{"id":18241,"date":"2025-01-05T07:08:16","date_gmt":"2025-01-05T11:08:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=18241"},"modified":"2025-01-05T07:08:19","modified_gmt":"2025-01-05T11:08:19","slug":"philip-k-dick-the-father-thing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/philip-k-dick-the-father-thing\/18241\/","title":{"rendered":"Philip K. Dick: The Father-Thing"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n\n

The Father-Thing<\/strong> is a disturbing science fiction short story by Philip K. Dick published in December 1954 in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction<\/em>. An eight-year-old, Charles, begins to suspect something terrible is happening to his father. One night, as he enters the garage, he witnesses a disturbing scene: next to his father is an identical replica of him. During dinner, Charles is confronted by the disturbing creature that, he is convinced, has usurped his father’s place. His mother’s incomprehension and the escalation of events that this provokes lead Charles to run away from home in search of help, triggering a desperate struggle to discover the truth in an environment that becomes increasingly oppressive and terrifying.<\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n\n

\n
\n
\"Philip<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Father-Thing<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

by Philip K. Dick
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDinner\u2019s ready,\u201d commanded Mrs. Walton. \u201cGo get your father and tell him to wash his hands. The same applies to you, young man.\u201d She carried a steaming casserole to the neatly set table. \u201cYou\u2019ll find him out in the garage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles hesitated. He was only eight years old, and the problem bothering him would have confounded Hillel. \u201cI \u2014\u201d he began uncertainly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d June Walton caught the uneasy tone in her son\u2019s voice and her matronly bosom fluttered with sudden alarm. \u201cIsn\u2019t Ted out in the garage? For heaven\u2019s sake, he was sharpening the hedge shears a minute ago. He didn\u2019t go over to the Andersons\u2019, did he? I told him dinner was practically on the table.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s in the garage,\u201d Charles said. \u201cBut he\u2019s \u2014 talking to himself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTalking to himself!\u201d Mrs. Walton removed her bright plastic apron and hung it over the doorknob. \u201cTed? Why, he never talks to himself. Go tell him to come in here.\u201d She poured boiling black coffee in the little blue-and-white china cups and began ladling out creamed corn. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with you? Go tell him!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know which of them to tell.\u201d Charles blurted out desperately. \u201cThey both look alike.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

June Walton\u2019s fingers lost their hold on the aluminum pan; for a moment the creamed corn slushed dangerously. \u201cYoung man \u2014\u201d she began angrily, but at that moment Ted Walton came striding into the kitchen, inhaling and sniffing and rubbing his hands together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh,\u201d he cried happily. \u201cLamb stew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBeef stew,\u201d June murmured. \u201cTed, what were you doing out there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ted threw himself down at his place and unfolded his napkin. \u201cI got the shears sharpened like a razor. Oiled and sharpened. Better not touch them \u2014 they\u2019ll cut your hand off.\u201d He was a good-looking man in his early thirties; thick blond hair, strong arms, competent hands, square face and flashing brown eyes. \u201cMan, this stew looks good. Hard day at the office \u2014 Friday, you know. Stuff piles up and we have to get all the accounts out by five. Al McKinley claims the department could handle 20 per cent more stuff if we organized our lunch hours; staggered them so somebody was there all the time.\u201d He beckoned Charles over. \u201cSit down and let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Walton served the frozen peas. \u201cTed,\u201d she said, as she slowly took her seat, \u201cis there anything on your mind?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn my mind?\u201d He blinked. \u201cNo, nothing unusual. Just the regular stuff. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Uneasily, June Walton glanced over at her son. Charles was sitting bolt-upright at his place, face expressionless, white as chalk. He hadn\u2019t moved, hadn\u2019t unfolded his napkin or even touched his milk. A tension was in the air; she could feel it. Charles had pulled his chair away from his father\u2019s; he was huddled in a tense little bundle as far from his father as possible. His lips were moving, but she couldn\u2019t catch what he was saying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d she demanded, leaning toward him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe other one,\u201d <\/em>Charles was muttering under his breath. \u201cThe other one came in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean, dear?\u201d June Walton asked out loud. \u201cWhat other one?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ted jerked. A strange expression flitted across his face. It vanished at once; but in the brief instant Ted Walton\u2019s face lost all familiarity. Something alien and cold gleamed out, a twisting, wriggling mass. The eyes blurred and receded, as an archaic sheen filmed over them. The ordinary look of a tired, middle-aged husband was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then it was back \u2014 or nearly back. Ted grinned and began to wolf down his stew and frozen peas and creamed corn. He laughed, stirred his coffee, kidded and ate. But something terrible was wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe other one,\u201d Charles muttered, face white, hands beginning to tremble. Suddenly he leaped up and backed away from the table. \u201cGet away!