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The reason so many people turned up at his funeral is that they wanted to make sure he was dead.
–- Samuel Goldwyn
Gentlemen, I am pleased to see that you all are here. I understand that my message may have been a bit odd, but it was necessary to keep the details obscure until we were all gathered together. For what I am about to say may well be hard to fathom, even for such gifted minds as yourself. I would ask, however, that you hear the story in its entirety before making a judgment as to its veracity.
Ah, yes, I do apologize for the coolness of this room. Temperatures being what they are, I appreciate that the lack of heating is a bit trying to some of you, but the workers in the building assure me they are trying to fix it. Until then, I'm afraid we must suffer a bit. I have prepared some coffee to take off the chill.
My name is James Cabot, and I am an attorney for a certain special client. Understandably, you have all heard of the famed Dr. Herbert West, the man whose reputation for impressive surgical skills was eclipsed only by the bizarre nature of his disappearance and the subsequent hospitalization of his assistant. He was a man of great secrecy and rumors abound as to precisely what he researched with that strange brilliance of his. All of this I have learned through those whom he associated with, as it seems friendship was something he chose not to pursue.
Most of his colleagues assume, wisely perhaps, that wherever he is now, he will not return, and indeed, most assume he is dead. For if he was not, surely he would have returned to defend his reputation, now tainted by dubious claims of medical perversity and immoral dealings. His voice is silent on these matters and we may assume it is the silence of the grave.
There are things he wished to share with you, however, that required your presence today. For while he preferred his solitude, he did wish to impart some knowledge to you today that he left to me to deliver.
Let me assure you of one thing: whatever mutual contempt and hatred you shared with him for each other, his final wishes were that you share in his legacy.
After all, it is his fervent belief that science is what will give us all immortality beyond anything unsubstantial or as ephemeral as the soul. He spent his entire life, it appears, trying to extend man's life. Whether that led to his salvation or destruction is something you gentlemen may make your own judgments upon, though I caution you that things are rarely as they appear.
And endings are never quite as final as we may think.
Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened.
-- Thomas Hardy
The recent acts of desecration in our local churchyards fills this writer with repugnance and disgust. Our loved ones no longer sleep in hallowed ground because of some morally unfit individuals digging up their graves for their own horrid purposes – it is a nightmare so appalling I dare not think what uses they would have for these parts.
We must investigate the medical schools and their students, who are no doubt the most likely criminals. The police have already speculated that the precision of the cuts was done with such scientific prowess that the average layman would not ever possess. If it is indeed students, they must be held to the highest legal codes.
Only an ill-formed mind would dig up the tombs of those recently deceased! And we cannot have such men becoming doctors – one can only imagine what they would do with the bodies of the living! And if such a man is already a doctor and is committing these acts, this writer is very horrified indeed, for who would have allowed him to pass through school without instilling some sort of moral virtue.
Much of this can be blamed on the death of Dr. Allan Halsey, whose untimely demise during the epidemic of 1905 led to a subsequent lack of proper supervision in the medical school. We lost a great man in his death, and with it, it is clear that Miskatonic has lost the guiding force needed to keep it on the right path.
We no longer live in the days of Burke and Hare – let us pray that we never return to them.
--"Arkham Advertiser," February 15, 1922
And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle looks like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing.
-- Lewis Carroll
All dreams are nightmares to me now, and I dare not sleep, for dread of what will come when I close my eyes. Sleep is death and yet knowing what I know of death and its impermanence, none of it, I fear will ever give me rest.
Inevitably, my body succumbs, whether through sheer exhaustion or those damnable doctors that listen not to my protests, but instead drug me so that I cannot escape what will follow. They think they help me – they have never helped me! They send me to madness and horror, not listening to my pleas that it is there where I truly go mad.
In most of my dreams, it is at the end. Neither one of us is safe – we look over our shoulders and see monsters in the corners of the room. There are noises – scratching behind the wall and we know that they want out – they are looking for us and I fear what will happen when they find us. He is afraid – he knows that they want revenge against him and he knows that they will not stop until he shares their fate.
And then the walls collapse – and they return – and I cannot save him from them! Always I try and in the end, the wall is there but he is not. There is an army of dead out there at our enemy's command – it has not come for me, perhaps because it thinks me weak and unable to do anything without him. It is right.
I am paralyzed with fear – I am free from his spell but it is an illusion of freedom, for I knew I would be bound to him through life, death, and life again. I would free myself, but I must free him first, and there is the paradox of it all.
