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

by David Henry Keller

  "Do you know much about mothers in general?"

  "A little."

  "Then you can understand. His mother thinks that he is perfect. At times, she refuses to believe that he is feeble-minded. She uses the word 'retarded' and thinks that he will outgrow the condition and some day become normal."

  "She is mistaken."

  "I am afraid so. But I cannot convince her. When the matter is argued, she becomes angry; and she is very unpleasant when she is that way. We moved here. You saw our servants. The butler serves in several capacities. He has been in the family for many years and is to be trusted. He is deaf-mute."

  "I understand," the Doctor exclaimed. "That accounts for his surly, silent, personality. All mutes are queer."

  "I presume that is true. He keeps house for us. You see, other servants are hard to keep. They come, but they won't stay after they learn about Alexander."

  "Do they object to his mentality?"

  "No, it is the way he acts that worries them. I have given you the facts. They will not stay here. The man, Yorry, is an ex-pugilist. He is without nerves and without fear. He is very good to the boy; but, at the same time, he makes him obey. Since he has been here, it is possible to bring the lad to the table, and that makes Mother very happy. But, of course, he cannot be on duty all the time. When he has his hours off, he lets Alexander run in the park."

  "The boy must like it out there. I saw the deer and the rabbits."

  "Yes, it gives him exercise. He likes to chase them."

  "Don't you think he ought to have some playmates?"

  "I used to think so. I even went so far as to adopt another boy. He died. After that, I could not repeat the experiment."

  "But any child might die," the Doctor replied. "Why not bring another boy in, even for a few hours a day, for him to talk to and play with?"

  "No, never again! But you stay here and watch the boy. Examine him and see if you can give me advice."

  "I am afraid that there is not much to be done for him beyond training him, and correcting any bad habits that he may have."

  The white-haired man looked puzzled as he replied:

  "That is the trouble. Some years ago, I consulted a specialist. I told him all about it, and he said that he thought the child had better be allowed a certain freedom of action. He said something about desires and libido and thought that the only chance for improvement was in letting him have his own way. That is one reason why we are here with the deer and the rabbits."

  "You mean that the boy likes to play with them?"

  "Not exactly. But you study him. I have told Yorry that he is to answer all your questions. He knows the boy better than I do; and God forgive me for saying it, but I know him too well. Of course, it is hard for me to talk about it. I would rather have you get the details from Yorry. It is growing late and perhaps you had better go to bed. Be sure to lock the door."

  "I'll do that," the Doctor said, "but you told me that nothing would be stolen."

  "No. Nothing will be stolen."

  The Doctor went to his room, thoroughly puzzled. He knew the variety of mental deficiency known as mongolian idiocy. He had helped examine and care for several hundred of such cases. Young Alexander was one, yet, he was different. There was something about him that did not quite harmonize with that diagnosis. His habits? Perhaps that was it. Was his father afraid of him? Was that why he had a strong man to train him? Was that why the bars were on the windows? But why the rabbits and the little deer?

  Almost before he was asleep he was roused by a knock at the door. Going to it, he called without opening the door.

  "What is it?"

  "This is Yorry," was the response. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes."

  "Let me in."

  The Doctor opened the door, allowed the man to enter, and locked it behind him.

  "What is the trouble?"

  "Alexander is out of his room. We do not mind it in the daytime, but at night it is bad. Look over at the window."

  There was a white thing at one of the windows, holding on to the bars and shaking them in an effort to break them. Yorry shook his head.

  "That lad, that lad! This is no place for him, but what are the poor people to do? Well, if you are safe, I will go out and try to get him. You lock the door behind me."

  "Are you afraid of him?"

  "Not for myself, but for others. I do not know fear. Mr. Peterson said you wanted to examine the boy. What time tomorrow?"

  "At ten. Right here will do."

  "I'll have him here. Good night, and be sure to lock the door."

