 Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode, it's Thriller Thursday and this week I'm bringing you a fictional tale recommended to me by one of you, the Weirdo family. Louis Padgett's story, Mimsy Where the Borogoves was originally published in the February 1943 issue of Astounding Science Fiction magazine. It was judged by the science fiction writers of America to be among the best science fiction stories written prior to 1965, and in 2007 it was loosely adapted into a feature-length film titled The Last Mimsy. The title of the original story was directly inspired by a verse from Jabberwocky, a poem found in the classic novel Through the Looking Class by Arthur Lewis Carroll. In 1976, Cademan Records released a spoken word album of the short story, narrated by William Shatner. Well, I don't know that I'll be as entertaining as William Shatner with the story, but I'll do my best for you. If you're new here, welcome to the show. While you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, to visit sponsors you hear about during the show, sign up for my newsletter and your contests, connect with me on social media. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness with Mimsy Where the Borogoves from Lewis Padgett. There's no use trying to describe either Uthahorston or his surroundings, because for one thing, a good many million years had passed since 1942 and a domini, and for another, Uthahorston wasn't on earth, technically speaking. He was doing the equivalent of standing in the equivalent of a laboratory. He was preparing to test his time machine. Having turned on the power, Uthahorston suddenly realized that the box was empty, which wouldn't do at all. The device needed a control, a three-dimensional solid which would react to the conditions of another age. Otherwise, Uthahorston couldn't tell on the machine's return where and when it had been. Whereas a solid in the box would automatically be subject to the entropy and cosmic-ray bombardment of the other era and Uthahorston could measure the changes, both qualitative and quantitative, when the machine returned. The calculators could then get to work and, presently, tell Uthahorston that the box had briefly visited one million A.D., one thousand A.D. or one A.D. as the case might be. Not that it mattered, except to Uthahorston, but he was childish in many respects. There was little time to waste. The box was beginning to glow and shiver. Uthahorston stared around wildly, fled into the next Glossitch and groped in a storage bin there. He came up with an armful of peculiar looking stuff. Uh-huh. Some of the discarded toys of his son, Snowyn, which the boy had brought with him when he passed over from Earth after mastering the necessary technique. Well, Snowyn needed this junk no longer. He was conditioned and had put away childish things. Besides, though Uthahorston's wife kept the toys for sentimental reasons, the experiment was more important. Uthahorston left the Glossitch and dumped the assortment into the box, slamming the cover shut just before the warning signal flashed. The box went away. The manner of its departure hurt Uthahorston's eyes. He waited. And he waited. Eventually, he gave up and built another time machine with identical results. Snowyn hadn't been annoyed by the loss of his old toys nor had Snowyn's mother, so Uthahorston cleaned out the bin and dumped the remainder of his son's childhood relics in the second time machine's box. According to his calculations, this one should have appeared on Earth in the latter part of the 19th century AD. If that actually occurred, the device remained there. Disgusted, Uthahorston decided to make no more time machines. But the mischief had been done. There were two of them. In the first, Scott Paradine found it while he was playing hooky from the Glendale Grammar School. There was a geography test that day, and Scott saw no sense in memorizing place names, which in 1942 was a fairly sensible theory. Besides, it was the sort of warm spring day with a touch of coolness in the breeze which invited a boy to lie down in a field and stare at the occasional clouds till he fell asleep. Nuts to geography. Scott dozed. About noon, he got hungry, so his stocky legs carried him to a nearby store. There he invested his small hoard with penurious care and a sublime disregard for his gastric juices. He went down by the creek to feed. Having finished his supply of cheese, chocolate, and cookies, and having drained the soda-pop bottle to its dregs, Scott caught tadpoles and studied them with a certain amount of scientific curiosity. He did not persevere. Something tumbled down the bank and thudded into the muddy ground near the water, so Scott, with a weary glance around, hurried to investigate. It was a box. It was, in fact, the box. The gadgetry hitched to it meant little to Scott, though he wondered why it was so fused and burnt. He pondered. With his jackknife, he pried and probed his tongue sticking out from a corner of his mouth. Hmm, hmm, hmm. Nobody was around. Where had the box come from? Somebody must have left it here, and sliding soil had dislodged it from its precarious perch. That's a helix, Scott decided, erroneously. It was helicul, but it wasn't a helix because of the dimensional warp involved. Had the thing been a model airplane, no matter how complicated, it would have held few mysteries to Scott. As it was, a problem was posed. Something told Scott that the device was a lot more complicated than the spring motor he had deftly dismantled last Friday. But no boy has ever left a box unopened, unless forcibly dragged away. Scott probed deeper. The angles on this thing were funny. Short circuit, probably. That was why a knife slipped. Scott sucked his thumb and gave vent to experienced blasphemy. Maybe it was a music box. Scott shouldn't have felt depressed. The gadgetry would have given Einstein a headache and driven Steinmetz raving mad. The trouble was, of course, that the box had not yet completely entered the space-time continuum where Scott existed, and therefore it could not be opened. At any rate, not until Scott used a convenient rock to hammer the helical non-helix into a more convenient position. He hammered it, in fact, from its contact point with the fourth dimension, releasing the space-time torsion it had been maintaining. There was a brittle snap. The box jarred slightly and lay motionless, no longer only partially in existence. Scott opened it easily now. The soft woven helmet was the first thing that caught his eye, but he discarded that without much interest. It was just a cap. Next, he lifted a square, transparent crystal block, small enough to cup in his palm, much too small to contain the maze of apparatus within it. In a moment, Scott had solved that problem. The crystal was a sort of magnifying glass, vastly enlarging the things inside the block. Strange things they were, too. Miniature people, for example, they moved like clockwork automatons, though much more smoothly. It was rather like watching a play. Scott was interested in their costumes but fascinated by their actions. The tiny people were deftly building a house. Scott wished it would catch fire so he could see the people put it out. Flames licked up from the half-completed structure. The automatons with a great deal of odd apparatus extinguished the blaze. It didn't take Scott long to catch on, but he was a little worried. The mannequins would obey his thoughts. By the time he discovered that, he was frightened and threw the cube from him. Halfway up the bank, he reconsidered and returned. The crystal block lay partly in the water, shining in the sun. It was a toy, Scott sensed that, with the unerring instinct of a child. But he didn't pick it up immediately. Instead, he returned to the box and investigated its remaining contents. He found some really remarkable gadgets. The afternoon passed all too quickly. Scott finally put the toys back in the box and lugged it home, grunting and puffing. He was quite red-faced by the time he arrived at the kitchen door. He found his head at the back of a closet in his own room upstairs. The crystal cube he slipped into his pocket, which already bulged with string, a coil of wire, two pennies, a wad of tinfoil, a grimy defense stamp, and a chunk of feldspar. Emma, Scott's two-year-old sister, waddled unsteadily in from the hall and said hello. Hello, slug! Scott nodded from his altitude of seven years and some months. He patronized Emma shockingly, but she didn't know the difference. Small, plump and wide-eyed, she fluffed down on the carpet and stared dolefully at her shoes. Tie him, Scotty, please! Sap! Scott told her kindly, but nodded the laces. Did I ready yet? Emma nodded. Let's see your hands. For a wonder, they were reasonably clean, though probably not aseptic. Scott regarded his own paws thoughtfully and grimacing went to the bathroom, where he made a sketchy toilet. The tadpoles had left traces. In this paradigm and his wife Jane were having a