Sometimes I dream and it is as when we met. We are both eager young medical students, though he is and always shall be, far more brilliant than I. His energy always captivates me and I find myself as a willing subject to a king, following his orders to whatever end they may lead. The dead rise at our hand and though we have not mastered immortality, we are close to becoming some form of god. I know that I will refuse him nothing that he will ask for and he will ask for much.
I do not know which dreams are worse – the ones in which he is whole and himself, or the ones in which he is not.
The only difference between myself and a madman is that I am not mad.
-- Salvador Dali
The patient is a curious one. He does not act as the others in the asylum do – he has no manic episodes when he is awake, he does not lay catatonic in his bed, he does not gibber in the corner like so many of our poor souls here.
He does twitch and look over his shoulder when it is quiet, and when it is time for him to sleep, he fights with a strength that requires two of our orderlies to hold him down for sedation. Most of the time, however, he sits calmly, as if he is waiting for something… or someone.
We know he dreams – the orderlies have told me that he screams of hideous things he has seen, of the dead walking the earth, and of men ripped apart by those whom they angered. Many of my colleagues believe this to be brought on by the Great War, though I suspect there is something deeper to his madness. The horror in his eyes – it is not the same horror I have seen in men who have returned from the battlefields. I cannot explain it to my colleagues who consider my conjectures on the nature of his madness to be unfounded.
I have determined this– that much of his troubles lie with the queer relationship he had with Dr. Herbert West. There is an obsessive light of worship in his eyes when he speaks of him that goes far beyond any mere idolization into an unhealthy adoration. I dare not speculate on precisely the nature of their kinship, but their former colleagues have told me of their connection, which broached no outsiders.
In speaking with my patient, I have also confirmed this – the febrile light in his eyes becomes brighter. He states that he hated him, feared him – and yet I do not believe that these are the only feelings he possessed. There is a reverence in his speech when he says Dr. West's name, as if he were speaking of the Creator.
The disappearance of Dr. West has clearly been the point at which the patient's mind broke down – his madness can be traced directly back to the day when he told the police that he could not stand the silence behind the walls any longer.
The police cannot satisfactorily explain this, but as a doctor, it is my duty to discover just what happened to drive a man of reason to such terror and insanity.
Alors, ô ma beauté! dites à la vermine
Qui vous mangera de baisers,
Que j'ai gardé la forme et l'essence divine
De mes amours décomposés!
-– Charles Baudelaire
You ask me to come home – that after my time with Dr. West, I have grown morbid and prone to abnormal habits. You have heard strange tales of my relationship with him from those that know me well and you fear for my sanity. All of this you relay to me in your letters and in those pleading telegrams you send to me.
I will have to state this – that I can never return to where I once lived. My visit the last time only confirms this. There is nothing there I can understand – the laughter and merriment of my old friends now fills me with a weary disgust and contempt towards man. I must shun those who knew me when I was young lest I drag them down into the same horrors I now dwell in.
I will not tell you what I have seen – though I know you suspect much. You may choose to attribute it to the war I have seen – the bodies on the battlefield, the guns and bombs destroying those who were just standing next to me, the loss of life that happens so frequently one becomes callused to the thought of it or else go mad in the middle of it all. This is the easiest one to believe.
Far better that you believe this than the truth – that I have seen and created things that you could never understand. I have seen the wise, the noble, the men of great character and intelligence return as savage beasts, fit only to rend and rape their way through the world. These are men, whom in life, were loved by all, and are now the lowest dregs of humanity, without reason or civilization, but with appetite and barbarianism.
There is so much I have seen that sickens me and leaves me with nausea to my very soul, a loathing so deep that it is at the very core of my being. There are times when I see men and I see as West does – mere collections of flesh and bone – imperfect machines doomed to fail from the moment they are created. Should we not seize upon them as soon as they show weakness and determine whether or not they should can be repaired? I find myself thinking these thoughts and I know I am lost.
I had once apprehensively believed West looked at me the same way, as a possible experimental subject –he may always look at all men that way – I do not believe that was the only look in his eyes. Perhaps I am creating a foolish illusion – one in which he esteems me far more than I believed could ever be possible – still he convinces me that I matter to him. I have spent so many years with him – can I be replaced?
There are dreams I have where I wake to find his face peering back at mine as if I am some quaint, strange insect he is dissecting. I try to speak and all that comes out are low, guttural grunts. I know that I have failed – that I am one of our many mistakes and that if he does not destroy me, I will destroy him. I wake before the gunshot and I spend the day immersed in our work so that he knows I am of more use as one of his specimens.
The longer I stay with him, the more I find my thoughts are the same as his. I lie to myself by thinking that he repulses me. He does, but it is the same repulsion in a magnet – he maneuvers around me and suddenly, I can no longer separate myself from him.
