by Mike Ashley
THERE EXISTS A SMALL GENERAL PUBLIC THAT IS ALWAYS ACQUAINTED in advance with current affairs, is abreast of modern investigation and discovery, and lives, as it were, fifteen or twenty years in advance of its contemporaries. It was among such people that Dr. Brodsky’s reputation had spread after the remarkable cure he had effected in the case of the jailer’s daughter who was possessed by the soul of the Slav murderer. Thenceforward, while wholly unknown to that portion of the public that gleans its information through the medium of the press, he began to be besieged by requests for his assistance in many instances. He was asked to cure obsessions, to clean out haunted houses, to act as intermediary between the living and the dead by persons who misunderstood his powers.
Dr. Brodsky was in no sense a medium; he could not even produce the very ordinary phenomenon of making a table spin, and was, if anything, more lacking than most persons in psychic development. He was the first to disclaim any gift in this direction. His skill as a hypnotist, he always insisted, was no more than that attainable by anyone who devoted himself to the study of this acquirement. It was, therefore, embarrassing in the extreme to him when the ignorant mistook his abilities for those of the thaumaturgist, and for a long time he endeavored to escape the notoriety and persecution that pursued him.
Finally, however, principally at my own instigation, he determined to give up his medical practice—which by now had netted him a comfortable competency—and to devote his services, gratuitously, to the science of physics.
“I can neither evoke ghosts nor lay them through any magic art,” he explained to me in his self-deprecatory way. “All I can do is to apply my knowledge of physics to the production of results which could be brought about just as efficiently by the most ignorant person gifted with those mediumistic powers that I lack. Nor is my knowledge of these matters in any way one which originated with me. The knowledge of physical phenomena has always existed, whether we consider the oracle of the Greeks, the Roman Sibyl, the Indian Shahman, or the witch of Endor who raised up the spirit of Samuel. But mostly it has been confined hitherto to the domains of faith and religion instead of being accepted boldly by science.
“Would you care to accompany me to a country house tomorrow to investigate a remarkable problem?” he continued, changing the subject in that sudden manner of his.
I was eager to accept, and the next morning I met him by appointment at the depot. While we were being whirled in the train through rural New England he recounted to me the particulars of the case—the first which he had consented to investigate since the matter of the jailer’s daughter.
He had been called upon for aid, it appeared, by a former patient of his, a certain Miss Suydam, whom he had once cured of a long nervous ailment. She was in great distress. A maiden lady of mature age, descended from one of the oldest families in America, she had lived since childhood with her younger sister in the old family mansion which they inherited. Possessed of a meager income, alone in the world, they had existed simply but not penuriously, expecting to pass the remainder of their lives in the solitude of the little village where they had been born. But some months previously the sister, who was of unusual beauty except for a slight facial irregularity, had suddenly become engaged to, and married, a young artist of much unrecognized talent, and the three had made their home happily together within a period of a few weeks, when the sister fell sick of a mysterious, wasting malady. Her husband appeared devoted to her and unremitting in his attention; nevertheless the disease continued to progress. Day by day the patient became more attenuated and despondent, until at last the local physicians gave up the case in despair, saying that there appeared to be neither means of making a diagnosis nor hopes for recovery.
And then (said Brodsky) something had occurred which struck terror into the maiden sister’s heart. There was an old family legend in the effect that each death—especially when caused by violence or foul play—was presaged by the appearance of a ghost that glided silently along the passages of the old mansion by night and took, in each instance, the aspect of the person, male or female, who was about to pass over. On three successive nights the sister had seen this phantom move along the corridors, and, almost paralyzed with fear, saw it vanish through the closed door of her sister’s room. When, on the last occasion, she gathered fortitude to enter, nothing was visible and her sister was peacefully sleeping. The phantom was the double of the sister, but etherealized beyond almost possible conception of beauty, and Miss Suydam had particularly observed that the slight facial irregularity mentioned was not apparent.
