object:1f.lovecraft - Winged Death
author class:H P Lovecraft
subject class:Fiction
genre class:Horror
class:chapter
with Hazel Heald
The Orange Hotel stands in High Street near the railway station in
Bloemfontein, South Africa. On Sunday, January 24, 1932, four men sat
shivering from terror in a room on its third floor. One was George C.
Titteridge, proprietor of the hotel; another was police constable Ian
De Witt of the Central Station; a third was Johannes Bogaert, the local
coroner; the fourth, and apparently the least disorganised of the
group, was Dr. Cornelius Van Keulen, the coroners physician.
On the floor, uncomfortably evident amidst the stifling summer heat,
was the body of a dead manbut this was not what the four were afraid
of. Their glances wandered from the table, on which lay a curious
assortment of things, to the ceiling overhead, across whose smooth
whiteness a series of huge, faltering alphabetical characters had
somehow been scrawled in ink; and every now and then Dr. Van Keulen
would glance half-furtively at a worn leather blank-book which he held
in his left hand. The horror of the four seemed about equally divided
among the blank-book, the scrawled words on the ceiling, and a dead fly
of peculiar aspect which floated in a bottle of ammonia on the table.
Also on the table were an open inkwell, a pen and writing-pad, a
physicians medical case, a bottle of hydrochloric acid, and a tumbler
about a quarter full of black oxide of manganese.
The worn leather book was the journal of the dead man on the floor, and
had at once made it clear that the name Frederick N. Mason, Mining
Properties, Toronto, Canada, signed in the hotel register, was a false
one. There were other thingsterrible thingswhich it likewise made
clear; and still other things of far greater terror at which it hinted
hideously without making them clear or even fully believable. It was
the half-belief of the four men, fostered by lives spent close to the
black, settled secrets of brooding Africa, which made them shiver so
violently in spite of the searing January heat.
The blank-book was not a large one, and the entries were in a fine
handwriting, which, however, grew careless and nervous-looking toward
the last. It consisted of a series of jottings at first rather
irregularly spaced, but finally becoming daily. To call it a diary
would not be quite correct, for it chronicled only one set of its
writers activities. Dr. Van Keulen recognised the name of the dead man
the moment he opened the cover, for it was that of an eminent member of
his own profession who had been largely connected with African matters.
In another moment he was horrified to find this name linked with a
dastardly crime, officially unsolved, which had filled the newspapers
some four months before. And the farther he read, the deeper grew his
horror, awe, and sense of loathing and panic.
Here, in essence, is the text which the doctor read aloud in that
sinister and increasingly noisome room while the three men around him
breathed hard, fidgeted in their chairs, and darted frightened glances
at the ceiling, the table, the thing on the floor, and one another:
JOURNAL OF
THOMAS SLAUENWITE, M.D.
Touching punishment of Henry Sargent Moore, Ph.D., of Brooklyn, New
York, Professor of Invertebrate Biology in Columbia University, New
York, N.Y. Prepared to be read after my death, for the satisfaction of
making public the accomplishment of my revenge, which may otherwise
never be imputed to me even if it succeeds.
January 5, 1929I have now fully resolved to kill Dr. Henry Moore, and
a recent incident has shewn me how I shall do it. From now on, I shall
follow a consistent line of action; hence the beginning of this
journal.
It is hardly necessary to repeat the circumstances which have driven me
to this course, for the informed part of the public is familiar with
all the salient facts. I was born in Trenton, New Jersey, on April 12,
1885, the son of Dr. Paul Slauenwite, formerly of Pretoria, Transvaal,
South Africa. Studying medicine as part of my family tradition, I was
led by my father (who died in 1916, while I was serving in France in a
South African regiment) to specialise in African fevers; and after my
graduation from Columbia spent much time in researches which took me
from Durban, in Natal, up to the equator itself.
In Mombasa I worked out my new theory of the transmission and
development of remittent fever, aided only slightly by the papers of
the late government physician, Sir Norman Sloane, which I found in the
house I occupied. When I published my results I became at a single
stroke a famous authority. I was told of the probability of an almost
supreme position in the South African health service, and even a
probable knighthood, in the event of my becoming a naturalised citizen,
and accordingly I took the necessary steps.
Then occurred the incident for which I am about to kill Henry Moore.
This man, my classmate and friend of years in America and Africa, chose
deliberately to undermine my claim to my own theory; alleging that Sir
Norman Sloane had anticipated me in every essential detail, and
implying that I had probably found more of his papers than I had stated
in my account of the matter. To buttress this absurd accusation he
produced certain personal letters from Sir Norman which indeed shewed
that the older man had been over my ground, and that he would have
published his results very soon but for his sudden death. This much I
could only admit with regret. What I could not excuse was the jealous
suspicion that I had stolen the theory from Sir Normans papers. The
British government, sensibly enough, ignored these aspersions, but
withheld the half-promised appointment and knighthood on the ground
that my theory, while original with me, was not in fact new.
I could soon see that my career in Africa was perceptibly checked;
though I had placed all my hopes on such a career, even to the point of
resigning American citizenship. A distinct coolness toward me had
arisen among the Government set in Mombasa, especially among those who
had known Sir Norman. It was then that I resolved to be even with Moore
sooner or later, though I did not know how. He had been jealous of my
early celebrity, and had taken advantage of his old correspondence with
Sir Norman to ruin me. This from the friend whom I had myself led to
take an interest in Africawhom I had coached and inspired till he
achieved his present moderate fame as an authority on African
entomology. Even now, though, I will not deny that his attainments are
profound. I made him, and in return he has ruined me. Nowsome dayI
shall destroy him.
When I saw myself losing ground in Mombasa, I applied for my present
situation in the interiorat Mgonga, only fifty miles from the Uganda
line. It is a cotton and ivory trading-post, with only eight white men
besides myself. A beastly hole, almost on the equator, and full of
every sort of fever known to mankind. Poisonous snakes and insects
everywhere, and niggers with diseases nobody ever heard of outside
medical college. But my work is not hard, and I have always had plenty
of time to plan things to do to Henry Moore. It amuses me to give his
Diptera of Central and Southern Africa a prominent place on my shelf. I
suppose it actually is a standard manualthey use it at Columbia,
Harvard, and the U. of Wis.but my own suggestions are really
responsible for half its strong points.
Last week I encountered the thing which decided me how to kill Moore. A
party from Uganda brought in a black with a queer illness which I cant
yet diagnose. He was lethargic, with a very low temperature, and
shuffled in a peculiar way. Most of the others were afraid of him and
said he was under some kind of witch-doctor spell; but Gobo, the
interpreter, said he had been bitten by an insect. What it was, I cant
imaginefor there is only a slight puncture on the arm. It is bright
red, though, with a purple ring around it. Spectral-lookingI dont
wonder the boys lay it to black magic. They seem to have seen cases
like it before, and say theres really nothing to do about it.
Old NKuru, one of the Galla boys at the post, says it must be the bite
of a devil-fly, which makes its victim waste away gradually and die,
and then takes hold of his soul and personality if it is still alive
itselfflying around with all his likes, dislikes, and consciousness. A
queer legendand I dont know of any local insect deadly enough to
account for it. I gave this sick blackhis name is Mevanaa good shot
of quinine and took a sample of his blood for testing, but havent made
much progress. There is certainly a strange germ present, but I cant
even remotely identify it. The nearest thing to it is the bacillus one
finds in oxen, horses, and dogs that the tsetse-fly has bitten; but
tsetse-flies dont infect human beings, and this is too far north for
them anyway.
Howeverthe important thing is that Ive decided how to kill Moore. If
this interior region has insects as poisonous as the natives say, Ill
see that he gets a shipment of them from a source he wont suspect, and
with plenty of assurances that they are harmless. Trust him to throw
overboard all caution when it comes to studying an unknown speciesand
then well see how Nature takes its course! It ought not to be hard to
find an insect that scares the blacks so much. First to see how poor
Mevana turns outand then to find my envoy of death.
Jan. 7Mevana is no better, though I have injected all the antitoxins I
know of. He has fits of trembling, in which he rants affrightedly about
the way his soul will pass when he dies into the insect that bit him,
but between them he remains in a kind of half-stupor. Heart action
still strong, so I may pull him through. I shall try to, for he can
probably guide me better than anyone else to the region where he was
bitten.
Meanwhile Ill write to Dr. Lincoln, my predecessor here, for Allen,
the head factor, says he had a profound knowledge of the local
sicknesses. He ought to know about the death-fly if any white man does.
Hes at Nairobi now, and a black runner ought to get me a reply in a
weekusing the railway for half the trip.
Jan. 10Patient unchanged, but I have found what I want! It was in an
old volume of the local health records, which Ive been going over
diligently while waiting to hear from Lincoln. Thirty years ago there
was an epidemic that killed off thousands of natives in Uganda, and it
was definitely traced to a rare fly called Glossina palpalisa sort of
cousin of the Glossina marsitans, or tsetse. It lives in the bushes on
the shores of lakes and rivers, and feeds on the blood of crocodiles,
antelopes, and large mammals. When these food animals have the germ of
trypanosomiasis, or sleeping-sickness, it picks it up and develops
acute infectivity after an incubation period of thirty-one days. Then
for seventy-five days it is sure death to anyone or anything it bites.
Without doubt, this must be the devil-fly the niggers talk about. Now
I know what Im heading for. Hope Mevana pulls through. Ought to hear
from Lincoln in four or five dayshe has a great reputation for success
in things like this. My worst problem will be to get the flies to Moore
without his recognising them. With his cursed plodding scholarship it
would be just like him to know all about them since theyre actually on
record.
