Reanimators (4 page)

Chapter 4.

THE SHADOW FALLS

After my disastrous experience in Bolton, I found myself in the most desperate of states. My mind was shattered and my spirit broken. My quest for revenge had not only faltered but had led me to take risks and commit acts that had ended in the murder of an innocent child, a murder I held myself responsible for. In my rash attempts to revenge myself on Herbert West for the accidental death of my parents, I had followed in his footsteps and descended to the same depths of depravity. The irony was not lost on me. In the week immediately after the horrid day in which I reanimated the amateur pugilist James Robinson, and he tore a small child to pieces before my eyes, I shut myself away, canceling all my appointments and seeing no one.

My only solace in those days was the evidence of my previous successes in the field of reanimation, the dozens of rats that occupied the cages hidden in my sub-basement laboratory. I had long ago slaughtered any revenants, and likewise the morbids had all since expired from their terminal malaise, leaving only untreated specimens and those rats that I called the risen, individuals that had been exposed to the reagent and showed no negative side effects. Attending to this community of normal and risen rats was the only thing that gave me any modicum of peace, and I devoted hours to the care and feeding of my charges.

April came, and though I had once more begun seeing patients, my melancholy showed no signs of waning. Such was my state that even my neighbors had noticed and apparently decided to take action, for early one evening there came to my door Wingate Peaslee, the young son of my neighbor. My presence, he informed me, was required, and his mother had told him not to return home without me in tow. Assuming the worst, I grabbed my medical bag and quickly followed the child home. Mrs. Alice Keezar Peaslee, a lovely woman with flowing locks and a shapely figure, greeted me as I came through the kitchen door, and immediately handed me a large knife and fork. On the kitchen table was a large roasted chicken, and she kindly asked me to carve the bird. For the moment I was dumbstruck, but I quickly conceded to her request. Within a few minutes I had filled the serving plate and with the help of the three Peaslee children the table was set just as their father came through the door.

Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee was a professor at Miskatonic University, primarily teaching economics and some business courses, of which I had been fortunate to benefit from. A decade or so my senior, his family and mine had been friendly since they first occupied the neighboring house in 1897. A serious but amiable man, Nathaniel Peaslee was a pillar of the community and was well loved by those who knew him.

Dinner was a casual affair, with idle chatter about the children’s lessons as well as local and current events. It was only after the children had been dismissed, and Mrs. Peaslee had served coffee and then retired to the kitchen, that I learned the real reason that I had been summoned to the Peaslee home. Peaslee had learned that his personal physician, Dr. Arthur Hillstrom, was planning on retiring, and had yet to establish a successor to his practice, which consisted primarily of several dozen faculty members and their families. Similarly, Peaslee had also learned that many of his colleagues were significantly unhappy with the fees being asked by my old classmate Chester Armwright. All in all, suggested Peaslee, there were more than forty faculty members and their families that Peaslee believed he could deliver to an enterprising young doctor. That doctor, Peaslee believed, was myself.

Slightly stunned, I had to admit that Peaslee’s proposal was intriguing, but frankly I was already serving a client base that was nearing my capacity; to take on another hundred or so patients would strain both my own sensibilities and the quality of care I could maintain. Peaslee took this in stride, and suggested that with minor changes, the addition of a second but not yet established physician, as well as a full-time nurse receptionist, for example, would result in a practice that could increase its client load, while maintaining quality. I agreed that such an arrangement could work, but that I knew of no such prospective candidates. Peaslee nodded politely, and inquired if I was free the next evening. As I was, he quickly invited me back for dinner the next night.

That next evening, after an excellently prepared ham, Nathaniel and Alice Peaslee formally introduced me to their other dinner guests, Francis Paul Wilson and his new bride Mary, Alice’s younger sister. Francis had just finished his residency at St. Mary’s Hospital where he had met Mary, a junior ward nurse. Nathaniel proposed a trial partnership. Wilson and I would work together for the next month; if we were compatible, I would give my existing part-time assistant notice and Mary would become our receptionist and assistant. During the trial period, the two would live in the Peaslees’ carriage house apartment so both would be readily available.

