The Girl with the Hungry Eyes 
FRITZ LEIBER 
========== 
“The Girl With the Hungry Eyes,”published in 1949, is a classic and will probably never become dated. 
The advertising industry is still searching for “The Look” to sell products to the great American maw. 
And with new technology continually being developed, the industry becomes more and more adept at 
insinuating itself into our lives. 
========== 
All right, I’ll tell you why the Girl gives me the creeps. Why I can’t stand to go downtown and see the 
mob slavering up at her on the tower, with that pop bottle or pack of cigarettes or whatever it is beside 
her. Why I hate to look at magazines any more because I know she’ll turn up somewhere in a brassiere 
or a bubble bath. Why I don’t like to think of millions of Americans drinking in that poisonous halfsmile. 
It’s quite a story—more story than you’re expecting. 
No, I haven’t suddenly developed any long-haired indignation at the evils of advertising and the national 
glamour-girl complex. That’d be a laugh for a man in my racket, wouldn’t it? Though I think you’ll 
agree there’s something a little perverted about trying to capitalize on sex that way. But it’s okay with 
me. And I know we’ve had the Face and the Body and the Look and what not else, so why shouldn’t 
someone come along who sums it all up so completely, that we have to call her the Girl and blazon her 
on all the billboards from Times Square to Telegraph Hill? 
But the Girl isn’t like any of the others. She’s unnatural. She’s morbid. She’s unholy. 
Oh it’s 1948, is it, and the sort of thing I’m hinting at went out with witchcraft? But you see I’m not 
altogether sure myself what I’m hinting at, beyond a certain point. There are vampires and vampires, and 
not all of them suck blood. 
And there were the murders, if they were murders. 
Besides, let me ask you this. Why, when America is obsessed with the Girl, don’t we find out more 
about her? Why doesn’t she rate a Time cover with a droll biography inside? Why hasn’t there been a 
feature in Life or the Post? A Profile in The New Yorker? Why hasn’t Charm or Mademoiselle done her 
career saga? Not ready for it? Nuts! 
Why haven’t the movies snapped her up? Why hasn’t she been on Information, Please? Why don’t we 

see her kissing candidates at political rallies? Why isn’t she chosen queen of some sort of junk or other 
at a convention? 
Why don’t we read about her tastes and hobbies, her views of the Russian situation? Why haven’t the 
columnists interviewed her in a kimono on the top floor of the tallest hotel in Manhattan and told us who 
her boyfriends are? 
Finally—and this is the real killer—why hasn’t she ever been drawn or painted? 
Oh, no she hasn’t. If you knew anything about commercial art you’d know that. Every blessed one of 
those pictures was worked up from a photograph. Expertly? Of course. They’ve got the top artists on it. 
But that’s how it’s done. 
And now I’ll tell you the why of all that. It’s because from the top to the bottom of the whole world of 
advertising, news, and business, there isn’t a solitary soul who knows where the Girl came from, where 
she lives, what she does, who she is, even what her name is. 
You heard me. What’s more, not a single solitary soul ever sees her— except one poor damned 
photographer, who’s making more money off her than he ever hoped to in his life and who’s scared and 
miserable as hell every minute of the day. 
No, I haven’t the faintest idea who he is or where he has his studio. But I know there has to be such a 
man and I’m morally certain he feels just like I said. 
Yes, I might be able to find her, if I tried. I’m not sure though—by now she probably has other 
safeguards. Besides, I don’t want to. 
Oh, I’m off my rocker, am I? That sort of thing can’t happen in this 
Year of our Atom 1948? People can’t keep out of sight that way, not even Garbo? 
Well I happen to know they can, because last year I was that poor damned photographer I was telling 
you about. Yes, last year, in 1947, when the Girl made her first poisonous splash right here in this big 
little city of ours. 
Yes, I knew you weren’t here last year and you don’t know about it. Even the Girl had to start small. But 
if you hunted through the files of the local newspapers, you’d find some ads, and I might be able to 
locate you some of the old displays—I think Lovelybelt is still using one of them. I used to have a 
mountain of photos myself, until I burned them. 
Yes, I made my cut off her. Nothing like what that other photographer must be making, but enough so it 
still bought this whisky. She was funny about money. I’ll tell you about that. 

