II. The Plague-Daemon
I shall never forget that hideous summer sixteen years
ago, when like a noxious afrite from the halls of Eblis typhoid stalked
leeringly through Arkham. It is by that satanic scourge that most recall
the year, for truly terror brooded with bat-wings over the piles of coffins
in the tombs of Christchurch Cemetery; yet for me there is a greater horror
in that time -- a horror known to me alone now that Herbert West has disappeared.
West and I were doing post-graduate work in summer classes
at the medical school of Miskatonic University, and my friend had attained
a wide notoriety because of his experiments leading toward the revivification
of the dead. After the scientific slaughter of uncounted small animals
the freakish work had ostensibly stopped by order of our sceptical dean,
Dr. Allan Halsey; though West had continued to perform certain secret tests
in his dingy boarding-house room, and had on one terrible and unforgettable
occasion taken a human body from its grave in the potter's field to a deserted
farmhouse beyond Meadow Hill.
I was with him on that odious occasion, and saw him inject
into the still veins the elixir which he thought would to some extent restore
life's chemical and physical processes. It had ended horribly -- in a delirium
of fear which we gradually came to attribute to our own overwrought nerves
-- and West had never afterward been able to shake off a maddening sensation
of being haunted and hunted. The body had not been quite fresh enough;
it is obvious that to restore normal mental attributes a body must be very
fresh indeed; and the burning of the old house had prevented us from burying
the thing. It would have been better if we could have known it was underground.
After that experience West had dropped his researches
for some time; but as the zeal of the born scientist slowly returned, he
again became importunate with the college faculty, pleading for the use
of the dissecting-room and of fresh human specimens for the work he regarded
as so overwhelmingly important. His pleas, however, were wholly in vain;
for the decision of Dr. Halsey was inflexible, and the other professors
all endorsed the verdict of their leader. In the radical theory of reanimation
they saw nothing but the immature vagaries of a youthful enthusiast whose
slight form, yellow hair, spectacled blue eyes, and soft voice gave no
hint of the supernormal -- almost diabolical -- power of the cold brain
within. I can see him now as he was then -- and I shiver. He grew sterner
of face, but never elderly. And now Sefton Asylum has had the mishap and
West has vanished.
West clashed disagreeably with Dr. Halsey near the end
of our last undergraduate term in a wordy dispute that did less credit
to him than to the kindiy dean in point of courtesy. He felt that he was
needlessly and irrationally retarded in a supremely great work; a work
which he could of course conduct to suit himself in later years, but which
he wished to begin while still possessed of the exceptional facilities
of the university. That the tradition-bound elders should ignore his singular
results on animals, and persist in their denial of the possibility of reanimation,
was inexpressibly disgusting and almost incomprehensible to a youth of
West's logical temperament. Only greater maturity could help him understand
the chronic mental limitations of the "professor-doctor" type -- the product
of generations of pathetic Puritanism; kindly, conscientious, and sometimes
gentle and amiable, yet always narrow, intolerant, custom-ridden, and lacking
in perspective. Age has more charity for these incomplete yet high-souled
characters, whose worst real vice is timidity, and who are ultimately punished
by general ridicule for their intellectual sins -- sins like Ptolemaism,
Calvinism, anti-Darwinism, anti-Nietzscheism, and every sort of Sabbatarianism
and sumptuary legislation. West, young despite his marvellous scientific
acquirements, had scant patience with good Dr. Halsey and his erudite colleagues;
and nursed an increasing resentment, coupled with a desire to prove his
theories to these obtuse worthies in some striking and dramatic fashion.
Like most youths, he indulged in elaborate daydreams of revenge, triumph,
and final magnanimous forgiveness.
And then had come the scourge, grinning and lethal, from
the nightmare caverns of Tartarus. West and I had graduated about the time
of its beginning, but had remained for additional work at the summer school,
so that we were in Arkham when it broke with full daemoniac fury upon the
town. Though not as yet licenced physicians, we now had our degrees, and
were pressed frantically into public service as the numbers of the stricken
grew. The situation was almost past management, and deaths ensued too frequently
for the local undertakers fully to handle. Burials without embalming were
made in rapid succession, and even the Christchurch Cemetery receiving
tomb was crammed with coffins of the unembalmed dead. This circumstance
was not without effect on West, who thought often of the irony of the situation
-- so many fresh specimens, yet none for his persecuted researches! We
were frightfully overworked, and the terrific mental and nervous strain
made my friend brood morbidly.
But West's gentle enemies were no less harassed with prostrating
duties. College had all but closed, and every doctor of the medical faculty
was helping to fight the typhoid plague. Dr. Halsey in particular had distinguished
himself in sacrificing service, applying his extreme skill with whole-hearted
energy to cases which many others shunned because of danger or apparent
hopelessness. Before a month was over the fearless dean had become a popular
hero, though he seemed unconscious of his fame as he struggled to keep
from collapsing with physical fatigue and nervous exhaustion. West could
not withhold admiration for the fortitude of his foe, but because of this
was even more determined to prove to him the truth of his amazing doctrines.
