Reanimators (5 page)

My slumber was disturbed just after midnight by the sound of someone moving about on the first floor of the house. Grabbing my dressing gown, I made my way down the hall and carefully poked my head into the guest bedroom. I was not surprised when I found the room and the bed vacant. I traveled down the stairs and into the kitchen, expecting to find my friend sitting at the table with either a drink or a late night snack. This time I was surprised, for the kitchen was empty, but the door that led to my offices was ajar. Quickening my pace, I found the office lights on, but the doors all securely shut and no trace of Peaslee.

Suddenly a most dreadful thought occurred to me. Cautiously I opened the concealed door to the basement, and to my horror the single bulb that lit the stairwell was on. I dashed down the stairs, only to discover that the secret door to my sub-basement laboratory was wide open. At a full run I took the stairs two at a time and reached the lab in mere seconds. In the full light of my laboratory I found Peaslee standing over my cages peering at my rats, swaying back and forth like a tree in the wind. I took a moment to catch my breath and then, still gasping, inquired firmly what he was doing.

That he had been caught in what was an obviously a private, and even secret, portion of the house seemed to have no impact on Peaslee. With an obvious conceit he responded that he had wanted to see how my work on human longevity and reanimation was proceeding. I laughed and informed him that I had never carried out any experiments on longevity and that my work on reanimation was all but over. The fact that Peaslee had accessed my secret facility and apparently knew about my experiments was puzzling, but frankly of secondary concern.

As I spoke Peaslee shook his head and seemed highly disappointed. “I thought you would be further along, but it seems you have followed too closely in West’s footprints. You have made a critical experimental error and it has blinded you to any chance for success.”

Insulted and slightly enraged, I professed that I had broken with and even surpassed West’s methods and surely had produced a reagent of superior quality. To this Peaslee nodded, but at the same time expressed disdain. “Your reagent is superior, but you have failed to understand how to use it. Like West you continue to think of death as a condition that must be treated, responded to like any other trauma. You have failed to consider the alternative.”

I was suddenly intrigued, and it was then that my desire to experiment on the reanimation of the dead returned and was directed into a totally new avenue of research. It was Peaslee, or the man who was once Peaslee, that would guide me now, for it was his words on how death should be treated, not as a trauma but as a disease, were a revelation. For like traumas, diseases can be responded to, attacked with antibiotics and other treatments, dealt with after the fact. However, unlike traumas, disease can also be prevented; infectious agents can be avoided or prepared for. My experiments on rats had been limited to those that I had already euthanized. I had never developed a control group, which in this case would have required the application of the reagent not to dead specimens but rather to living ones. It was a direction I had not considered, but a concept with which I and every other doctor in the western world were completely familiar; it only needed to be applied to the problem of reanimation. Could it be that simple? Could I use the reagent to develop a vaccine against death? Peaslee’s strange but strong assurances seemed to imply that such a thing could be. Right then and there, I resigned myself to renewing work on the reagent, and it was then that Professor Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee revealed a syringe full of reagent and, using his right hand, inserted the needle into his arm and injected its contents into his own bloodstream!

I screamed then, for I didn’t know how his body would react to a full dose of the concoction that I had created for, and to date had only used on, the dead. I kept screaming as Peaslee revealed a second syringe and walked slowly but deliberately in my direction. As he grasped me by the arm, I struggled desperate to pull away, but I failed. “What are you doing?” I screamed, but Peaslee never responded. With strength I would have thought inhuman I was flipped around, my shirt collar torn down and my hair shoved up.

There was a sudden, sharp pain at the base of my skull, one I recognized from years of practicing my skills at venipuncture. The needle penetrated my skin, and I gasped as I felt the shaft move through my flesh. Peaslee had plunged the syringe into the base of my own skull, and I could feel the pressure of the reagent spreading through my tissues and into my brain. The pain was excruciating but was accompanied by a strange moment of peace and resignation. Eventually, the pain overwhelmed my senses and I fell into merciful unconsciousness.

Chapter 5.