Jan. 15Just heard from Lincoln, who confirms all that the records say
about Glossina palpalis. He has a remedy for sleeping-sickness which
has succeeded in a great number of cases when not given too late.
Intermuscular injections of tryparsamide. Since Mevana was bitten about
two months ago, I dont know how it will workbut Lincoln says that
cases have been known to drag on eighteen months, so possibly Im not
too late. Lincoln sent over some of his stuff, so Ive just given
Mevana a stiff shot. In a stupor now. Theyve brought his principal
wife from the village, but he doesnt even recognise her. If he
recovers, he can certainly shew me where the flies are. Hes a great
crocodile hunter, according to report, and knows all Uganda like a
book. Ill give him another shot tomorrow.
Jan. 16Mevana seems a little brighter today, but his heart action is
slowing up a bit. Ill keep up the injections, but not overdo them.
Jan. 17Recovery really pronounced today. Mevana opened his eyes and
shewed signs of actual consciousness, though dazed, after the
injection. Hope Moore doesnt know about tryparsamide. Theres a good
chance he wont, since he never leaned much toward medicine. Mevanas
tongue seemed paralysed, but I fancy that will pass off if I can only
wake him up. Wouldnt mind a good sleep myself, but not of this kind!
Jan. 25Mevana nearly cured! In another week I can let him take me into
the jungle. He was frightened when he first came toabout having the
fly take his personality after he diedbut brightened up finally when I
told him he was going to get well. His wife, Ugowe, takes good care of
him now, and I can rest a bit. Then for the envoys of death!
Feb. 3Mevana is well now, and I have talked with him about a hunt for
flies. He dreads to go near the place where they got him, but I am
playing on his gratitude. Besides, he has an idea that I can ward off
disease as well as cure it. His pluck would shame a white mantheres
no doubt that hell go. I can get off by telling the head factor the
trip is in the interest of local health work.
March 12In Uganda at last! Have five boys besides Mevana, but they are
all Gallas. The local blacks couldnt be hired to come near the region
after the talk of what had happened to Mevana. This jungle is a
pestilential placesteaming with miasmal vapours. All the lakes look
stagnant. In one spot we came upon a trace of Cyclopean ruins which
made even the Gallas run past in a wide circle. They say these
megaliths are older than man, and that they used to be a haunt or
outpost of The Fishers from Outsidewhatever that meansand of the
evil gods Tsadogwa and Clulu. To this day they are said to have a
malign influence, and to be connected somehow with the devil-flies.
March 15Struck Lake Mlolo this morningwhere Mevana was bitten. A
hellish, green-scummed affair, full of crocodiles. Mevana has fixed up
a fly-trap of fine wire netting baited with crocodile meat. It has a
small entrance, and once the quarry get in, they dont know enough to
get out. As stupid as they are deadly, and ravenous for fresh meat or a
bowl of blood. Hope we can get a good supply. Ive decided that I must
experiment with themfinding a way to change their appearance so that
Moore wont recognise them. Possibly I can cross them with some other
species, producing a strange hybrid whose infection-carrying capacity
will be undiminished. Well see. I must wait, but am in no hurry now.
When I get ready Ill have Mevana get me some infected meat to feed my
envoys of deathand then for the post-office. Ought to be no trouble
getting infection, for this country is a veritable pest-hole.
March 16Good luck. Two cages full. Five vigorous specimens with wings
glistening like diamonds. Mevana is emptying them into a large can with
a tightly meshed top, and I think we caught them in the nick of time.
We can get them to Mgonga without trouble. Taking plenty of crocodile
meat for their food. Undoubtedly all or most of it is infected.
April 20Back at Mgonga and busy in the laboratory. Have sent to Dr.
Joost in Pretoria for some tsetse-flies for hybridisation experiments.
Such a crossing, if it will work at all, ought to produce something
pretty hard to recognise yet at the same time just as deadly as the
palpalis. If this doesnt work, I shall try certain other diptera from
the interior, and I have sent to Dr. Vandervelde at Nyangwe for some of
the Congo types. I shant have to send Mevana for more tainted meat
after all; for I find I can keep cultures of the germ Trypanosoma
gambiense, taken from the meat we got last month, almost indefinitely
in tubes. When the time comes, Ill taint some fresh meat and feed my
winged envoys a good dosethen bon voyage to them!
June 18My tsetse-flies from Joost came today. Cages for breeding were
all ready long ago, and I am now making selections. Intend to use
ultra-violet rays to speed up the life-cycle. Fortunately I have the
needed apparatus in my regular equipment. Naturally I tell no one what
Im doing. The ignorance of the few men here makes it easy for me to
conceal my aims and pretend to be merely studying existing species for
medical reasons.
