The Book of the Living Dead

by John Richard Stephens

  In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy dissolution.

  From this period until the close of last week—an interval of nearly seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual.

  It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles—to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.

  For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.

  It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F——then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so, as follows:

  “M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?”

  There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks; the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before); and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth:

  “For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!”

  I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavor to re-compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful—or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete—and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.

  For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepared.

  As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the space of a single minute, or even less, shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome—of detestable putrescence.

  THE CORPSE THAT RAN AWAY

  from The Evening Telegram

  This article is from the August 14, 1888, edition of the St. John’s, Newfoundland, Evening Telegram. Its subheadline read, “Henry Graham’s Great Act in Running Away After Having Been Hanged.”

  That the bodies of the dead, even a long time after the moment of death, do perform actions which have all the appearance of volition, are instances familiar to every student of medical literature. Physicians, it is true, assure us that in these movements volition does not enter; and they have given to this muscular movement the name of “reflex action,” and this, apparently, we are expected to accept as a perfectly lucid explanation of a phenomenon which without the name would be obscure. Enlightened by the term “reflex action” it must be discontented and exacting curiosity that would not rest and be thankful.

  At Hawley’s Bar, a mining camp near Virginia City, M.T. [Montana Territory], a gambler named Henry Graham, but commonly known as “Gray Hank,” met a miner named Dreyfuss one day with whom he had had a dispute the previous night about a pack of cards, and asked him into a barroom to have a drink. The unfortunate miner taking this as an overture of peace gladly consented. They stood at the counter, and while Dreyfuss was in the act of drinking, Graham shot him dead. This was in 1865. Within an hour after the murder Graham was in the hands of the vigilantes, and that evening at sunset, after a fair, informal trial, he was hanged to the limb of a tree which grew upon a little eminence within sight of the whole camp.

  The original intention had been to “string him up,” as is customary in such affairs, and with a view to that operation the long rope had been thrown over the limb, while a dozen pairs of hands were ready to hoist away. For some reason the plan was abandoned, the rope was given a single turn about the limb at a suitable distance from the noose, the free end fast to a bush and the victim compelled to stand on a horse, which at the cut of a whip sprang from under him, leaving him swinging. When steadied his feet were about eighteen inches from the earth.

  The body remained suspended for exactly half an hour, the greater part of the crowd remaining about it. Then the “judge” ordered it taken down. The rope was untied from the bush, and two men stood by to lower away. The moment the feet came squarely upon the ground the men engaged in lowering, thinking, doubtless, that those standing about the body had hold of it to support it, let go the rope. The body at once ran quickly forward toward the main part of the crowd, the rope paying out as it went. The head rolled from side to side, the eyes and tongue protruding. With cries of horror the crowd ran hither and thither, scrambling, rolling over one another, cursing. In and out among them, over the fallen, coming in collision with others, his direction governed by blind caprice, the horrible dead man “pranced,” his feet lifted so high at each step that his knees struck his breast. The deepening twilight added its terror to the uncanny scene, and brave men fled from the spot, not daring to look behind.

  Straight into this confusion from the outskirts of the crowd walked with rapid steps the tall figure of a man whom all recognized as a master spirit. This was Dr. Arnold Spier, who, with two other physicians, had pronounced the man dead, and had been retiring from the camp. He moved as directly toward the dead man as the now somewhat less rapid and erratic movements of the latter would permit, and seized him in his arms. Encouraged by this, a score of men sprang shouting to the free end of the rope, which had been drawn entirely over the limb, and laid hold of it, intending to make a finish of their work. They ran with it toward the bush to which it had been fastened, but there was no resistance; the physician had cut it from the dead murderer’s neck. In a moment the body was lying on its back, with composed limbs and face upturned to the kindling stars in the motionless rigidity appropriate to death. The hanging had been done well enough; the neck had been broken by the drop. Dr. Spier knew that a corpse which, placed upon its feet, would walk and run, would lie still when placed upon its back. The dead are creatures of habit.

  This newspaper article gives new meaning to the phrase, “running around like a headless chicken.”

