Life Everlasting and Other Tales of Science, Fantasy, and Horror

by David Henry Keller

  "The next day was just the same. My mother-in-law came and spent the day. I came home at night, and ate supper with them, and washed the dishes. The water was hot, and it was a pleasure to make them clean. Perhaps I took longer than usual at it, because I did not fancy the idea of going into the front parlor where the wife was sitting looking out of the window.

  "But I went in this night without the usual cigar. I wanted to use my nose. It seemed there was a peculiar odor in the house, like flowers that had been put in a vase of water and then forgotten for many days. Perhaps you know the odor. Doctor, a heavy one, like lilies of the valley in a small, closed, room. It was especially strong in the parlor, where Mrs. Thompson was sitting; and it seemed to come from her. I had to light the cigar after a while, and by and by I said good night and went to bed. She never spoke to me; in fact, she did not seem to pay any attention to me.

  "About two that morning, I took the candle and went in to look at her. Her eyelids were open, and her eyeballs rolled up, just like they had been the night before; but now her jaw was dropped and her cheeks sunken in. I just could not do anything but telephone for a doctor; and this time, I picked a total stranger, just picked his name out of the telephone book haphazardly.

  "What good did it do? None at all. He came, he examined Mrs. Thompson very carefully, and he simply said that he did not see anything wrong with her; then down in the front hall he turned on me and asked me just why I had sent for him, and what I thought was the matter with her? Of course, I just could not tell him the truth, with his being a doctor, and I being just a bookkeeper. If he thought Mrs. Thompson was well, what was there for me to say?

  "My mother-in-law went to the mountains the next day for the summer, and that left us alone. Breakfast as usual, and to the office, and not a word all day from the house. When I came back at night, the house was lit and supper was on the table. The wife was sitting at her end as usual. She had the food served on plates. She ate, but her movements were slower; and when she swallowed, you could see the food go down by jerks. Her eyes were sunken into the sockets and seemed shiny; and—well, like the eyes of a dead fish on the stalls.

  "There were flowers on the table, but the smell was something different. It was sweeter, and when I took a deep breath, it was just hard for me to go on eating the pork chops and potatoes. You see, it was summer time and warm; and in spite of the screens, there was a fly or two in the house. When I saw one walking around on her lip and she not making any effort to brush it off, I just couldn't keep on eating—had to go and start washing the dishes. Perhaps you can understand how I felt, Doctor. Things looked rather odd by now.

  "The next day, I phoned to the office that I would not be there, and I sent for a taxi and took Mrs. Thompson to a first-class specialist. He must have been good, because he charged me twenty-five dollars just for the office call. I went in first, and told him just exactly what I was afraid of. I did not try to mince my words. Then we had the wife in. He examined her, even her blood; and all the satisfaction I got was that she seemed a trifle anaemic, but that I had better take a nerve tonic and a vacation, or I would be sick.

  "Things looked rather twisted after that. Either I was right and everybody else was wrong; or they were right, and I was just about as wrong mentally as a man could be. But I had to believe my senses. A man just has to believe what he sees and hears and feels; and when I thought over that office visit, with the wife smiling, and the doctor sticking her finger for the blood to examine it, it just seemed impossible. Anaemic! Why, that was a simple word to describe her condition.

  "That night, the flies were worse than usual. I went to the corner store to buy a fly spray. I used it in her bedroom, but they kept coming in—the big blue ones, you know. It seemed as though they just had to come in. I could not keep them off her face; so at last, in desperation, I covered her head up with a towel and went to sleep, I had to work. The interest on the mortgage was due, and the man wanted something on the principal. It was a good house, and all I had in the world to show for twenty years of hard work keeping books.

  "The next day was just like all the days had been, except that I made more mistakes with the books, and my boss spoke to me about it. When I arrived home that night, supper was not ready, though Mrs. Thompson was in the parlor and the lights were on. The heavy odor was worse than usual, and there were a lot of flies. You could hear them buzz and strike against the electric lights. I got my own supper, but I couldn't eat much, thinking of her in the parlor and the flies settling on her open mouth and pinched nose.

  "She just sat there that night in the parlor till I went to her and took her arm to lead her up the stairs. She was cold, and on each cheek there was a heavy purple blotch forming. Once she was in her room, she seemed to move around; so I left her alone. When I went into her room later on, she was in bed and rather peaceful. It had been a hard week for me, so I sat down near her bed and tried to think; but the more I thought, the worse things seemed. The night was hot, and the flies kept buzzing; just thinking of the past and how we used to go to the movies together and laugh and sometimes come near crying, and how we used to bluff about the fact that perhaps it was just as well we didn't have a child so long as we had each other, knowing all the time that she was eating her heart out for longing to be a mother and blaming me for her loneliness.

  "The thinking was too much for me, so I thought I might as well smoke another cigar and go to bed and try to keep better books the next day and hold my job—and then I saw the little worm crawl out.

  "Right then I knew that something had to be done. It didn't make any difference what the doctors or her mother said, something had to be done, and I must do it.

  "I telephoned for an undertaker.

  "Met him downstairs.