I gladly agreed to the arrangement, with but one reservation. I have always had a keen memory, and as a student in Peaslee’s class I had learned that it is a rare person indeed who does something for nothing. What, I asked, was Pr. Peaslee getting out of this arrangement? Peaslee congratulated me on my astuteness and confirmed that there was a charge for his services. In return for directing patients towards our practice, Pr. Peaslee and his wife would never be charged for any services provided by either Wilson or myself. This arrangement would extend to the three children as well, but only to the age of their majority. I quickly weighed the financial factors and, finding the arrangement mutually beneficial, I agreed to Peaslee’s terms.

Over the next two weeks it became apparent that Wilson and I were a good combination, both in work ethic and style. He was punctual and diligent, clean and careful, thorough, efficient and conscientious. Had it not been for the secret laboratory hidden in the basement beneath my offices I would have had no concerns about Dr. Wilson whatsoever. When, after ten days, it became obvious that the practice of Hartwell and Wilson was inevitable, I knew precautions had to be taken. Once again I used my carpentry skills to full advantage, making sure that the basement itself appeared completely normal, and that the entrance to the sub-basement was completely hidden.

The practice of Doctors Hartwell and Wilson officially began in June of 1906 with a client list that consisted of the cream of the academic community, including Henry Armitage, Laban Shrewsbury, and a score of others. By the spring of 1907 it became clear that we had taken all the patients that we could handle and resigned ourselves to success. Wilson and his young wife moved out of the carriage house and into a small cottage just down the street. In time we became so busy that even Mary could no longer find the time to prepare meals and we had no choice but to take our evening meals with the Peaslees and then finally even had to have our lunches walked over as well. Suddenly, in the course of two years I went from being a man consumed by revenge and doubt, to a happy and successful physician surrounded by an improvised family. Were it not for my secret laboratory, my life would have achieved a complete state of normalcy.

My time in the lab working with my rats had dwindled to a few hours each night, consisting primarily of their feeding and upkeep, with very little time for experimentation. My efforts were not completely abandoned, but they were severely curtailed. This slow cessation of my research into reanimation was the result of a combination of factors, not the least of which was the overwhelming success of my practice. I had made astounding progress in the reanimation of rats, but I had failed miserably in translating that success to humans. This failure had seriously impacted my desire to continue any experiments, whether human or rat. Still, this failure-driven frustration was overshadowed by the results of my two human experiments, which had both ended in the tragic death of an innocent child. Given all of these factors, it was not surprising that my drive to understand the reanimation process had waned. The fires of revenge that had fueled my experiments in reanimation had been doused by failure and disaster, while at the same time my career as a physician was fueling feelings of wondrous accomplishment. This new direction slowly stultified my need to keep my secret laboratory and associated activities, and by the spring of 1908 I resigned myself to the destruction of my reagent, the termination of my rats, and the wholesale dismantling of my secret laboratory. Sadly, or serendipitously depending on your point of view, the dismantling of my laboratory and my research was derailed by events beyond my immediate understanding, but events that would nevertheless cascade through the next two decades of my life.

On the morning of May 14
^th
Pr. Nathaniel Peaslee, my neighbor and the principal architect of my financial success, appeared on my doorstep. He was suffering from a massive headache, which I diagnosed as a migraine and administered an appropriate analgesic. Peaslee also complained of disturbing mental images that had seemed to haunt his dreams of the previous night, but had not dissipated with his waking. These chaotic vistas were coupled with a gnawing sense of alienation or displacement, which he had difficulty expressing. He was, he related, reminded of his childhood when the family dog would gently whine and scratch at the kitchen door, before eventually jumping up and with full force pop the lock on the door and barrel into the house in a clumsy and uncontrolled chaos of paws and fur. While such feelings were unusual for Peaslee, they were not inconsistent with the symptoms of a migraine, the victims of which often suffer delusional feelings of persecution, alienation, paranoia or emotional sensitivity. I made sure that Peaslee had a sufficient supply of painkillers and suggested that if the pain continued that he curtail his daily schedule, and regardless of his condition, visit me in the early evening. When Peaslee left my care, he was feeling somewhat better and appeared fully cognizant of his own condition and whereabouts. Consequently, it came as a great surprise to me when at approximately 11:00, I and Dr. Wilson were summoned to the Peaslee home to attend to the head of the house, who had summarily collapsed while giving a lecture.

