Forgotten Fiction

by Lloyd Eshbach

  “Certainly, Doctor. Are we ready for the body?”

  “Yes; I’ll help you.”

  Crossing to a large electrical refrigerator, the interne swung open a wide door and drew out the nude body of Ali Kahn. Together they carried it to the center of the room and placed it face downward on a white marble slab in the middle of which was a circular opening, a drain to carry away the blood. After elevating the Hindu’s head with a block of wood, the interne stepped back.

  Dr. Selkirk then secured the necessary instruments and approached the body, steeling his nerves for what he knew would be an ordeal.

  “First,” he began, “we make an incision from the right articular process of the mandible, around the back of the head, to the left articular process.” He drew his blade from one point where the jaw bone joined the temple bone, to the other.

  Grasping the scalp at the incision, he pulled it anteriorly down over the face, exposing the skull. Raising a saw, he remarked:

  “You obtain your best opening to the cranial cavity by sawing about three inches above the base of the occipital bone horizontally across the skull.” He started sawing.

  Every moment Dr. Selkirk expected a tide of malediction to sweep from the brain of Ali Kahn into his own. Thus far nothing had happened—but the silence could not continue much longer. His nerves were strained, tautened things.

  Finally the first saw cut was finished, and still no thought had come. “Now, Doctor,” he said in a voice that was unnaturally quiet, “hold his head steady while we complete the opening.”

  Slowly he began, sawing across the parietal bone. His fingers seemed weighted down with lead; his heartbeat had quickened; he had difficulty in breathing. Saw—saw—back and forth—-back and forth. Slower and slower moved his hands—and finally the ends were connected to form a semi-circular incision. A little prying with a chisel—and the brain lay bared before him!

  “Fool! The brain is the seat of the soul—and the soul is Brahma! Think you, Sahib, that you can tamper with the All-wise and escape? Fool!” The thoughts of Ali Kahn were flooding his mind!

  Hatred—God, what hatred filled his thoughts! Selkirk’s senses reeled under the power of hate incarnate. Jeering, screaming, mocking, shrieking, the thoughts continued, vibrating through his mind like a horrible requiem. Yet above it all he heard his own voice, faint, distant, almost unrecognizable.

  “It is an easy matter to remove the brain from the cavity, but the many adhesions that in all probability will be present, may make it difficult to remove it intact. Still, I think we can do it if we exercise a little care.”

  Could—could he force himself to touch that mass of grey matter, reeking with its hell-spawned thoughts of hatred? God, no! His entire being rebelled against the thought. Yet, in spite of himself, his hand was even then thrusting itself between the skull and the brain, breaking the connecting tissues.

  “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it, by Siva! May Vishnu desert you! May the blind eyes of the sky watch you and curse your soul!”

  On and on and on, in a jumbled medley of hell and madness, Ali Kahn’s thoughts poured into the mind of Dr. Selkirk. And the Doctor’s thoughts became confused, terrified by the backwash of putrid curses that flooded his cringing reason. Yet he heard his own voice, strained and hoarse, continuing mechanically.

  “Beneath the temporal lobe we sever the spinal cord at the pars cervicalis.” And suiting his actions to his words, he lifted out the brain.

  Great God! The clammy thing lay on his hands now! And the demoniacal thoughts continued with even greater ferocity. The severance of the spinal cord had cut off all connections with the body —but the brain of Ali Kahn still vibrated with intense life.

  “That copper tray, Dr. Arlington,” Selkirk croaked.

  The interne eyed him wonderingly as he secured the receptacle, but said nothing. He held it while the neurologist placed the brain upon it; then he lowered it to the marble slab.

  “As you know, Dr. Arlington, the brain is covered by an external, membranous tissue called the dura mater, as well as two inner layers of tissue, the arachnoid, and the pia mater. You will note the cellular exudate or pus that fills some of the crevices between the convolutions. The disease seems to have affected the three layers of the meninges.

  “We now cut down through the lateral cerebral fissure, to separate the temporal lobe from the frontal and parietal lobes— and—and destroy its life!” With murderous vehemence, Selkirk completed the sentence.