I will not willingly leave him. There are those who would gladly see him hang – I will never be one of them. If I could cure him of his obsessions, I would, but they are so deep in him that not even his own death would remove them. I suspect that if he were ever to die, he would need nothing but the force of his own will to return.
I know this letter is futile – you will never see it. There is much in it that would alarm you, and I would rather have you in ignorance, believing that one day I will return the same as I was – a boy innocent of the horrors that man can create. This will never happen.
I do not know if I can ever be sane again.
Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.
-- Carl Jung
The patient has disappeared. No one knows how it happened – it is believed that he may have just walked out. We do know that he had visited Sefton before in a medical capacity – perhaps he found the way to escape. I had told the authorities in Boston that it would have been better to send him to Danvers, given his knowledge of our hospital, but they did not listen.
I try not to fear as much as I know I did when that cannibalistic monster dwelled here – my patient never showed signs of the same sort of terrible violence that led to so many deaths. His violence was limited to sporadic struggles that quickly subsided – he had not the abnormal strength of the other lunatic.
It is not wholly unexpected. In the last few days, he developed a strange and resolute calm, as if he had come to some momentous decision. The fever-brightness in his eyes held a new sense of purpose – I did not know what that purpose was but I told the orderlies to watch him. But he made no fuss – when it was time for sleep, he did not resist, but went willingly, indeed, almost joyfully to it.
And then that terrible day --
My colleagues are questioning me now – they want to know how he escaped and why when they found me, I was sitting fast in my chair with a look of terror in chair, unable to move a muscle. Dr. Wilcox said he touched my arm and I screamed and fainted.
I have been told to take leave – that I have experienced some sort of shock that has left me unable to stop trembling…
If only I could remember what happened -
The police have been notified, but they can do nothing. We do not know where he would go – we do not know what he would do – we do not know even who he was.
I would forget this, listen to my colleagues and have the police investigate this, return to my life of propriety and sense, except –
I am afraid.
οὐκ οἶσθ᾽ ὅ τι ζῇς, οὐδ᾽ ὃ δρᾷς, οὐδ᾽ ὅστις εἶ.
-– Euripedes
I cannot stop the dreams.
There are bones on the ground in a pattern that I cannot describe, but I see it everywhere now and I wonder if it has always been there or if I see it now. A head lies nearby and it grins, a sardonic twist of a mouth that mocks me for my ignorance and promises that soon I shall know all. It is not knowledge I have ever wanted and they know I will go mad from its realization.
I awoke and the voice was the same as in my sleep –
Or was it?
I no longer know what is a dream and what is not.
He asked me to let him out and I did, scarcely knowing why I did it. No, I opened the door because he said that there were far worse things out there than he.
I do not know if I believe that. I have seen what monstrosities they wrought in my dreams and they are the terrifying things that wake us screaming in the darkest hours of the night.
He asked me to provide him with --- I cannot remember now, but I know I have given him access to everything I possess and there are things missing – scalpels, syringes, needles – God knows what he will use them for. If he and the fiend that controls him create monsters once more – I shudder at what their minds can conceive of.
I know now what the Sefton cannibal was – and who he was --- and no one shall ever believe me. My colleagues already believe me to be mad – this will only confirm it. God, that a man of such dignity and respect could be turned into the lowest, most animalistic form!
For if I can be affected by this, a man of rationality and science reduced to a terrified child of fancies and superstitions, what hope do less stable souls have?
I have to stop these dreams.
I have to stop --
Everything happens to everybody sooner or later if there is time enough.
-- George Bernard Shaw
We may add another tragedy to the events of Sefton Asylum. Dr. Henry Thurston, a psychologist with a notable reputation, has died by his own hand, having been himself committed only last month after suffering a severe mental collapse following the disappearance of one of his patients. It is now believed he was responsible for the patient's escape.
That such a respected member of the medical establishment could take his own life after releasing a known madman proves that we need to be more vigilant on who treats the deranged. Those who are unknowingly sensitive to lunatic fancies and mental diseases should be removed from practice as soon as they demonstrate signs of a weak mind and character.
--"Arkham Advertiser," October 21, 1922
After the horrid events in February, we had hoped to see the last of the desecrations that plagued our fair city. This was proved to be horribly wrong, as two recent events have filled us with foreboding.
Only this month were reports made of graves being opened in Christchurch Cemetery and the desecration of several of the crypts. We had hoped again for it to be a juvenile prank conducted by Miskatonic students, but police state that they have found no evidence that any students were involved in any of these incidents, including the earlier ones.