cocktail before dinner, downstairs in the living room. He was a youngish, middle-aged man with gray-shot hair and a thin-ish, prim-mouthed face. He taught philosophy at the university. Jane was small, neat, dark, and very pretty. She sipped her martini and said, New shoes, like them? Here's to crime, paradigm muttered, absently. Shoes? Not now. Wait till I finish this. I had a bad day. Exams? Flaming youth aspiring toward manhood. I hope they die. Inconsiderable agony. Inshallah. I want the olive, Jane requested. I know, paradigm said despondently. It's been years since I've tasted one myself in a martini, I mean. Even if I put six of them in your glass, you're still not satisfied. I want yours, blood, brotherhood, symbolism. That's why. Paradigm regarded his wife balefully and crossed his long legs. You sound like one of my students. Like that hussy Betty Dawson, perhaps? Jane unsheathed her nails. Does she still leverage you in that offensive way? She does. The child is a neat psychological problem. Luckily, she isn't mine, if she were. Paradigm nodded significantly. Sex, consciousness, and too many movies. I suppose she still thinks she can get a passing grade by showing me her knees. Which are, by the way, rather bony. Jane adjusted her skirt with an air of complacent pride. Paradigm uncoiled himself and poured fresh martinis. Endedly, I don't see the point of teaching those apes philosophy. They're all at the wrong age. Their habit patterns, their method of thinking are already laid down. They're horribly conservative, not that they'd admit it. The only people who can understand philosophy are mature adults or kids like Emma and Scotty. Well, don't enroll Scotty in your course, Jane requested. He isn't ready to be a philosophy doctor. I hold no brief for child geniuses, especially when it's my son. Scotty would probably be better at it than Betty Dawson, Paradigm grunted. He died an unfeebled old daughter at five. Jane quoted dreamily, I want your olive. Here, by the way, I like the shoes. Thank you. Here's Rosalie. Dinner? It's all right, it is, but Dane, said Rosalie, hovering. I'll call Miss Emma and Mr. Scotty. I'll get them. Paradigm put his head into the next room and roared, kids, come and get it. Small feet scuttered down the stairs. Scott dashed into view, scrubbed and shining, a rebellious cowlick aimed at the zenith. Emma pursued, levering herself carefully down the steps. Halfway, she gave up the attempt to descend upright and reversed, finishing the task monkey fashion, her small behind giving an impression of marvelous diligence upon the work in hand. Paradigm watched, fascinated by the spectacle, till he was hurled back by the impact of his son's body. Hi, dad, Scott shrieked. Paradigm recovered himself and regarded Scott with dignity. I yourself, help me into dinner. You've dislocated at least one of my hip joints. But Scott was already tearing into the next room, where he stepped on Jane's new shoes in an ecstasy of affection, burbled apology and rushed off to find his place at the dinner table. Paradigm caught up an eyebrow as he followed, Emma's pudgy hand desperately gripping his forefinger. Wonder what the young devil's been up to. No good, probably, Jane sighed. Hello, darling, let's see your ears. They're clean, Mickey licked them. Well, that airdell's tongue is far cleaner than your ears, Jane pondered, taking a brief examination. Still, as long as you can hear, the dirt's only superficial. Visual? Just a little, that means. Jane dragged her daughter to the table and inserted her legs into a high chair. Only lately had Emma graduated to the dignity of dining with the rest of the family, and she was, as Paradigm remarked, all eat up with pride by the prospect. Only babies spilled food, Emma had been told. As a result, she took such painstaking care in conveying her spoon to her mouth that Paradigm got the jitters whenever he watched. A conveyor belt would be the thing for Emma, he suggested, pulling out a chair for Jane. Small buckets of spinach arriving at her face at stated intervals. Dinner proceeded uneventfully until Paradigm happened to glance at Scott's plate. Hello there, sick? Been stuffing yourself at lunch? Scott thoughtfully examined the food still left before him. I've had all I need, dad, he explained. He usually eat all you can hold, and a great deal more, Paradigm said. I know growing boys need several tons of food stuff a day, but you're below par tonight. Feel okay? Uh-huh. Honest, I've had all I need. All you want? Sure, I eat different. Something they taught you at school? Jane inquired. Scott shook his head solemnly. Nobody taught me, I found it out myself. I use spit. Try again, Paradigm suggested, it's the wrong word. Uh, saliva? Uh-huh. More pepsin, is there pepsin in the salivary juices, Jane? I forget. There's poison in mine, Jane remarked. Rosalie's left lumps in the mashed potatoes again. The Paradigm was interested. You mean you're getting everything possible out of your food, no wastage and eating less? Scott thought that over. I guess so, it's not just the saliva. I sort of measure how much to put in my mouth at once and what stuff to mix up. I don't know, I just do it. Mm-hmm, said Paradigm, making a note to check up later. Rather a revolutionary idea. Kids often get screwy notions, but this one might not be so far off the beam. He pursed his lips. Eventually, I suppose people will eat quite differently. I mean, the way they eat, as well as what they eat, I mean. Jane, our son shows signs of becoming a genius. Oh, it's a rather good point in dietetics he just made. Did you figure it out yourself, Scott? Sure, the boy said, and really believed it. Where'd you get the idea? Oh, I... Scott wriggled. I don't know, it doesn't mean much, I guess. Paradigm was unreasonably disappointed. But surely, she spit, Emma shrieked, overcome by a sudden fit of badness. Spit, she attempted to demonstrate, but succeeded only in dribbling into her bib. With a resigned air, Jane rescued and reproved her daughter, while Paradigm eyed Scott with rather puzzled interest. But it was not till after dinner in the living room that anything further happened. Any homework? No, Scott said, flushing guiltily. To cover his embarrassment, he took from his pocket a gadget he had found in the box and began to unfold it. The result resembled a tesseract strung with beads. Paradigm didn't see it at first, but Emma did. She wanted to play with it. No, lay off, slug, Scott ordered. You can watch me. He fumbled with the beads, making soft, interested noises. Emma extended a fat forefinger and yelped. Scotty! Paradigm said warningly. I didn't hurt her. Bits me it did! Emma mourned. Paradigm looked up. He frowned, staring. What in...? Is that an abacus? He asked. Let's see it, please. Somewhat unwillingly, Scott brought the gadget across to his father's chair. Paradigm blinked. The abacus, unfolded, was more than a foot square, composed of thin, rigid wires that interlocked here and there. On the wires, the colored beads were strung. They could be slid back and forth and from one support to another, even at the points of jointure. But a pierced bead couldn't cross interlocking wires. So apparently they weren't pierced. Paradigm looked closer. Each small sphere had a deep groove running around it, so that it could be revolved and slid along the wire at the same time. Paradigm tried to pull one free. It clung as though magnetically. Iron? It looked more like plastic. The framework itself, Paradigm wasn't a mathematician, but the angles formed by the wires were vaguely shocking in their ridiculous lack of Euclidean logic. They were a maze. Perhaps that's what the gadget was, a puzzle. Where'd you get this? Uncle Harry gave it to me, Scott said on the spur of the moment, last Sunday when he came over. Uncle Harry was out of town. A circumstance Scott well knew. At the age of seven, a boy soon learns that the vagaries of adults follow a certain definite pattern and that they are fussy about the donors of gifts. Moreover, Uncle Harry would not return for several weeks. The expiration of that period was unimaginable to Scott, or at least the fact that his lie would ultimately be discovered meant less to him than the advantages of being allowed to keep the toy. Paradigm found himself growing slightly confused as he attempted to manipulate the beads. The angles were vaguely illogical. It was like a puzzle. This red bead, if slid along this wire to that junction, should reach there, but it didn't. A maze, odd, but no doubt instructive. Paradigm had a well-founded feeling that he'd have no patience with the thing himself. Scott did, however, retiring to a corner and sliding beads around with much fumbling and grunting. The beads did sting when Scott chose the wrong ones or tried to slide them in the wrong direction. At last he crowed exultantly. I did it, dad! Huh? What? Let's see. The device looked exactly the same to Paradigm, but Scott pointed and beamed. I made it disappear. It's still there. That