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                           The Doors of Death

                         By ARTHUR B. WALTERMIRE

[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October
1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: _A strange and curious story is this, about a banker whose
only fear was that he might be buried alive, like his grandfather before
him_]


A heavy stillness hung about the great halls and richly furnished rooms
of Judson McMasters' residence, and even seemed to extend out over the
velvet lawns, the shrub-lined walks and sun-blotched reaches under the
lacy elms and somber maples. Biggs glided about the sick-chamber like a specter, apparently striving
to keep busy, while he cast countless furtive, uneasy glances at the
heavy figure under the white sheets. An odor of drugs and fever tainted
the air, and a small walnut table near the flushed sleeper was laden
with the familiar prescription bottle, tumbler and box of powders. On
the wall behind the table, near the head of the bed, hung a small
oil-painting of Napoleon. The sleeper stirred restlessly, raised himself painfully and slowly, and
attempted to seek fleeting comfort in a new position. At the first
movement Biggs was a shadow at the bedside, deftly manipulating the
coverings and gently aiding the sick man with a tenderness born of long
service and deep affection. As the massive gray head sank into the
fluffed pillow the tired eyes opened, lighted by a faint glint of
thankfulness. Then they closed again and the once powerful body relaxed. With a pitiful, wistful expression on his aged face, the faithful Biggs
stood helplessly peering at the sick man until hot tears began to course
down his furrowed cheeks, and he turned hastily away. "Biggs!" The voice, still strong and commanding, cut the semi-gloom like a knife. Biggs, who was about to tuck the heavy curtains still more securely over
the windows, whirled as though he had touched a live wire, and in a
flash was across the great room and beside the bed. "Did you call, sir?" His voice quavered. "No"--a faint twinkle lighted the sick man's eyes--"I just spoke." "Ah, now sir," cried the overjoyed Biggs, "you are better, sir." "Biggs, I want some air and sunshine." "But the doctor, sir----"

"Drat the doctor! If I'm going to pass out I want to see where I'm
going." "Oh, but sir," expostulated the old servant, as he parted the curtains
and partially opened a casement window, "I wish you wouldn't say that,
sir." "I believe in facing a situation squarely, Biggs. My father and
grandfather died from this family malady, and I guess I'm headed over
the same route." "Please, sir," entreated Biggs. "Biggs, I want to ask you a question." "Yes, sir?" "Are you a Christian?" "I try to be, sir." "Do you believe in death?" Biggs was thoroughly startled and confused. "Why--a--we all have to die, sometime, sir," he answered haltingly, not
knowing what else to say. "But do we actually die?" insisted the sufferer. "Well, I hope--not yet," ventured the old servant. "The doctor said----"

"Forget the doctor," interposed McMasters. "Biggs, you have been in our
service since I was a lad, haven't you?" Tears welled into the servant's eyes, and his voice faltered. "Fifty-six years, come next November," he answered. "Well, let me tell you something, that even in those fifty-six years you
never learned, Biggs. My grandfather was buried alive!" "Oh, sir! Impossible!" cried Biggs, in horror. "Absolutely," asserted the banker. "Why--are you--how do you know, sir?" in a hoarse whisper. "My father built a family mausoleum in the far corner of this estate,
didn't he?" "Yes, sir--he hated burial in the earth, sir, after reading a poem of
Edgar Allan Poe's, sir!" "What poem was that, Biggs?" "I don't recall the name of it, but I remember the line," faltered
Biggs. "What was it?" "Oh, sir," cried the old man, "let's talk about something cheerful." "Not until we're through with this discussion, Hiram." *       *       *       *       *

The sound of his given name restored Biggs somewhat, for the banker
resorted to it only on occasions when he shared his deepest confidences
with his old houseman. "Well, the line goes, 'Soft may the worms about him creep,' sir." A slight shudder seemed to run through McMasters' body. Then after a
tomb-like silence, "Good reason for building the mausoleum." "Yes, sir, I think so, sir." "Well," with an apparent effort, "when they exhumed my grandfather's
remains to place them in the new vault, the casket was opened, and----"

"Oh, sir," cried Biggs, throwing out a trembling, expostulating hand,
but the banker went on, relentlessly.

" ----the body was turned over, on its side, with the left knee drawn up
part-way." "That's the way he always slept--in life." Biggs' voice was a hollow
whisper. "And that's the reason my father, after building himself a mausoleum,
insisted that his body be cremated," said McMasters. "He took no
chances." Biggs' horrified eyes traveled dully to the massive urn over the great
fireplace and rested there, fascinated. "Hiram, where is heaven?" Biggs' eyes flitted back to rest in surprize upon the questioner. "Why, up there, sir," pointing toward the ceiling. "Do you believe that the earth rotates on its axis?" "That's what I was taught in school, sir." "If that hypothesis is true, we are rolling through space at the rate of
about sixteen miles a minute," figured the banker. "Now you say heaven
is up there." "Yes, sir." "Biggs, what time is it?" The servant glanced at the great clock in the corner. "Ah, it's twelve o'clock, sir, and time for your medicine," in a voice
full of relief. "Never mind the drugs," commanded McMasters, "until we finish our
problem in higher mathematics. Now, if I ask you where heaven is at
midnight, which will be twelve hours from now, where will you point,"
triumphantly. "Why, up there," replied the bewildered servant, again indicating the
ceiling. "Then," cried McMasters, "you will be pointing directly opposite from
the place you indicated a moment ago; for by midnight the earth will
have turned approximately upside down. Do you get my point?" "Yes, sir," replied poor Biggs, thoroughly befuddled. "Then where will heaven be at six o'clock this evening?" fairly shouted
the sick man. "Out there," replied the servant, hopelessly, pointing toward the
window. "And where will heaven be at six o'clock in the morning?" "Over there." And Biggs pointed a trembling finger at the fireplace. Then, "Oh, sir, let's not--the doctor----"

"Hang the doctor," interrupted McMasters testily. "I've been thinking
this thing over, and I've got to talk about it to someone." "But don't you believe in a hereafter?" queried Biggs, a horrible note
of fear in his pitiful voice. For a moment the banker was silent; the massive clock ticked solemnly
on.