prayer. The scene is beyond description. Grown folk and
children are alike terrified and many are almost beside
themselves with fear.
"Amid the whisps of vapor which partly veil the church
auditorium, an old priest is praying for the welfare of his
flock. They alternately wail and cross themselves.
"From the outskirts of the city may be heard cries of
unknown voices. They echo through the fog in queer uncadenced
minor keys. The sounds resemble nothing so much as wind
whistling through a gigantic tunnel. But the night is calm and
there is no wind. The second rescue party... (more)"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am a calm man and never in a dozen years spent with the wires, have I been
known to become excited, but despite myself I rose from my chair and walked
to the window.
Could I be mistaken, or far down in the canyons of the city beneath me did I
see a faint trace of fog? Pshaw! It was all imagination.
In the pressroom the click of the sounders seemed to have raised the tempo
of their tune. Morgan alone had not stirred from his chair. His head sunk
between his shoulders, he tapped the dispatches out on the typewriters with
one finger of each hand.
He looked asleep, but no; endlessly, efficiently, the two machines rattled
off line after line, as relentlessly and effortlessly as death itself. There
was something about the monotonous movement of the typewriter keys that
fascinated me. I walked over and stood behind his chair, reading over his
shoulder the type as it came into being, word by word.
Ah, here was another:
"Flash Xebico CP
"There will be no more bulletins from this office. The
impossible has happened. No messages have come into this room
for twenty minutes. We are cut off from the outside and even
the streets below us.
"I will stay with the wire until the end.
"It is the end, indeed. Since 4 P.M. yesterday the fog has
hung over the city. Following reports from the sexton of the
local church, two rescue parties were sent out to investigate
conditions on the outskirts of the city. Neither party has ever
returned nor was any word received from them. It is quite
certain now that they will never return.
"From my instrument I can gaze down on the city beneath me.
From the position of this room on the thirteenth floor, nearly
the entire city can be seen. Now I can see only a thick blanket
of blackness where customarily are lights and life.
"I fear greatly that the wailing cries heard constantly
from the outskirts of the city are the death cries of the
inhabitants. They are constantly increasing in volume and are
approaching the center of the city.
"The fog yet hangs over everything. If possible, it is
even heavier than before, but the conditions have changed.
Instead of an opaque, impenetrable wall of odorous vapor, there
now swirls and writhes a shapeless mass in contortions of almost
human agony. Now and again the mass parts and I catch a brief
glimpse of the streets below.
"People are running to and fro, screaming in despair. A
vast bedlam of sound flies up to my window, and above all is the
immense whistling of unseen and unfelt winds.
"The fog has again swept over the city and the whistling is
coming closer and closer.
"It is now directly beneath me.
"God! An instant ago the mist opened and I caught a
glimpse of the streets below.
"The fog is not simply vapor -- it lives! By the side of
each moaning and weeping human is a companion figure, an aura of
strange and vari-colored hues. How the shapes cling! Each to a
living thing!
"The men and women are down. Flat on their faces. The fog
figures caress them lovingly. They are kneeling beside them.
They are -- but I dare not tell it.
"The prone and writhing bodies have been stripped of their
clothing. They are being consumed -- piecemeal.
"A merciful wall of hot, steaming vapor has swept over the
whole scene. I can see no more.
"Beneath me the wall of vapor is changing colors. It seems
to be lighted by internal fires. No, it isn't. I have made a
mistake. The colors are from above, reflections from the sky.
"Look up! Look up! The whole sky is in flames. Colors as
yet unseen by man or demon. The flames are moving; they have
started to intermix; the colors are rearranging themselves.
They are so brilliant that my eyes burn, they are a long
way off.
"Now they have begun to swirl, to circle in and out,
twisting in intricate designs and patterns. The lights are
racing each with each, a kaleidoscope of unearthly brilliance.
"I have made a discovery. There is nothing harmful in the
lights. They radiate force and friendliness, almost cheeriness.
But by their very strength, they hurt.
"As I look, they are swinging closer and closer, a million
miles at each jump. Millions of miles with the speed of light.
Aye, it is light of quintessence of all light. Beneath it the
fog melts into a jeweled mist radiant, rainbow-colored of a
thousand varied spectra.
"I can see the streets. Why, they are filled with people!
The lights are coming closer. They are all around me. I am
enveloped. I..."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The message stopped abruptly. The wire to Xebico was dead. Beneath my eyes
in the narrow circle of light from under the green lamp-shade, the black
printing no longer spun itself, letter by letter, across the page.
The room seemed filled with a solemn quiet, a silence vaguely impressive,
powerful.
I looked down at Morgan. His hands had dropped nervelessly at his sides,
while his body had hunched over peculiarly. I turned the lamp-shade back,
throwing light squarely in his face. His eyes were staring, fixed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Filled with a sudden foreboding, I stepped beside him and called Chicago on
the wire. After a second the sounder clicked its answer.
Why? But there was something wrong. Chicago was reporting that Wire Two had
not been used throughout the evening.
"Morgan!" I shouted. "Morgan! Wake up, it isn't true. Some one has been
hoaxing us. Why..." In my eagerness I grasped him by the shoulder.
His body was quite cold. Morgan had been dead for hours. Could it be that
his sensitized brain and automatic fingers had continued to record
impressions even after the end?
I shall never know, for I shall never again handle the night shift. Search
in a world atlas discloses no town of Xebico. Whatever it was that killed
John Morgan will forever remain a mystery.
The sole work for which he’s known, a six-page long story called “The Night Wire,” is still being anthologized almost ninety years after its first appearance in Weird Tales magazine. Most recently, it was included in The Big Book of Ghost Stories, edited by Otto Penzler, the proprietor of New York City’s renowned Mysterious Bookshop and a truly outstanding anthologist.
Penzler’s editorial note proceeding the story is perhaps the best source of information about Arnold, who left remarkably few traces of himself behind. A web search adds a few facts, but not many:
- His full name was Henry Ferris Arnold
- He was born in 1901 or 1902
- He died in 1963
- He might have been from Illinois
- He moved to Hollywood to be a press agent sometime during the ’20s
- He was likely a newspaperman at some point (more on this in a moment)
- He published three stories in his lifetime (in addition to “The Night Wire,” these were a two-part Weird Tales serial called “The City of Iron Cubes” in 1929 and another two-parter, “When Atlantis Was,” that appeared in Amazing Stories in 1937)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FM9QeHQz-YU
Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:
TRAILER PARK FROM HELL
LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.
Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors
http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors
