Reanimators

by Peter Rawlik

  I made haste back to the cemetery next to West’s house and waited for my plan to unfold. It was less than an hour later that a young man made his way down the rutted road and up the walkway to Cain’s office door. Moments later the young man reappeared with Cain in tow. Together they climbed into Cain’s automobile and soon motored out of sight, leaving only a cloud of dust hanging over the road to mark their passage. As the sputtering sound of the engine faded I slyly made my way from the graveyard to the back of the house.

  I used the key I had stolen years ago to enter through the back door, and soon I was once more in the underground laboratory of my nemeses. West’s notebooks revealed substantial progress in his goal of reanimation, though it was apparent in his writings that West had become frustrated by a lack of experimental subjects which he amusingly called a “drought”. Experimenting instead with animals, West had hit upon a strategy of dividing his reagent into two parts. The first part consisted of a preservative that acted to halt the various processes of decay and place the body in a state of stasis. The second part of the reagent was comprised of three distinct components including a preservative counter-agent, a generous portion of the reanimation reagent, and a chemical stimulant designed to enhance the body’s own healing factors. It was a bold and brilliant strategy but one that West had yet little success with, and I could easily see why. West’s preservative was itself a problem, for while it acted to halt the processes of decay, it also served to halt normal biochemical processes, processes that had to be restarted, some simultaneously, some sequentially.

  As I made my way back to Arkham, my mind was filled with new and exciting possibilities of the most macabre nature. Experiments that would horrify even the most seasoned of vivisectionists were outlined and quickly filed into the recesses of my mind. In retrospect, such thoughts and notions should have outraged my puritan sensibilities, but instead all these years later, I now find myself repulsed by the actions of a young doctor slowly being seduced by the false promises of a forbidden science, and becoming the exact thing he set out to destroy. For it was on that journey back to Arkham that I am certain that I abandoned my quest for vengeance against West and Cain, and decided to become not their nemesis, but their rival. I am sure that it was on that very train ride that I convinced myself that in the proper hands, in my hands, the science of reanimation had value and could be a boon to mankind. It was then that I accepted the inevitable and adopted the mantle of reanimator!

  Chapter 7.

  AN UNINVITED GUEST

  In the fall of 1910 my practice and research were interrupted by Peaslee’s return. Ostensibly to finalize his divorce, Peaslee stayed only briefly in Arkham, just long enough to meet with his attorneys and review certain documents in the Miskatonic University holdings. We spent several days together and he seemed pleased with the direction of my studies but also disappointed with what he termed retrograde progress, and my devotion to strict heuristical thinking. When I balked at his suggestion that I begin human trials using inmates at the state penitentiary or the factory workers in Bolton, he shook his head and made slanderous comments concerning the short-sightedness of human morality and ethics. With some cajoling, he agreed to place me in contact with someone who could aid in my work and mentor me through the difficult moral crises that would inevitably arise from my work.

  In November Peaslee enlisted my aid, and together we set about closing down his expansive and now empty home. Where once a family had lived in this house, now only muslin-covered furnishings stood like specters in a still and silent landscape broken only by the occasional shaft of light that pierced the shuttered windows. On the twentieth, Peaslee locked the doors and handed me the key. Over the course of the next week or so, he told me, several parcels would be arriving and these could be forwarded to the Jekyll Island Club in Georgia where he would be residing through March. I casually asked when he would be returning. With his small valise in hand, the man who was once Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee turned and walked down the street without saying a word.

  Peaslee’s packages came and I dutifully shipped them back out, never knowing or wanting to know what resided within. Winter and spring were uneventful, and though I made some progress in extending the lives and health of some of my specimens, the treatment regime was only successful in a small percentage of cases and only barely was it distinguishable from no effect whatsoever. Meaning that out of every hundred rats I treated, only one seemed to have a positive reaction and develop an increased metabolism, resistance to disease and injury. Also, by treating some of my older individuals, I had found that my treatment appeared to effectively increase longevity, and had several individuals that had surpassed the control group average lifespan of three years and were now approaching almost four.

  In May I received a brief missive from Peaslee, who had relocated to Barcelona, Spain. He was preparing for a summer expedition into the Arabian Desert, to be followed by an exploration of the Congo with the Baronet Arthur Jermyn sometime in the early part of 1912. More importantly, Peaslee informed me that he had encountered a gentleman, a physician, whose work was particularly relevant to the path of research that I was pursuing. What was more, the political situation in Spain following the disastrous Rif War was such that the learned gentleman had good reason to fear for his continued well-being. According to Peaslee, Spain, particularly Barcelona, was a powder keg waiting to explode. Consequently, Peaslee was making arrangements for the individual to be spirited out of the country and to the safety of the United States. Such plans were not as straightforward as they seemed. The man in question suffered from a condition that required specialized medical equipment and attention. Such equipment would arrive shortly, and I was authorized to withdraw what funds I needed to install it in the upper basement where Peaslee himself had once spent so many of his hours. A slight pang of distress welled up in my chest as I realized that I was still Peaslee’s to command, but it was overwhelmed by the hope that Peaslee had found for me an ally in my war against death and the men who had caused the death of my parents, my rivals in the science of reanimation Doctors West and Cain.