\u201d he shouted. \u201cGet out of here!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey,\u201d Ted rumbled ominously. \u201cWhat\u2019s got into you?\u201d He pointed sternly at the boy\u2019s chair. \u201cYou sit down there and eat your dinner, young man. Your mother didn\u2019t fix it for nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles turned and ran out of the kitchen, upstairs to his room. June Walton gasped and fluttered in dismay. \u201cWhat in the world \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ted went on eating. His face was grim; his eyes were hard and dark. \u201cThat kid,\u201d he grated, \u201cis going to have to learn a few things. Maybe he and I need to have a little private conference together.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Charles crouched and listened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The father-thing was coming up the stairs, nearer and nearer. \u201cCharles!\u201d it shouted angrily. \u201cAre you up there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t answer. Soundlessly, he moved back into his room and pulled the door shut. His heart was pounding heavily. The father-thing had reached the landing; in a moment it would come in his room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He hurried to the window. He was terrified; it was already fumbling in the dark hall for the knob. He lifted the window and climbed out on the roof. With a grunt he dropped into the flower garden that ran by the front door, staggered and gasped, then leaped to his feet and ran from the light that streamed out the window, a patch of yellow in the evening darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He found the garage; it loomed up ahead, a black square against the skyline. Breathing quickly, he fumbled in his pocket for his flashlight, then cautiously slid the door up and entered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The garage was empty. The car was parked out front. To the left was his father\u2019s workbench. Hammers and saws on the wooden walls. In the back were the lawnmower, rake, shovel, hoe. A drum of kerosene. License plates nailed up everywhere. Floor was concrete and dirt; a great oil slick stained the center, tufts of weeds greasy and black in the flickering beam of the flashlight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just inside the door was a big trash barrel. On top of the barrel were stacks of soggy newspapers and magazines, moldy and damp. A thick stench of decay issued from them as Charles began to move them around. Spiders dropped to the cement and scampered off; he crushed them with his foot and went on looking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sight made him shriek. He dropped the flashlight and leaped wildly back. The garage was plunged into instant gloom. He forced himself to kneel down, and for an ageless moment, he groped in the darkness for the light, among the spiders and greasy weeds. Finally he had it again. He managed to turn the beam down into the barrel, down the well he had made by pushing back the piles of magazines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The father-thing had stuffed it down in the very bottom of the barrel. Among the old leaves and torn-up cardboard, the rotting remains of magazines and curtains, rubbish from the attic his mother had lugged down here with the idea of burning someday. It still looked a little like his father enough for him to recognize. He had found it \u2014 and the sight made him sick at his stomach. He hung onto the barrel and shut his eyes until finally he was able to look again. In the barrel were the remains of his father, his real father. Bits the father-thing had no use for. Bits it had discarded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He got the rake and pushed it down to stir the remains. They were dry. They cracked and broke at the touch of the rake. They were like a discarded snake skin, flaky and crumbling, rustling at the touch. An empty skin. <\/em>The insides were gone. The important part. This was all that remained, just the brittle, cracking skin, wadded down at the bottom of the trash barrel in a little heap. This was all the father-thing had left; it had eaten the rest. Taken the insides \u2014 and his father\u2019s place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He dropped the rake and hurried to the door. The father-thing was coming down the path, toward the garage. Its shoes crushed the gravel; it felt its way along uncertainly. \u201cCharles!\u201d it called angrily. \u201cAre you in there? Wait\u2019ll I get my hands on you, young man!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His mother\u2019s ample, nervous shape was outlined in the bright doorway of the house. \u201cTed, please don\u2019t hurt him. He\u2019s all upset about something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not going to hurt him,\u201d the father-thing rasped; it halted to strike a match. \u201cI\u2019m just going to have a little talk with him. He needs to learn better manners. Leaving the table like that and running out at night, climbing down there off \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles slipped from the garage; the glare of the match caught his moving shape, and with a bellow the father-thing lunged forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome here!