And this week, we learn of the terrible discovery of a bonfire on Hangman's Hill containing the crushed remains of over three-dozen corpses. This ghastly find only confirms for much of the community that the police are unable to solve who is committing these atrocities. Local respected citizens are organizing a group to find and hunt the monster or monsters down who are responsible for this.
--"Arkham Advertiser," November 25, 1922
The primary question about life after death is not whether it is a fact, but even if it is, what problems that really solves.
-- Ludwig Wittgenstein
I thank you gentlemen for listening to this story. I can see from your faces that you either think it a lie or the ravings of a madman, but I assure you that based on what I have learned from various documents, it is all true. As to the reason you three were invited here, I suspect it will become evident very shortly.
It is unfortunate that you call him a madman, given what he has accomplished over his career. Perhaps he was not the most scrupulous of scientists in terms of how he procured his materials, but he did more for science than many of you could dream of.
That you are all the most respected of doctors goes without question. That you lack a certain imagination is as equally evident. However, you will contribute to his research, even if you are unwilling to support any of his conclusions.
I would not bother trying to help your colleague up, Dr. Gammell, as you will be joining him momentarily. The same is true for you, Dr. Hart. The pistol is most unnecessary as you lack the fine motor control needed to fire it.
You need not fear suffocation quite yet. The muscular paralysis extends to the limbs first and the lungs last. It is a rather remarkable drug, one that I discovered the good Dr. Thurston had access to. I do regret his loss, as he would have made a fine colleague and contact at Sefton, but alas, I have learned from experience that adding a member to my partnership with Herbert only led to some rather difficult complications that are only now being resolved.
Of course, you will not go mad as Thurston. Your purpose is quite different.
There is no point in screaming, Dr. Pierce. Your vocal chords are paralyzed enough to make it futile and West never stopped because of weakness or pity.
Ah, yes, Dr. West is alive. I had hoped you would have deduced that, but perhaps it is too unbelievable even after all I have told you. It was most difficult finding his head – Major Clapham-Lee was a formidable foe and I had much to overcome before I could retrieve it. What I had to do – it was not a pleasant experience and I wish to never repeat it.
I did retrieve his head, however, and I found a suitable temporary body, which I was able to graft his head on for a short period of time. West had corresponded with a Spanish doctor in the past on the possibilities of inhibiting decay in flesh – knowledge that seemed unnecessary at the time given what we were able to accomplish. Now it has saved and preserved him for the next step – that of a permanent body.
You see, he needs a body of the finest medical caliber – one capable of the most delicate of surgeries. It must be healthy, but it must possess the same quality of nerves that allows for scientific experimentation. No weakness in heart or unsteady hands can be permitted. The three of you are the finest technicians we could find – you should feel honored by such selection. I see in your eyes you do not believe this, but no matter, it shall not change our minds.
Yes, I do require only one body, but alas, I am not the most reliable of surgeons, and West taught me the value of always having spare parts in case of error. The coolness of the room should preserve all remains until the necessary time. It would not do to have his body fail from lack of freshness or corpse-rot.
Once we are finished, you may rest assured that you will not suffer the same fate as those unfortunate bodies reanimated by the Major. What is left will be cast to the fire and utterly destroyed. It would not do to repeat the history that led us to this point to begin with.
But I apologize once more. I have kept you, and West, here too long and we must prepare for surgery while your bodies are still in this state. I suppose I have ranted on for long because I have been unable to tell anyone this for so long – either they would not believe me, or they would and lock me up once more.
The night before I left the asylum, I had a dream, and I realized when I awoke, the purpose to my life was clear to me. I have fought it for so long, and yet, I may as well succumb to what is inevitable.
It is the silence more than anything else that I cannot stand. A life with West may well be one of madness and destruction, but one without him is a cold, desolate tomb – and I have learned over the years that the chance to escape from the grave is one man should always take.
And if this works, as I suppose it must, than West shall be restored to some semblance of his previous life. I am not nearly as talented as he, but with his guidance, I shall endeavor to bring him back as he had brought back so many others. I have learned enough form his notes, from all our experiments, and even from the work of that damnable Clapham-Lee, that I believe I can restore him to his normal state. If I fail, then I pray I will have the stomach to pull the trigger, but I know that having seen him die once --
I know it is a horrid thing, and I will well be damned for it, but I cannot stop myself and I will not stop West. I have never been able to. And should I have been the one to fall, he would have done the same.
It should be some comfort for you to know that you will be insensate long before the procedure begins. And you should be proud to know that you shall still be contributing to scientific knowledge.
Yes, I may well be mad.
But I will not be alone.