  “What!” Dr. Arlington exclaimed. “What did you say?”

  l But Dr. Selkirk did not hear. Every faculty, every thought was concentrated on the brain of Ali Kahn. He held a double-edged knife in his hand—and the maddening thing lay before him.

  Thoughts were still flowing from it into his mind, venomous thoughts, vile blasphemies—but he would ignore them now —and kill, kill the thing! But something stayed his hand. Then, slowly, in spite of himself, the cursing of the brain arrested his thoughts.

  “You would commit murder, eh, Sahib? Ha! As I die, so shall you die! By Siva I promise it! Brahma is all—and all is Brahma!”

  Viciously the knife descended—and the thoughts ceased. The brain lay divided on the copper tray.

  “We remove some of the blood exuding from the severed edge,” Dr. Selkirk heard this robot that was his voice continue. “You can observe, Doctor, that the cranial nerves are involved, and the ventricles are distended with turbid fluid. The only other change is in the meninges.

  “Though there is little need of it, well cut through the Fissure of Rolando, and separate the frontal and parietal lobes. So far as I can see, there is no other pathology. Unquestionably cerebrospinal meningitis.”

  Mechanically Dr. Carl Selkirk removed his rubber apron and gloves. He pressed his hands against his throbbing temples. He closed his eyes and frowned heavily. Like the solemn tolling of a dirge, the words ran through his mind: “You shall die as I die! You shall die as I die!”

  “Doctor,” he said slowly, “I have a terrific headache. I’ve been working under a strain for several days and it’s beginning to take effect. I believe I’ll go home, take something to quiet my nerves, and go to bed.”

  “An excellent idea, Dr. Selkirk; you don’t quite seem to be yourself today.”

  Turning quickly away, the neurologist hurried from the room. Dr. Arlington watched him move down the corridor in a shambling run. Slowly he shook his head, a puzzled frown on his face. Queer, queer actions.

  l Dr. Carl Selkirk opened his eyes and stared fearfully into the darkness while alternating flashes of heat and cold passed over him. That ebony, claw-like hand clutching a scalpel—where was it? . . . Abruptly he relaxed, laughed shakily. Horrible dream! The Hindu, Ali Kahn, had been performing an autopsy on his living body—and he had awakened just before the dripping blade had descended into his brain! An involuntary shudder shook him.

  Long moments he lay motionless, reviewing the nerve-wracking events of the past day. Paramount in his thoughts was the autopsy of Ali Kahn; and dominating that, the phrase: “You shall die as I die. You shall die as I die.” Selkirk shook his head impatiently. It was childish of him to think of the Hindu’s curse—utterly childish—yet after a time the words began to hammer at his brain with a steady, maddening rhythm—a monotonous dirge.

  With trembling hand, Dr. Selkirk wiped the cold moisture from his forehead. Even as he did so, dreadful weakness seized him. What was wrong? He—he must be ill! Icy sweat bathed his entire shivering body—yet a flaming inferno had suddenly been loosed in his brain. Above it throbbed the curse of Ali Kahn: ‘Won shall die as I die.”

  What—what if it were so! An icicle of dread pierced the doctor’s consciousness. Perhaps—perhaps he had cerebrospinal meningitis now—his sudden weakness and chill the first symptoms. An infectious disease, he might have contracted it during his contacts with the Hindu! . . . No—it couldn’t be! Stark fear crisped his clammy skin. He—he couldn’t be on the verge of experiencing the
excruciating agony that always accompanied the malady. God no!

  Feverishly he tossed and rolled, his fears growing upon him. What—what if he died! Then he’d lie on that cold slab! And they’d—they’d saw his skull—cut his brain! With the thought, his teeth bared like those of a cornered beast and a choking moan escaped him.

  Wait! With an effort that was almost physical, Dr. Carl Selkirk checked his reeling thoughts. He must not give way to these insane imaginings. He, a nerve specialist, permitting himself to draw so close to madness! Why—he had been tottering on the brink of wild and unhinged delirium.

