Neither Man Nor Dog

by Gerald Kersh

  And all would have been well. But one day in the spring I saw that accursed woman again. And all the crazy infatuation came back.

  We talked. She said that she had never loved anybody but me, and I, only too anxious to believe it, was wild with joy.

  Then she looked down and saw the dog, and asked: “What sort of a beast is that?” I replied: “I call him Charles, and he is really quite a wonderful little dog, in spite of his unprepossessing appearance.”

  And there came into her eyes a look of hate: She was a very bad woman, and she was jealous of that dog.

  We decided to get married, and did so as quickly as we could and went to live in my flat. And then the old wickedness crept back.

  It had been there all the time, but now she felt that she had me, and words cannot describe the extent of her persecution of me from day to day.

  This went on for nearly a year, and again—being a man who has in him a streak of disgusting softness—I began to drink.

  She did all she could, for her part, to make my life intolerable. Well, one night I came home drunk.

  She was waiting for me with a certain evil smile on her face.

  First of all I observed the absence of the dog Charles, who invariably greeted me with frantic caresses.

  I said: “Where is he?” And my wife said: “He is where I wish you were.”

  And then she told me that she had had enough of this little loathsome dog and had got rid of him. I was absolutely stunned. She went on to tell me how she could not bear the idiotic affection I had for the dog. . . . She could not tolerate his appearance, his smell. . . .

  And when she said that I knew that I really did love the dog better than her . . . that my affection for her was mere folly and that I really loved the dog for his goodness. And I sat down and stared in front of me.

  She said: “I tied a brick round his neck and chucked him into the river. Dirty little beast! The wind blew my hat off. You will have to buy me a new one.”

  At that I felt myself going mad with rage, and I saw a pink mist before my eyes. I kept a revolver in a drawer. I opened the drawer and took out the revolver.

  I swear to you that I was going to kill her. And then, just as my finger was on the trigger, I heard a familiar scratching at the door and paused.

  Her face was pale as death. I opened the door. Charles came in.

  He was in a pitiful state—almost drowned, shivering with cold, bleeding and dripping with water.

  In his teeth he held a black hat with pink flowers—her hat. He limped up to me, laid the hat at my feet, tried to wag his tail, and fell dead. And my rage melted in a great gush of tears.

  For that woman I felt, then, only an awful contempt. I picked up the body of the little dog and left the flat.

  I looked at that beloved, bedraggled corpse and thought how strange and sad it was that God had sent the mongrel dog to save me from drunkenness, ruin, and murder. I never saw my wife again.

  Love! You speak of love! You and your silly little romances! For myself, I have never met in all the world a love to equal that of the small, dirty dog Charles.

  Doctor Ox Will Die at Midnight

  “Inspector, please pay attention. This is terribly serious. I am Doctor Pelikan, psychiatrist, of the Magog Asylum.”

  “I am honoured to meet the celebrated Doctor Pelikan. What can I do for you?”

  “Order four or five of your strongest officers to guard the apartment of my colleague, Doctor Ox!”

  “But why?”

  “Because to-night, at midnight, Papke the Ripper plans to murder him.”

  “But, Doctor Pelikan, Papke the Ripper is in a padded cell in your own asylum.”

  “I know, I know! But all the same, I warn you, I warn you!”

  “Very well, doctor: but let us discuss it calmly. Have a cigar. Please step into my office. You do not mind if the sergeant also listens?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You have no objection to my locking the door?”

  “No, no, no! But please be quick. There is no time to lose.”

  The big door closed. The heavy lock clicked. The tiny doctor, his haggard face macerated by insomnia, sat opposite the gigantic inspector, whose cigar, gripped hard between his iron jaws, stuck out under his stone-grey moustache.

  “Tell me, doctor, is not Papke sufficiently guarded?”

  “Inspector, he is locked in a cell from which a fly could not escape, in a corridor through which a mouse could not pass without attracting attention. Nevertheless, send four strong men to guard the apartment of Doctor Ox: otherwise, Papke the Ripper will murder him at midnight.”