THE MAN WHO FORGOT HIMSELF

That I and Peaslee both survived the injection is quite obvious, and my fear-driven collapse was only momentary. When I awoke, Peaslee was laughing at my lack of fortitude, which he said the injection would quickly remedy. He had not, as I had thought, injected us with the reanimation reagent, but rather a derivation of the formula of his own devising. According to Peaslee, the formula would greatly increase stamina and disease resistance, while at the same time decreasing the need for sleep and rest. Given regular doses, the new formula would even extend lifespan well beyond the norm. What’s more, Peaslee even offered to supply me with the formula for this concoction, though not without cost.

In the coming years Peaslee planned to travel and study extensively. He would have no time for the routine tasks of maintaining his house and other day-to-day affairs. In exchange for the formula I would serve as his factotum, arranging travel and lodging, and managing certain business affairs. His needs in these areas would be extensive, and he doubted that the funds currently held by the Peaslee family would be sufficient. My first task, therefore, was to make certain investments that would provide both short-term and long-term gains. Enraptured by the lure of the proven reagent, I readily agreed.

The next morning, I mediated a short conversation between Peaslee and his wife in which both agreed that he should move out of the house and take up residence in my home where medical supervision could be constant. In order to lessen the strain on the children, who were all extremely disturbed by their father’s new personality, the family itself would move into her sister’s home. The day was therefore spent moving Peaslee’s clothing and implements from one house to the other. Personal effects such as photos and the like held no meaning to Peaslee, and were unceremoniously left behind.

With Peaslee in residence and seemingly adjusting to his new persona and lifestyle, my house and time were quickly divided amongst competing projects. The medical offices were as busy as ever and I and Wilson spent our business hours tending to the manifold needs of our patients. Peaslee, whose condition had made him almost entirely unaware of current and historical events, spent his day reading national and international newspapers, and whatever nonfiction books, particularly historical reviews, he could acquire. The basement became Peaslee’s refuge and he soon filled it with stacks of periodicals and books from the local library and university. It was from here that he also began a vast campaign of letter writing to addresses both nearby and far across the world. I routinely posted letters to Innsmouth, Kingsport, and Providence, but was just as likely to handle missives being sent to Madrid, London, Hong Kong and Perth. It wasn’t long after such letter writing began that similar packets were received as well.

Over the course of the next several weeks, Peaslee and I met with a lawyer named Hand whom we retained to handle any legal issues that the family might face. The first such task was to set up a series of monetary trusts. Peaslee divided the family money into three parts. The first, and largest, was for the upkeep of the family itself—Peaslee’s spouse and three children. The second, and smallest, portion was set aside for the future education of the children. The third portion, which amounted to several thousand dollars, was developed into a trust with Peaslee and I as co-executors. Much of this was invested almost immediately in several newly formed companies including the Burmah Oil Company, Briggs and Stratton, and General Motors. Instructions were also made to invest in specific companies that were on the verge of forming, including the Converse Rubber Shoe Company and First Union Bank. The vast majority of these business ventures were newly forming, and I had strong concerns that Peaslee was taking huge risks in such unproven companies. Peaslee chuckled and reminded me that he was after all an economist: who would be more fit than he to make investment decisions?

The month of July found Peaslee becoming more comfortable in his surroundings and confident in his ability to navigate the city on his own. He began a daily walk to the University Library and even began to attend seminars as well as a class on European history. His appearance in the outside world did not go unnoticed, and in September our little clinic began to receive visits from journalists, physicians, researchers and the curious, all desperate to speak to Peaslee, or, as The Arkham Advertiser had billed him, “The Man Who Forgot Himself”. While Peaslee met with as many visitors as he could, most were quickly dismissed. One exception to this was Travis Marriott of The Arkham Advertiser, who would visit almost weekly, and to whom Peaslee had promised to send regular accounts of his observations of the world when he began his travels in the spring.