Professor Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee was unresponsive to a variety of stimuli, and Wilson and I quickly realized that our friend had somehow slipped into a profound state of unconsciousness. I feared at first that Peaslee’s condition had been initiated by an overdose of the analgesic I had given him. Fortunately, I found the bottle unopened. Wilson quickly ran through the other possible causes of coma including diabetic response, stroke or physical trauma, all of which were quickly rejected. Peaslee’s condition was consistent with exposure to a high level of carbon dioxide, but the inability to locate a source, and the lack of similar symptoms in his students, made this an unlikely causative agent. In the end we physicians were left with little to do but collect blood and tissue samples and make the professor comfortable.

Mary cleared our appointments for the rest of the day and the next as well. Early in the evening, when it became apparent that there was to be no improvement in our patient’s condition, we moved Nathaniel from the master bedroom to a smaller guest room. This allowed Alice some measure of privacy while still permitting Wilson, Mary and I to keep watch on Nathaniel. Mary took the first shift, Wilson the second and me the third, which started at three in the morning. Thus it was that I found myself stumbling through the Peaslee house with a lamp in one hand and a thermos of coffee in the other. I consulted Wilson in the hallway who reported no change in our patient’s condition.

As I came into the room I made myself comfortable in the overstuffed chair beside the bed. Setting my thermos down on the nightstand, I adjusted the wick on the lamp so that I could take in the entirety of my comatose patient. His condition had not improved and I saw no course of treatment that could be a benefit to him. In a state of despair I turned to the only thing that came to mind. Perhaps the reagent, not a full dose but a diluted one, would have an effect. I prepared a 10% solution and with care injected Peaslee in his left arm. I laid him back down and watched for a response.

It wasn’t long before I saw the eyelids of my patient flutter and then open wide. Almost immediately Peaslee began to speak, and though I was keen to hear his words, I quickly leapt to the door and called for the family. Within moments Alice and the children were gathered around their father and watching with hopeful eyes. Sadly, those hopes were quickly dashed.

As Peaslee spoke it became apparent that he had suffered a significant change in his psychological makeup. He did not recognize, nor could he name, his wife or any of his children. He did not even know his own name. Even his speech patterns were altered; once an elegant speaker, Peaslee’s speech was now slow and stunted, reminding me of the cadence of brain-damaged patients I had studied in medical school. Even the way he unconsciously held his face had changed, revealing a psyche that seemed to hold no trace of compassion or empathy for his wife and family. Thoroughly frightened, Alice gathered her children and ushered them out of the room and back to their own beds.

I spent the next several hours alone with my patient, and it was only after the children had left for school that I was joined by Wilson and three other doctors. Over the course of the morning it became apparent that Peaslee was trying desperately to convince us that he was not suffering from any mental lapse whatsoever. Yet with nearly every sentence the man that once was Professor Peaslee provided clear evidence that he was no longer the man I knew. What was particularly upsetting was the curious usage of idioms that were long outdated or lacked clear meaning. At one point he called Mary a “flapper” and during a light-hearted moment suggested that three of us could have some fun during the weekend by “putting on the Ritz”. These were terms that held no meaning to us, but would decades later be recalled with terror as they gained actual currency in both England and the United States.

Eventually, Peaslee admitted that he had suffered a complete lapse of his former self and was suffering from a profound case of amnesia. Such a state was readily accepted by his doctors, but Alice and the children expressed extreme discomfort with the situation, generally fearful of the man they once called Father. Recognizing that Peaslee was in need of strict medical care, but also needed to be in familiar surroundings, I moved him and some of his clothes to a spare bedroom in my own house. I had no reservations about taking Peaslee into my own home, for I had known him for many years, and strongly believed that despite his sudden transformation the core of the man, his morals and values, must still be intact. After making my housemate comfortable I retired to my bedroom and, exhausted by the events of the day, quickly fell asleep.