by Peter Rawlik
The first floor of the sprawling house was comprised of two main sections: the front rooms, including the parlor, library, dining room and conservatory, and those beyond the kitchen, which included three distinct vivariums. In these he raised a variety of exotic plants and animals, including pitcher plants, exotic lichens, weird deep sea clams and jellyfish, caimans, and a selection of freshwater eels, amongst others. These all radiated out from a single central laboratory comprised of gleaming steel cabinets, porcelain fixtures, dissection tables and an assortment of glass apparatus that in all truth reminded me a great deal of the facility that was located in my own household. It was in this setting that Dr. C explained that he had in recent years come to believe that the secret to extending the human life span was to be found in the anatomy and endocrine systems of the crocodilian species. He had over the years learned that these animals, although primitive in appearance, had in fact a highly developed immune system that was capable of not only fighting off disease and toxins, but of repairing damaged tissues at an accelerated rate, and even replacing entire organs as they approached their eventual senescence. In many ways what Dr. C spoke of reflected that we had heard from Alexis Carrel, albeit at a more advanced stage. As Dr. C lectured, Muñoz and I exchanged knowing glances and I knew that we agreed that we had found a kindred spirit who was perhaps, if not on the same path, then at least traveling nearby.
We spoke for about an hour or so, and then in a most agreeable mood Dr. C handed us both folders containing copies of his experiments, conclusions, theories and proposals, and left us alone to study them at our leisure. Muñoz retreated to the artificially cool cellar while I was shown to a room on the second floor. Even on the upper story the heat was tremendous, but Dr. C suggested that I adjust the temperature by plugging the duct work and partially opening the window and letting some of the cooler outside air in. It only took minutes for me to find a balance between the two and obtain a state that was neither too hot nor too cold.
It took several hours for me to digest all of Dr. C’s research and theories, and by the end of it my brain was fairly swimming with possibilities. So full of ideas was I that on more than a single occasion I had to be reminded that it was improper to speak of work during dinner. Dr. C served lobster bisque followed by a tasty baked vegetable dish which he called Ratatouille de Ego, a recipe he learned from a woman named Antoinette who had been his mistress when he lived in France. Dessert was a banana pudding topped with nutmeg and a dash of cinnamon. After clearing the table, Dr. C joined us in the study for brandy and cigars. It was then that the three of us finally sat down and discussed Dr. C’s research and proposal.
I will not bore the reader with the finer details of the theories and methods proposed by our host, but to understand what happened next some exposition must be made. Dr. C had long ago isolated certain hormones, compounds and specialty cells from the glands of various reptiles and other animals and had then concocted an elixir that had served to keep him preserved for an extended period of time. How long he had lived he would not say, but he implied that he was well over a century in age. As with all things, particularly living things, a new problem had developed. The rejuvenation elixir, which was remarkably similar to my own reagent, seemed to preferentially target organs that were most in need of repair, while other, seemingly less vital organs were not renewed at all. So while Dr. C’s heart was in excellent condition, he had in the last year broken three ribs.
Not surprisingly, Dr. C had developed a possible treatment, including a procedure that would likely resolve the issue. His proposal required exposure to the elixir during an extended period of quiescence, most likely years, during which the elixir would completely rebuild him. He likened this to the metamorphosis of caterpillars into butterflies, or the estivation of some fish species during periods of extreme drought. Unfortunately, the human body was not designed for such prolonged periods of hibernation. Nor could Dr. C imagine the machinery necessary to administer the elixir over that extended period of time. What he could imagine is what he had seen in his own laboratory, individual crocodilians of such resilience that the impacts of drought and famine, even extending for years, could be tolerated. Likewise the glands of these animals seemed reasonably sturdy and open to transplant and manipulation, and indeed that is what he had done. In the laboratory facility in his home Dr. C had selectively merged the glands and tissues of a dozen creatures to create a single artificial construct that would function as an organic generator of his elixir. Similarly, he had created another such organ that would serve to aid in the storage and release of nutrients during the extended period of quiescence. Like some animals, he might emerge from his artificial hibernation on occasion to replenish food and water, only to return to a state of torpor once his needs were satisfied.
It was a magnificent, beautiful, terrifying and horrifying plan, and I was as much for it as I was opposed to it. In the end, after much deliberation, I had no choice but to reject any possibility of my being involved with such a procedure. It was simply too risky, and I was not willing to take such risks with a patient that seemed in no imminent danger. I suggested that we delay the procedure until animal experiments were complete and successful. Not surprisingly, Dr. C refused to follow this more conservative path of treatment, as he was dead set on beginning the process as quickly as possible, with the understanding that it might take years to accumulate sufficient nutrient reserves to initiate the torpor he wanted to enter. What was surprising was Muñoz’s reaction, for instead of siding with me, he sided with Dr. C, suggesting that whatever risk existed was best understood and borne fully by the very man who had developed the procedure. It was an impasse and we argued late into the night. In the end, we left the study in total disagreement.