Then she thought of Dr. Brodsky, and begged him, if he could not save her sister’s life, at least to endeavor to banish this awful messenger from the world beyond. So distraught was she, that she had even dared to suspect that the sister was being slowly poisoned by the artist, though for such a crime no motive existed.
We were to go down in the guise of two physicians—as indeed we were—and to make the fullest investigations.
“What inference do you draw, Dr. Brodsky?” I asked him.
“It is as yet impossible to say,” the doctor answered. “We must see what sort of a man this artist is. The theory of poison would, on the face of it, appear very probable. It may be that this is one of those rare cases, yet recorded among old families, in which the dead form, as it were, a guardianship over the lives of the living, and, at the appointed time, send one of their number to summon them into the world beyond. The fact that the spirit bears the family type of feature would bear out this supposition. However, we shall see.”
We descended from the train at a little wayside hamlet, where we found a carriage waiting for us. The driver was a young man of great natural refinement, who introduced himself to us as the sister’s husband—Walter Fotheringham.
He shook hands with us cordially. We stepped into the carriage, and the horse of his own accord took us up a steep hill that led to the mansion, which we could now see, looking very forlorn and dilapidated, perched upon the summit in the center of a desolate and extensive garden. We were shown into a large parlor, furnished in the style of the last generation, and more or less gloomy in aspect, though comfortable. Our host offered us wine and seated himself beside us.
“And now, gentleman,” he said. “I believe in frankness. Let us come to an understanding immediately therefore. Let me say that I know your entire purpose in coming here, and shall assist you with all my ability.”
It was impossible not to be impressed with the young fellow’s sincerity.
“A painful scene occurred this morning between myself and my sister-in-law, Miss Suydam,” he continued. “She has, I fancy, always been a little jealous of her sister’s love for me. From words which she let fall during the heat of passion, I infer that she actually suspects me of administering some slow poison to my wife with object of securing her death—I need hardly say that I should have no object to gain thereby.”
“And this apparition?” queried the doctor.
“Dr. Brodsky, I have seen it,” said Fotheringham. “I would hesitate to admit so to another man, but I have seen it on four occasions, and it is the exact reproduction of my wife.”
“One thing is clear,” said Brodsky slowly. “Events of grave importance are pending in the spiritual world. There is no physical change that does not in some way betoken a spiritual one, and your wife is in grave danger. You are fond of one another?”
“We are devoted,” said the artist, sadly. “Doctor, if you can only save her—”
He choked with his emotion. I, looking at him, could not longer suspect him, nor I am sure, did the doctor.
“Your relations are absolutely ideal, then?” queried Brodsky. “There is nothing about your wife that you could cavil at, nothing which has caused mental perturbation?”
Fotheringham started and shot a keen glance at his questioner.
“Why, the fact is, there is one small matter, but it is so ridiculous that I am heartily ashamed to confess it.”
“N
othing upon earth is ridiculous,” said Brodsky.
“It is a preposterous matter, and the fact that I am obliged to keep it to myself adds to the little rankle. You may know, doctor, that some of us unfortunate persons are cursed with what is vulgarly termed the artistic temperament and are destined to go through life always seeking perfection, and never attaining it?”
There was a wealth of enigma in the doctor’s smile.
“I thought that in my wife I had discovered a sublimation of every virtue of soul and body,” said the young man. “But there is one slightest flaw in her appearance. I am ashamed to say it, but her nose is not entirely straight—a trifling flaw such as would pass unnoticed in one of less beauty, but in her is the most evident because of her singularly perfect features otherwise. Of late the perception of this has become an obsession with me.
“But this is a scruple,” he continued, angrily. “I don’t know why I should have bothered you with a foolish detail. Certainly it in no measure affects my love for her.”
“One question,” said Brodsky. “This phantom—is the nose also crooked?”
“No, absolutely straight,” said Fotheringham, “but in all other respects it is a duplication of my dear wife.”