  It was high summer when the first truck arrived and unloaded its cargo of oddly shaped crates and boxes. I had to hire several men to help me move them into the basement, and then begin the prodigious task of opening, unpacking and then disposing of each crate. The contents were staggering, consisting mostly of vast amounts of insulation, large metallic cylinders, radiators, pistons, and valves. Flabbergasted, I quickly accessed the funds needed and hired the firm of Upton and Klein to handle the installation.

  The foreman on the project was a young man named Truman who explained to me the actual function of the equipment, which was a modified reverse heat engine. Normally, heat engines convert heat energy into mechanical energy by exploiting the gradient between a heat source and a cold sink to drive a piston. As a byproduct of this process, energy is also transferred from one area to another, creating a cooling effect in one and a heating effect in another. In a reverse heat engine, mechanical energy is applied by a motor and the resultant transfer of energy is used to cool or heat a room. In the case of the current installation, the engine was going to be driven by a small electric motor, and the result would be to cool the basement to under sixty degrees. The transferred heat would be passed to a series of coils, which could be used to provide hot water for the house, but mostly would be sent to a copper pipe buried in the back yard where it would then dissipate into the ground. The insulation, which was to be applied to the walls, floor and ceiling, would help keep the temperature constant.

  Installation of the insulation and equipment began in September and continued through October. During this time Wilson and I, along with our patients and staff, endured a barrage of hammering, sawing and digging that made the cabinets rattle and our teeth ache. At one point the construction became so distracting that we stopped receiving patients and began making house calls. Through it all I had to placate Dr. Wilson with the promise that the new
equipment would be a boon to our practice. At the same time I had to be sure that none of the workmen discovered the secret passage to the lower basement and the secret laboratory that resided there.

  On October 20th I received a telegram from Peaslee who was in Morocco.

  Guest to arrive Arkham November 12.

  Equipment must be operational

  If any delay notify immediately

  Rent icehouse similar facility.

  Inquiries to the foreman assured me that the equipment would be operational by the required deadline, and sure enough, on November 5th, with little fanfare, the bespectacled engineer called me down to the basement, and with a flick of a single, albeit large, power coupling, the engine hummed to life. In a matter of moments the temperature in the room had noticeably dropped, and within the hour had stabilized at fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Ecstatic, I thanked the young man for his expertise and after obtaining from him an emergency phone number in case of the need for urgent repairs, I wrote him a check for the balance of the job, including a hefty bonus for him and his crew.

  The morning of November 12, 1911, was bitterly cold; a blast of arctic air had worked its way east, sending temperatures plummeting around the country and setting new records in cities throughout the Midwest. Wilson and I conferred by telephone and agreed to have all of our appointments cancelled. As I puttered about the house trying to stay warm and busy, it dawned on me that the chances of my guest arriving on schedule had been greatly diminished. Just as such thoughts crossed my mind, there came a firm and steady knocking on my door, and as I entered the foyer I could hear the unmistakable sound of a truck engine idling in the street.

  I rushed the two delivery men standing on my doorstep inside, sealing the door behind them in a desperate futile attempt to keep the frozen knife of wind from following them. The two were underdressed for the weather and stood in my hallway shivering. Against their weak-willed protests I dragged them into my kitchen and made sure that both had fair helpings of fresh brewed coffee and oatmeal. As we sat over our breakfast, the conversation naturally turned to the beastly weather, and I expressed my amazement that they had chosen to brave such conditions to make deliveries.

  The two exchanged furtive, knowing glances which were followed by an awkward silence, finally broken when one of the two explained that all other deliveries had been cancelled, and the other men sent home, that I was to be their only stop of the day, before they too sought the comfort and warmth of their own kitchens. “The foreman, he came over on the boat with that crate, been with it since Barcelona. He says that box stinks, a funny smell that reminds him of his father’s funeral home, like the stench of death hidden beneath the scent of flowers and incense. He says whatever is in this box; it makes noises; that something inside it moves. The foreman, he does not like that box, does not want it in the warehouse. He tells Joe and me to bring it to you first, and then go home after.”

  That my soon-to-be houseguest’s belongings could be the source of such creeping fear made me chuckle at first, but then as I thought about it I began to develop a sense of dreadful wonder at what was inside the rough-hewn crate. Given the direction my own studies had taken, as well as Peaslee’s equally strange predilections, the disturbed foreman may indeed have had reason for disliking the crate; anything at all could be inside. I could only hope that the contents and their delayed owner would be able to aid me in my research.

  Suddenly, uneasy with the presence of the two men in my home, I politely waited for them to finish their meal and then took them down into the basement and showed them where to put the crate. They seemed not to notice that the lower level was much cooler than the rest of the house, and I suppose given the conditions outside, one might expect for the cellar to be colder. Regardless, within a few minutes the rough-hewn wooden box was off the truck and working its way through my front door and foyer.