The next morning nothing had changed, and reluctantly I found myself traveling back to Arkham alone. Over the next few days I packed up Dr. Rafael Muñoz’s personal belongings and I crated up his strange coffin-like transportation. Workmen removed them to a truck which I hired to take them to Dr. C’s residence. I sent several letters, at first merely professional, covering my progress on the reagent and making several suggestions for both Dr. C’s and his own treatments, but neither they nor the later more personal letters were ever answered. That chilly May of 1912 was the last I ever saw of my friend Dr. Rafael Muñoz.
Chapter 13.
THE SHADOW WANES
While I lamented the loss of my colleague and friend, the truth of the matter is that his departure marked the beginning of what can safely be said to be my own story. What I have told you up to now has merely been prelude. By the summer of 1912 my preliminary research was complete, my formula had been finalized, and I was ready to begin long-term clinical trials on human beings. Let me be clear, I consciously chose to use my patients as unwitting subjects of my experiments in reanimation using a reagent designed to be administered much as a vaccine would be, through a series of regular inoculations over the course of many years. My partner, fellow doctor Francis Wilson, had no knowledge of my intentions or of what I did over the next fifteen years. I alone am to blame for these macabre experiments, and for the events that they would lead to, the deaths of three men for which I am accused of murder.
It was June when I began treatments in earnest. As patients came in for regular appointments and treatments, I randomly exposed them to three different levels of treatment, and a fourth option, which was no treatment at all and provided a control group. As the vast majority of my patients were employees of Miskatonic University, the resulting study groups were primarily comprised of University faculty and staff. As much as I would like to protect my patients and maintain their privacy, the truth of the matter is that my files have already been riffled and those who were exposed have already been identified, and I will admit that my long-term patients, including Professors Henry Armitage and Laban Shrewsbury, were treated with the reagent. Additionally, Randolph Carter, and both Professor Henry Jones and his son, were exposed to the reagent, but as
these three, amongst others, left my care, they did not receive a full regiment. To fully document who was treated and to what extent, I would have to consult my notes, which are currently held by the police. It may also be scientifically, and perhaps legally, relevant to discuss which individuals were members of my control group and therefore not treated. As with those exposed to the reagent, I would have to consult my notes to provide an accounting for this group, but as best memory serves me these individuals included Edward Derby, Zorad Hoag, and Franklin Scudder. All in all nearly one hundred and fifty people were in one way or another treated with my formula that summer, and I have no doubt, for my data leaves no room for doubt, that these treatments have had significant impacts on resistance to injury and disease, as well as longevity. I challenge anyone to review the collected data and dispute these conclusions.
Strangely, or perhaps unexpectedly, as I undertook my great experiment I found that it had been some time since I had dealt with the enmity that I had once felt for Herbert West and his aide. Indeed, while I still blamed the two for the death of my parents eight years earlier, the rage that had initially fueled my researches had waned, and for the first time in a long period of my life I seemed at peace. I dismantled Muñoz’s refrigeration unit, and disposed of my extensive colony of experimental rats. I had no need for this equipment anymore. All of Arkham was my laboratory, and I reveled in the knowledge that if the formula worked as I hoped, the residents of Arkham would enjoy long lives free from the debilitations of disease and serious injury. It could lead to a golden age, a utopia of peace and serenity undreamed of save by the most idealistic of poets and philosophers.
What a fool I was, for somehow I had forgotten the lessons taught to me by my own experiments as well as those of Herbert West. I should have realized that one day, my lack of forethought would rise up, like forgotten Titans, and threaten everything I held dear.
Still, I was happy at the time, Wilson and I were enjoying our work, and without Muñoz, and the pressures of my rats, I became more open and outgoing, enjoying life as I had not since before I had become a doctor. It was inevitable that a creeping doom should cast its long-forgotten shadow over my life. In September I received a note from Peaslee, who was in Oslo of all places, recently returned from a disappointing trip to Spitzbergen. It was his intention to return to the United States as soon as possible. There were disturbing undercurrents in the politics of Europe and he had no desire to spend much more time there. His travels would bring him back in October to New York from where he would travel to some caverns in West Virginia. He was to spend several weeks in the area and then head west to visit with a man named Kirowan in Texas. Although not made explicit, there seemed to be a growing sense of ennui in Peaslee’s writing. That his global travels had taken a physical toll I had no doubt, but the price seemed to be psychological, and there was some suggestion that he would be returning to Arkham within the next year.