  “But how can you possibly say that?”

  “I see that you do not take me seriously. If I explain, will you do as I say?”

  “Certainly, doctor.”

  “Very well. Listen. It sounds fantastic, but it is the most serious thing in the world. You have heard of me. I know the minds of madmen better than anybody else on earth. I have devoted my entire life to the study of the insane——”

  “I have read your Studies in the Psychopathology of the Murderer, doctor.”

  “Good. Then I can be very brief. Two years ago, I had a certain argument with Doctor Ox. In short, we discussed the physical basis of thought. I argued that it was possible for the intellect to operate independently, apart from the physical brain. Ox laughed. ‘A theory,’ he said. ‘A fact,’ I replied, ‘and I will prove it.’ ‘I wager five hundred kronen that you cannot,’ said Doctor Ox. I said: ‘Very well. To-night, when you go to your room, stay awake until three o’clock. Take a book to bed with you. Read it; make a marginal note. In the morning I will quote to you the exact words you have read and written.’ ‘That is a bet,’ said Doctor Ox.”

  “But could you?” asked the inspector.

  “Yes. The higher faculties, the intellect and the will, are separable from the body. I could show you how. This, in a nutshell, is the technique. Wait until the small hours of the morning, when everything is quiet, and physical energy is at its lowest ebb. Lie down comfortably in the dark. Concentrate every shred of your will upon yourself: see yourself as a body, lying on your bed. Endeavour to project your sight and your powers of reasoning to a point two or three feet above the centre of your body. Then look down upon yourself with a detached mind. Practise this. Try and try. Fifty times, a hundred times, you will fail: then you may succeed. Make your mind travel across your room. Observe every object, but ignore obstacles: will yourself through walls and doors. Cover only familiar ground, going from object to object, observing every foot of the way. In this manner, you may project your mind into another room, another house—even another city.”

  “That would be a useful accomplishment for people involved in espionage, Doctor Pelikan!”

  “Please do not interrupt. I was telling you of my wager with Doctor Ox. Doctor Ox lives in the flat immediately above mine. I had been there a hundred times. It was easy. I won my wager. When we met, at eleven o’clock, I said to him: ‘You were sitting up in bed, in new red pyjamas, reading Dead Souls, by Gogol. On page 308, where Murazoff says to Tchitchikoff: “Yes, it seems to me that you could prove a bogatuir,” you wrote in the margin: “Here, the conscious weakness of Gogol takes its revenge on the iron will of Tchitchikoff.” Then you put out the light.’

  “Doctor Ox was amazed. I tell you this in order that you may not disbelieve the amazing facts that follow. This happened two years ago. Even then I was highly skilled in the technique of the experiment. But since then, I have acquired an infinitely higher efficiency, and if you doubt me, I am prepared to prove every word I say!”

  “No, no,” said the inspector, “please proceed.”

  “I began to project my mind into the cells of the asylum, at night. I am familiar with every stone in the building: it was not difficult. I took the opportunity of making observations of the inmates. True, I achieved nothing of very great practical value; but it was interesting.

  “Then, a year ago
, they brought in Papke the Ripper.”

  “A dangerous man, that, Doctor Pelikan!”

  “A horrible man, inspector! A devil, a perfect devil. Investigating that man’s mind was like diving down and down into a bottomless pit full of horrors, as in one of those frightful Oriental legends—an abyss without end—a hell, I tell you, a hell! A——”

  “You have broken your cigar, Doctor Pelikan. Permit me to offer you another.”

  “Thank you. Excuse my emotion. Papke was terrible—a beast, possessed of a tremendous elemental force—less than a man, but far more terrible than any animal. He used, in fact, to wrestle with bears in a circus. Oh, why didn’t they hang him when he murdered that poor little girl, instead of sending him to me? He gloated, secretly, over the memories of fifteen horrible murders——”

  “Fifteen!”