  "'It will be a private funeral,' I told him, 'and no publicity, and I think after you are through, you will have no trouble obtaining a physician's certificate.'

  "He went upstairs. In about five minutes, he came downstairs. He said:

  "'I must have gone into the wrong room.*

  "'The second story front bedroom.'

  "'But the woman there is not dead.'

  "I paid him for his trouble, and shut the door in his face. Was I helpless? Doctor, you have to believe me. I was at the end of my rope. I had tried every way I knew, and there just was not anything left to do. No one believed me. No one agreed with me. It seemed more and more as though they thought I was insane.

  "It was impossible to keep her in the house any longer. My health was giving way: Working all day at figures that were going wrong all the time, and coming back night after night and cooking my supper and sleeping in a room next to the thing that had been my wife. What with the smell of lilies of the valley and the buzz of flies, and the constant dread in my mind of how things would be the next day and the next week, and the mortgage due, I had to do something.

  "And it seemed to me that she wanted me to. It seemed that she recognized that things were not right, that she was entitled to a different kind of an ending. I knew what I would want done with me, if things were reversed.

  "So I brought the trunk up from the cellar. We had used that trunk on our wedding trip and every summer since on our vacations, and I thought that she would be more at peace in that trunk than in a new one. But when I had the trunk by her bed, I saw at once that it was too small unless I used a knife.

  "That seemed the proper thing to do, and I was sure it would not hurt her. For days she had been past hurting. I told her I was sorry, but it just had to be done; and if people had just believed me, things could have been arranged in a much nicer way.

  "Then I started.

  "Things were confused after that.

  "I seem to remember a scream and blood spurting; and the next thing, there were a lot of people, and I was arrested.

  "And the peculiar part of it all, Sir. Perhaps you do not know it, but I am accused of murdering my wife. Now I have told you all about it, Doctor, and I just want to ask one question.
If you had been in my place, day after day, and night after night, what would you have done? What would any man have done who loved his wife?"

  HEREDITY

  DR. THEODORE OVERFIELD was impressed. The size of the estate, the virgin timber, the large stone house, and, above all, the high iron fence, which surrounded the place, indicated wealth and careful planning. The house was old, the trees were very old, but the fence was new. Its sharp, glistening pickets ranged upward, looking like bayonets on parade.

  When he had accepted the invitation to make a professional visit to that home, he had counted on nothing more than a case of neurasthenia, perhaps an alcoholic psychosis or feminine hysteria. As he drove through the gateway and heard the iron shutters clank behind him, he was not so sure of its being a commonplace situation or an ordinary patient. A few deer ran, frightened, from the roadside. They were pretty things. At least, they were one reason for the fence.

  At the house, a surly, silent, servant opened the door and ushered him into a room that seemed to be the library. It not only held books in abundance, but it seemed that the books were used. Not many sets, but many odd volumes were there—evidently first editions. At one end of the room was a winged Mercury; at the other end, a snow white Venus. Between them, on one side, was the fireplace with several inviting chairs.

  "A week here with pay will not be half bad," mused the Doctor. But his pleasant thought was interrupted by the entrance of a small, middle-aged man, with young eyes, but with hair that would soon be white. He introduced himself.

  "I am Peterson, the man who wrote to you. I presume that you are Dr. Overfield?"

  The two men shook hands and sat down by the the fireplace. It was early September, and the days were chill in the mountains.

  "I understand that you are a psychiatrist. Dr. Overfield," the white-haired man began. "At least, I was told that you might be helpful to me in the solving of my problem."

  "I do not know what your trouble is," answered the Doctor, "but I have not made any appointments for the next week; so that time and my ability are at your disposal. You did not mention in your letters just what the trouble was. Do you care to tell me now?"

  "Not now. Perhaps after dinner. You may be able to see for yourself. I am going to take you to your bedroom, and you may come down at six and meet the rest of the family."

  The room that Overfield was taken to seemed comfortable in every way. Peterson left the room, hesitated, and came back.

  "Just a word of advice, Doctor. When you are alone in here, be sure to keep the door locked."

  "Shall I lock it when I leave?"

  "No. That will not be necessary. No one will steal anything."

  The Doctor shut the door, locked it according to advice, and went to the windows. They overlooked the woods. In the distance he could see a few deer. Nearer, white rabbits were playing on the lawn. It was a pretty view, but the windows were barred.

  "A prison?" he asked himself. "Bars on the windows! Advice to keep the door locked! What can he be afraid of? Evidently, not of thieves. Perhaps he has a phobia. I wonder whether all the rooms are barred? This seems interesting. And then that fence? It would be a brave man who would try to go over that, even with a ladder. He did not impress me as being a neurasthenic, but, at the same time, he wanted to delay the interrogation. Evidently, he feels that it would be easier if I found out some things for myself."

  The Doctor was tired from the long drive, so he took off his shoes and collar, and started to go to sleep. The silence was complete. The slightest sound was magnified into a startling intensity. Minutes passed. He thought that he heard a doorknob turn and was sure that it was his door, but no one knocked and there was no sound of footsteps. Later, thinking about everything, he went to sleep. It was growing dark when he awoke and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to six. Just time enough to dash into his dinner clothes. He did not know whether people dressed for dinner at that place, but there was no harm in doing so.