blue bead, it's gone now. Paradigm didn't believe that, so he merely snorted. Scott puzzled over the framework again. He experimented. This time there were no shocks, even slight. The abacus had showed him the correct method. Now it was up to him to do it on his own. The bizarre angles of the wires seemed a little less confusing now somehow. It was a most instructive toy. It worked, Scott thought, rather like the crystal cube. Rebinded of that gadget he took it from his pocket and relinquished the abacus to Emma, who was struck dumb with joy. She fell to work, sliding the beads, this time without protesting against the shocks, which indeed were very minor, and being imitative she managed to make a bead disappear almost as quickly as had Scott. The blue bead reappeared, but Scott didn't notice. He had forethoughtfully retired into an angle of the Chesterfield with an overstuffed chair and amused himself with the cube. There were little people inside the thing, tiny mannequins much enlarged by the magnifying properties of the crystal, and they moved all right. They built a house. It caught fire with realistic seeing flames and stood by waiting. Scott puffed urgently, put it out. But nothing happened. Where was that queer fire engine with revolving arms that had appeared before? Here it was. It came sailing into the picture and stopped. Scott urged it on. This was fun, like putting on a play only more real. The little people did what Scott told them inside of his head. If he made a mistake, they waited till he'd found the right way. They even posed new problems for him. The cube too was a most instructive toy. It was teaching Scott with alarming rapidity and teaching him very entertainingly, but it gave him no really new knowledge as yet. He wasn't ready. Later. Later. As well as the crisis text line, both have trained counselors at all hours to help those in need, and the page even includes text numbers for those in the U.S., Canada, United Kingdom, and Ireland. Those struggling with depression can get help through the Seven Cups website and app, and there's information for anyone to read more about what depression truly is and how to identify it through our friends at ifred.org. There are resources for those who battle addictions, be it drugs, alcohol, or self-destructive behavior, along with help for those related to addicts. The page has links to help you find a therapist or counselor, to find help for those who have a family member with Alzheimer's or dementia, help for those in a crisis pregnancy, and more. These resources are always there when you or someone you love needs them on the Hope in the Darkness page at WeirdDarkness.com. Thank you for watching this video. If you enjoyed this video, please like, share, and subscribe. I hope to see you there on October 27th through the 29th in Orlando, Florida. It contained Treasure Trove, a doll which Scott had already noticed but discarded with a sneer. Squealing, Emma brought the doll downstairs, squatted in the middle of the floor, and began to take it apart. Darling, what's that? Mr. Bear. Obviously, it wasn't Mr. Bear who was blind, earless, but comforting in his soft fatness. But all dolls were named Mr. Bear to Emma. Jane Parodyne hesitated. Did you take that from some other little girl? I didn't. She's mine. Scott came out from his hiding place, thrusting the cube into his pocket. That's from Uncle Harry. Did Uncle Harry give that to you, Emma? He gave it to me for Emma, Scott put in hastily, adding another stone to his foundation of the seat. Last Sunday, you'll break it, dear. Emma brought the doll to her mother. She comes apart, see? Oh, it, uh, Jane sucked in her breath. Parodyne looked up quickly. What's up? She brought the doll over to him, hesitated, and then went into the dining room, giving Parodyne a significant glance. He followed, closing the door. Jane had already placed the doll on the cleared table. This isn't very nice, is it, Denny? It was rather unpleasant at first glance. One might have expected an anatomical dummy in a medical school, but a child's doll? The thing came apart in sections. Skin, muscles, organs, miniature, but quite perfect as far as Parodyne could see. He was interested. I know, such things haven't the same connotations to a kid. Look at that liver. Is it a liver? Sure. Say, this is funny. What? It isn't anatomically perfect after all. Parodyne pulled up a chair. The digestive tract's too short. No large intestine, no appendix either. Should Emma have a thing like this? I wouldn't mind having it myself, Parodyne said. Where on earth did Harry pick it up? No, I don't see any harm in it. Adults are conditioned to react unpleasantly to innards. Kids don't. They figure they're solid inside, like a potato. Emma can get a sound working knowledge of physiology from this doll. But what are those, nerves? No, these are the nerves. Arteries here, veins here. Funny sort of aorta. Parodyne looked baffled. That's… what's Latin for network? Anyway. Huh? Rita? Ranna? Rails? Jane suggested at random. That's a sort of breathing, Parodyne said crushingly. I can't figure out what this luminous network of stuff is. It goes all through the body, like nerves. Blood. Nope. Not circulatory. Not neural. Funny. Seems to be hooked up with the lungs. They became engrossed, puzzling over the strange doll. It was made with remarkable perfection of detail, and that in itself was strange in view of the physiological variation from the norm. Wait till I get that gooolled, Parodyne said, and presently was comparing the doll with anatomical charts. He learned little, except to increase his bafflement. But it was more fun than a jigsaw puzzle. Meanwhile, in the adjoining room, Emma was sliding the beads to and fro in the abacus. The motions didn't seem so strange now. Even when the beads vanished, she could almost follow that new direction. Almost. Scott panted, staring into the crystal cube and mentally directing with many false starts, the building of a structure somewhat more complicated than the one which had been destroyed by fire. He too was learning, being conditioned. Parodyne's mistake from a completely anthropomorphic standpoint was that he didn't get rid of the toys instantly. He did not realize their significance, and by the time he did, the progression of circumstances had got well underway. Uncle Harry remained out of town, so Parodyne couldn't check with him. Two, the midterm exams were on, which meant arduous mental effort and complete exhaustion at night, and Jane was slightly ill for a week or so. Emma and Scott had free reign with the toys. What, Scott asked his father one evening, is a wave, dad? Wave? He hesitated. I don't think so. Isn't wave right? Webb is Scott for Webb, that it? I don't see how, Scott muttered, and wandered off scowling to amuse himself with the abacus. He was able to handle it quite deftly now, but with the instinct of children for avoiding interruptions, he and Emma usually played with the toys in private. Not obviously of course, but the more intricate experiments were never performed under the eye of an adult. Scott was learning fast. What he now saw in the crystal cube had a little relationship to the original simple problems, but they were fascinatingly technical. Had Scott realized that his education was being guided and supervised, though merely mechanically, he would probably have lost interest. As it was, his initiative was never quashed. Abacus, cube, doll, and other toys the children found in the box. Neither paradigm nor Jane guessed how much of an effect the contents of the time machine were having on the kids. How could they? Youngsters are instinctive dramatists for purposes of self-protection. They have not yet fitted themselves to the exigencies, to them partially inexplicable of a mature world. Moreover, their lives are complicated by human variables. They are told by one person that playing in the mud is permissible, but that, in their excavations, they must not uproot flowers or small trees. Another adult vetoes mud, per se. The Ten Commandments are not carved on stone, they vary, and children are helplessly dependent on the caprice of those who give them birth and feed and clothe them, and tyrannize. The young animal does not resent that benevolent tyranny, for it is an essential part of nature. He is, however, an individualist and maintains his integrity by a subtle, passive fight. Under the eyes of an adult, he changes, like an actor on stage when he remembers he strives to please and also to attract attention to himself. Such attempts are not unknown to maturity, but adults are less obvious to other adults. It is difficult to admit that children lack subtlety. Children are different from the mature animal because they think in another way. We can more or less easily pierce the pretences they set up, but they can do the same to us. Ruthlessly, a child can destroy the pretences of an adult. Iconoclasm is their prerogative. Poppishness, for example. The amenities of social intercourse