  Delirium! His mind seized the word. Delirium—it always accompanied fever in the action of cerebrospinal meningitis! And suddenly, as though the thought were a signal, a horde of fiery imps seemed to materialize in his brain—imps who bore white-hot hammers with which they pounded against the walls of his skull—imps that were tiny replicas of Ali Kahn! And as their weapons rose and fell, they howled in unison that damnable phrase:

  “You shall die as I die!”

  Interminably the ordeal continued, while Dr. Carl Selkirk writhed in inexpressible mental torment. His limbs twisted jerkily, and his face became a mask of madness—on and on—till at length the delirium abated to some degree, leaving the physician weak and inert, his heart beating furiously, his breath coming in gasps.

  For long he lay motionless, his mind filled with a vague jumble of disjointed thoughts, while a modicum of strength returned to his fever-ridden body. At last he stirred, and with a violent effort that increased the throbbing in his head, raised himself on one elbow.

  Ideas began to stumble through his numbed brain. He was ill—seriously ill—as a physician he was certain of that. But—but he couldn’t have cerebrospinal meningitis—that wasn’t possible! Valiantly he tried to convince himself of the truth of this thought. He had fever, yes; and he seemed to be somewhat delirious—but those symptoms could be indications of numerous maladies. Besides—he clinched the argument triumphantly—he had not experienced the pain, the distortion of body that accompanied the other characteristics of the disease!

  Pain! Again the thought seemed to be a signal. For at that instant, insupportable agony seized the neurologist, twisting him into a writhing heap of tortured flesh and bone. The fever was bad, the delirium worse, but the pain—!

  l In an ecstasy of torment, Dr. Selkirk howled vile maledictions against all creation. He cursed, and prayed, and shrieked, and wept, while red hot claws encircled his brain—while cruel needles of fire burned into every cringing nerve—while some malignant force seemed to be rending skin from flesh and flesh from bone in fiendish glee. And incessantly, remorselessly, the imps that were Ali Kahn chorused the phrase: “You shall die as I die.”

  Time ceased for the neurologist. Eternal torment had fallen upon him, torment and madness and a burning fever that threatened to consume him. Yet after an endless period in Hell, a rational idea filtered into his consciousness. A doctor—he must have medical attention—at once. The thought repeated itself, doggedly. He—he must have attention.

  And suddenly, inexplicably, he was on his feet, struggling toward the light switch beside the door. He took a step—a Hell of pain—another—nauseating vertigo—a third—and the room was flooded with light.

  Ah! The telephone! Through a red haze of delirium and torture, his eyes fixed themselves on the instrument. He must reach it—call the hospital. And while the drumming inferno of pain continued unabated, he staggered on distorted limbs across the reeling room. Awkwardly his stiffening fingers dialed a number, conjured out of the black wells of memory—jerkily, with thickened tongue, he croaked a despairing plea.

  “Carl Selkirk . . . Ambulance—at once . . . ’spinal men’gitis! . . . God’s sake, hurry!”

  With every faculty, he strove to say more, but his strength was failing rapidly. Struggling erect, he took a single faltering step toward the swaying, unnatural object he knew must be his bed—and abruptly his knees buckled under him.

  Numbness. The awful agony fading. Even the imps of delirium in his brain muting their wail. And a cloud of utter blackness eclipsed his consciousness, a cloud through which echoed in a lingering whisper, the curse of Ali Kahn:

  You shall die as I die.”

  Then even that was gone, and Dr. Carl Selkirk, neurologist, lay in a flaccid heap on the unyielding floor of his bedroom. He had entered a coma from which there would be no awakening.

  l Through the deserted streets, an ambulance sped, its bell clanging dolefully at every intersection. Within the vehicle sat Dr. Arlington and a nurse, the former anxiously surveying the drawn face of Carl Selkirk. Queer—this case. A few short hours earlier he had been working with the doctor, yet now he seemed to be in the final stages of a disease which ordinarily required days to run its course. True, some of Selkirk’s actions that afternoon had been rather strange, and he had made some cryptic and senseless remarks—but nothing to indicate that this would happen.

  Reaching the hospital, Dr. Selkirk was rushed to a private room, where the chief resident physician awaited his arrival. After the latter hastily examined the neurologist, stimulants were administered, and though the doctors felt there was little chance for Selkirk’s recovery, they withdrew a small portion of his spinal fluid and injected a serum used in treatment of the suspected disease. But the patient showed no noticeable reaction, remaining motionless and unconscious.