  It was a large oblong crate, some eight feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep. The wood was untreated, pale and cracked. There was a distinct odor, reminiscent of turpentine and insecticide, and I realized that the box had been made from camphorwood. When the shipping foreman said that this box reminded him of his father’s funeral home, he was closer to the mark than he knew, for camphor has long been a primary constituent of embalming fluids.

  As we moved through the house and down the stairs, it became clear that the crate itself was merely a container for another only slightly smaller object which would shift around inside as the two delivery men negotiated the stairwell. There was the sound of wood sliding against wood, and of metal springs creaking, as well as a hollow sound not unlike that of a can or bucket being struck. In addition to all of this, there was a whirring noise, like that of a distant summer locust or perhaps a watch while it was being wound. While I could understand why such things might disturb an uneducated man, I was utterly fascinated by the potential of the contents of the enigmatic crate.

  Once the crate was deposited horizontally on the floor of the basement, I hurried the two delivery men out of my home and rushed back down the stairs. I paused only briefly to consider what I was doing, but so overcome was I with curiosity that soon I was holding a hammer and crowbar in my hand. With ease, the nails with which the long lid was secured to the rest of the box were removed and the lid was off. Excelsior filled the interior, and although such material is usually made of poplar, I was surprised to find that this selection seemed to have been made from sandalwood. With utter joy I began removing the woody packing material, desperate to reveal the prize hidden beneath. It was only after the entirety of the stuffing had been removed that I understood what had been uncovered.

  There still inside the crate, but now cleared of packing material, was a massive trunk carved and assembled from ebony. Glossy black and decorated with carved flowers and vines, the object was held in place by a set of four large springs, one on each side, wedged between the ebony trunk and the outer camphorwood crate. At either end, between the spring mechanism and the trunk proper were copper end caps, cases with thick glass windows through which I could see the gears, chains, rods and valves of some kind of mechanical device working away. Both cases were cold to the touch, colder than the surrounding room even, and reminded me much of the equipment recently installed around me.

  Fascinated, and wanting to obtain a better look at this strange equipment, I began disassembling the remaining portions of the crate, first loosening each side, then removing the spring before completely removing the panel. Taking care not to damage the trunk, I was able to have the entity of the shipping crate removed, save for the bottom on which it rested, in just under fifteen minutes. The process revealed the entirety of the trunk, which was much like what I had already seen save for some extremely interesting details. On either side, and on both ends, were rounded protrusions which at first seemed to be made of the same ebony wood as the rest, but on closer inspections showed to be lumps of smoky glass or perhaps quartz. Furthermore, several of the rivets on the blackened ring of metal that served to hold these objects in place were not rivets at all, but rather small hidden apertures that appeared to allow for the extrusion or connection of some sort of pipe or hose. Why it would be necessary to conceal such things, and what purpose they served, I could not discern. Nor could I determine how the trunk opened, for while there was a slight but apparent line where the upper and lower portions of the trunk met, there were no hinges and no lock that I could locate.

  Stepping back to obtain a new perspective on the object that lay before me, I became aware of a strange whirring sound emanating from the crate, which had not been present before. The noise grew louder, reaching a crescendo that culminated in what was clearly a set of bolts being thrown back. As this sound reverberated through the room it was joined by a hissing noise, and I watched as the upper half of the crate rose slightly and then jerked sideways. As it did so a thick soupy fog, not unlike that given off by dry ice, began to roil out, accumulating around the base of the crate before creeping ac
ross the floor. Startled, I stepped back as the fog flowed toward me, but any trepidation on my part was overcome by an intense curiosity as to the contents of the now fully opened crate.

  As I cautiously moved forward, the fog that now engulfed the entire floor cut at my ankles with claws made of ice, and each step toward the crate was noticeably colder. By the time I reached the trunk I had tucked my hands underneath my arms, and was noticeably shivering as the fog swirled around me. My forward progression reversed itself as I leaped back, startled as something familiar but wholly unexpected rose up out of the trunk and gripped the side. It was a man’s hand, clad in a fine black leather glove, and as I watched, the hand was joined by its partner, and up out of the fog-laden sepulcher climbed the unmistakable form of a man.

  He was of less than average height, and well built, with neatly kept iron-grey hair and matching beard. His eyes were dark, and his skin had that rustic olive complexion so common amongst those of Celtiberian origin, though in places it held a paler color and I thought immediately that he must be in the early stages of vitiligo. His aquiline nose hinted at a touch of Moorish ancestry, and held a pair of antique pince-nez glasses. He was well dressed, wearing a suit of grey silk with a white shirt and highly polished leather shoes. If I had met him on the street I would have thought him the most respectable of gentlemen. But as he made his way out of the coffin, for now I could see that it could be nothing else, I could not see the gentleman, but only a figure of undying horror pulled from my more salacious readings, Lord Ruthven from Polidori’s The Vampyre. How ironic that I should draw such a connection in that moment of stress, and how tragic that in that moment I did not act, but instead, like Polidori’s oath-bound protagonist, I kept my word, though it damned me, and welcomed this creature into my home.