  “Fifteen. And he had all the intuitions of the wild animal. He could tell when an eye was looking at him. I tried many times to watch him through a secret spyhole in his cell. He would sit like a statue, and say nothing. Later, he would say to me: ‘And did you enjoy watching me earlier this afternoon?’ We could do nothing with him. Doctors and attendants were afraid of him. But one night, I projected my mind into his cell, and, watching him as he lay asleep, I thought that I might actually get inside his brain, and wrestle with him, intellect against intellect, will against will, out of the reach of his awful hands.”

  “Good God, doctor! And did you?”

  “I tried, night after night, for eight weeks. Finally, I succeeded. The intellect of Doctor Pelikan found itself side by side with the mind of Papke the Ripper. And what I saw horrified me. I watched plan after plan rise to the surface of that amazingly cunning and tortuous mind, like bubbles in a cesspool. And at the basis of each plan was a weapon, a razor. He had a genius for concealment. Stripped, bathed, and thoroughly searched, he had nevertheless managed to bring with him the blade of a French razor, which he had hidden in the padding of his cell. I forced my will then to fight against him. I ordered him to surrender this weapon. My order must have come upon him as an impulse. ‘Here, take this away from me,’ he said—while his real self shrieked Kill! Kill!

  “Inspector, I have fought many battles of will, but never a battle like that. The savagery of Papke the Ripper beat at me like a high wind. And it won! At the last instant, when I thought that the victory was mine, the proximity of the attendant and the feel of steel combined with the thought of blood to let loose an absolute typhoon of ferocity. He leapt away from my control. A child might as well have tried to hold back a mad bull. With one slash, he almost severed the hand of the attendant. Blood-lust boiled up like a volcano. I was scorched, flung away, and beaten out. I saw him, waving the red razor above his head. My nerve broke. I fled. Morning found me, sick and terrified, worn out by the struggle, and obsessed by the fearful memory of that hour in the soul of Papke the Ripper.

  “But that very next night, I went back. I went back into the mind of Papke, and fought against it. I fought powerful memories of ancient evil pleasures. I fought strong resolutions, even as they formed. I struggled between memory and resolution, but it was like trying to hold back the North Sea.

  “I withdrew. Then I thought: ‘Although I cannot overcome the beast, why should I not forestall him?’ I became even more ambitious. If I could send my will through space, then why not through the other dimension, Time? And you must believe me, inspector, when I assure you that I succeeded, in a small way. Yes. After the most terrific efforts, my disembodied mind was projected through short distances of time. First, one hour. Then three, then eight. And finally twenty-four hours. I am too weak to do more than that: but that much I can do.”

  “A useful accomplishment if one happens to be a gambler on horses.”

  “Ask Goldberg, commission agent, exactly how much I have won from him in the last six weeks! He will tell you: Five hundred and seventy thousand kronen. This is by the way. I can move twenty-four hours ahead in time. That is why I am here, warning you—warning you, I say, to guard, with four of your strongest men, with their revolvers loose in the holsters, the flat of Doctor Ox, who, as surely as I sit here, is going to be torn to pieces—dismembered—horribly murdered, by Papke the Ripper, to-night at midnight.”

  “Well, well, doctor, if you insist . . .”

  “I do. And I will tell you why. Last night a curious thing happened. I was worn out. I lay down on my bed, intending to project my will into the cell of Papke. But I was too tired. I fell asleep. My vitality was low, very low. I believe that my mind slipped away from my body of its own accord. Less vividly than during consciousness—as in a bad dream—I found myself in the mind of Papke the Ripper, not fighting it, but involved in it. It was like a well, in which I was drowning. I saw the completion of a resolution to kill Doctor Ox to-night, together with a plan.”

  “But what plan?”

  “I do not know. It was vague. It was simple. It was brutal, bloody, horrible! I awoke trembling. I tried, then, to cast my will forward a few hours. Again, my mind slipped over hours of time of its own accord. This time I saw everything vividly. I saw myself in Doctor Ox’s room, looking down upon something which I had discovered—all that was left of my dear colleague, my old friend Doctor Ox. . . . Then I saw myself running . . . running. . . . And somewhere in the shadows, the face of Papke the Ripper—laughing, laughing. . . . This will happen tonight, inspector, at midnight. And that is why I am here—to beg you, quickly, quickly, to send four, six of your strongest men, to save Doctor Ox from Papke the Ripper, who will be at large with a knife in the streets of this city at midnight! I beg you, call me insane, if you will, but act upon my intuition before midnight. I am a little incoherent: that is because I am worn out with overwork, and insomnia, and too much anxiety. Doctor Ox will die at midnight!”