The other exception was a most curious visit of a wholly unique individual, of the most sober, almost dour, of appearances. He was an elderly gentleman, perhaps an octogenarian who, despite his age, spoke in a voice and language that was almost commanding in nature. He introduced himself as Ephraim Waite, and although he did not state it, I knew that he resided in Innsmouth, a nearby coastal village of ill-repute, as I had seen his name many times amongst both the incoming and outgoing mail. As with all of his visitors, Peaslee greeted the elderly man with a complete lack of visible emotion, though in this case I detected some level of nervous energy that was normally absent from his demeanor. Stranger still, Peaslee had always carried out his previous interviews and discussions in the parlor on the main floor. In this case the man was quickly whisked down the stairs to Peaslee’s make-do study, with the door closed quite purposely behind them.

Peaslee never revealed the subject of their conversation to me. Thus my only knowledge of what was discussed for more than three hours was the fragments of sentences that wound their way up through the floorboards like whispers in the wind. Mentioned often was the small village of Dunwich, and a farmer who apparently dwelt there named Whateley. Both the village and the farmer were apparently held in contempt by Waite, though how he had been slighted was unclear. Much also was made of a foreigner who was apparently in league with Whateley; while invoked often, this man’s name remained unclear, although it was often associated with a place called Tunguska. I have no other substantive memories of that conversation. Whether that is because the conversation itself was unimportant, I failed to understand any other snippets of discussion, or my memory has faded through time, I cannot say. I do however know that the conversation itself set in motion a series of events that would forever change not only my life, but how I would view the entire world around me.

One day, in the late afternoon, Peaslee bade farewell to his guests and immediately demanded that I arrange to meet with representatives from an engineering firm and a travel agency. I complied and placed several calls arranging appointments for the next day. At Botchner’s, a reputable agency used by University staff for both academic and personal excursions, Peaslee negotiated a complex itinerary beginning with his departure from Boston in early August. From this date he would travel extensively throughout Europe including visits to London, Paris, Madrid, Sicily, Rome, Venice and Hungary. His final stop in Europe in March of 1909 was to be Constantinople, from which he would make arrangements for travels into Asia, Africa or the Middle East. Peaslee’s travels included dates for lectures and courses at various universities and museums that were immutable and as such required a demanding schedule of trains, hired cars and the occasional boat. Additional expense was incurred when Peaslee revealed that he would be taking significant amounts of baggage with him. Such a revelation shocked me, for I recalled that the man had abandoned all but the essentials of his previous life. Peaslee explained that the majority of his baggage was to be cameras, surveying tools and specialized scientific equipment of his own design.

It was the design and construction of this equipment that was to consume most of Peaslee’s remaining time. Entire days and vast quantities of nights were spent in consultation with engineers and metallurgists employed by the firm of Upton and Klein. Peaslee had paid the company a significant sum to have full run of the staff and facilities, including drafting staff, smelters and machine shops. Each day Peaslee would deliver to the drafting team rough sketches of an oddly shaped tool or part, while at the same time delivering the formula for the needed alloys to the metallurgists. By the afternoon of each day both teams would meet the machinists who would then begin the production of a dozen identical copies of the piece. Following the completion of each set, Peaslee would take his original sketch and the drafted versions and summarily destroy them in one of the kilns. Similarly, once manufacture was complete, the set of finished products was removed from the shop and never brought back again. Once, an enterprising draftsman recognized how two distinct pieces were related and casually made a sketch of the process of fitting them together, hypothesizing in the process the additional pieces needed to complete the attachment. On seeing the sketch, Peaslee immediately confiscated it, shredding hours worth of work into a metal bin before setting it ablaze right there in the drafting room. Peaslee then grabbed the man by his collar and hauled him out of the room, ordering him off of the project.