  Downstairs, Peterson was waiting for him. Mrs. Peterson was also there. She must have known that the Doctor would dress for dinner; and, not wanting to embarrass him, also had dressed formally for the occasion. But her husband wore the same suit that he had on all day. He had even neglected to comb his hair.

  At the table, the white-haired man kept silent. The wife was a sparkling conversationalist, and the Doctor enjoyed her talk as much as he did the meal. Mrs. Peterson had been to places and had seen many things, and she had a way of telling about them that was even more vivid than the average travelogue. She appeared to be interested in everything.

  "Here is a woman of culture," thought Overfield. "This woman knows a little bit about everything and is able to tell it at the right time."

  He might have added that she was beautiful. Subconsciously, he felt that; and even more deeply wondered why such a woman should have married a fossil like Peterson. Nice enough man, all right, but certainly no fit mate for such a woman.

  The woman was small, delicately formed, yet radiant with health and vitality. Someone was sick in the family, but it evidently was not she. Dr. Overfield studied the husband. Perhaps there was his patient? Silent, moody, suspicious, locked doors and barred windows! It might be a case of paranoia, and the wife was forcing the conversation and trying to be gay simply as a defence reaction.

  Was she really happy? At times, a cloud seemed to come over her face, to be chased away at once by a smile or even a merry laugh. At least, she was not altogether happy. How could one be with a husband like that!

  The surly, silent, servant waited on the table. He seemed to anticipate every need of his mistress. His service was beyond the shadow of reproach; but in some way, for some reason, the Doctor disliked him from the beginning. He tried to analyse that dislike, but failed. Later on he found the reason. His mind was working fast, trying to solve the problem of his being there, the invitation to spend a week. Suddenly, he awoke to the fact that there was a vacant chair. The table had been set for four, and just then the door opened and in walked a young lad followed by a burly man in black.

  "This is my son, Alexander, Dr. Overfield. Shake hands with the gentleman, Alexander."

  Closely followed by the man in black, the youth walked around the table, took the Doctor's hand, and then sat down at the empty place. An ice was served. The man in black stood in back of the chair and carefully supervised every movement the boy made. Conversation was now blocked. The dessert was eaten in silence. Finished, Peterson spoke.

  "You can take Alexander to his room, Yorry."

  "Very well, Mr. Peterson."

  Again there were but three at the table, but the conversation was not resumed. Cigarettes were smoked in silence. Then Mrs. Peterson excused herself.

  "I am designing a new dress, and I have gotten to a very interesting place. I cannot decide on snaps or buttons; and if there are to be buttons, there must be an originality about them that will make their use logical. So, I shall have to ask you gentlemen to excuse me. I hope that you will spend a comfortable week with us. Dr. Overfield."

  "I am sure of that, Mrs. Peterson," replied the Doctor, rising as she left the table. The white-haired man did not rise. He simply kept looking into the wall ahead of him, looking into it without seeing the picture on it—without seeing anything that there was to see. At last, he crushed the fire out of his cigarette and rose.

  "Let us go into the library. I want to talk."

  Once there, he tried to make the Doctor comfortable.

  "Take off your coat and collar if you wish, and put your feet up on the stool. We shall be alone tonight, and there is no need of formality."

  "I judge you are not very happy, Mr. Peterson?" the Doctor began. It was just an opening wedge to the mental catharsis that he hoped would follow. In fact, it was a favorite introduction of his to the examination of a patient. It gave the sick person confidence in the Doctor, a feeling that he understood something about him, personally. And many people came to his office because they were not h
appy.

  "Not very," was the reply. "I am going to tell you something about it, but part I want you to see for yourself. It starts back at the time when I began in business. I had been called Philip by my parents, Philip Peterson. When in school, I studied about Philip of Macedonia, and there were parts of his life that I rather admired. He was a road breaker, if you know what I mean. He took a lot of countries and consolidated them. He reorganized the army. Speaking in modern slang, he was a 'go-getter.' Of course, he had his weaknesses—such as wine and women—but in the main, he was rather fine.

  "There was a difference between being King of Macedonia and becoming president of a leather company, but I thought that the same principles might be used and would probably lead to success. At any rate, I studied the life of Philip and tried to profit by it. At last, I became a rich man.

  "Then I married. As you saw, my wife is a gifted, cultured woman. We had a son. At his birth, I named him Alexander. I wanted to follow in the course of the Macedonian. I ruled the leather business in America, and I hoped that he would rule it in the entire world. You saw the boy tonight at supper."

  "Yes, I saw him."

  "And your diagnosis?"

  "Not exactly true to form, but resembles the type of mental deficiency known as mongolian idiocy more than anything else."

  "That is what I have been told. We kept him at home for two years, and then I placed him in one of the best private schools in America. When he reached the age of ten, they refused to keep him any longer, no matter what I paid them. So I fixed this place up, sold out my interests, and came here to live. He is my son, and I feel that I should care for him."

  "It is rather peculiar that they do not want him in a private school. With your wealth. . ."

  "Something happened. They felt that they could not take the responsibility for his care."

  "How does he act? What does his mother think about it?"