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

by David Henry Keller

  "That star has many peculiar features," Fordyce remarked to himself. "It is a monstrous star and yet it does not crush the building. It shines, therefore it must have heat, but it does not burn the roof; and since it does not roll off, it must have adhesive qualities in its five sharp points. But I am not concerned especially with the star nor with the moon, which seems so near and cold and portentous in its steely gleaming.

  "There is something of vast importance waiting to be done in the house. The door will be open; I will go in and do it. No one has lived here since I left so many years ago. I built the gate and painted the sign, so I know no one would dare enter against my prohibitions.

  "The house must need minor alterations. Everything must be made spotlessly clean, cobwebs removed, and any dead fly taken out and properly buried. Pictures must be dusted and straightened if they hang askew. Books must be rearranged in proper order, and some will have to be burned, for I will have nothing in the house that is not clean. All the house must be renovated for my homecoming. Thus, after months of life alone in a quiet, clean, house, I will gain the peace that is so necessary for the salvation of my soul."

  He walked through the unlocked door into a room so large that, in the dim light, it seemed to be the only room in the house; but he knew that dark corridors ran from it into still darker rooms.

  "And of those rooms," he said, "I can only dream; for though I built them, I have never revisited them since. Neither do I wish to enter them, for the things I have seen there, when sleeping, are not pleasant things; and it is the better for me to live in this one large room, where I can find peace and understanding."

  A small table with straight-backed chairs on either side occupied the center of this large, but sparsely furnished, room. On the table was a small standing mirror, and on either side of this mirror was a burning candle. Fordyce, suddenly realizing that he was tired, sat down on one of the chairs, closed his eyes, and rested his head on arms folded in front of the mirror.

  Perhaps he slept, but of this he neither knew nor cared. There was no one to disturb him, but he knew he must open his eyes. Startled, he sat upright, staring straight before him.

  A man sat in the chair across the table, and Fordyce could see him very clearly through the mirror. In fact, he could only see him when looking through the mirror, for when he looked above the glass or on the sides or under it, no part of the man was visible. It seemed as if the man was simply a picture in an old fashioned frame instead of an actual, living man with a face that could be seen only through a looking-glass.

  Fordyce knew him well. From the very first second that he saw him, James Fordyce recognized him. And he also knew why he was there, what he would say, and the way it would all end. Fordyce frowned. This was not at all the way he had planned it. But the man on the other side of the glass laughed, leering. As Fordyce saw him laughing, he realized that he was the cause of the other's merriment.

  Tauntingly, the man spoke:

  "I have been waiting a long time for you. Were you afraid to come? There was no reason for fear; we have so much in common. I am as like you as though we were identical twins. If we could but fuse our souls, then how happy both of us would be. But whenever I make a suggestion of any kind, you meet it with positive refusal. Even when I suggest that you do the things I know you want to do, you refuse merely because I suggested them to you. That is so foolish! You deny yourself—and me—so much pleasure."

  "You misconstrue everything," replied Fordyce angrily. "You have been a curse rather than a blessing to me. I could have accomplished much, become really great, had it not been for you. There was a poem I wanted to write, and every time I scratched a sentence, you suggested that it was not worded properly; and I had to cross it out and start all over again. And I've never written more than these first lines:

  Too late the roses are falling, Over you and me. . .

  "I do not want you here," Fordyce continued. "I never wanted you, and I do not need you. Besides, this house is only large enough for one man. I built it, and I own it, so I command you to leave at once! Do you understand? Leave at once! Give me the privacy I seek. I have many great things to do. The most important one is the understanding of my soul, and I can attain my objectives only when by myself."

  The man behind the mirror continued to smile, mockingly.

  "You say the house is too small for two men to live in? Don't you know there are other rooms besides this one, rooms at the end of those dark corridors ? I spend much of my time there."

  *'I know about those rooms," cried Fordyce, consternation in his voice, his face white and sweating with fear and rage. "I know those rooms, and I also know you lived in one of them, and from that place you came to me in my dreams. For years you have come to me; and the creatures in the dreams you manufactured in your dank, slimy cell of a room must have been created by monsters of a bygone age and fed on the broth of Hell.

  "I could stand life so long as you came to me only in my dreams for there was always the awakening and the cold, revitalizing freshness of morning; but lately you have visited me in the daytime. It is true I never saw you, but I heard your voice from inside the walls of the room, from behind the door; and one day you entered my brain and talked to me from there. And I will not have that.

  "There must be an end to this persecution! You must go out of my life—out of my house, and especially must you go out of my soul; for in all these I have room for but one man. I will not share my soul with anyone, especially a man who has so foul a mind as you. Are you going freely or must I force you?"

  The man behind the mirror became serious.

