The Street That Wasnt There | Page 3

tabaret and, most important of all, the marine print.
Mr. Chambers loved that picture. It had depth, he always said. It
showed an old sailing ship in the foreground on a placid sea. Far in the
distance, almost on the horizon line, was the vague outline of a larger
vessel.
There were other pictures, too. The forest scene above the fireplace, the
old English prints in the corner where he sat, the Currier and Ives above
the radio. But the ship print was directly in his line of vision. He could

see it without turning his head. He had put it there because he liked it
best.
Further reverie became an effort as Mr. Chambers felt himself
succumbing to weariness. He undressed and went to bed. For an hour
he lay awake, assailed by vague fears he could neither define nor
understand.
When finally he dozed off it was to lose himself in a series of horrific
dreams. He dreamed first that he was a castaway on a tiny islet in
mid-ocean, that the waters around the island teemed with huge
poisonous sea snakes ... hydrophinnae ... and that steadily those
serpents were devouring the island.
In another dream he was pursued by a horror which he could neither
see nor hear, but only could imagine. And as he sought to flee he stayed
in the one place. His legs worked frantically, pumping like pistons, but
he could make no progress. It was as if he ran upon a treadway.
Then again the terror descended on him, a black, unimagined thing and
he tried to scream and couldn't. He opened his mouth and strained his
vocal cords and filled his lungs to bursting with the urge to shriek ...
but not a sound came from his lips.
* * * * *
All next day he was uneasy and as he left the house that evening, at
precisely seven o'clock, he kept saying to himself: "You must not
forget tonight! You must remember to stop and get your cigar!"
The street light at the corner of Jefferson was still out and in front of
816 the cemented driveway was still boarded off. Everything was the
same as the night before.
And now, he told himself, the Red Star confectionery is in the next
block. I must not forget tonight. To forget twice in a row would be just
too much.

He grasped that thought firmly in his mind, strode just a bit more
rapidly down the street.
But at the corner he stopped in consternation. Bewildered, he stared
down the next block. There was no neon sign, no splash of friendly
light upon the sidewalk to mark the little store tucked away in this
residential section.
He stared at the street marker and read the word slowly: GRANT. He
read it again, unbelieving, for this shouldn't be Grant Street, but
Marshall. He had walked two blocks and the confectionery was
between Marshall and Grant. He hadn't come to Marshall yet ... and
here was Grant.
Or had he, absent-mindedly, come one block farther than he thought,
passed the store as on the night before?
For the first time in twenty years, Mr. Chambers retraced his steps. He
walked back to Jefferson, then turned around and went back to Grant
again and on to Lexington. Then back to Grant again, where he stood
astounded while a single, incredible fact grew slowly in his brain:
There wasn't any confectionery! The block from Marshall to Grant had
disappeared!
Now he understood why he had missed the store on the night before,
why he had arrived home fifteen minutes early.
On legs that were dead things he stumbled back to his home. He
slammed and locked the door behind him and made his way unsteadily
to his chair in the corner.
What was this? What did it mean? By what inconceivable necromancy
could a paved street with houses, trees and buildings be spirited away
and the space it had occupied be closed up?
Was something happening in the world which he, in his secluded life,
knew nothing about?

Mr. Chambers shivered, reached to turn up the collar of his coat, then
stopped as he realized the room must be warm. A fire blazed merrily in
the grate. The cold he felt came from something ... somewhere else.
The cold of fear and horror, the chill of a half whispered thought.
A deathly silence had fallen, a silence still measured by the pendulum
clock. And yet a silence that held a different tenor than he had ever
sensed before. Not a homey, comfortable silence ... but a silence that
hinted at emptiness and nothingness.
There was something back of this, Mr. Chambers told himself.
Something that reached far back into one corner of his brain and
demanded recognition.