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    The Perfect Host
    The Perfect Host
    The Perfect Host
    Ebook78 pages1 hour

    The Perfect Host

    By Theodore Sturgeon

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    About this ebook

    I was fourteen then. I was sitting in the car waiting for Dad to come out of the hospital. . . She was hanging out of a window on the second floor of a near ell of the hospital. Her hair was dank and stringy, her eyes had mud in them, and her teeth were beautiful. She was naked, at least to the waist. She was saying "Mister!" and she was saying it to me. The Perfect Host is a dark and chilling story of madness and possession. Theodore Sturgeon was one of the most influential genre authors of his time and this surprising story will show you why.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilder Publications, Inc.
    Release dateJun 1, 2014
    ISBN9781627558679
    The Perfect Host
    Author

    Theodore Sturgeon

    Theodore Sturgeon (1918–1985) is considered one of the godfathers of contemporary science fiction and dark fantasy. The author of numerous acclaimed short stories and novels, among them the classics More Than Human, Venus Plus X, and To Marry Medusa, Sturgeon also wrote for television and holds among his credits two episodes of the original 1960s Star Trek series, for which he created the Vulcan mating ritual and the expression “Live long and prosper.” He is also credited as the inspiration for Kurt Vonnegut’s recurring fictional character Kilgore Trout. Sturgeon is the recipient of the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, and the International Fantasy Award. In 2000, he was posthumously honored with a World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement. 

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    • 4/5
      Good old Ted. This is the classic stuff. If you like twilight zone or dark mirror you'll like this one.

    Book preview

    The Perfect Host - Theodore Sturgeon

    THE PERFECT HOST

    THEODORE STURGEON

    Wilder Publications

    Copyright © 2014 by Wilder Publications

    All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

    Manufactured in the United States of America

    Cover Image © Can Stock Photo Inc. / udra

    10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

    ISBN 978-1-62755-867-9

    Table of Contents

    1: RONNIE DANIELS

    2: BENTON DANIELS

    3: LUCILLE HOLDER

    4: JENNIE BEAUFORT

    5: HELMUTH STOYE

    6: LAWRENCE DELEHANTY

    7: THEODORE STURGEON

    8:

    1: RONNIE DANIELS

    I was fourteen then. I was sitting in the car waiting for Dad to come out of the hospital. Dad was in there seeing Mother. It was the day after Dad told me I had a little sister.

    It was July, warm, and I suppose about four in the afternoon. It was almost time for Dad to come out. I half opened the car door and looked for him.

    Someone called, Mister! Mister!

    There was a red squirrel arcing across the thick green lawn, and a man with balloons far down the block. I looked at them. Nobody would call me Mister. Nobody ever had, yet. I was too young.

    Mister!

    It was a woman’s voice, but rough; rough and nasty. It was strong, and horrible for the pleading in it. No strong thing should beg. The sun was warm and the red of the brick buildings was warm, too. The squirrel was not afraid. The grass was as green and smooth as a jellybean; Mother was all right, Dad said, and Dad felt fine. We would go to the movies, Dad and I, close together with a closeness that never happened when things were regular, meals at home, Mother up making breakfast every morning, and all that. This week it would be raids on the ice box and staying up late sometimes, because Dad forgot about bedtime and anyway wanted to talk.

    Mister!

    Her voice was like a dirty mark on a new collar. I looked up.

    She was hanging out of a window on the second floor of a near ell of the hospital. Her hair was dank and stringy, her eyes had mud in them, and her teeth were beautiful. She was naked, at least to the waist. She was saying Mister! and she was saying it to me.

    I was afraid, then. I got in the car and slammed the door.

    Mister! Mister! Mister!

    They were syllables that meant nothing. A mis, a ter—sounds that rasped across the very wound they opened. I put my hands over my ears, but by then the sounds were inside my head, and my hands just seemed to keep them there. I think I sobbed. I jumped out of the car and screamed, What? What?

    I got to get out of here, she moaned.

    I thought, why tell me? I thought, what can I do? I had heard of crazy people, but I had never seen one. Grown-up people were sensible, mostly. It was only kids who did crazy things, without caring how much sense they made. I was only fourteen.

    Mister, she said. Go to—to . . . Let me think, now . . . Where I live. Where I live.

    Where do you live? I asked.

    In Homeland, she said. She sank down with her forehead on the sill, slowly, as if some big slow weight were on her shoulderblades. I could see only the top of her head, the two dank feathers of her hair and the point of an elbow. Homeland was a new residential suburb.

    Where in Homeland? It seemed to be important. To me, I mean, as much as to her.

    Twenty, she mumbled. I have to remember it . . . and her voice trailed off. Suddenly she stood bolt upright, looking back into the room as if something had happened there. Then she leaned far out. Twenty sixty five, she snarled. You hear? Twenty sixty five. That’s the one.

    Ron! Ronnie!

    It was Dad, coming down the path, looking at me, looking at the woman.

    That’s the one, said the woman again. There was a flurry of white behind her. She put one foot on the sill and sprang out at me. I closed my eyes. I heard her hit the pavement. When I opened my eyes they were still looking up at the window. There was a starched white nurse up there with her fingers in her mouth, all of them, and eyes as round and blank as a trout’s. I looked down. I felt Dad’s hand on my upper arm. Ronnie!

    I looked down. There was blood, just a little, on the cuff of my trousers. There was nothing else.

    Dad . . .

    Dad looked all around, on the ground.

    He looked up at the window and at the nurse. The nurse looked at Dad and at me, and then put her hands on the sill and leaned out and looked all around on the ground. I could see, in the sunlight, where her fingers were wet from being in her mouth. Dad looked at me and again at the nurse and I heard him draw a deep quivering breath as if he’d forgotten to breathe for a while and had only just realized it. The nurse straightened up, put her hands over her eyes and twisted back into the room.

    Dad and I looked at each other. He said, Ronnie—what was— what . . . and then licked his lips. I was not as tall as my father, though he was not a tall man. He had thin, fine obedient hair, straight and starting high. He had blue eyes and a big nose and his mouth was quiet. He was broad and gentle and close to the ground,

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