  "I am not going willingly and you cannot force me. I am too vital a part of you to even think of leaving you. Perhaps that soul you talk of so glibly is not really your soul, but mine. Perhaps it is our joint possession? And if I have anything to do with it, I want it to be a clean, decent soul. Constantly you soil it with your adventurings in Borneo or Gobi. Perhaps you do not think I know about them? I was with you all the time and kept whispering to you that it would be best for you to behave more decorously."

  "That is not true," Fordyce shrieked, his face convulsed with anger. "Alone I am pure, clean, a fine man. But you always come to me with your tempting dreams, made in that horrid place where you live; and those dreams seem so real, that were it not for my powerful resistance, I would perhaps live the dream-life in the sunlight of the daytime.

  "Leave me alone! When I start doing something, cease your repeated urgings that I not do it! How can I ever do the things that have to be done if you are constantly blocking me? How can I ever finish the poem?"

  "The poem is finished," laughed the mirror-man. "That is all there ever was to that poem; and when there is no more to a poem, it is finished. Likewise, your isolation is finished because, from now on, I am remaining very close to you. In fact, I am going to live in this room with you, and you are going to do the things I want you to do. Day after day, you will sit here with me, playing with the dreams I bring you and laughing when you hear the different voices in which I speak to you.

  "If you cease struggling, there will be no more trouble for James Fordyce because his soul will be the soul of me and my soul will be that of James Fordyce, and you will never worry any more."

  "I have considered yielding to you," whispered Fordyce. "For many reasons, such a life would be attractive. Some of the men in the house I left tonight have submitted to your allure, and in their sleep they are always smiling, no doubt because of their dreams; but in the daytime they sit in a corner, on the floor, and wish neither to eat or keep clean; no, nor even to breathe because they are so happy talking to you, and men like you.

  "I have thought of ending life that way, no more struggles, no more conflicts, no more splitting of the personality; just a pleasant life of wandering with the Hell-men, and sharing with them the abominable pleasures they have devised in their houses by the Lake of Fire."

  Fordyce sat musing, his face drawn with the inner struggle. He ro
used himself and continued:

  "Yes, I have thought of it, but tonight I finally renounced such a life, and once I arrive at a decision, that decision cannot be changed. That is why I came here; to escape from you and your domination."

  "But there is no escape from me. I am a part of you! I showed you that by talking to you from your brain. How can you escape from me when I am with you always, even unto the end of the world?"

  "That is true. But you speak of the end of the world. What comes next? I suppose you know. You always know more than I do. You always say I am wrong and you are right, when I know that it is not so. But we were talking about your leaving this house and never returning. Again I ask: Will you go willingly, or must I make you?"

  The mirror-man shook his head, in negation.

  "I am never going, and you cannot make me, for I am you and you are me. How can I leave this house unless you go with me? This is a very comfortable room, and I enjoy your society, so here I will remain, talking to you; and if there is argument, that is your own fault, for I never argue—just talk."

  Fordyce licked his parched lips with a dry tongue. He had arrived at a decision, and knew that he must move quickly, before that other man could block his movements. Leaping from his chair, he plunged head first through the mirror, grappled with the mirror-man, and, with a piece of the broken glass, he made certain that the other man would talk no more.

  He smiled as he did this; the victory was his. There would be no more arguments; no more thwarting of desires. Now he could live quietly, alone in his house; and do the many important things he had to do—such as the better understanding of his soul.

  First he must finish the poem. He was sleepy, but he could still clearly remember the beginning: Too late the roses are falling, Over you and me. . . It seemed an excellent beginning for a poem, and he was sure he could complete it in the morning. He would also write that story of the star on the domed roof of the house, but now he was too tired.

  His eyes closed, his head drooped forward as he fell into a deep, painless rest; and in that sleep, no dreams tormented him.

  The next morning, when the nurse came to rouse James Fordyce, he was on the floor. On the bureau, the mirror was broken, and Fordyce held a jagged sliver of the glass in his rigid hand. He had, indeed, won the victory; now he could finish the poem.

  THE CEREBRAL LIBRARY

  WANTED. Five hundred college graduates, male, to perform secretarial work of a pleasing nature. Salary adequate to their position. Five year contract. Address No. 23 A, New York Times.

  WANTED. Three librarians, well versed in world literature. Five year contract. Address No. 23 A, New York Times.

  * * * * *

  THESE two advertisements attracted a great deal of attention. The market of supply, as far as college graduates were concerned, was over-stocked; and there was any number of young men who were willing to do almost any kind of work for any kind of a salary, let alone a salary described as adequate. The letters poured into the 23 A box, and every effort was made to ascertain the identity of the advertiser so that personal application could be made; but all in vain.

  Each of the thousands of applicants received a lengthy questionnaire. Each recipient filled out his paper, and sent it to a numbered letter box in the New York Post Office. Those who were fortunate had a personal interview with a sharp business man who admitted that he was simply engaged to select 503 men, capable of doing a certain work and willing to do it for a five-year period.

