Day after
day went by, and still my brother's meals were brought to his door and
left untouched; and though I knocked and called again and again, I could
get no answer. The servants began to talk to me; it appeared they were
as alarmed as I. The cook said that when my brother first shut himself
up in his room, she used to hear him come out at night and go about the
house; and once, she said, the hall door had opened and closed again,
but for several nights she had heard no sound. The climax came at last. It was in the dusk of the evening, and I was sitting in the darkening
dreary room when a terrible shriek jarred and rang harshly out of the
silence, and I heard a frightened scurry of feet dashing down the
stairs. I waited, and the servant maid staggered into the room and faced
me, white and trembling. "O Miss Helen," she whispered. "Oh, for the Lord's sake, Miss Helen,
what has happened? Look at my hand, miss; look at that hand!" I drew her
to the window, and saw there was a black wet stain upon her hand. "I do not understand you," I said. "Will you explain to me?" "I was doing your room just now," she began. "I was turning down the
bedclothes, and all of a sudden there was something fell upon my hand
wet, and I looked up, and the ceiling was black and dripping on me." I looked bard at her, and bit my lip. "Come with me," I said. "Bring
your candle with you." The room I slept in was beneath my brother's, and as I went in I felt I
was trembling. I looked up at the ceiling, and saw a patch, all black
and wet and a dew of black drops upon it, and a pool of horrible liquor
soaking into the white bedclothes. I ran upstairs and knocked loudly. "O Francis, Francis, my dear brother," I cried, "what has happened to
you?" And I listened. There was a sound of choking, and a noise like water
bubbling and regurgitating, but nothing else, and I called louder, but
no answer came. In spite of what Dr. Haberden had said, I went to him, and with tears
streaming down my cheeks, I told him of all that had happened, and he
listened to me with a face set hard and grim. "For your father's sake," he said at last, "I will go with you, though I
can do nothing." We went out together; the streets were dark and silent, and heavy with
heat and a drought of many weeks. I saw the doctor's face white under
the gas-lamps, and when we reached the house his hand was shaking. We
did not hesitate, but went upstairs directly. I held the lamp, and he
called out in a loud, determined voice:--

"Mr. Leicester, do you hear me? I insist on seeing you. Answer me at
once." There was no answer, but we both heard that choking noise I have
mentioned. "Mr. Leicester, I am waiting for you. Open the door this instant, or I
shall break it down." And he called a third time in a voice that rang
and echoed from the walls. "Mr. Leicester! For the last time I order you to open the door." "Ah!" he said, after a pause of heavy silence, "we are wasting time
here. Will you be so kind as to get me a poker, or something of the
kind?" I ran into a little room at the back where odd articles were kept, and
found a heavy adze-like tool that I thought might serve the doctor's
purpose. "Very good," he said, "that will do, I dare say. I give you notice, Mr.
Leicester," he cried loudly at the keyhole, "that I am now about to break
into your room." Then I heard the wrench of the adze, and the woodwork split and cracked
under it, and with a loud crash the door suddenly burst open; and for a
moment we started back aghast at a fearful screaming cry, no human
voice, but as the roar of a monster, that burst forth inarticulate and
struck at us out of the darkness. "Hold the lamp," said the doctor, and we went in and glanced quickly
round the room. "There it is," said Dr. Haberden, drawing a quick
breath; "look, in that corner." I looked, and a pang of horror seized my heart as with a white-hot iron. There upon the floor was a dark and putrid mass, seething with
corruption and hideous rottenness, neither liquid nor solid, but
melting and changing before our eyes, and bubbling with unctuous oily
bubbles like boiling pitch. And out of the midst of it shone two burning
points like eyes, and I saw a writhing and stirring as of limbs, and
something moved and lifted up that might have been an arm. The doctor
took a step forward, and raised the iron bar and struck at the burning
points, and drove in the weapon, and struck again and again in a fury of
loathing. At last the thing was quiet. *       *       *       *       *

A week or two later, when I had to some extent recovered from the
terrible shock, Dr. Haberden came to see me. "I have sold my practice," he began, "and to-morrow I am sailing on a
long voyage. I do not know whether I shall ever return to England; in
all probability I shall buy a little land in California, and settle
there for the remainder of my life. I have brought you this packet,
which you may open and read when you feel able to do so. It contains the
report of Dr. Chambers on what I submitted to him. Good-bye, Miss
Leicester, good-bye." When he was gone, I opened the envelope; I could not wait, and proceeded
to read the papers within. Here is the manuscript; and if you will allow
me, I will read you the astounding story it contains. "My dear Haberden," the letter began, "I have delayed inexcusably in
answering your questions as to the white substance you sent me. To tell
you the truth, I have hesitated for some time as to what course I should
adopt, for there is a bigotry and an orthodox standard in physical
science as in theology, and I knew that if I told you the truth I
should offend rooted prejudices which I once held dear myself. However,
I have determined to be plain with you, and first I must enter into a
short personal explanation. "You have known me, Haberden, for many years as a scientific man; you
and I have often talked of our profession together, and discussed the
hopeless gulf that opens before the feet of those who think to attain to
truth by any means whatsoever, except the beaten way of experiment and
observation, in the sphere of material things. I remember the scorn with
which you have spoken to me of men of science who have dabbled a little
in the unseen, and have timidly hinted that perhaps the senses are not,
after all, the eternal, impenetrable bounds of all knowledge, the
everlasting walls beyond which no human being has ever passed. We have
laughed together heartily, and I think justly, at the "occult" follies
of the day, disguised under various names,--the mesmerisms,
spiritualisms, materializations, theosophies, all the rabble rant of
imposture, with their machinery of poor tricks and feeble conjuring, the
true back-parlor magic of shabby London streets. Yet, in spite of what I
have said, I must confess to you that I am no materialist, taking the
word of course in its usual signification.