exaggerated not quite to absurdity. The gigolo. Such savo faire, such punctilious courtesy. The dowager and the blonde young thing are often impressed. Men have less pleasant comments to make, but the child goes to the root of the matter. You're silly. How can an immature human understand the complicated system of social relationships? He can't. To him, an exaggeration of natural courtesy is silly. In his functional structure of life patterns, it is Rococo. He is an egotistic little animal who cannot visualize himself in the position of another, certainly not an adult. A self-contained, almost perfect natural unit is once supplied by others. The child is much like a unicellular creature floating in the bloodstream. Nutriment carried to him. Waste products carried away. From the standpoint of logic, a child is rather horribly perfect. A baby may be even more perfect, but so alien to an adult that only superficial standards of comparison apply. The thought processes of an infant are completely unimaginable, but babies think even before birth. In the womb, they move and sleep, not entirely through instinct. We are conditioned to react rather peculiarly to the idea that a nearly viable embryo may think. We're surprised, shocked and a laughter and repelled. Nothing human is alien. But a baby is not human. An embryo is far less human. That perhaps was why Emma learned more from the toys than did Scott. He could communicate his thoughts. Of course, Emma could not, except in cryptic fragments. The matter of the scrawls, for example. Give a young child pencil and paper and he will draw something which looks different to him than to an adult. The absurd scribbles have little resemblance to a fire engine, but it is a fire engine to a baby. Perhaps it is even three-dimensional. Babies think differently and see differently. Parodyne brooded over that, reading his paper one evening and watching Emma and Scott communicate. Scott was questioning his sister. Sometimes he did it in English. More often, he had resource to gibberish and sign language. Emma tried to reply, but the handicap was too great. Finally, Scott got pencil and paper. Emma liked that. Tongue in cheek, she laboriously wrote a message. Scott took the paper, examined it and scowled. That isn't right, Emma, he said. Emma nodded vigorously. She seized the pencil again and made more scrolls. Scott puzzled for a while, finally smiled rather hesitantly and got up. He vanished into the hall. Emma returned to the abacus. Parodyne rose and glanced down at the paper with some mad thought that Emma might abruptly have mastered calligraphy, but she hadn't. The paper was covered with meaningless scrolls of a type familiar to any parent. Parodyne pursed his lips. It might be a graph showing the mental variations of a manic depressive cockroach, but probably wasn't. Still, it no doubt had meaning to Emma. Perhaps the scribble represented Mr. Bear. Scott returned, looking pleased. He met Emma's gaze and nodded. Parodyne felt a twinge of curiosity. Secrets? Nope. Emma asked me to do something for her. Oh. Parodyne recalling instances of babies who had babbled in unknown tongues and baffled linguistics made a note to pocket the paper when the kids had finished with it. The next day he showed the scroll to Elkins at the university. Elkins had a sound working knowledge of many unlikely languages, but he chuckled over Emma's venture into literature. He has a free translation, Dennis, quote, I don't know what this means, but I kid the hell out of my father with it, unquote. The two men laughed and went off to their classes, but later Parodyne was to remember the incident, especially after he met Holloway. Before that, however, months were to pass and the situation to develop even further toward its climax. Perhaps Parodyne and Jane had events to too much interest in the toys. Emma and Scott took to keeping them hidden, playing with them only in private. They never did it overtly, but with a certain unobtrusive caution. Nevertheless, Jane especially was somewhat troubled. She spoke to Parodyne about it one evening. That doll Harry gave Emma. Yeah, I was downtown today and tried to find out where it came from. No soap. Maybe Harry bought it in New York. Jane was unconvinced. I asked them about the other things too. They showed me their stock. Johnson's a big store, you know, but there's nothing like Emma's abacus. Mm-hmm. Parodyne wasn't much interested. They had tickets for a show that night and it was getting late, so the subject was dropped for the nonce. Later it cropped up again when a neighbor telephoned Jane. Scottie's never been like that, Denny. Mrs. Burns said he frightened the devil out of her Francis. Francis? A little fat bully of a punk, isn't he? Like his father, I broke Burns' nose for him once when we were sophomores. Stop boasting and listen, Jane said, mixing a highball. Scott showed Francis something that scared him. Hadn't you better I suppose so? Parodyne listened. Noises in the next room told him the whereabouts of the sun. Scottie? Bang! Scott said and appeared smiling. I killed them all, space pirates. You want me, Dad? Yes. If you don't mind leaving the space pirates unburied for a few minutes, what did you do to Francis Burns? Scott's blue eyes reflected incredible tandoor. Huh? Try hard. You can remember, I'm sure. Oh, that. I didn't do nothing. Anything, Jane corrected absently. Anything. Honest, I just let him look into my television set and it scared him. Television set? Scott produced the crystal cube. It isn't really that, see? Parodyne examined the gadget startled by the magnification. All he could see though was a maze of meaningless colored designs. Uncle Harry? Parodyne reached for the telephone. Scott gulped. Is Uncle Harry back in town? Yeah. Well, I gotta take a bath. Scott headed for the door. Parodyne met Jane's gaze and nodded significantly. Harry was on, but disclaimed all knowledge of the peculiar toys. Rather grimly, Parodyne requested Scott to bring down from his room all of the playthings. Finally, they lay in a row on the table. Cube, abacus, doll, helmet-like cap, several other mysterious contraptions. Scott was cross-examined. He lied valiantly for a time, but broke down at last and bawled, hiccuping his confession. Get the box these things came in, Parodyne ordered. Then head for bed. Are you gonna punish me, daddy? For playing hooky and lying? Yes. You know the rules. No more shows for two weeks. No sodas for the same period. Scott gulped. You gonna keep my things? I don't know yet. Well, good night, daddy. Good night, mom. After the small figure had gone upstairs, Parodyne dragged a chair to the table and carefully scrutinized the box. He poked thoughtfully at the effused gadgetry. Jane watched. What is it, Denny? Dunno. Who'd leave a box of toys down by the creek? It might have fallen out of a car. Not at that point. The road doesn't hit the creek north of the railroad trestle. Empty lots, nothing else. Parodyne lit a cigarette. Drank, honey? I'll fix it. Jane went to work. Her eyes troubled. She brought Parodyne a glass and stood behind him, ruffling his hair with her fingers. Is anything wrong? Of course not. Only, where did these toys come from? Johnson's didn't know, and they'd get their stock from New York. I've been checking up, too, Parodyne admitted. That doll, he poked it, rather worried me. Custom job, maybe, but I wish I knew who'd made them. Psychologists? The advocates, don't they give people tests with such things? Parodyne snapped his fingers. Right! And say, there's a guy going to speak at the university next week, fellow named Holloway, who's a child psychologist. He's a big shot with quite a reputation. He might know something about it. Holloway, I doubt, wrecks Holloway. He doesn't live far from here. Do you suppose he might have had these things made himself? Jane was examining the abacus. She grimaced and drew back. If he did, I don't like him. But see if you can find out, Denny. Parodyne nodded. I shall. He drank his highball, frowning. He was vaguely worried, but he wasn't scared. Yet. The Chilling True Terror of the Black-Eyed Kids, a monster compilation by G. Michael Vasey. The Black-Eyed Kids are an urban legend of vast proportions. The stories of small children turning up on people's doorsteps all across the world, spreading fear and terror, have only increased over time. This compilation of G. Michael Vasey's books on this scary phenomena include new material and new true stories, as well as the complete texts of the Black-Eyed Demons are coming and the Black-Eyed Kids. Supernatural expert G. Michael Vasey carefully investigates this truly terrifying phenomenon using real-life encounters with these scary supernatural beings. The result is an unsettling and sometimes terrifying book that will have you fearfully anticipating that knock at your door late at night. Who and what are these mysterious visitors to the doorstep? Are they demons? Aliens? What do they want? Why do they need to enter your home? And