But first picture me in 1947. I had a fourth-floor studio in that rathole the Hauser Building, catty-corner 
from Ardleigh Park. 
I’d been working at the Marsh-Mason studios until I’d got my bellyful of it and decided to start in for 
myself. The Hauser Building was crummy—I’ll never forget how the stairs creaked—but it was cheap 
and there was a skylight. 
Business was lousy. I kept making the rounds of all the advertisers and agencies, and some of them 
didn’t object to me too much personally, but my stuff never clicked. I was pretty near broke. I was 
behind on my rent. Hell, I didn’t even have enough money to have a girl. 
It was one of those dark gray afternoons. The building was awfully quiet—even with the shortage they 
can’t half rent the Hauser. I’d just finished developing some pix I was doing on speculation for 
Lovelybelt Girdles and Buford’s Pool and Playground—the last a faked-up beach scene. My model had 
left. A Miss Leon. She was a civics teacher at one of the high schools and modeled for me on the side, 
just lately on speculation too. After one look at the prints, I decided that Miss Leon probably wasn’t just 
what Lovelybelt was looking for—or my photography either. I was about to call it a day. 
And then the street door slammed four storeys down and there were steps on the stairs and she came in. 
She was wearing a cheap, shiny black dress. Black pumps. No stockings. And except that she had a gray 
cloth coat over one of them, those skinny arms of hers were bare. Her arms are pretty skinny, you know, 
or can you see things like that any more? 
And then the thin neck, the slightly gaunt, almost prim face, the tumbling mass of dark hair, and looking 
out from under it the hungriest eyes in the world. 
That’s the real reason she’s plastered all over the country today, you know—those eyes. Nothing vulgar, 
but just the same they’re looking at you with a hunger that’s all sex and something more than sex. That’s 
what everybody’s been looking for since the Year One—something a little more than sex. 
Well, boys, there I was, along with the Girl, in an office that was getting shadowy, in a nearly empty 
building. A situation that a million male Americans have undoubtedly pictured to themselves with 
various lush details. How was I feeling? Scared. 
I know sex can be frightening. That cold, heart-thumping when you’re alone with a girl and feel you’re 
going to touch her. But if it was sex this time, it was overlaid with something else. 
At least I wasn’t thinking about sex. 

I remember that I took a backward step and that my hand jerked so that the photos I was looking at 
sailed to the floor. 
There was the faintest dizzy feeling like something was being drawn out of me. Just a little bit. 
That was all. Then she opened her mouth and everything was back to normal for a while. 
“I see you’re a photographer, mister,” she said. “Could you use a model?” 
Her voice wasn’t very cultivated. 
“I doubt it,” I told her, picking up the pix. You see, I wasn’t impressed. The commercial possibilities of 
her eyes hadn’t registered on me yet, by a long shot. “What have you done?” 
Well she gave me a vague sort of story and I began to check her knowledge of model agencies and 
studios and rates and what not and pretty soon I said to her, “Look here, you never modeled for a 
photographer in your life. You just walked in here cold.” 
Well, she admitted that was more or less so. 
All along through our talk I got the idea she was feeling her way, like someone in a strange place. Not 
that she was uncertain of herself, or of me, but just of the general situation. 
“And you think anyone can model?” I asked her pityingly. 
“Sure,” she said. 
“Look,” I said, “a photographer can waste a dozen negatives trying to get one halfway human photo of 
an average woman. How many do you think he’d have to waste before he got a real catchy, glamorous 
pix of her?” 
“I think I could do it,” she said. 
Well, I should have kicked her out right then. Maybe I admired the cool way she stuck to her dumb little 
guns. Maybe I was touched by her underfed look. More likely I was feeling mean on account of the way 
my pix had been snubbed by everybody and I wanted to take it out on her by showing her up. 
“Okay, I’m going to put you on the spot,” I told her. “I’m going to try a couple of shots of you. 
Understand, it’s strictly on spec. If somebody should ever want to use a photo of you, which is about one 
chance in two million, I’ll pay you regular rates for your time. Not otherwise.” 