  Observing this, the resident physician shook his head and frowned.

  “I’m afraid it’s hopeless,” he said. “There’s nothing more we can do. He diagnosed his own case—and correctly it seems. Yet—it’s certainly queer!”

  Dr. Arlington nodded agreement.

  Two hours after his admission to the hospital, Selkirk’s respiration became stertorous, then spasmodic, weakening with every breath. And finally he died.

  Back in the morgue, on the same marble slab where Ali Kahn had lain, they performed an autopsy on the body of Dr. Carl Selkirk. When his skull was opened and his brain removed, a gasp escaped the watching physicians. For the most careful examination of the organ failed to reveal any cellular exudate or inflammation.

  Of cerebrospinal meningitis there was not the slightest trace! Yet Selkirk ha4 died—as Ali Kahn had died!

  Mighty is the power of suggestion.

  THE END

  [*] Cerebrospinal meningitis, sometimes called spotted fever, is an infectious disease caused by the bacteria Meningococcus or Diplococcus intracellularis. It is .characterized by inflammation of the cerebral and spinal meninges, the membranes encasing the brain and spinal cord. In most cases, these membranes are deeply congested and opaque. Different types of exudation are found both at the base and on the convexity of the brain, especially in the fissures and along the blood vessels. The spinal meninges present similar changes, the back of the cord being particularly involved.

  The disease is always accompanied by excruciating . pain, distortion of the body, fever, and delirium.

  THE MARTIAN CRY

  Red dust enfolds our world,

  A crimson blight

  That fills our empty seas with arid Death.

  In dull despair we sink through; wells of night

  So deep, so dry, we choke and gasp for breath.

  Unending thirst flows flaming through, our veins,

  Destroying life and hope,

  Yet hope lives on,

  And raises croaking prayers for cooling rains

  To lave our burning sphere till drought is gone;

  We see a green and youthful world in space,

  The lusty Earth,

  With water it can give

  To check the doom that menaces our race,

  And help the dying planet, Mars, to live.

  Canals and seas are thick with dust, and dry.

  We must have water,

  Earthmen, or we die!

  1935

  LUNAR DOOM

  Long ages past when Terra’s life began,

 
Her daughter, Luna, fled into the sky

  And stayed in space to live, and wane, and die,

  A frigid sphere that watched the course of Man

  With cold disdain for Terra’s futile plan.

  She watched, unheeding, like a frozen eye

  The silent, endless aeons creeping by,

  For she knew Death would terminate Earth’s span.

  At last the lonely Moon moved back toward Earth

  To enter once again her mother’s womb,

  Returning to the world that gave her birth,

  The globe that was to be her fiery tomb.

  The gods gave voice to peals of cosmic mirth—

  The prodigal returned, a Lunar doom.

  THE KINGDOM OF THOUGHT

  In this story we find very picturesquely presented strange adventures suggestive of hypnotism. Our readers are familiar with the author of this story, some of whose work in our pages has met with high appreciation, and we are sure that this one will be very well received from its treatment of a possible development in future ages.

  CHAPTER I

  Adrift in a World of Ice

  DONALD STEELE drew his hand across his eyes dazedly. Where was he? Before him stretched an endless expanse of broken, dazzling ice. Innumerable pinnacles, large and small, infinitely confused, formed fantastic ice cities that towered all about him. And across the floor of crystal swept a screaming gale that cut into his flesh like splinters of glass.

  As for splinters of glass—there seemed to be fragments of the stuff all around him for a distance of ten feet or more. He looked more closely. It was glass—countless, shattered pieces of it, glittering more brilliantly than the ice. But whence it had come he could not determine.

  He crouched down behind a frozen hillock, and hid his face in his arms in an attempt to escape the cold. The wind whipped his black hair about his head like a wild thing. A dull pain gripped him; he felt as though a terrific, crushing pressure had been applied to every square inch of his body, suddenly he felt something moist on his hand—blood, trickling from a long gash in his cheek! He shook his head stupidly as he checked the crimson flow with a handkerchief.