  The Doctor was tired, so he went to sleep with all the questions unsolved. The next morning breakfast was served to him in his room by the deaf-mute. At ten, Yorry came in with Alexander. The boy seemed frightened, but obeyed the commands of his attendant.

  In most respects, the examination showed the physical defects of the mongolian idiot. There were a few minor differences. Though the boy was small for his age, the musculature was good, and the teeth were perfect. Not a cavity was present. The upper canines were unusual.

  "He has very fine teeth, Yorry," the Doctor commented.

  "He has, Sir, and he uses them," replied the man.

  "You mean in eating his food?"

  "Yes. Just that."

  "They are the teeth of a meat-eater."

  "That is what he is."

  "I wish that you would tell me about it, honestly. Why did they turn him out of that private school?"

  "It was his habits."

  "What kind of habits?"

  "Suppose you see for yourself. The three of us will go out in the woods. It is safe as long as you are with me, but you must not go by yourself."

  The Doctor laughed.

  "I am accustomed to abnormals."

  "Perhaps, but I do not want anything to happen to you. Come with me, Alexander."

  The boy went with them, and seemed to be perfectly docile.

  Once in the woods, Yorry helped the boy undress. Naked, the lad started to run through the forest.

  "He cannot get out?" the Doctor asked.

  "No, nor for that matter, neither can the deer and the little rabbits. We will not try to follow him. When he finishes, he will come back."

  An hour passed, and then two hours. At last, Alexander came creeping through the grass on all fours. Yorry took a wet towel from his pocket, wiped the blood from the boy's face and hands, and then started to dress him.

  "So that is what he does?" asked the Doctor.

  "Yes, and sometimes more than that."

  "And that is why they did not want him in the school?"

  "I suppose so. His father told me that when he was young, he started in with flies and bugs and toads."

  The Doctor thought fast.

  "There was a little child brought here to be his playmate. The boy died. Do know anything about that?"

  "No. I do not know anything about that. I do not want to know anything about it. It probably happened before I came here."

  Overfield knew that the man was not telling the truth. But even in his lie, he was handing out useful information. The Doctor decided to have another talk with the boy's father. There was no use trying to help unless all the facts were given to him.

  At the noonday meal, the conversation was not as sparkling as it had been the evening before. Peterson seemed moody. Mrs. Peterson was polite, but decidedly restrained. It seemed that most of the conversation was forced. After the meal was over, there was one part of the conversation that seemed to stand out in the mind of the specialist. Peterson remarked that one of his teeth was troubling him, and that he would have to see a dentist. His wife replied, "I have perfect teeth. I have never been to a dentist."

  In the library, while he was waiting for Peterson to come, Dr. Overfield recalled that statement.

  "I have examined your son, Mr. Peterson," began the specialist, "and I have seen him in the woods. Yorry told me about some things and lied to me about others. Up to the p
resent time, no one seems willing to tell me the entire truth. I have one question that I must have answered. How did the boy die? The one you had for a playmate?"

  "I am not sure. And when I say that, I am perfectly honest. We found him dead in his room one morning. A glass had been broken in the bedroom window. A lot of broken glass was around him. There was a deep cut in one side of his throat. The Coroner thought that he had walked in his sleep, struck the window pane, and that a piece of glass had severed the jugular vein. He certified that as the cause of the death."

  "What do you think, Mr. Peterson?"

  "I have stopped thinking."

  "Was it before that, or afterwards, that you had the bars placed in the windows?"

  "After that. Can you help the boy?"

  "I am afraid not. The advice that the other man gave you years ago was bad. It has kept the boy in fine physical condition, but there are other things to be considered besides physical health. It he were my son, I would remove the deer and the rabbits, those that are still alive. And I would try and train him in different habits."

  "I will think that over. I paid you for your opinion, and I value it. Now, one more question: Is this habit of the boy's an hereditary one? Do you think, that in the past, some ancestor of his did something like that?"

  It was a puzzling question. Perhaps Dr. Overfield was right in answering it with another question.