  THE HAND

  Guy de Maupassant

  Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant is considered the greatest of all French short story writers. He was trained in writing fiction by Gustave Flaubert (author of Madame Bovary) and wrote seventeen volumes of short stories in thirteen years, plus additional novels, plays, and travelogues. Unfortunately the ravages of syphilis drove him to a Paris insane asylum, where he eventually died.

  This story was inspired by a mummified hand that English poet Algernon Swinburne showed him when he was a teenager.

  They made a circle around Judge Bermutier, who was giving his opinion of the mysterious affair that had happened at Saint-Cloud. For a month Paris had doted on this inexplicable crime. No one could understand it at all.

  M. Bermutier, standing with his back to the chimney, talked about it, discussed the divers opinions, but came to
no conclusions.

  Many women had risen and come nearer, remaining standing, with eyes fixed upon the shaven mouth of the magistrate, whence issued these grave words. They shivered and vibrated, crisp through their curious fear, through that eager, insatiable need of terror which haunts their soul, torturing them like a hunger.

  One of them, paler than the others, after a silence, said, “It is frightful. It touches the supernatural. We shall never know anything about it.”

  The magistrate turned toward her, saying, “Yes, Madame, it is probable that we never shall know anything about it. As for the word ‘supernatural, ’ when you come to use that, it has no place here. We are in the presence of a crime skillfully conceived, very skillfully executed, and so well enveloped in mystery that we cannot separate the impenetrable circumstances which surround it. But, once in my life, I had to follow an affair which seemed truly to be mixed up with something very unusual. However, it was necessary to give it up, as there was no means of explaining it.”

  Many of the ladies called out at the same time, so quickly that their voices sounded as one, “Oh! tell us about it.”

  M. Bermutier smiled gravely, as judges should, and replied, “You must not suppose, for an instant, that I, at least, believed there was anything superhuman in the adventure. I believe only in normal causes. And, if in place of using the word ‘supernatural’ to express what we cannot comprehend we should simply use the word ‘inexplicable,’ it would be much better. In any case, the surrounding circumstances in the affair I am going to relate to you, as well as the preparatory circumstances, have affected me much. Here are the facts:

  “I was then judge of Instruction at Ajaccio, a little white town lying on the border of an admirable gulf that was surrounded on all sides by high mountains.

  “What I particularly had to look after there was the affairs of vendetta. Some of them were superb; as dramatic as possible, ferocious, and heroic. We find there the most beautiful subjects of vengeance that one could dream of, hatred a century old, appeased for a moment but never extinguished, abominable plots, assassinations becoming massacres and almost glorious battles. For two years I heard of nothing but the price of blood, of the terribly prejudiced Corsican who is bound to avenge all injury upon the person of him who is the cause of it, or upon his nearest descendants. I saw old men and infants, cousins, with their throats cut, and my head was full of these stories.

  “One day we learned that an Englishman had rented for some years a little villa at the end of the Gulf. He had brought with him a French domestic, picked up at Marseilles on the way.

  “Soon everybody was occupied with this singular person, who lived alone in his house, only going out to hunt and fish. He spoke to no one, never came to the town, and, every morning, practiced shooting with a pistol and a rifle for an hour or two.

  “Some legends about him were abroad. They pretended that he was a high personage fled from his own country for political reasons; then they affirmed that he was concealing himself after having committed a frightful crime. They even cited some of the particularly horrible details.

  “In my capacity of judge, I wished to get some information about this man. But it was impossible to learn anything. He called himself Sir John Rowell.

  “I contented myself with watching him closely; although, in reality, there seemed nothing to suspect regarding him.

  “Nevertheless, as rumors on his account continued, grew, and became general, I resolved to try and see this stranger myself, and for this purpose began to hunt regularly in the neighborhood of his property.

  “I waited long for an occasion. It finally came in the form of a partridge which I shot and killed before the very nose of the Englishman. My dog brought it to me; but, immediately taking it I went and begged Sir John Rowell to accept the dead bird, excusing myself for intrusion.

  “He was a tall man with red hair and red beard, very large, a sort of placid, polite Hercules. He had none of the so-called British haughtiness, and heartily thanked me for the delicacy in French, with a beyond-the-Channel accent. At the end of a month we had chatted together five or six times.

  “Finally, one evening, as I was passing by his door, I perceived him astride a chair in the garden, smoking his pipe. I saluted him and he asked me in to have a glass of beer. It was not necessary for him to repeat before I accepted.