what happens if they do? Small kids that ask to use your phone or for a ride and yet those who encounter them are scared to death even before they notice their black eyes. The Chilling True Terror of the Black-Eyed Kids, a monster compilation by G. Michael Vasey. Narrated by Weird Darkness host Darren Marlar, here are free sample on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com In the 1800s, it's so fragile that in 2003 a tree branch hit a power line in Ohio and it shut down 21 power plants and close to 100 people died because of it. And it's not just natural disasters. In January, a power station in North Carolina was damaged by gunfire, marking the third time it happened. The terrifying truth is that our national security experts are warning us that our aging power grid is now more vulnerable than ever and these attacks just raise a new level of threat. Those post-apocalyptic TV and film scenarios could easily turn from fiction to fact. Imagine a blackout lasting not days but weeks or even months. Your life would be frozen in time at the moment the power fails. Lights all over the country would go out, throwing people into total darkness. That's why having your own personal source of solar power is more important than ever. With the Patriot Power Generator, you get a solar generator that doesn't install into your house because it's portable. You can take it with you wherever you go, even use it indoors. And it's powerful enough for your phones, medical devices, even your refrigerator. Right now you can go to 4patriots.com, that's the number 4, patriots.com and use the code WEIRD to get 10% of your first purchase on anything on the website, including the life-saving Patriot Power Generator. You'll also get their famous guarantee for an entire year after your order. Plus, free shipping on orders over $97. And the reason I approached 4patriots to be a sponsor? A portion of every sale is donated to charities to support our veterans and their families. Prepare for the future. Go to 4patriots.com today and use the code WEIRD to get 10% off. That's the number 4, patriots.com, promo code WEIRD and ensure you will survive the future. Rex Holloway was a fat, shiny man with a bald head and thick spectacles, above which his thick black brows lay like bushy caterpillars. Parodyne brought him home to dinner one night a week later. Holloway did not appear to watch the children, but nothing they did or said was lost on him. His grey eyes shrewd and bright missed little. The toys fascinated him. In the living room, the three adults gathered around the table where the play things had been placed. Holloway studied them carefully as he listened to what Jane and Parodyne had to say. At last, he broke his silence. I'm glad I came here tonight, but not completely. This is very disturbing, you know. Huh? Parodyne stared and Jane's face showed her consternation. Holloway's next words did not calm them. We're dealing with madness. He smiled at the shocked looks they gave him. All children are mad from an adult viewpoint. Ever read Hughes's High Winds in Jamaica? I've got it. Parodyne secured the little book from its shelf. Holloway extended a hand, took it and flipped the pages till he had found the place he wanted. He read aloud. Babies, of course, are not humans. They are animals, and have a very ancient and ramified culture, as cats have and fishes and even steaks. The same in kind as these, but much more complicated and vivid since babies are, after all, one of the most developed species of the lower vertebrates. In short, babies have minds which work in terms and categories of their own, which cannot be translated into the terms and categories of the human mind. Jane tried to take that calmly, but couldn't. You don't think that Emma, could you think like your daughter? Holloway asked. Listen, one can no more think like a baby than one can think like a bee. Parodyne mixed drinks. Over his shoulder he said, you're theorizing quite a bit, aren't you? As I get it, you're implying that babies have a culture of their own, even a high standard of intelligence. Not necessarily, there's no yardstick, you see. All I say is that babies think in other ways than we do. Not necessarily better, that's the question of relative values, but with a different manner of extension. He sought for words, grimacing. Fantasy. Parodyne said, rather rudely, but annoyed because of Emma, babies don't have different senses from ours. Who said they did? Holloway demanded, they use their minds in a different way, that's all, but it's quite enough. I'm trying to understand, Jane said slowly. All I can think of is my mix master. It can whip up batter and potatoes, but it can squeeze oranges too. Something like that. The brain's a colloid, a very complicated machine. We don't know much about its potentialities. We don't even know how much it can grasp, but it is known that the mind becomes conditioned as the human animal matures. It follows certain familiar theorems, and all thought thereafter is pretty well based on patterns taken for granted. Look at this. Holloway touched the abacus. Have you experimented with it? A little, Parodyne said, but not much, eh? Well, why not? It's pointless. Parodyne complained, even a puzzle has to have some logic, but those crazy angles. Your mind has been conditioned to Euclid, Holloway said. So this thing bores us and seems pointless. But a child knows nothing of Euclid. A different sort of geometry from ours wouldn't impress him as being illogical. He believes what he sees. Are you trying to tell me that this gadget's got a fourth dimensional extension? Parodyne demanded. Not visually, anyway. Holloway denied. All I say is that our minds conditioned to Euclid can see nothing in this but an illogical tangle of wires. But a child, especially a baby, might see more. Not at first. It'd be a puzzle, of course. Only a child wouldn't be handicapped by too many preconceived ideas. Hardening of the thought arteries, Jane interjected. Parodyne was not convinced that a baby could work calculus better than Einstein. No, I don't mean that. I can see your point, more or less clearly only. Well, look. Let's suppose there are two kinds of geometry. We'll limit it for the sake of the example. Our kind, Euclidean, and another which we'll call X. X hasn't much relationship to Euclid. It's based on different theorems. Two and two needn't equal four in it. They could equal Y squared, or they might not even equal. A baby's mind is not yet conditioned except by certain questionable factors of heredity and environment. Start the infant on Euclid, poor kid, Jane said. Holloway shot her a quick glance. The basis of Euclid, alphabet blocks, math, geometry, algebra, they come much later. We're familiar with that development. On the other hand, start the baby with the basic principles of our X logic. Blocks, what kind? Holloway looked at the abacus. It wouldn't make much sense to us, but we've been conditioned to Euclid. Parodyne poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey. That's pretty awful. You're not limiting to math. Right, I'm not limiting it at all. How can I? I'm not conditioned to X logic. There's the answer, Jane said with a sigh of relief. Who is? It'd take such a person to make the sort of toys you apparently think these are. Holloway nodded, his eyes behind the thick lenses blinking. Such people may exist. Where? They might prefer to keep hidden. Superman? I wish I knew. You see, Parodyne, we've got yardstick trouble again. By our standards, these people might seem super doopers in certain respects. In others, they might seem moronic. It's not a quantitative difference. It's qualitative. They think different, and I'm sure we can do things they can't. Maybe they wouldn't want to, Jane said. Parodyne tapped the fused gadgetry on the box. What about this? It implies a purpose, sure. Transportation? One thinks of that first. If so, the box might have come from anywhere. Where things are different, Parodyne asked slowly. Exactly. In space or even time, I don't know. I'm a psychologist. Unfortunately, I'm conditioned to Euclid too. Funny place it must be, Jane said. Denny, get rid of those toys. I intend to. Holloway picked up the crystal cube. Did you question the children much? Parodyne said, yeah. Scott said there were people in that cube when he first looked. I asked him what was in it now. What did he say? Psychologist's eyes widened. He said they were building a place. His exact words. I asked him who? People? But he couldn't explain. No, I suppose not. Holloway muttered, it must be progressive. How long have the children had these toys? About three months, I guess. Time enough. The perfect toy, you see, is both instructive and mechanical. It should do things to interest a child, and it should teach, preferably unobtrusively. Simple problems at first. Later, ex-logic, Jane said, white-faced. Parodyne cursed under his breath. Emma and Scott are perfectly normal. Do you know how their minds work now? Holloway didn't