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles ran. He knew the ground better than the father-thing; it knew a lot, had taken a lot when it got his father\u2019s insides, but nobody knew the way like he <\/em>did. He reached the fence, climbed it, leaped into the Andersons\u2019 yard, raced past their clothesline, down the path around the side of their house, and out on Maple Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He listened, crouched down and not breathing. The father-thing hadn\u2019t come after him. It had gone back. Or it was coming around the sidewalk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He had to keep moving. Sooner or later it would find him. He glanced right and left, made sure it wasn\u2019t watching, and then started off at a rapid dog-trot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d Tony Peretti demanded belligerently. Tony was fourteen. He was sitting at the table in the oak-panelled Peretti dining room, books and pencils scattered around him, half a ham-and-peanut butter sandwich and a Coke beside him. \u201cYou\u2019re Walton, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tony Peretti had a job uncrating stoves and refrigerators after school at Johnson\u2019s Appliance Shop, downtown. He was big and blunt-faced. Black hair, olive skin, white teeth. A couple of times he had beaten up Charles; he had beaten up every kid in the neighborhood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles twisted. \u201cSay, Peretti. Do me a favor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d Peretti was annoyed. \u201cYou looking for a bruise?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gazing unhappily down, his fists clenched, Charles explained what had happened in short, mumbled words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he had finished, Peretti let out a low whistle. \u201cNo kidding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s true.\u201d He nodded quickly. \u201cI\u2019ll show you. Come on and I\u2019ll show you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peretti got slowly to his feet. \u201cYeah, show me. I want to see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He got his b.b. gun from his room, and the two of them walked silently up the dark street, toward Charles\u2019 house. Neither of them said much. Peretti was deep in thought, serious and solemn-faced. Charles was still dazed; his mind was completely blank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They turned down the Anderson driveway, cut through the back yard, climbed the fence, and lowered themselves cautiously into Charles\u2019 back yard. There was no movement. The yard was silent. The front door of the house was closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They peered through the living room window. The shades were down, but a narrow crack of yellow streamed out. Sitting on the couch was Mrs. Walton, sewing a cotton T-shirt. There was a sad, troubled look on her large face. She worked listlessly, without interest. Opposite her was the father-thing. Leaning back in his father\u2019s easy chair, its shoes off, reading the evening newspaper. The TV was on, playing to itself in the corner. A can of beer rested on the arm of the easy chair. The father-thing sat exactly as his own father had sat; it had learned a lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLooks just like him,\u201d Peretti whispered suspiciously. \u201cYou sure you\u2019re not bulling me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles led him to the garage and showed him the trash barrel. Peretti reached his long tanned arms down and carefully pulled up the dry, flaking remains. They spread out, unfolded, until the whole figure of his father was outlined. Peretti laid the remains on the floor and pieced broken parts back into place. The remains were colorless. Almost transparent. An amber yellow, thin as paper. Dry and utterly lifeless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s all,\u201d Charles said. Tears welled up in his eyes. \u201cThat\u2019s all that\u2019s left of him. The thing has the insides.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peretti had turned pale. Shakily, he crammed the remains back in the trash barrel. \u201cThis is really something,\u201d he muttered. \u201cYou say you saw the two of them together?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTalking. They looked exactly alike. I ran inside.\u201d Charles wiped the tears away and sniveled; he couldn\u2019t hold it back any longer. \u201cIt ate him while I was inside. Then it came in the house. It pretended it was him. But it isn\u2019t. It killed him and ate his insides.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment Peretti was silent. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you something,\u201d he said suddenly. \u201cI\u2019ve heard about this sort of thing. It\u2019s a bad business. You have to use your head and not get scared. You\u2019re not scared, are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Charles managed to mutter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe first thing we have to do is figure out how to kill it.\u201d He rattled his b.b. gun. \u201cI don\u2019t know if this\u2019ll work. It must be plenty tough to get hold of your father. He was a big man.\u201d Peretti considered. \u201cLet\u2019s get out of here. It might come back. They say that\u2019s what a murderer does.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They left the garage. Peretti crouched down and peeked through the window again. Mrs. Walton had got to her feet. She was talking anxiously. Vague sounds filtered out. The father-thing threw down its newspaper. They were arguing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor God\u2019s sake!\u201d the father-thing shouted. \u201cDon\u2019t do anything stupid like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSomething\u2019s wrong,\u201d Mrs. Walton moaned. \u201cSomething terrible. Just let me call the hospital and see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t call anybody. He\u2019s all right. Probably up the street playing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s never out this late. He never disobeys. He was terribly upset \u2014 afraid of you! I don\u2019t blame him.\u201d Her voice broke with misery. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with you? You\u2019re so strange.\u201d She moved out of the room, into the hall. \u201cI\u2019m going to call some of the neighbors.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The father-thing glared after her until she had disappeared. Then a terrifying thing happened. Charles gasped; even Peretti grunted under his breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook,\u201d Charles muttered. \u201cWhat \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGolly,\u201d Peretti said, black eyes wide.