  "Any insanity in the family?"

  "None that I ever heard of."

  "Good! How about your wife's family?"

  "Her heredity is as good as mine, perhaps better."

  "Then all that we can say is that mongolianism can come in any family; and, as far as the boy's habit is concerned, suppose we call it an atavism? At one time, all our ancestors ate raw meat. The Mongolian type of mental deficiency comes to us from the cradle of the human race. The boy may have brought it with him as he leaped forward two million years, brought raw meat-eating with his slanting eyebrows."

  "I wish I were sure," commented the father. "I would give anything to be sure that I was not to blame for the boy's condition."

  "Or your wife?" the Doctor asked.

  "Oh! There is no question about her," was the half smiling reply. "She is one of the nicest women God ever made."

  "Perhaps there is something in her subconscious, something that does not show on the surface?"

  The husband shook his head.

  "No. She is just good through and through."

  This ended the conversation. The Doctor promised to spend the rest of the week, though he felt that there was little use in his doing so. He joined the retired leather man and his wife at dinner. Mrs. Peterson was more beautiful than ever, in a white evening dress, trimmed with gold sequins. Peterson looked tired; but his wife was brilliant in every way, in addition to her costume. She talked as though she would never tire, and everything that she said was worth listening to. She had just aided in the organization of a milk fund for undernourished children. Charity, it seemed, was one of her hobbies. Peterson talked about heredity, but little attention was paid to him or his thoughts. He soon stopped talking.

  Through it all there was something that Dr. Overficld could not understand. When he said good night to the white-haired man, he told him as much.

  "I do not understand it either," commented Peterson, "but perhaps, before I die, I shall understand. I cannot help feeling that there is something in heredity, but I cannot prove it."

  Dr. Overfield locked the door of his bedroom, and retired at once. He was sleepy, and, at the same time, nervous. He thought that a long night's rest would help. But he did not sleep long. A pounding on the door brought him to consciousness.

  "Who is there?" he asked.

  "It's me, Yorry. Open the door!"

  "What is the trouble?"

  "It is the boy, Alexander. He has slipped away from me again, and I cannot find him."

  "Perhaps he has gone to the woods?"

  "No. All the outside doors are locked. He must be in the house."

  "Have you hunted?"

  "Everywhere. The butler is safe in his room. I have been all over the house except in the Master's room."

  "Why not go there? Wait till I get some clothes on. Just a minute. He keeps the doors locked, doesn't he? He told me to keep my door locked. You are sure he has his door locked?"

  "It was locked earlier in the evening. I tested it. I do that every night with all the bedrooms."

  "Anyone with duplicate keys?"

  "No one except Mrs. Peterson. I think she must have a set; but she sleeps in her room, and her door was locked. At least it was, earlier in the evening."

  "I think we ought to go to their rooms. The boy has to be somewhere. Perhaps he is with one of his parents."

  "If he is with his mother, it is all right. They understand each other. She can do anything with him."

  They rushed upstairs. The door to Mrs. Peterson's room was open, the room empty, and the bed untouched. That was something not to be expected. The door to the next room, Peterson's room, was closed—but not locked. Opening it, Yorry turned on the electric lights.

  Before he did so, from the dark room came an odd, low, snarling, noise. Then the lights were on, and there was the Peterson family on the floor. Peterson was in the middle. He had his shirt torn off, and he was very quiet. On the right side, tearing at the muscles of the arm, was Alexander, his face and hands smeared with blood. On the other side, at the neck, the Peterson woman was fastened, drinking blood from the jugular vein. Her face and dress were stained with blood, and as she looked up, her face was that of an irritated, but otherwise contented daemon. She seemed disturbed over the interruption, but too preoccupied to understand it. She kept on drinking, but the boy snarled his anger. Overfield pulled Yorry through the doorway, turned out the lights, and slammed the door in back of them.

  Then he dragged the dazed man down the steps to the first floor.

  "Where is the telephone?" he yelled.