pursue the thought. He fingered the doll. It would be interesting to know the conditions of the place where these things came from. Induction doesn't help a great deal, though. Too many factors are missing. We can't visualize a world based on the X factor. Environment adjusted to mind's thinking in X patterns. This luminous network inside the doll, it could be anything. It could exist inside us, though we haven't discovered it yet. When we find the right stain, he shrugged, what do you make of this? It was a crimson globe, two inches in diameter with a protruding knob upon its surface. What could anyone make of it? Scott? Emma? I hadn't even seen it till about three weeks ago. Then Emma started to play with it. Parodyne nibbled his lip. After that, Scott got interested. Just what do they do? Hold it up in front of them and move it back and forth, no particular pattern of motion. No Euclidean pattern, Holloway corrected. At first, they couldn't understand the toy's purpose. They had to be educated up to it. That's horrible, Jane said. Not to them. Emma is probably quicker at understanding X than is Scott, for her mind isn't yet conditioned to this environment. Parodyne said, But I can't remember plenty of things I did as a child, even as a baby. Well, was I mad then? The things you don't remember are the criterion of your madness, Holloway retorted. But I used the word madness purely as a convenient symbol for the variation from the known human norm, the arbitrary standard of sanity. Jane put down her glass. You've said that induction was difficult, Mr. Holloway, but it seems to me you're making a great deal of it from very little. After all, these toys, I am a psychologist and I've specialized in children. I'm not a layman. These toys mean a great deal to me chiefly because they mean so little. You might be wrong. Well, I rather hope I am. I'd like to examine the children. Jane rose in arms. How? After Holloway had explained, she nodded, though still a bit hesitantly. Well, that's all right, but they're not guinea pigs. The psychologist patted the air with a plump hand. My dear girl, I'm not a Frankenstein. To me, the individual is the prime factor, naturally, since I work with mines. If there's anything wrong with the youngsters, I want to cure them. Paranine put down a cigarette and slowly watched the blue smoke spiral up, wavering in an unfelt draft. Can you give a prognosis? I'll try. That's all I can say. If the undeveloped mines have been turned into the X-channel, it's necessary to divert them back. I'm not saying that's the wisest thing to do, but it probably is from our standards. After all, Emma and Scott will have to live in this world. Yeah, yeah, I can't believe there's much wrong. They seem about average, thoroughly normal. Superficially, they may seem so. They have no reason for acting abnormally, have they? And how can you tell if they think differently? I'll call them, Paranine said. Make it informal, then I don't want them to be on guard. Jane nodded toward the toys. Holloway said, leave the stuff there, eh? But the psychologists, after Emma and Scott were summoned, made no immediate move at direct questioning. He managed to draw Scott unobtrusively into the conversation, dropping key words now and then. Nothing so obvious as a word association test, cooperation is necessary for that. The most interesting development occurred when Holloway took up the abacus. Mind showing me how this works? Scott hesitated. Yes, sir, like this. He slid a bead deftly through the maze in a tangled course, so swiftly that no one was quite sure whether or not it ultimately vanished. It might have been merely a leisure domain. Then again, Holloway tried. Scott watched, wrinkling his nose. That right? Uh-huh. It's gotta go there. Here, why? Well, that's the only way to make it work. But Holloway was conditioned to Euclid. There was no apparent reason why the bead should slide from this particular wire to the other. It looked like a random factor. Also, Holloway suddenly noticed this wasn't the path the bead had taken previously. When Scott had worked the puzzle, at least as well as he could tell, will you show me again? Scott did, and twice more on request. Holloway blinked through his glasses. Random. Yes, and a variable. Scott moved the bead along a different course each time. Somehow none of the adults could tell whether or not the bead vanished. If they had expected to see it disappear, the reactions might have been different. In the end, nothing was solved. Holloway, as he said good night, seemed ill at ease. May I come again? I wish you would, Jane told him, any time. You still think… He nodded. The children's minds are not reacting normally. They're not dull at all, but I have the most extraordinary impression that they arrive at conclusions in a way we don't understand. As though they used algebra while we used geometry. The same conclusion, but a different method of reaching it. What about the toys? Parodyne asked suddenly. Keep them out of the way. I'd like to borrow them, if I may. That night, Parodyne slept, badly. Holloway's parallel had been ill-chosen. It led to disturbing theories. The X factor. The children were using the equivalent of algebraic reasoning while adults used geometry. Fair enough, only algebra can give you answers that geometry cannot, since there are certain terms and symbols which cannot be expressed geometrically. Suppose X logic showed conclusions inconceivable to an adult mind. Damn, Parodyne whispered. Jane stirred beside him. Dear, can't you sleep either? No. He got up and went into the next room. Emma slept peacefully as a cherub, her fat arm curled around Mr. Bear. Through the open doorway, Parodyne could see Scott's dark head motionless on the pillow. Jane was beside him. He slipped his arm around her. Poor little people, she murmured, and Holloway called them mad. I think we're the ones who are crazy, Dennis. Uh-huh. We've got jitters. Scott stirred in his sleep, without awakening. He called what was obviously a question, though it did not seem to be in any particular language. Emma gave a little mulling cry that changed pitch sharply. She had not awakened. The children lay without stirring. But Parodyne thought, with a sudden thickness in his middle, it was exactly as though Scott had asked Emma something and she had replied. Had their minds changed so that even sleep was different to them? He thrust the thought away. You'll catch cold. Let's get back to bed. Want a drink? I think I do, Jane said, watching Emma. Her hand reached out blindly toward the child. She drew it back. Come on. We'll wake the kids. They drank a little brandy together, but said nothing. Jane cried in her sleep later. Scott was not awake, but his mind worked in slow, careful building. Thus, they'll take the toys away, the fat man, list of a dangerous maybe. But the gory direction won't show. Evankris Dunn hasn't them, in transdiction, bright and shiny. Emma, she's more a cuprannic high now than I still don't see how to the var elixiridist. A little of Scott's thoughts could still be understood, but Emma had become conditioned X much faster. She was thinking too. Not like an adult or a child, not even like a human, except perhaps a human of a type shockingly unfamiliar to Janice Homo. Sometimes Scott himself had difficulty in following her thoughts. If it had not been for Holloway, life might have settled back into an almost normal routine. The toys were no longer active reminders. Emma still enjoyed her dolls and sandpile with a thoroughly explicable delight. Scott was satisfied with baseball and his chemical set. They did everything other children did, and avenged few, if any, flashes of abnormality. But Holloway seemed to be an alarmist. He was having the toys tested with rather idiotic results. He drew endless charts and diagrams, corresponded with mathematicians, engineers, and other psychologists, and went quietly crazy trying to find rhyme or reason in the construction of the gadgets. The box itself, with its cryptic machinery, told nothing. Fusing had melted too much of the stuff into slag. But the toys… It was the random element that baffled investigation. Even that was a matter of semantics. For Holloway was convinced that it wasn't really random. There just weren't enough known factors. No adult could work the abacus, for example, and Holloway thoughtfully refrained from letting a child play with the thing. The crystal cube was similarly cryptic. It showed a mad pattern of colors which sometimes moved. In this, it resembled a kaleidoscope. But the shifting of balance and gravity didn't affect it. Again, the random factor. Or rather, the unknown. The X pattern. Eventually, Paradine and Jane slipped back into something like complacence, with a feeling that the children had been cured of their mental quirk now that the contributing cause had been removed. Certain of the actions of Emma and Scott gave them every reason to quit worrying. For the kids enjoyed swimming, hiking, movies, games, the