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As soon as Mrs. Walton was gone from the room, the father-thing sagged in its chair. It became limp. Its mouth fell open. Its eyes peered vacantly. Its head fell forward, like a discarded rag doll.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peretti moved away from the window. \u201cThat\u2019s it,\u201d he whispered. \u201cThat\u2019s the whole thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d Charles demanded. He was shocked and bewildered. \u201cIt looked like somebody turned off its power.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExactly.\u201d Peretti nodded slowly, grim and shaken. \u201cIt\u2019s controlled from outside.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Horror settled over Charles. \u201cYou mean, something outside our world?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peretti shook his head with disgust. \u201cOutside the house! In the yard. You know how to find?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot very well.\u201d Charles pulled his mind together. \u201cBut I know somebody who\u2019s good at finding.\u201d He forced his mind to summon the name. \u201cBobby Daniels.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat little black kid? Is he good at finding?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe best.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right,\u201d Peretti said. \u201cLet\u2019s go get him. We have to find the thing that\u2019s outside. That made it<\/em> in there, and keeps it going\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


\u201cIt\u2019s near the garage,\u201d Peretti said to the small, thin-faced Negro boy who crouched beside them in the darkness. \u201cWhen it got him, he was in the garage. So look there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn the garage?\u201d Daniels asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAround <\/em>the garage. Walton\u2019s already gone over the garage, inside. Look around outside. Nearby.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a small bed of flowers growing by the garage, and a great tangle of bamboo and discarded debris between the garage and the back of the house. The moon had come out; a cold, misty light filtered down over everything. \u201cIf we don\u2019t find it pretty soon,\u201d Daniels said, \u201cI got to go back home. I can\u2019t stay up much later.\u201d He wasn\u2019t any older than Charles. Perhaps nine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right,\u201d Peretti agreed. \u201cThen get looking.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The three of them spread out and began to go over the ground with care. Daniels worked with incredible speed; his thin little body moved in a blur of motion as he crawled among the flowers, turned over rocks, peered under the house, separated stalks of plants, ran his expert hands over leaves and stems, in tangles of compost and weeds. No inch was missed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peretti halted after a short time. \u201cI\u2019ll guard. It might be dangerous. The father-thing might come and try to stop us.\u201d He posted himself on the back step with his b.b. gun while Charles and Bobby Daniels searched. Charles worked slowly. He was tired, and his body was cold and numb. It seemed impossible, the father-thing and what had happened to his own father, his real father. But terror spurred him on; what if it happened to his mother, or to him? Or to everyone? Maybe the whole world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI found it!\u201d Daniels called in a thin, high voice. \u201cYou all come around here quick!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peretti raised his gun and got up cautiously. Charles hurried over; he turned the flickering yellow beam of his flashlight where Daniels stood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Negro boy had raised a concrete stone. In the moist, rotting soil the light gleamed on a metallic body. A thin, jointed thing with endless crooked legs was digging frantically. Plated, like an ant; a red-brown bug that rapidly disappeared before their eyes. Its rows of legs scabbed and clutched. The ground gave rapidly under it. Its wicked-looking tail twisted furiously as it struggled down the tunnel it had made.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peretti ran into the garage and grabbed up the rake. He pinned down the tail of the bug with it. \u201cQuick! Shoot it with the b.b. gun!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daniels snatched the gun and took aim. The first shot tore the tail of the bug loose. It writhed and twisted frantically; its tail dragged uselessly and some of its legs broke off. It was a foot long, like a great millipede. It struggled desperately to escape down its hole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShoot again,\u201d Peretti ordered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daniels fumbled with the gun. The bug slithered and hissed. Its head jerked back and forth; it twisted and bit at the rake holding it down. Its wicked specks of eyes gleamed with hatred. For a moment it struck futilely at the rake; then abruptly, without warning, it thrashed in a frantic convulsion that made them all draw away in fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something buzzed through Charles\u2019 brain. A loud humming, metallic and harsh, a billion metal wires dancing and vibrating at once. He was tossed about violently by the force; the banging crash of metal made him deaf and confused. He stumbled to his feet and backed off; the others were doing the same, white-faced and shaken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf we can\u2019t kill it with the gun,\u201d Peretti gasped, \u201cwe can drown it. Or burn it. Or stick a pin through its brain.