  “He received me with the fastidious courtesy of the English, spoke in praise of France and of Corsica, and declared that he loved that country and that shore.

  “Then, with great precaution in the form of a lively interest, I put some questions to him about his life and his projects. He responded without embarrassment, told me that he had traveled much, in Africa, in the Indies, and in America. He added, laughing, ‘I have had many adventures, oh! yes.’

  “I began to talk about hunting, and he gave me many curious details of hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant, and even of hunting the gorilla.

  “I said, ‘All these animals are very formidable.’

  “He laughed, ‘Oh! no. The worst animal is man.’ Then he began to laugh, with the hearty laugh of a big contented Englishman. He continued, ‘I have often hunted man, also.’

  “He spoke of weapons and asked me to go into his house to see his guns of various makes and kinds.

  “His drawing-room was hung in black, in black silk embroidered with gold. There were great yellow flowers running over the somber stuff, shining like fire.

  “‘It is Japanese cloth,’ he said.

  “But in the middle of a large panel, a strange thing attracted my eye. Upon a square of red velvet, a black object was attached. I approached and found it was a hand, the hand of a man. Not a skeleton hand, white and characteristic, but a black, desiccated hand, with yellow joints with the muscles bare and on them traces of old blood, of blood that seemed like a scale, over the bones sharply cut off at about the middle of the fore-arm, as with a blow of a hatchet. About the wrist was an enormous iron chain, riveted, soldered to this unclean member, attaching it to the wall by a ring sufficiently strong to hold an elephant.

  “I asked: ‘What is that?’

  “The Englishman responded tranquilly:

  “‘It belonged to my worst enemy. It came from America. It was broken with a saber, cut off with a sharp stone, and dried in the sun for eight days. Oh, very good for me, that was!’

  “I touched the human relic, which must have belonged to a colossus. The fingers were immoderately long and attached by enormous tendons that held the straps of skin in place. This dried hand was frightful to see, making one think, naturally, of the vengeance of a savage.

  “I said, ‘This man must have been very strong.’

  “With gentleness the Englishman answered, ‘Oh! yes; but I was stronger than he. I put this chain on him to hold him.’

  “I thought he spoke in jest and replied,‘The chain is useless now that the hand cannot escape.’

  “Sir John Rowell replied gravely, ‘It always wishes to escape. The chain is necessary.’

  “With a rapid, questioning glance, I asked myself, ‘Is he mad, or is that an unpleasant joke?’

  “But the face remained impenetrable, tranquil, and friendly. I spoke of other things and admired the guns.

  “Nevertheless, I noticed three loaded revolvers on the pieces of furniture, as if this man lived in constant fear of attack.

  “I went there many times after that; then for some time I did not go. We had become accustomed to his presence; he had become indifferent to us.

  “A whole year slipped away. Then, one morning, toward the end of November, my domestic awoke me with the announcement that Sir John Rowell had been assassinated in the night.

  “A half hour later, I entered the Englishman’s house with the central Commissary and the Captain of Police. The servant, lost in despair, was weeping at the door. I suspected him at first, but afterward found that he was innocent.

  “The guilty one could never be found.

&nbs
p; “Upon entering Sir John’s drawing-room, I perceived his dead body stretched out upon its back, in the middle of the room. His waistcoat was torn, a sleeve was hanging, and it was evident that a terrible struggle had taken place.

  “The Englishman had been strangled! His frightfully black and swollen face seemed to express an abominable fear; he held something between his set teeth; and his neck, pierced with five holes apparently done with a pointed iron, was covered with blood.

  “A doctor joined us. He examined closely the prints of fingers in the flesh and pronounced these strange words, ‘One would think he had been strangled by a skeleton.’

  “A shiver ran down my back and I cast my eyes to the place on the wall where I had seen the horrible, torn-off hand. It was no longer there. The chain was broken and hanging.

  “Then I bent over the dead man and found in his mouth a piece of one of the fingers of the missing hand, cut off, or rather sawed off by the teeth exactly at the second joint.

  “Then they tried to collect evidence. They could find nothing. No door had been forced, no window opened, or piece of furniture moved. The two watchdogs on the premises had not been aroused.