normal, functional toys of this particular time sector. It was true that they failed to master certain rather puzzling mechanical devices which involved some calculation. A three-dimensional jigsaw globe Paradine had picked up, for example, but he found that difficult himself. Once in a while, there were lapses. Scott was hiking with his father one Saturday afternoon and the two had paused at the summit of a hill. Beneath them, a rather lovely valley was spread. Pretty, isn't it? Paradine remarked. Scott examined the scene gravely. It's all wrong, he said. I don't know. What's wrong with it? Gee! Scott lapsed into puzzled silence. I don't know. The children had missed their toys, but not for long. Emma recovered first, though Scott still moped. He held unintelligible conversations with his sister and studied meaningless scrolls she drew on paper he supplied. It was almost as though he was consulting her and end difficult problems beyond his grasp. If Emma understood more, Scott had more real intelligence and manipulatory skill as well. He built a gadget with his mechano set, but was dissatisfied. The apparent cause of his dissatisfaction was exactly why Paradine was relieved when he viewed the structure. It was the sort of thing a normal boy would make, vaguely reminiscent of a cubistic ship. It was a bit too normal to please Scott. He asked Emma more questions, though in private. She thought for a time and then made more scrolls with an awkwardly clutched pencil. Can you read that stuff? Jane asked her son one morning. Not read it exactly. I could tell what she means. Not all the time, but mostly. Is it writing? No, it doesn't mean what it looks like. Symbolism? Paradine suggested over his coffee. Jane looked at him, her eyes widening. Denny? He winked and shook his head. Later, when they were alone, he said, don't let Holloway upset you. I'm not implying that the kids are corresponding in an unknown ton. If Emma draws a squiggle and says it's a flower, that's an arbitrary rule. Scott remembers that. Next time she draws the same sort of squiggle or tries to... Well, sure. Jane said doubtfully, have you noticed Scott's been doing a lot of reading lately? I noticed. Nothing unusual, though. No Kant or Spinoza. He browses. That's all. Well, so did I at his age, Paradine said, and went off to his morning classes. He launched with Holloway, which was becoming a daily habit and spoke of Emma's literary endeavors. Was I right about symbolism, Rex? The psychologist nodded, quite right. Our own language is nothing but arbitrary symbolism now, at least in its application. Look here. On his napkin, he drew a very narrow ellipse. What's that? You mean, what does it represent? Yes, what does it suggest to you? It could be a crude representation of what? Plenty of things, Paradine said. Rim of a glass, a fried egg, a loaf of French bread, a cigar. Holloway added a little triangle to his drawing. Apex joined to one end of the ellipse. He looked up at Paradine. A fish, the latter said instantly. Our familiar symbol for a fish. Even without Finn's eyes or mouth, it's recognizable because we've been conditioned to identify this particular shape with our mental picture of a fish, the basis of a rebus. A symbol to us means a lot more than what we actually see on paper. What's in your mind when you look at this sketch? Why a fish? Keep going. What do you visualize? Everything. Skills, Paradine said slowly, looking into space. Water, foam, fish's eye, the fins, the colors. So the symbol represents a lot more than just the abstract idea, fish. Note the connotations that of a noun, not a verb. It's harder to express actions by symbolism, you know? Anyway, reverse the process. Suppose you want to make a symbol for some concrete noun, say bird. Draw it. Paradine drew two connected arcs. Concavity is down. The lowest common denominator, Holloway nodded, the natural tendency is to simplify, especially when a child is seeing something for the first time and has few standards of comparison. He tries to identify the new thing with what's already familiar to him. Ever notice how a child draws the ocean? He didn't wait for an answer, he went on, a series of jagged points, like the oscillating line on a seismograph. When I first saw the Pacific, I was about three. I remember it pretty clearly. It looked tilted, a flat plane slanted at an angle. The waves were regular triangles, apex upward. Now I didn't see them stylized that way, but later remembering, I had to find some familiar standard of comparison, which is the only way of getting any conception of an entirely new thing. The average child tries to draw these regular triangles, but his coordination is poor. He gets a seismograph pattern. All of which means what? A child sees the ocean. He stylizes it. He draws a certain definite pattern, symbolic to him of the sea. Emma's scrawls may be symbols too. I don't mean that the world looks different to her. Brighter, perhaps, and sharper, more vivid, and with a slackening of perception above her eye level. What I do mean is that her thought processes are different, that she translates what she sees into abnormal symbols. You still believe? Yes, I do. Her mind has been conditioned unusually. It may be that she breaks down what she sees into simple, obvious patterns and realizes a significance to those patterns that we can't understand. Like the abacus, she saw a pattern in that, though to us it was completely random. Paradigm abruptly decided to taper off these lunch and engagements with Holloway. The man was an alarmist. His theories were growing more fantastic than ever, and he dragged in anything applicable or not that would support them. Rather sardonically, he said, Do you mean Emma's communicating with Scott in an unknown language? In symbols for which she hasn't any words. I'm sure Scott understands a great deal of those scrawls. To him, an isosceles triangle may represent any factor, though probably a concrete noun. Would a man who knew nothing of algebra understand what H2O meant? Would he realize that the symbol could evoke a picture of the ocean? Paradigm didn't answer. Instead, he mentioned to Holloway Scott's curious remark that the landscape from the hill had looked all wrong. A moment later, he was inclined to regret his impulse for the psychologist was off again. Scott's thought patterns are building up to a sum that doesn't equal this world. Perhaps he's subconsciously expecting to see the world where those toys came from. Paradigm stopped listening. Enough was enough. The kids were getting along all right, and the only remaining disturbing factor was Holloway himself. That night, however, Scott evened an interest later significant in eels. There was nothing apparently harmful in natural history, Paradigm explained about eels. But where do they lay their eggs? Or do they? That's still a mystery. Their spawning grounds are unknown. Maybe this is our gas o' sea, or the deeps where the pressure can help them force the young out of their bodies. Funny, Scott said, thinking deeply. Sam and do the same thing, more or less. They go up rivers to spawn. Paradigm went into detail. Scott was fascinated. But that's right, Dad. They're born in the river, and when they learn how to swim, they go down to the sea. And they come back to lay their eggs, huh? Right. Only they wouldn't come back, Scott pondered. They just send their eggs. It took a very long of a positor, Paradigm said, and Vouch saved some well-chosen remarks on opoverity. The sun wasn't entirely satisfied. Flowers, he contended, sent their seeds long distances. They don't guide them, not many find fertile soil. Flowers haven't got brains, though, Dad. Why do people live here? Glendale? No, here, this whole place. It isn't all there is, I bet. Do you mean other planets? Scott was hesitant. This is only part of the big place. It's like the river where the salmon go. Why don't people go on down to the ocean when they grow up? Paradigm realized that Scott was speaking figuratively. He felt a brief chill. The ocean? The young of the species are not conditioned to live in the complete world of their parents. Having developed sufficiently, they enter that world. Later, they breed. The fertilized eggs are buried in the sand, far up the river, where later they hatch. When they learn, instinct alone is fatally slow, especially in the case of a specialized genus unable to cope even with this world, unable to feed or drink or survive unless someone has foresightedly provided for those needs. The young, fed and tended would survive. There would be incubators and robots. They would survive, but they would not know how to swim downstream to the vaster world of the ocean. So, they must be taught. They must be trained and conditioned in many ways. Painlessly, subtly, unobtrusively, children love toys that do things, and if those toys teach at the same time… Are you a member of the Darkness Syndicate? The Darkness Syndicate is a private membership where you receive commercial-free episodes of the Weird Darkness podcast and radio show. Behind the scenes, video updates about future projects and events I am working on. You can share your own opinions on ideas to help me decide upon Weird Darkness contests and events. You can hear audiobooks I am narrating before even the publishers or authors get to hear them. You also receive bonus audio of other projects I am working on outside of Weird Darkness. You get all of these benefits and more, starting at only $5 per month. Join the Weird Darkness Syndicate at WeirdDarkness.com He has been spotted all over the world, but photographic evidence is lacking, as is any scientific proof. But he still exists and is still seen. And now, you can search for Bigfoot every month in the Find Bigfoot calendar by Timothy Wayne Williams. Each month, you'll be captivated by an original Timothy Wayne Williams painting, beautiful and captivating. But within each painting hides a monster Bigfoot is hiding somewhere in each painting. Search for Bigfoot and invite others to do so as well with the new Find Bigfoot calendar available now at WeirdDarkness.com slash Bigfoot. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash Bigfoot. In the latter half of the 19th century, an Englishman sat on a grassy bank near a stream. A very small girl lay near him, staring up at the sky. She discarded a curious toy with which she'd been playing, and now was murmuring a wordless little song to which the man listened with half an ear. What was that, my dear? He asked at last. Just after I made up Uncle Charles, sing it again. He pulled out a notebook. The girl obeyed. Does it mean anything? She nodded. Oh, yes, like the stories I tell you, you know. They're wonderful stories, dear. You'll put them in a book someday? Yes, but I must change them quite a lot, or no one would understand. But I don't think I'll change your little song. You mustn't. If you did, it wouldn't mean anything. I won't change that stanza anyway, we promised. Just what does it mean? It's the way out, I think, the girl said doubtfully, and not sure yet. My magic toys told me. I wish I knew what London shop sold those marvelous toys. Mama bought them for me. She's dead. Papa doesn't care. She lied. She'd found the toys in a box one day as she played by the Thames, and they were indeed wonderful. Her little song, Uncle Charles, thought it didn't mean anything. He wasn't her real uncle, she parenthesized, but he was nice. The song meant a great deal. It was the way. Presently, she would do what it said, and then… but she was already too old. She never found the way. Parodyne had dropped Holloway. Jane had taken a dislike to him. Naturally enough, since what she wanted most of all was to have her fears calmed. Since Scott and Emma acted normally now, Jane felt satisfied. It was partly wishful thinking, to which Parodyne could not entirely subscribe. Scott kept bringing gadgets to Emma for her approval. Usually she'd shake her head. Sometimes, she would look doubtful. Very occasionally, she would signify agreement. Then there would be an hour of laborious, crazy scribbling on scraps of note paper, and Scott, after studying the notations, would arrange and rearrange his rocks, bits of machinery, candle ends, and a sort of junk. Each day, the maid cleaned them away, and each day, Scott began again. He condescended to explain a little to his puzzled father, who could see no rhyme or reason in the game. But why this pebble right here? It's hard and round, Dad. It belongs there. So is this one hard and round? That's got Vaseline on it. When you get that far, you can't see just a hard round thing. What comes next? This candle? Scott looked disgusted. That's toward the end. The iron rings next. It was, Parodyne thought, like a scout trail through the woods. Markers and elaborate. But here again was the random factor. Logic halted, familiar logic, at Scott's motives and arranging the junk as he did. Parodyne went out. Over his shoulder, he saw Scott pull a crumpled piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket and head for Emma, who was squatted in a corner, thinking things over. Well, Jane was launching with Uncle Harry. It on this hot Sunday afternoon, there was little to do, but read the papers. Parodyne settled himself in the coolest place he could find, with a Collins, and lost himself in the comic strips. An hour later, a clatter of feet upstairs roused him from his doze. Scott's voice was crying exultantly, this is it, slug! Come on! Parodyne stood up, quickly frowning. As he went into the hall, the telephone began to ring. Jane had promised to call. His hand was on the receiver when Emma's faint voice squealed with excitement. Parodyne grimaced. What the devil was going on upstairs? Scott shrieked. Look out! This way! Parodyne, his mouth working, his nerves ridiculously tense, forgot the phone and raced up the stairs. The door of Scott's room was open. The children were vanishing. They went in fragments like thick smoke in a wind, or like movement in a distorting mirror. Hand in hand, they went in a direction Parodyne could not understand, as he blinked there on the threshold. They were gone. Emma, he said, dry-throated. Scotty! On the carpet lay a pattern of markers, pebbles, and iron ring. Junk, a random pattern. A crumpled sheet of paper blew toward Parodyne. He picked it up automatically. Kids, where are you? Don't hide! Emma, Scotty! Downstairs, the telephone stopped. It's a shrill, monotonous ringing. Parodyne looked at the paper he held. It was a leaf torn from a book. There were interlinations and marginal notes in Emma's meaningless scrawl. A stanza, a verse, had been so underlined and scribbled over that it was almost illegible. A Parodyne was thoroughly familiar with, through the looking glass. His memory gave him the words. Twas Brillock and these slithy toves, dead gyre and gimble in the wave, all mimsy where the borough goes, and the moam rats outgrabe. Idiotically, he thought, Humpty Dumpty explained it. A wave is the plot of grass around a sundial. A sundial. Time. It has something to do with time. Long time ago, Scotty asked me what a wave was. Symbolism. Twas Brillock. A perfect mathematical formula, giving all the conditions in symbolism the children had finally understood. The junk on the floor, the toves had to be made slithy. Vaseline? And they had to be placed in a certain relationship so that they'd gyre and gimble. Lunacy. But it had not been lunacy to Emma and Scott. They thought differently. They used X logic. Those notes Emma had made on the page, she translated Carol's words into symbols both she and Scott could understand. The random factor had made sense to the children. They had fulfilled the conditions of the time-space equation, and the moam rats outgrabe. Parodyne made a rather ghastly little sound deep in his throat. He looked at the crazy pattern on the carpet, if he could follow it as the kids had done. But he couldn't. The pattern was senseless. The random factor defeated him. He was conditioned to Euclid. Even if he went insane, he still couldn't do it. It would be the wrong kind of lunacy. His mind had stopped working now, but in a moment the stasis of incredulous horror would pass. Parodyne crumpled the page in his fingers. Emma! Scotty! he called in a dead voice, as though he could expect no response. Sunlight slanted through the open windows, brightening the golden pelt of Mr. Bear. Downstairs, the ringing of the telephone began again. I've narrated. Sign up for the email newsletter. Find other podcasts that I host, including Church of the Undead. Visit the store for Weird Darkness merchandise and more. WeirdDarkness.com is also where you can find the hope in the darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts. Also on the website, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, you can click on Tell Your Story. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. All stories on Thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction and you can find links to the stories or the authors in the show notes. Mimsy of the Borogoves was written by Lewis Patchett from the book The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume 1, which I have linked to in the show notes. Weird Darkness is a registered trademark. Copyright, Weird Darkness. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Philippians 4 verses 6 and 7. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God, and the peace of God which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. And a final thought. You are not an accident. Your birth was no mistake or mishap, and your life is no fluke of nature. Your parents may not have planned you, but God did. Long before you were conceived by your parents, you were conceived in the mind of God. He thought of you first. It is not fate nor chance nor luck nor coincidence that you are breathing this very moment. You are alive because God wanted to create you. Rick Warren I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.