\u201d He fought to hold onto the rake, to keep the bug pinned down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have a jar of formaldehyde,\u201d Daniels muttered. His fingers fumbled nervously with the b.b. gun. \u201cHow do this thing work? I can\u2019t seem to \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles grabbed the gun from him. \u201cI\u2019ll kill it.\u201d He squatted down, one eye to the sight, and gripped the trigger. The bug lashed and struggled. Its force-field hammered in his ears, but he hung onto the gun. His finger tightened\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right, Charles,\u201d the father-thing said. Powerful fingers gripped him, a paralyzing pressure around his wrists. The gun fell to the ground as he struggled futilely. The father-thing shoved against Peretti. The boy leaped away and the bug, free of the rake, slithered triumphantly down its tunnel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have a spanking coming, Charles,\u201d the father-thing droned on. \u201cWhat got into you? Your poor mother\u2019s out of her mind with worry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


It had been there, hiding in the shadows. Crouched in the darkness watching them. Its calm, emotionless voice, a dreadful parody of his father\u2019s, rumbled close to his ear as it pulled him relentlessly toward the garage. Its cold breath blew in his face, an icy-sweet odor, like decaying soil. Its strength was immense; there was nothing he could do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t fight me,\u201d it said calmly. \u201cCome along, into the garage. This is for your own good. I know best, Charles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you find him?\u201d his mother called anxiously, opening the back door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, I found him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA little spanking.\u201d The father-thing pushed up the garage door. \u201cIn the garage.\u201d In the half-light a faint smile, humorless and utterly without emotion, touched its lips. \u201cYou go back in the living room, June. I\u2019ll take care of this. It\u2019s more in my line. You never did like punishing him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The back door reluctantly closed. As the light cut off, Peretti bent down and groped for the b.b. gun. The father-thing instantly froze. \u201cGo on home, boys,\u201d it rasped. Peretti stood undecided, gripping the b.b. gun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet going,\u201d the father-thing repeated. \u201cPut down that toy and get out of here.\u201d It moved slowly toward Peretti, gripping Charles with one hand, reaching toward Peretti with the other. \u201cNo b.b. guns allowed in town, sonny. Your father know you have that? There\u2019s a city ordinance. I think you better give me that before \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peretti shot it in the eye.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The father-thing grunted and pawed at its ruined eye. Abruptly it slashed out at Peretti. Peretti moved down the driveway, trying to cock the gun. The father-thing lunged. Its powerful fingers snatched the gun from Peretti\u2019s hands. Silently, the father-thing mashed the gun against the wall of the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles broke away and ran numbly off. Where could he hide? It was between him and the house. Already, it was coming back toward him, a black shape creeping carefully, peering into the darkness, trying to make him out. Charles retreated. If there were only some place he could hide\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bamboo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He crept quickly into the bamboo. The stalks were huge and old. They closed after him with a faint rustle. The father-thing was fumbling in its pocket; it lit a match, then the whole pack flared up. \u201cCharles,\u201d it said. \u201cI know you\u2019re here, someplace. There\u2019s no use hiding. You\u2019re only making it more difficult.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His heart hammering, Charles crouched among the bamboo. Here, debris and filth rotted. Weeds, garbage, papers, boxes, old clothing, boards, tin cans, bottles. Spiders and salamanders squirmed around him. The bamboo swayed with the night wind. Insects and filth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And something else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A shape, a silent, unmoving shape that grew up from the mound of filth like some nocturnal mushroom. A white column, a pulpy mass that glistened moistly in the moonlight. Webs covered it, a moldy cocoon. It had vague arms and legs. An indistinct half-shaped head. As yet, the features hadn\u2019t formed. But he could tell what it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A mother-thing. Growing here in the filth and dampness, between the garage and the house. Behind the towering bamboo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was almost ready. Another few days and it would reach maturity. It was still a larva, white and soft and pulpy. But the sun would dry and warm it. Harden its shell. Turn it dark and strong. It would emerge from its cocoon, and one day when his mother came by the garage\u2026 Behind the mother-thing were other pulpy white larvae, recently laid by the bug. Small. Just coming into existence. He could see where the father-thing had broken off; the place where it had grown. It had matured here. And in the garage, his father had met it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles began to move numbly away, past the rotting boards, the filth and debris, the pulpy mushroom larvae. Weakly, he reached out to take hold of the fence \u2014 and scrambled back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another one. Another larvae. He hadn\u2019t seen this one, at first. It wasn\u2019t white. It had already turned dark. The web, the pulpy softness, the moistness, were gone. It was ready. It stirred a little, moved its arm feebly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Charles-thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bamboo separated, and the father-thing\u2019s hand clamped firmly around the boy\u2019s wrist. \u201cYou stay right here,\u201d it said. \u201cThis is exactly the place for you. Don\u2019t move.