All of this was done at a breakneck speed, so as to allow Peaslee to make his departure date of August the seventh. Peaslee made his departure, leaving for England on the White Star Line steamer Miskatonic, and I received my first letter from him toward the end of the month. In London, he had established himself in a small rooming house near the museum at which he was attending a series of lectures on evolutionary theory presented by disciples of Charles Darwin. In addition, he was spending much time studying at the museum itself and amongst a small group of occultists who had, he felt, just grazed some of the universal truths. Included with the letter were several photographs of Peaslee in the museum as well as two with a rather serious-looking gentleman wearing a strange triangular headdress bearing a radiant triangle. On the back of each photo Peaslee had written a brief description of the subject, though given the state of Peaslee’s handwriting I quickly abandoned all attempts to decipher such details. As requested, once I was finished with the letter I forwarded it on to Travis Marriott at The Arkham Advertiser. Days later I was shocked to open the paper and find one of the photos of Peaslee splashed across the local page beneath a banner that read UNIVERSITY PROFESSOR MEETS WITH WICKEDEST MAN IN THE WORLD. The caption of the article identified the man in the strange headdress as none other than Aleister Crowley, a notorious hedonist and mystic who had on more than one occasion been at odds with authorities both religious and secular. Shocked and amused, I clipped the article, along with several other stories, and posted them to Peaslee’s address in London.

The next letter arrived in mid-September and Peaslee was in Paris. He had been amused by Marriott’s article and promised to send even more inflammatory pictures when the opportunity arose. In the meanwhile, the rooms he had rented in Montmartre were filled with the most eccentric of persons, including many Americans who had embraced the bohemian lifestyle of the area. Oddly, the enthusiasm the other American guests had for baseball had wormed its way into Peaslee’s brain. According to Peaslee, one of the other guests at the hotel had an uncanny ability to predict the outcome of various games. So accurate was the man that he had inspired Peaslee to request of me the placing of a small wager. Toward the end of the month, there was to be a baseball game in New York, and it was on this match that Peaslee wished for me to place a wager in the stunning amount of five hundred dollars. However, the wager was not that the favored New York Giants, nor that the opposing team, the Chicago Cubs, would win, but rather that the game would end in a draw.

You can imagine the laughter when I met the small grey man who acted as a bookmaker to place that bet at odds of fifty to one, and you can imagine the outrage when he came to see me on September 24
^th
. For against all odds, in the bottom of the ninth inning, with the score tied, with two outs, and runners at first and third, the most preposterous thing occurred. The next batter, Al Bridwell, produced a bouncing hit into center field and ran for first. In the meanwhile, Moose McCormick ran from third and easily beat the ball home. Thinking the game over and the national pennant won, Giants fans rushed the field and Fred Merkle tragically aborted his run from first to second and walked into the dugout. Realizing that Merkle had never touched second base, Cubs first baseman Frank Chance ran for second base and called for the ball. Once in possession, Chance got the attention of the nearest umpire and casually touched second base. The umpire, a man by the name of Hank O’Day, had no choice but to call Merkle out and nullify McCormick’s winning run. Unable to clear the field of thousands of fans, night fell and the game was called on account of darkness and officially declared a tie. Peaslee’s bet had netted him $25,000, and when I asked if I could place a second wager on the outcome of the World Series the little bookmaker walked away without a word.

In late October Peaslee left Paris for Madrid, where he stayed till mid-November. In late December I received a letter from Sicily containing many photos and describing his journey in and around the island, including a climb up Mt. Stromboli, the active volcano just north of the island. In addition to the photos of his trip to the volcano, also included were images of Peaslee on a small trawler. Surrounding him on the expansive deck were a dozen identical mechanical devices the exact purpose of which I could not identify, but which were surely the specialized scientific equipment that Peaslee had spent so many days designing and manufacturing. In the background of the picture were several crates labeled DYNAMITE. Accompanying his letter was a notice to Botchner’s Travel Agency that a large quantity of his equipment had been lost during his work in the strait and that his future travels would not require any cargo beyond his few suitcases. Referring to the photo of Peaslee standing amidst those strange devices with their spiraled metallic cones, thick hexagonal shafts and oddly shaped gears, I could only guess how much such equipment could weigh, never mind what it could be used for. Struck by the photo, I removed it and placed it on my desk, and then, as was my habit, I casually placed the rest of Peaslee’s correspondence in another envelope and sent it on to The Arkham Advertiser.