She gave me a smile. The first. “That’s swell by me,” she said. 
Well, I took three or four shots, close-ups of her face since I didn’t fancy her cheap dress, and at least 
she stood up to my sarcasm. Then I remembered I still had the Lovelybelt stuff and I guess the meanness 
was still working in me because I handed her a girdle and told her to go behind the screen and get into it 
and she did, without getting flustered as I’d expected, and since we’d gone that far I figured we might as 
well shoot the beach scene to round it out, and that was that. 
All this time I wasn’t feeling anything particular in one way or the other except every once in a while I’d 
get one of those faint dizzy flashes and wonder if there was something wrong with my stomach or if I 
could have been a bit careless with my chemicals. 
Still, you know, I think the uneasiness was in me all the while. 
I tossed her a card and pencil. “Write your name and address and phone,” I told her and made for the 
darkroom. 
A little later she walked out. I didn’t call any good-byes. I was irked because she hadn’t fussed around or 
seemed anxious about her poses, or even thanked me, except for that one smile. 
I finished developing the negatives, made some prints, glanced at them, decided they weren’t a great 
deal worse than Miss Leon. On an impulse I slipped them in with the pix I was going to take on the 
rounds next morning. 
By now I’d worked long enough so I was a bit fagged and nervous, but I didn’t dare waste enough 
money on liquor to help that. I wasn’t very hungry. I think I went to a cheap movie. 
I didn’t think of the Girl at all, except maybe to wonder faintly why in my present womanless state I 
hadn’t made a pass at her. She had seemed to belong to a, well, distinctly more approachable social 
stratum than Miss Leon. But then of course there were all sorts of arguable reasons for my not doing that. 
Next morning I made the rounds. My first step was Munsch’s Brewery. They were looking for a 
“Munsch Girl.” Papa Munsch had a sort of affection for me, though he razzed my photography. He had a 
good natural judgment about that, too. Fifty years ago he might have been one of the shoestring boys 
who made Hollywood. 
Right now he was out in the plant pursuing his favorite occupation. He put down the beaded can, 
smacked his lips, gabbled something technical to someone about hops, wiped his fat hands on the big 
apron he was wearing, and grabbed my thin stack of pix. 
He was about halfway through, making noises with his tongue and teeth, when he came to her. I kicked 
myself for even having stuck her in. 

“That’s her,” he said. “The photography’s not so hot, but that’s the girl.” 
It was all decided. I wondered now why Papa Munsch sensed what the girl had right away, while I 
didn’t. I think it was because I saw her first in the flesh, if that’s the right word. 
At the time I just felt faint. 
“Who is she?” he asked. 
“One of my new models.” I tried to make it casual. 
“Bring her out tomorrow morning,” he told me. “And your stuff. We’ll photograph her here. I want to 
show you. 
“Here, don’t look so sick,” he added. “Have some beer.” 
Well I went away telling myself it was just a fluke, so that she’d probably blow it tomorrow with her 
inexperience, and so on. 
Just the same, when I reverently laid my next stack of pix on Mr. Fitch, of Lovelybelt’s rose-colored 
blotter, I had hers on top. 
Mr. Fitch went through the motions of being an art critic. He leaned over backward, squinted his eyes, 
waved his long fingers, and said, “Hmmm. What do you think, Miss Willow? Here, in this light. Of 
course the photograph doesn’t show the bias cut. And perhaps we should use the Lovelybelt Imp instead 
of the Angel. Still, the girl… Come over here, Binns.” More finger-waving. “I want a married man’s 
reaction.” 
He couldn’t hide the fact that he was hooked. 
Exactly the same thing happened at Buford’s Pool and Playground, except that Da Costa didn’t need a 
married man’s say-so. 
“Hot stuff,” he said, sucking his lips. “Oh, boy, you photographers!” 
I hot-footed it back to the office and grabbed up the card I’d given to her to put down her name and 
address. 
It was blank. 