At this moment Miss Suydam entered and greeted us cordially. It was evident, however, that relations between herself and the young artist were considerably strained. She took us up the stairs and along a winding passage to the room in which the sick woman lay propped up by pillows. She was wasted greatly and of an extreme pallor; there did not seem to be enough blood in the body to support life. She opened her eyes, looked at us with indifference, and closed them.
At once I perceived the slight facial deformity, which was visible the more by contrast with the delicate perfection of the rest of her face.
The room in which the patient lay was one of those large old-fashioned apartments with small panes of glass let into enormous window frames and low ceilings, built out irregularly so that they form an irregular space bounded by eight or ten walls. At the far end the room tapered in toward the window seat, which had been fitted up as a couch on which Miss Suydam rested in the intervals of watching by her sister’s side. It was arranged that Dr. Brodsky and I should watch here during the following night. The space was so screened off from the corner in which the patient lay as to form, to all intents, a separate apartment, while enabling us to be on hand should anything occur.
“It will not be necessary for us to watch all night,” said Dr. Brodsky. “At what time have you seen the apparition?”
“Between three and four in the morning,” Miss Suydam answered.
Dr. Brodsky was evidently pleased. “The period of the lowest vitality,” he said. “We are getting upon our trail,” he added to me. I would have questioned him, but knew from experience that it would procure me no information. Brodsky liked to work out his theories alone. I could see that he had already formed one.
“You say you saw this apparition in the corridor?” he said next to Miss Suydam. “How did you happen to go into the corridor at four in the morning.”
Miss Suydam appeared embarrassed. “The fact is,” she explained, “on each occasion I have had the most peculiar illusion that my sister had gone out of the room. I find it so difficult to keep awake about that hour, and invariably the same experience comes to me. I dream that my sister has left her bed, and awake to find myself upon my feet in the passage, watching this horrible, trailing figure disappear in the distance. Then I come back to find my sister asleep.”
“You doze off immediately when you return,” said Dr. Brodsky.
Miss Suydam looked guilty.
“I don’t know how you know it, doctor,” she said, “but I find it impossible to keep my eyes open. And in the morning my dear sister is always at lower ebb than before. I blame and reproach myself—”
“Never mind, never mind,” said Brodsky, patting her hand. “You are certain that you did not dream all this?”
“I sprinkled flour beside my door last night and found my footsteps in it this morning. Besides, Mr. Fotheringham claims to have seen it. But how can I believe him, when I am tortured by such doubts?”
“Hush!” said the doctor. “You have grievously wronged him. Of that I am sure.”
Miss Suydam’s eyes lightened. “You are sure?” she cried. “I am so glad.”
“I am sure,” said the doctor. “Now I want three yards of fine steel wire and a couple of stout staples,” he added in his sudden manner. “Can you procure these before nightfall?”
“I can get them at the village, I suppose,” said Miss Suydam.
“Get them before night, please,” said the doctor.
They arrived shortly before supper. The doctor put the wire in his pocket and then drove in the staples outside the frame of the bedroom door, one on either side, some four feet above the ground. At Brodsky’s suggestion I retired to bed immediately after I had eaten. He himself promised to call me at two for the beginning of our watch. After hours of restless tossing and turning I slept, but it was only a moment, it seemed, before I heard Brodsky calling me. I awoke to find him standing, fully dressed, at my bedside, a candle in his hand.
“It’s two o’clock,” he said, softly. “Dress yourself quietly and come.”
He waited at my side until I had thrust on my clothes; then grasped me by the arm very earnestly and said:
“The watch will not be long, but you must not fall asleep. It is a matter of life and death for that poor bed-ridden woman, and evil things will be stirring abroad tonight. Unless we both keep awake the issue will be fatal for her.”
“Then—this apparition really exists?” I stammered.
“My dear boy,” said the doctor, earnestly, “nothing is more real. And it is of incarnate evil. But come.”
In our stocking feet we crept into the patient’s room. Miss Suydam rose up to welcome us. “I am going to try to keep awake tonight,” she said. By the light of the candle I could see that the patient was slumbering soundly. She looked less pale and emaciated than during the day.