  Yorry finally showed him. The Doctor jerked off the receiver.

  "Hullo! Hullo! Central. Give me the Coroner. No, I don't know the number. Why should I know the number? Get him for me. Hullo! Is this the Coroner? Can you hear me? This is a doctor talking, Dr. Overfield. Come to Philip Peterson's house at once. There has been a murder committed here. Yes. The man is dead. What killed him? Heredity. You can't understand? Why should you? Now, listen to me. He had his throat cut, perhaps with a piece of broken glass, perhaps not. Can you understand that? Do you remember the little boy? Come up, and I will wait for you here."

  The Doctor hung up the receiver. Yorry was looking at him.

  "The master was always worried about the boy," Yorry said.

  "He can stop worrying now," answered the Doctor.

  THE FACE IN THE MIRROR

  JAMES FORDYCE was slowly, but surely, improving. For some weeks past, he had remained quiet, and his physician was encouraged over his condition. He even went so far as to report to the Fordyce family that, if the improvement continued, their son might be completely restored.

  He even wondered if, perhaps, he might not have been wrong in his original diagnosis, and that Fordyce was recovering from some toxic condition of short duration, instead of the serious mental disease that usually continued for life.

  Fordyce was, therefore, transferred to a sunny room in a front ward with a comfortable bed. There was also a rocking-chair and a bureau with a mirror on it. James Fordyce sat in the rocking-chair, and read daily papers. He seemed content with the quiet life of a separate room.

  The second week he was in this front ward room, he escaped. To him, it seemed a very easy thing to do. All the doors were unlocked. He dressed and walked down the halls leisurely, without rousing the sleeping night attendants and nurses.

  Once away from the building, in the quiet, forested surroundings, he increased his speed slightly; not from fear of being followed, but because he was eager to arrive at his destination. There was no doubt in his mind as to exa
ctly where he wanted to go. And he was as certain why he wanted to go to this particular place, and who would be waiting there for him.

  Emerging from the evergreens surrounding the hospital, he came to the main highway. It was deserted that spring night, but Fordyce was not surprised at the absence of all traffic, even pedestrian. He saw no reason why he should not be absolutely alone. For an hour he walked in the brilliant moonlight. A solitary star gleamed near the full moon, and, as he walked, he told himself a little story about that star. In the telling, he realized that he had a story which, if given to the world, would be so new that all men would marvel at the originality of the creation.

  Soon, surprisingly soon, he came to a road leading off the highway at right angles. It was a narrow, dirt road, with tall fir trees on either side, as it climbed straight up a fairly steep mountain. This road was not a thoroughfare, for, after a long space, he rounded the first turn in the moonlight-speckled way, and approached a high stone wall which came to the roadside and was joined together by a heavy, wooden gate with the sign—

  PRIVATE ROAD

  No Admission

  painted on it. The words were painted large, and were clearly legible in the moonlight.

  Fordyce laughed.

  "Since I own the land and built the road and wall, framed the gate and painted the sign, it certainly cannot apply to me," he whispered to himself. Opening the gate, he passed through; turned, closed and locked it behind him.

  "For," he said, "since I am now on my own land, I would have no one come after me, not even him."

  The moonlight made the road a streak of dull silver, as it wound up the mountain between the dense forest of tall fir trees. Somehow, the grade did not seem steep to the man, as he climbed steadily upward, and he rejoiced in the solitude. He wanted to be alone, certain that, only in complete isolation from the world, could he attain to the desired perfection of life. He eagerly looked forward to long years, wherein he might complete the development of his individuality.

  At last, he came to the top of the mountain. It must have been a very high mountain, because the moon was so near the earth that he could almost touch it; and the star, he knew, actually rested on the dome-like roof of the little circular building which occupied the exact center of a clearing from which the mountain sides dropped sharply. This building with the dome-shaped roof looked like an observatory, and the brilliant star rested exactly on the center of the roof, like a lode star, directing him to his place of emancipation.