I don’t mind telling you that the next five days were about the worst I ever went through, in an ordinary 
way. When next morning rolled around and I still hadn’t got hold of her, I had to start stalling. 
“She’s sick,” I told Papa Munsch over the phone. 
“She at a hospital?” he asked me. 
“Nothing that serious.” I told him. 
“Get her out here then. What’s a little headache?” 
“Sorry, I can’t.” 
Papa Munsch got suspicious. “You really got this girl?” 
“Of course I have.” 
“Well, I don’t know. I’d think it was some New York model, except I recognized your lousy 
photography.” 
I laughed. 
“Well look, you get her here tomorrow morning, you hear?” 
“I’ll try.” 
“Try nothing. You get her out here.” 
He didn’t know half of what I tried. I went around to all the model and employment agencies. I did some 
slick detective work at the photographic and art studios. I used up some of my last dimes putting 
advertisements in all three papers. I looked at high school yearbooks and at employee photos in local 
house organs. I went to restaurants and drugstores, looking for waitresses, and to dime stores and 
department stores, looking at clerks. I watched the crowds coming out of movie theatres. I roamed the 
streets. 
Evenings I spent quite a bit of time along Pick-up Row. Somehow that seemed the right place. 
The fifth afternoon I knew I was licked. Papa Munsch’s deadline—he’d given me several, but this was it 
—was due to run out at six o’clock. Mr. Fitch had already canceled. 
I was at the studio window, looking out at Ardleigh Park. 

She walked in. 
I’d gone over this moment so often in my mind that I had no trouble putting on my act. Even the faint 
dizzy feeling didn’t throw me off. 
“Hello,” I said, hardly looking at her. 
“Hello,” she said. 
“Not discouraged yet?” 
“No.” It didn’t sound uneasy or defiant. It was just a statement. 
I snapped a look at my watch, got up and said curtly, “Look here, I’m going to give you a chance. 
There’s a client of mine looking for a girl your general type. If you do a real good job you may break 
into the modeling business. 
“We can see him this afternoon if we hurry.” I said. I picked up my stuff. “Come on. And next time, if 
you expect favors, don’t forget to leave your phone number.” 
“Uh, uh,” she said, not moving. 
“What do you mean?” I said. 
“I’m not going to see any client of yours.” 
“The hell you aren’t,” I said. “You little nut, I’m giving you a break.” 
She shook her head slowly. “You’re not fooling me, baby, you’re not fooling me at all. They want me.” 
And she gave me the second smile. 
At the time I thought she must have seen my newspaper ad. Now I’m not so sure. 
“And now I’ll tell you how we’re going to work,” she went on. “You aren’t going to have my name or 
address or phone number. Nobody is. And we’re going to do all the pictures right here. Just you and me.” 
You can imagine the roar I raised at that. I was everything—angry, sarcastic, patiently explanatory, off 
my nut, threatening, pleading. 
I would have slapped her face off, except it was photographic capital. 

In the end all I could do was phone Papa Munsch and tell him her conditions. I know I didn’t have a 
chance, but I had to take it. 
He gave me a really angry bawling out, said “no” several times and hung up. 
It didn’t faze her. “We’ll start shooting at ten o’clock tomorrow,” she said. 
It was just like her, using that corny line from the movie magazines. 
About midnight Papa Munsch called me up. 
“I don’t know what insane asylum you’re renting this girl from,” he said, “but I’ll take her. Come around 
tomorrow morning and I’ll try to get it through your head just how I want the pictures. And I’m glad I 
got you out of bed!” 
After that it was a breeze. Even Mr. Fitch reconsidered and after taking two days to tell me it was quite 
impossible, he accepted the conditions too. 
Of course you’re all under the spell of the Girl, so you can’t understand how much self-sacrifice it 
represented on Mr. Fitch’s part when he agreed to forego supervising the photography of my model in 
the Lovelybelt Imp or Vixen or whatever it was we finally used. 
Next morning she turned up on time according to her schedule, and we went to work. I’ll say one thing 
for her, she never got tired and she never kicked at the way I fussed over shots. I got along okay except I 
still had the feeling of something being shoved away gently. Maybe you’ve felt it just a little, looking at 
her picture. 
When we finished I found out there were still more rules. It was about the middle of the afternoon. I 
started down with her to get a sandwich and coffee. 
“Uh uh,” she said, “I’m going down alone. And look, baby, if you ever try to follow me, if you ever so 
much as stick your head out that window when I go, you can hire yourself another model.” 
You can imagine how all this crazy stuff strained my temper—and my imagination. I remember opening 
the window after she was gone—I waited a few minutes first—and standing there getting some fresh air 
and trying to figure out what could be back of it, whether she was hiding from the police, or was 
somebody’s ruined daughter, or maybe had got the idea it was smart to be temperamental, or more likely 
Papa Munsch was right and she was partly nuts. 
But I had my pix to finish up. 