  “At midnight?”

  “Yes.”

  “To-night?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Very well, Doctor Pelikan.”

  “You will do as I say?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Thank you, inspector, a thousand times!”

  “Please do not mention it, doctor. On the contrary, it is I who have to thank you. Sergeant—call in Officers Paschkes, Schoff, Vasatko, and Schmidt,” said the inspector.

  Four huge police officers came in.

  “But, Doctor Pelikan, may I ask you one little question?”

  “Of course, inspector!”

  “First of all—another cigar.”

  “Thank you, inspector.” Two “Virginia” cigars began to smoulder. “Now, proceed.”

  “In your vision of last night, where did Papke the Ripper hide the head?”

  “The head of Doctor Ox?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the cistern.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Pelikan. You did not mind my asking?”

  “Not at all.”

  “That, you see, was the only portion of Doctor Ox which we were unable to find.”

  “Huh?”

  “It will not be to-night at midnight,” said the inspector. “Papke is still in his cell. It was to-day at midday. Since then we have been looking everywhere for you. Sergeant . . .”

  The Earwig

  Mr. Scripture had been caught in the grip of a bad dream. Something was clinging to his feet, dragging him down. That, alone, seems little enough, but it was attended by all the horror of the dark. Even as he slept, he told himself that it was only a dream, and struggled to wake up; then, with an awful start found himself awake in a tangle of bedclothes, and sighed with relief to see the dim daylight and the familiar objects in his bedroom.

  He sat up, glad to be alive. But when he looked at the clock, the terror of the nightmare was swamped by a bigger, blacker fear. For it was nearly a quarter to eight. There remained seven minutes in which he had to wash, shave, dress, and reach the station in time to catch the seven-fifty-two.

  For a moment, Mr. Scripture looked from side to side with the futile desp
eration of a trapped bird; then fled headlong to the bathroom, shaved in about fifteen wild strokes and cut the corner of his mouth, plunged into his shirt, buttoned his waistcoat all awry, and then, putting on his boots, almost wept as a lace broke.

  He was afraid to look at the clock. There was still something of the atmosphere of the nightmare clinging to this abominable October morning. It was not properly light. It seemed to Mr. Scripture that the day would really never break. High up, there hung a dirty yellow suspicion of fog. His heart jumped to meet a ridiculous hope: Perhaps there is fog down the line! Perhaps the train will be late! But he knew there was no fog; that the train would not be late; and that there would be no excuse. . . . No, no, he was lost, lost!

  He snatched his overcoat, banged on his hat, and ran like a rabbit into the melancholy wet wind that was blowing along the street. As he passed the newsagent’s on the corner, he caught a glimpse of a newsbill:

  FRANCE

  TO

  ACT

  (Special)

  Then he looked in front of him and ran along the High Street as he had never run before. He did not look at his watch: he could not spare the time to look. The street was almost empty. A pigeon, pecking at something in the gutter, flapped away in terror. Mr. Scripture heard the beating of its wings; and, in the same instant, the noise of the train entering the station. But there remained at least four hundred yards to cover, and his breath was almost gone . . . and the road was like a road in a fairy-tale—it seemed to get longer and longer.

  Mr. Scripture had lost count of time. He only knew that his chest hurt, and that sweat was running behind his ears. And so he reached the station, with his heart banging and rattling like horses galloping over a wooden bridge. He was just in time to see the back of the train swinging past the far end of the platform.

  All hope departed from the heart of Mr. Scripture. He threw himself on to a bench, and sat there, panting, too miserable to think, exhausted, absolutely used up. But after ten or fifteen minutes he calmed himself, and began to brood upon the enormity of the situation.