  At last, the five hundred and three men were selected. They were given tickets and expense money for a trip to an isolated town in Maine. They were told that the full scope of their work would be explained to them there, and that then, if there were any unwilling to sign the final contract, they would be permitted to leave.

  In small groups of twenty or less, the collegiates left New York. Their absence was hardly missed. None of them had been able, so far, to do anything else but graduate from an A.B. course in some university. They were mainly plodders; good men, but not brilliant.

  The town in Maine was simply a town in Maine. Including its two hotels, boarding houses, and private homes, it could, by crowding, take care of the unusual flood of visitors. The Methodist Church had been rented for a one-day meeting. It was understood that the meeting would take place when everyone had arrived.

  At last, the five hundred and three men were in the church. The young men were, to say the least, slightly excited. Up to the present time, they had formed no idea at all of what they were supposed to do. A five year contract with an adequate salary was attractive, but, on the other hand, the work might be so unattractive that it could not be considered.

  The three men selected for the position of librarians were seated on one side, up front, in the Amen corners. The others filled the church. The doors were locked. And then the speaker stepped out in front of the pulpit. He was a well known publicity man from Boston, by the name of Gates. He explained that he had simply been engaged to present a certain proposition to them, and that he had nothing to do with the proposed work after they had signed their five-year contract.

  His client, he explained, was a man interested in literary research. He was working on a new plan of universal knowledge which would require the reading of hundreds and thousands of books of all descriptions and in at least three foreign languages, though most of the books would be in the English language. All that the five hundred young men would be asked to do would be to spend a certain number of hours each day in reading. There would be no note-taking and no examinations. They should simply read the books given them. The three librarians would, under instructions, run the library, issue books, and keep a careful record of the books read by each man. If a reader had a hobby, such as mathematics or biology, that hobby was to be given consideration in his reading assignment. Adequate facilities were to be given for exercise, and the salaries would be ten thousand a year for five years; but during those five years, the readers would be out of communication with the world. If they wanted to, they could consider that they were in a glorified prison, or in an excellent hotel on a desert island. At the end of five years, they would each have fifty thousand dollars and an extensive addition to their education. The librarians would each receive twenty thousand a year, or a hundred thousand at the end of five years.

  Quickly, a hundred questions arose for answer. Mr. Gates answered them to the best of his ability. Some secrets, he explained, could not be divulged. In fact, there were some things about the whole affair that he himself was absolutely ignorant of. The Farmers' Bank in Philadelphia had informed him that the man in back of the plan was worth at least twenty-five million dollars, and no one need have any doubt in regard to receiving his salary. He did not know where the library was, where the reading would be done; but he did know that everything possible would be done for the comfort of the readers. Of course, it would mean isolation, but at that salary, isolation was preferable to contact and the ever present chance of poverty and actual starvation.

  All that the applicants had to do was to sign a contract. They would then be given instructions as to their destination.

  One and all rushed forward to sign on the dotted line. They were all serious young men, and the work looked atractive to them, even with the threatened isolation. As they signed, each man was given a ticket to Boston and an envelope to be opened on arriving there.

  Their journey to Boston was a far more cheerful one than the one to the isolated town in Maine. This condition was at least one of living. They had graduated, and now they had made good. They were white collar men, but they had an assured income that would put them on easy street in five years.

  In Boston, each man opened his envelope. It contained a ticket to another city or town, expense money for the trip, and another sealed envelope to be opened on arriving there. And each ticket was to A DIFFERENT DESTINATION. Theirs not to question why; but each man was secretly sure that at the end of his trip he would find the new library and his five-year job.<
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  The sealed envelope told another story. Another ticket, another amount of cash for traveling expenses, another destination. This time the destinations for all were the same. The guiding hand had deliberately tossed five hundred and three men to five hundred and three parts of the United States and Canada and had then tossed them back again to one place. There was no doubt of his purpose. Secrecy!

  For some months, the realtors of Stroudsburg had been thrilled by the news that Pennsylvania Manor, on the crest of the Poconos, was at last sold. For some years it had been a source of worry. Built on an elaborate scale to provide a pleasure resort for six hundred guests, it had failed to pay the necessary interest on the investment, and had been kept closed. Its wonderful ballroom, golf course, and four thousand acres of land had been useless and worthless. Now it was sold, and no doubt the resort business would pick up. There were a thousand rumors, ten thousand pieces of idle gossip. Everybody guessed, and no one knew the truth.

  A high wire fence was run around the four thousand acres, and then the bare statement was given to the press that the Manor was to be used as a retreat for the intellectual, a place where education would take the part of religion and where, shut off from the rest of the world, consolation could be sought in higher intellectual development.

  This information was all a very great disappointment to the people of Stroudsburg. They wanted the Manor filled with six hundred pleasure-seekers who had only one idea, and that should be to spend money. The thought of turning the place into a monastery, with higher education as the only aim and the world shut out with iron gates and a steel fence, was not at all what the business men of the community wanted. Still, there it was, and they had to make the best of it.