Looking back it’s amazing to think how fast her magic began to take hold of the city after that. 
Remembering what came after, I’m frightened of what’s happening to the whole country—and maybe 
the world. Yesterday I read something in Time about the Girl’s picture turning up on billboards in Egypt. 
The rest of my story will help show you why I’m frightened in that big general way. But I have a theory, 
too, that helps explain, though it’s one of those things that’s beyond that “certain point.” It’s about the 
Girl. I’ll give it to you in a few words. 
You know how modern advertising gets everybody’s mind set in the same direction, wanting the same 
things, imagining the same things. And you know the psychologists aren’t so sceptical of telepathy as 
they used to be. 
Add up the two ideas. Suppose the identical desires of millions of people focused on one telepathic 
person. Say a girl. Shaped her in their image. 
Imagine her knowing the hiddenmost hungers of millions of men. Imagine her seeing deeper into those 
hungers than the people that had them, seeing the hatred and the wish for death behind the lust. Imagine 
her shaping herself in that complete image, keeping herself as aloof as marble. Yet imagine the hunger 
she might feel in answer to their hunger. 
But that’s getting a long way from the facts of my story. And some of those facts are darn solid. Like 
money. We made money. 
That was the funny thing I was going to tell you. I was afraid the Girl was going to hold me up. She 
really had me over a barrel, you know. 
But she didn’t ask for anything but the regular rates. Later on I insisted on pushing more money at her, a 
whole lot. But she always took it with that same contemptuous look, as if she were going to toss it down 
the first drain when she got outside. 
Maybe she did. 
At any rate, I had money. For the first time in months I had money enough to get drunk, buy new 
clothes, take taxicabs. I could make a play for any girl I wanted to. I only had to pick. 
And so of course I had to go and pick— 
But first let me tell you about Papa Munsch. 
Papa Munsch wasn’t the first of the boys to try to meet my model but I think he was the first to really go 
soft on her. I could watch the change in his eyes as he looked at her pictures. They began to get 
sentimental, reverent. Mama Munsch had been dead for two years. 

He was smart about the way he planned it. He got me to drop some information which told him when 
she came to work, and then one morning he came pounding up the stairs a few minutes before. 
“I’ve got to see her, Dave,” he told me. 
I argued with him, I kidded him. I explained he didn’t know just how serious she was about her crazy 
ideas. I pointed out he was cutting both our throats. I even amazed myself by bawling him out. 
He didn’t take any of it in his usual way. He just kept repeating, “But, Dave, I’ve got to see her.” 
The street door slammed. 
“That’s her,” I said, lowering my voice. “You’ve got to get out.” 
He wouldn’t, so I shoved him in the darkroom. “And keep quiet,” I whispered. “I’ll tell her I can’t work 
today.” 
I knew he’d try to look at her and probably come busting in, but there wasn’t anything else I could do. 
The footsteps came to the fourth floor. But she never showed at the door. I got uneasy. 
“Get that bum out of there!” she yelled suddenly from beyond the door. Not very loud, but in her 
commonest voice. 
“I’m going up to the next landing,” she said, “And if that fat-bellied bum doesn’t march straight down to 
the street, he’ll never get another pix of me except spitting in his lousy beer.” 
Papa Munsch came out of the darkroom. He was white. He didn’t look at me as he went out. He never 
looked at her pictures in front of me again. 
That was Papa Munsch. Now it’s me I’m telling about. I talked about the subject with her, I hinted, 
eventually I made my pass. 
She lifted my hand off her as if it were a damp rag. 
“Nix, baby,” she said. “This is working time.” 
“But afterward…”I pressed. 
“The rules still hold.” And I got what I think was the fifth smile. 