\u201d With its other hand it tore at the remains of the cocoon binding the Charles-thing. \u201cI\u2019ll help it out \u2014 it\u2019s still a little weak.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The last shred of moist gray was stripped back, and the Charles-thing tottered out. It floundered uncertainly, as the father-thing cleared a path for it toward Charles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis way,\u201d the father-thing grunted. \u201cI\u2019ll hold him for you. When you\u2019ve fed you\u2019ll be stronger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Charles-thing\u2019s mouth opened and closed. It reached greedily toward Charles. The boy struggled wildly, but the father-thing\u2019s immense hand held him down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop that, young man,\u201d the father-thing commanded. \u201cIt\u2019ll be a lot easier for you if you \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It screamed and convulsed. It let go of Charles and staggered back. Its body twitched violently. It crashed against the garage, limbs jerking. For a time it rolled and flopped in a dance of agony. It whimpered, moaned, tried to crawl away. Gradually it became quiet. The Charles-thing settled down in a silent heap. It lay stupidly among the bamboo and rotting debris, body slack, face empty and blank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At last the father-thing ceased to stir. There was only the faint rustle of the bamboo in the night wind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles got up awkwardly. He stepped down onto the cement driveway. Peretti and Daniels approached, wide-eyed and cautious. \u201cDon\u2019t go near it,\u201d Daniels ordered sharply. \u201cIt ain\u2019t dead yet. Takes a little while.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did you do?\u201d Charles muttered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daniels set down the drum of kerosene with a gasp of relief. \u201cFound this in the garage. We Daniels always used kerosene on our mosquitoes, back in Virginia.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDaniels poured the kerosene down the bug\u2019s tunnel,\u201d Peretti explained, still awed. \u201cIt was his idea.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Daniels kicked cautiously at the contorted body of the father-thing. \u201cIt\u2019s dead, now. Died as soon as the bug died.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guess the other\u2019ll die, too,\u201d Peretti said. He pushed aside the bamboo to examine the larvae growing here and there among the debris. The Charles-thing didn\u2019t move at all, as Peretti jabbed the end of a stick into its chest. \u201cThis one\u2019s dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe better make sure,\u201d Daniels said grimly. He picked up the heavy drum of kerosene and lugged it to the edge of the bamboo. \u201cIt dropped some matches in the driveway. You get them, Peretti.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They looked at each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure,\u201d Peretti said softly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe better turn on the hose,\u201d Charles said. \u201cTo make sure it doesn\u2019t spread.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet\u2019s get going,\u201d Peretti said impatiently. He was already moving off. Charles quickly followed him and they began searching for the matches, in the moonlit darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Father-Thing is a disturbing science fiction short story by Philip K. Dick published in December 1954 in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. An eight-year-old, Charles, begins to suspect something terrible is happening to his father. One night, as he enters the garage, he witnesses a disturbing scene: next to his father is an identical replica of him. During dinner, Charles is confronted by the disturbing creature that, he is convinced, has usurped his father’s place. His mother’s incomprehension and the escalation of events that this provokes lead Charles to run away from home in search of help, triggering a desperate struggle to discover the truth in an environment that becomes increasingly oppressive and terrifying.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":18216,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[810,572,577,552,570],"class_list":["post-18241","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-14-en","tag-horror-en","tag-philip-k-dick-en","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":810,"label":"+14"},{"value":572,"label":"Horror"},{"value":577,"label":"Philip K. Dick"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/11\/Philip-K.-Dick-El-padre-cosa.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":421,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":421,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":810,"name":"+14","slug":"14-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":810,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":572,"name":"Horror","slug":"horror-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":572,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":129,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":577,"name":"Philip K. Dick","slug":"philip-k-dick-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":577,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":121,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18241","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18241"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18241\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18216"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18241"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18241"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18241"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}