“She always looks better just before—it happens,” said Miss Suydam. “And in the morning—Oh, it is terrible. What is it?” she cried, hysterically. “For heaven’s sake, what does it mean?”
“Tonight will be the end,” said the doctor, kindly. “Now sit beside her and watch. We will wait behind the screen.”
We took our seats in silence. Dr. Brodsky blew out the candle, and the room was thinly illuminated by the half moon that shone crookedly through the little window panes. From our position, unknown to Miss Suydam, we could see her and the patient, clearly outlined against the wall. We waited, waited—
“Remember, at all hazard, do not sleep,” were the doctor’s last instructions. Then silence descended upon us. I heard the ticking of my watch, the distant night noises; everything seemed to blend into a monotonous and assuaging harmony. . . .
Somebody was shaking me. The doctor was shaking me. My eyelids seemed to have glued themselves down upon my eyes. With the utmost difficulty I forced them apart. The moon had risen, flooding the room with light, and Brodsky was standing by me.
“Wake, for God’s sake,” he whispered. Something was trickling down the sleeve of his coat. I learned afterward that he had stabbed himself with his pen-knife to fight off that overmastering drowsiness. Then, with a desperate effort, I shook it off, threw back that enchantment of slumber, and followed the direction of the doctor’s gaze.
Beside the bed Miss Suydam sat, sunk into her chair, her eyes closed, her head bowed forward upon her breast. And from the bed, where the sick woman moaned and tossed restlessly, a filmy vapor seemed to detach itself, issuing, apparently, from her side. It rose and floated over her, gradually assuming the form of her own self, but even more entrancingly beautiful. It gathered shape and grew, suspended in the air face downward, chin to chin and lip to lip. Then, when it had become of the same consistency, it gradually assumed an upright posture, floated down to t
he ground, and seemed to pass bodily through the door. At the same instant I looked at the sleeping patient. She had ceased to moan and lay profoundly still, but shrunken up among the pillows like a seven-year-old child. Then, with a start, Miss Suydam sprang to her feet and wrenched at the door handle.
But the doctor had anticipated her. He sprang from where he was standing, I following, tossed Miss Suydam back into the room as lightly as a feather, and dashed out into the passage. There he stood, his back to the door, pressing it close.
My blood curdled and grew cold. Moving away, moving along the corridor without sound of any footsteps that awful phantom glided. A thing of devilish beauty. And I felt that at all hazard I must follow it, though it led me into hell. I must have started forward, for suddenly I was called to myself by feeling the little doctor’s strong arms around me.
“Ah, thank God!” he whispered, seeing, I suppose, sanity return to me. “If you had followed, boy, God help your soul. Can you resist?”
Far away, farther and farther it moved, until it reached the bend in the passage and disappeared around it. It was moving in the direction of Fotheringham’s room.
“Yes,” I muttered, reeling unsteadily. “But it is going to him. Save him, save him.”
The doctor reassured me. “It can not harm him so long as his wife lives,” he said. “They are united by a more subtle bond. This is the last night; another and it would have sucked the last of her vitality from her and achieved its ends. We shall save two lives tonight. But we have work to do before it returns.”
“It is coming back?” I stammered.
“It must come back,” he cried, and, whipping out the coil of wire from his coat, he fastened one end tightly to the staple and began to draw it across the door. And instantly, to my horror, I saw the thing reappear, begin to return upon its horrible passage.
Every evil impulse that I had ever known seemed to leap into activity as I gazed at it. It was the exact replica of Mrs. Fotheringham, but of hellish beauty, a caricature of beauty, as I might call it. And I felt my heart hammer within my breast, my hands fall to my sides nervelessly. But Dr. Brodsky had drawn the wire across the door, so that it ran taut and true, a steel barrier, across the wood of the panels. Then, as the thing drew near he turned and confronted it. And suddenly the moon went out and everything was plunged into profound darkness.