It’s hard to believe, but she never budged an inch from that crazy line. I mustn’t make a pass at her in 
the office, because our work was very important and she loved it and there mustn’t be any distractions. 
And I couldn’t see her anywhere else, because if I tried to, I’d never snap another picture of her—and all 
this with more money coming in all the time and me never so stupid as to think my photography had 
anything to do with it. 
Of course I wouldn’t have been human if I hadn’t made more passes. But they always got the wet-rag 
treatment and there weren’t any more smiles. 
I changed. I went sort of crazy and light-headed—only sometimes I felt my head was going to burst. 
And I started to talk to her all the time. About myself. 
It was like being in a constant delirium that never interfered with business. I didn’t pay attention to the 
dizzy feeling. It seemed natural. 
I’d walk around and for a moment the reflector would look like a sheet of white-hot steel, or the 
shadows would seem like armies of moths, or the camera would be a big black coal car. But the next 
instant they’d come all right again. 
I think sometimes I was scared to death of her. She’d seem the strangest, horriblest person in the world. 
But other times… 
And I talked. It didn’t matter what I was doing—lighting her, posing her, fussing with props, snapping 
my pix—or where she was—on the platform, behind the screen, relaxing with a magazine—I kept up a 
steady gab. 
I told her everything I knew about myself. I told her about my first girl. I told her about my brother 
Bob’s bicycle. I told her about running away on a freight and the licking Pa gave me when I came home. 
I told her about shipping to South America and the blue sky at night. I told her about Betty. I told her 
about my mother dying of cancer. I told her about being beaten up in a fight in an alley behind a bar. I 
told her about Mildred. I told her about the first picture I ever sold. I told her how Chicago looked from 
a sailboat. I told her about the longest drunk I was ever on. I told her about Marsh-Mason. I told her 
about Gwen. I told her about how I met Papa Munsch. I told her about hunting her. I told her about how 
I felt now. 
She never paid the slightest attention to what I said. I couldn’t even tell if she heard me. 
It was when we were getting our first nibble from national advertisers that I decided to follow her when 
she went home. 
Wait, I can place it better than that. Something you’ll remember from the out-of-town papers—those 

maybe-murders I mentioned. I think there were six. 
I say “maybe” because the police could never be sure they weren’t heart attacks. But there’s bound to be 
suspicion when heart attacks happen to people whose hearts have been okay, and always at night when 
they’re alone and away from home and there’s a question of what they were doing. 
The six deaths created one of those “mystery poisoner” scares. And afterward there was a feeling that 
they hadn’t really stopped, but were being continued in a less suspicious way. 
That’s one of the things that scares me now. 
But at that time my only feeling was relief that I’d decided to follow her. 
I made her work until dark one afternoon. I didn’t need any excuses, we were snowed under with orders. 
I waited until the street door slammed, then I ran down. I was wearing rubber-soled shoes. I’d slipped on 
a dark coat she’d never seen me in, and a dark hat. 
I stood in the doorway until I spotted her. She was walking by Ardleigh Park toward the heart of town. It 
was one of those warm fall nights. I followed her on the other side of the street. My idea for tonight was 
just to find out where she lived. That would give me a hold on her. 
She stopped in front of a display window of Everly’s department store, standing back from the glow. 
She stood there looking in. 
I remembered we’d done a big photograph of her for Everly’s, to make a flat model for a lingerie 
display. That was what she was looking at. 
At the time it seemed all right to me that she should adore herself, if that was what she was doing. 
When people passed she’d turn away a little or drift back farther into the shadows. 
Then a man came by alone. I couldn’t see his face very well, but he looked middle-aged. He stopped and 
stood looking in the window. 
She came out of the shadows and stepped up beside him. 
How would you boys feel if you were looking at a poster of the Girl and suddenly she was there beside 
you, her arm linked with yours? 
This fellow’s reaction showed plain as day. A crazy dream had come to life for him. 