Taking advantage of the disorganisation of both college work and municipal
health regulations, he managed to get a recently deceased body smuggled
into the university dissecting-room one night, and in my presence injected
a new modification of his solution. The thing actually opened its eyes,
but only stared at the ceiling with a look of soul-petrifying horror before
collapsing into an inertness from which nothing could rouse it. West said
it was not fresh enough -- the hot summer air does not favour corpses.
That time we were almost caught before we incinerated the thing, and West
doubted the advisability of repeating his daring misuse of the college
laboratory.
The peak of the epidemic was reached in August. West and
I were almost dead, and Dr. Halsey did die on the 14th. The students all
attended the hasty funeral on the 15th, and bought an impressive wreath,
though the latter was quite overshadowed by the tributes sent by wealthy
Arkham citizens and by the municipality itself. It was almost a public
affair, for the dean had surely been a public benefactor. After the entombment
we were all somewhat depressed, and spent the afternoon at the bar of the
Commercial House; where West, though shaken by the death of his chief opponent,
chilled the rest of us with references to his notorious theories. Most
of the students went home, or to various duties, as the evening advanced;
but West persuaded me to aid him in "making a night of it." West's landlady
saw us arrive at his room about two in the morning, with a third man between
us; and told her husband that we had all evidently dined and wined rather
well.
Apparently this acidulous matron was right; for about
3 a.m. the whole house was aroused by cries coming from West's room, where
when they broke down the door, they found the two of us unconscious on
the blood-stained carpet, beaten, scratched, and mauled, and with the broken
remnants of West's bottles and instruments around us. Only an open window
told what had become of our assailant, and many wondered how he himself
had fared after the terrific leap from the second story to the lawn which
he must have made. There were some strange garments in the room, but West
upon regaining consciousness said they did not belong to the stranger,
but were specimens collected for bacteriological analysis in the course
of investigations on the transmission of germ diseases. He ordered them
burnt as soon as possible in the capacious fireplace. To the police we
both declared ignorance of our late companion's identity. He was, West
nervously said, a congenial stranger whom we had met at some downtown bar
of uncertain location. We had all been rather jovial, and West and I did
not wish to have our pugnacious companion hunted down.
That same night saw the beginning of the second Arkham
horror -- the horror that to me eclipsed the plague itself. Christchurch
Cemetery was the scene of a terrible killing; a watchman having been clawed
to death in a manner not only too hideous for description, but raising
a doubt as to the human agency of the deed. The victim had been seen alive
considerably after midnight -- the dawn revealed the unutterable thing.
The manager of a circus at the neighbouring town of Bolton was questioned,
but he swore that no beast had at any time escaped from its cage. Those
who found the body noted a trail of blood leading to the receiving tomb,
where a small pool of red lay on the concrete just outside the gate. A
fainter trail led away toward the woods, but it soon gave out.
The next night devils danced on the roofs of Arkham, and
unnatural madness howled in the wind. Through the fevered town had crept
a curse which some said was greater than the plague, and which some whispered
was the embodied daemon-soul of the plague itself. Eight houses were entered
by a nameless thing which strewed red death in its wake -- in all, seventeen
maimed and shapeless remnants of bodies were left behind by the voiceless,
sadistic monster that crept abroad. A few persons had half seen it in the
dark, and said it was white and like a malformed ape or anthropomorphic
fiend. It had not left behind quite all that it had attacked, for sometimes
it had been hungry. The number it had killed was fourteen; three of the
bodies had been in stricken homes and had not been alive.
On the third night frantic bands of searchers, led by
the police, captured it in a house on Crane Street near the Miskatonic
campus. They had organised the quest with care, keeping in touch by means
of volunteer telephone stations, and when someone in the college district
had reported hearing a scratching at a shuttered window, the net was quickly
spread. On account of the general alarm and precautions, there were only
two more victims, and the capture was effected without major casualties.
The thing was finally stopped by a bullet, though not a fatal one, and
was rushed to the local hospital amidst universal excitement and loathing.
For it had been a man. This much was clear despite the
nauseous eyes, the voiceless simianism, and the daemoniac savagery. They
dressed its wound and carted it to the asylum at Sefton, where it beat
its head against the walls of a padded cell for sixteen years -- until
the recent mishap, when it escaped under circumstances that few like to
mention. What had most disgusted the searchers of Arkham was the thing
they noticed when the monster's face was cleaned -- the mocking, unbelievable
resemblance to a learned and self-sacrificing martyr who had been entombed
but three days before -- the late Dr. Allan Halsey, public benefactor and
dean of the medical school of Miskatonic University.
To the vanished Herbert West and to me the disgust and
horror were supreme. I shudder tonight as I think of it; shudder even more
than I did that morning when West muttered through his bandages, "Damn
it, it wasn't quite fresh enough!"
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