The thought of Peaslee, or more precisely the thing that was pretending to be Peaslee, returning to Arkham made me sick. Yes, it was true that he had been responsible for helping me perfect my formula, and he had introduced me to Muñoz, but his presence, the thought of his presence, created in me such an anxiety that as the end of that lazy summer approached, something untoward happened. It was little more than a notion at first, but it then grew into a thought, and then an idea. Before long it was a plot and then a plan. Somehow or another, the hate that I had once felt for Herbert West had been transplanted to the Peaslee thing, and as the summer turned into the fall I sat down with pen and paper and carefully figured out how to kill the thing that called itself Professor Peaslee.
Chapter 14.
THE LAST TRANSLATION
OF PR. PEASLEE
Once he returned to the United States, Peaslee’s correspondence increased dramatically, and except for the two weeks that he was incommunicado in western Virginia, I was subjected to at least three letters per week detailing his travels around the country. These letters did not find their way to the newspapers, for I felt them to have no redeeming value beyond titillating the public. His travels, which crisscrossed the nation, were primarily by train or hired car, and were now focused on reading the most esoteric of volumes and communicating with the oddest of people. His focus had over the years moved steadily from the mainstream of culture to the branches of mysticism, and now finally to the fringes where the most disturbing and repudiated proponents of human thought were to be found.
He spent much time at the Sanbourne Institute in California, and even more at a settlement of Indians in the desert of Nevada. Funds were expended in the form of donations to gain access to various university libraries, but for little more than a day or so. A colleague of mine wrote to me concerning his visit, an event that had greatly disturbed the library curator. It seemed that Peaslee had met with a dean of New York’s Hudson University and had some way or another persuaded him to allow him access to the University’s collection of rare medieval manuscripts. What disturbed my friend the most was the manner in which the dean, normally a most strong-willed individual, seemed to be completely under Peaslee’s influence. Indeed, following the visit the poor man remained in a kind of haze for days afterwards, and only recovered after the administration of several powerful stimulants. Curiously, and perhaps most disturbing, was that the dean had no recollection of the events of the week, or even of meeting with Peaslee at all.
Once word of the Hudson University incident began circulating, Peaslee found it more and more difficult to gain access to facilities, and by June of 1913 it was clear from his letters that he would soon be returning home to Arkham. In the middle of July I was asked to retain a pair of servants and a workman, and to make the house ready for his return. It was a relatively simple task and one that I took some delight in, for as I set about having the house made ready, I took time to formulate a plan for what can only be thought of as the murder of Professor Peaslee. I walked through the house and explored all the rooms. With the housekeeper and the maid I set schedules, routines and menus. With the handyman, a young engineering student by the name of Crawford Tillinghast, I created and prioritized a list of repairs and projects needed about the house and garden. Although I hadn’t done it for quite some time, I made a trip to the bank and reviewed the investments and available funds. I was quite surprised at the balances and realized that Peaslee’s investments had earned far more than he could possibly spend, and had accumulated a substantial savings. In the end I was in a magnificent position to plot, arrange and bring to fruition the death of Peaslee, and for that very reason, as his return became more imminent, I realized that it would be foolish to carry such an act out. For there was no more likely a suspect than I, and I had no desire to have my practice investigated by the authorities. So, as much as I would have liked, I had to put aside my desire to kill Peaslee.
The man himself sent word that he would be returning to Arkham in early August, and I arranged it so that I was personally available to meet him at the train station and transport him home. The years of travel had not been kind to Peaslee. He was thin, gauntly thin, and his eyes were sunken and heavy. His skin hung loosely in places like a second set of clothes. Despite this, he seemed rather energetic, though I was reminded that he had been subjected to a dose of the reagent that allowed for increased metabolic health. His demeanor was positive, and he greeted me with as much enthusiasm as he ever had. He had little baggage, and after loading it into the cab we drove home. He spoke at length about recent dreams that he had been having, strange dreams that brought back memories of his former life. He had visions of his classroom, and his students, as well as of the frustration he dealt with in writing his paper on seasonal patterns in economic trends. There were also discussions of his wife and family and memories of birthdays and holiday events.
I took these revelations with some skepticism, for although he spoke at length of these personal matters, they lacked any specific details, and were so generalized that they could have been
memories of nearly anyone’s life. He persisted in relating the existence of such memories to whomever would listen, and over the course of several weeks the story had expanded to include some details, but only of the most superficial kind. For example, he suddenly had memories of the names of former students, but could not describe any of them. Likewise he knew that one of his sons collected insects, but couldn’t tell you which child that was. To me it took on the appearance that he was laying the groundwork for something, much as a writer will provide foreshadowing of major plot twists. The whole thing grated on me, and in late August I asked that he refer any future medical needs to Dr. Wilson. As for our so-called business relationship, I asked to be removed of my responsibilities. I fully expected him to threaten me with extortion over my experiments, but Peaslee simply slumped back in his chair. He seemed resigned to the thought that the days in which he could bully me into submission were long past.