They talked for a moment. Then he waved a taxi to the curb. They got in and drove off. 
I got drunk that night. It was almost as if she’d known I was following her and had picked that way to 
hurt me. Maybe she had. Maybe this was the finish. 
But the next morning she turned up at the usual time and I was back in the delirium, only now with some 
new angles added. 
That night when I followed her she picked a spot under a street lamp, opposite one of the Munsch Girl 
billboards. 
Now it frightens me to think of her lurking that way. 
After about twenty minutes a convertible slowed down going past her, backed up, swung in to the curb. 
I was closer this time. I got a good look at the fellow’s face. He was a little younger, about my age. 
Next morning the same face looked up at me from the front page of the paper. The convertible had been 
found parked on a side street. He had been in it. As in the other maybe-murders, the cause of death was 
uncertain. 
All kinds of thoughts were spinning in my head that day, but there were only two things I knew for sure. 
That I’d got the first real offer from a national advertiser, and that I was going to take the Girl’s arm and 
walk down the stairs with her when we quit work. 
She didn’t seem surprised. “You know what you’re doing?” she said. 
“I know.” 
She smiled. “I was wondering when you’d get around to it.” 
I began to feel good. I was kissing everything good-bye, but I had my arm around hers. 
It was another of those warm fall evenings. We cut across into Ardleigh Park. It was dark there, but all 
around the sky was a sallow pink from the advertising signs. 
We walked for a long time in the park. She didn’t say anything and she didn’t look at me, but I could see 
her lips twitching and after a while her hand tightened on my arm. 
We stopped. We’d been walking across the grass. She dropped down and pulled me after her. She put 
her hands on my shoulders. I was looking down at her face. It was the faintest sallow pink from the glow 

in the sky. The hungry eyes were dark smudges. 
I was fumbling with her blouse. She took my hand away, not like she had in the studio. “I don’t want 
that,” she said. 
First I’ll tell you what I did afterward. Then I’ll tell you why I did it. Then I’ll tell you what she said. 
What I did was run away. I don’t remember all of that because I was dizzy, and the pink sky was 
swinging against the dark trees. But after a while I staggered into the lights of the street. The next day I 
closed up the studio. The telephone was ringing when I locked the door and there were unopened letters 
on the floor. I never saw the Girl again in the flesh, if that’s the right word. 
I did it because I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want the life drawn out of me. There are vampires and 
vampires, and the ones that suck blood aren’t the worst. If it hadn’t been for the warning of those dizzy 
flashes, and Papa Munsch and the face in the morning paper, I’d have gone the way the others did. But I 
realized what I was up against while there was still time to tear myself away. I realized that wherever 
she came from, whatever shaped her, she’s the quintessence of the horror behind the bright billboard. 
She’s the smile that tricks you into throwing away your money and your life. She’s the eyes that lead 
you on and on, and then show you death. She’s the creature you give everything for and never really get. 
She’s the being that takes everything you’ve got and gives nothing in return. When you yearn toward her 
face on the billboards, remember that. She’s the lure. She’s the bait. She’s the Girl. 
And this is what she said, “I want you. I want your high spots. I want everything that’s made you happy 
and everything that’s hurt you bad. I want your first girl. I want that shiny bicycle. I want that licking. I 
want that pinhole camera. I want Betty’s legs. I want the blue sky filled with stars. I want your mother’s 
death. I want your blood on the cobblestones. I want Mildred’s mouth. I want the first picture you sold. I 
want the lights of Chicago. I want the gin. I want Gwen’s hands. I want your wanting me. I want your 
life. Feed me, baby, feed me.” 
========== 
I originally wrote “The Girl With the Hungry Eyes” for the first issue of a magazine Donald Wollheim 
was trying to publish. That project didn’t work out but instead, the story was published in Avon’s 
original anthology, called The Girl With the Hungry Eyes (1949), edited by Wollheim. Marshall 
McLuhan quoted from the story in his early (and negatively reviewed) book on advertising, The 
Mechanical Bride. I later wrote a story called “The Mechanical Bride” as a kind of joke, in response. 
Fritz Leiber