June 29The crossing is fertile! Good deposits of eggs last Wednesday,
and now I have some excellent larvae. If the mature insects look as
strange as these do, I need do nothing more. Am preparing separate
numbered cages for the different specimens.
July 7New hybrids are out! Disguise is excellent as to shape, but
sheen of wings still suggests palpalis. Thorax has faint suggestions of
the stripes of the tsetse. Slight variation in individuals. Am feeding
them all on tainted crocodile meat, and after infectivity develops will
try them on some of the blacksapparently, of course, by accident.
There are so many mildly venomous flies around here that it can easily
be done without exciting suspicion. I shall loose an insect in my
tightly screened dining-room when Batta, my house-boy, brings in
breakfastkeeping well on guard myself. When it has done its work Ill
capture or swat itan easy thing because of its stupidityor asphyxiate
it by filling the room with chlorine gas. If it doesnt work the first
time, Ill try again until it does. Of course, Ill have the
tryparsamide handy in case I get bitten myselfbut I shall be careful
to avoid biting, for no antidote is really certain.
Aug. 10Infectivity mature, and managed to get Batta stung in fine
shape. Caught the fly on him, returning it to its cage. Eased up the
pain with iodine, and the poor devil is quite grateful for the service.
Shall try a variant specimen on Gamba, the factors messenger,
tomorrow. That will be all the tests I shall dare to make here, but if
I need more I shall take some specimens to Ukala and get additional
data.
Aug. 11Failed to get Gamba, but recaptured the fly alive. Batta still
seems as well as usual, and has no pain in the back where he was stung.
Shall wait before trying to get Gamba again.
Aug. 14Shipment of insects from Vandervelde at last. Fully seven
distinct species, some more or less poisonous. Am keeping them well fed
in case the tsetse crossing doesnt work. Some of these fellows look
very unlike the palpalis, but the trouble is that they may not make a
fertile cross with it.
Aug. 17Got Gamba this afternoon, but had to kill the fly on him. It
nipped him in the left shoulder. I dressed the bite, and Gamba is as
grateful as Batta was. No change in Batta.
Aug. 20Gamba unchanged so farBatta too. Am experimenting with a new
form of disguise to supplement the hybridisationsome sort of dye to
change the telltale glitter of the palpalis wings. A bluish tint would
be bestsomething I could spray on a whole batch of insects. Shall
begin by investigating things like Prussian and Turnbulls blueiron
and cyanogen salts.
Aug. 25Batta complained of a pain in his back todaythings may be
developing.
Sept. 3Have made fair progress in my experiments. Batta shews signs of
lethargy, and says his back aches all the time. Gamba beginning to feel
uneasy in his bitten shoulder.
Sept. 24Batta worse and worse, and beginning to get frightened about
his bite. Thinks it must be a devil-fly, and entreated me to kill
itfor he saw me cage ituntil I pretended to him that it had died long
ago. Said he didnt want his soul to pass into it upon his death. I
give him shots of plain water with a hypodermic to keep his morale up.
Evidently the fly retains all the properties of the palpalis. Gamba
down, too, and repeating all of Battas symptoms. I may decide to give
him a chance with tryparsamide, for the effect of the fly is proved
well enough. I shall let Batta go on, however, for I want a rough idea
of how long it takes to finish a case.
Dye experiments coming along finely. An isomeric form of ferrous
ferrocyanide, with some admixture of potassium salts, can be dissolved
in alcohol and sprayed on the insects with splendid effect. It stains
the wings blue without affecting the dark thorax much, and doesnt wear
off when I sprinkle the specimens with water. With this disguise, I
think I can use the present tsetse hybrids and avoid bothering with any
more experiments. Sharp as he is, Moore couldnt recognise a
blue-winged fly with a half-tsetse thorax. Of course, I keep all this
dye business strictly under cover. Nothing must ever connect me with
the blue flies later on.
Oct. 9Batta is lethargic and has taken to his bed. Have been giving
Gamba tryparsamide for two weeks, and fancy hell recover.
Oct. 25Batta very low, but Gamba nearly well.
Nov. 18Batta died yesterday, and a curious thing happened which gave
me a real shiver in view of the native legends and Battas own fears.
When I returned to the laboratory after the death I heard the most
singular buzzing and thrashing in cage 12, which contained the fly that
bit Batta. The creature seemed frantic, but stopped still when I
appearedlighting on the wire netting and looking at me in the oddest
way. It reached its legs through the wires as if it were bewildered.
When I came back from dining with Allen, the thing was dead. Evidently
it had gone wild and beaten its life out on the sides of the cage.
It certainly is peculiar that this should happen just as Batta died. If
any black had seen it, hed have laid it at once to the absorption of
the poor devils soul. I shall start my blue-stained hybrids on their
way before long now. The hybrids rate of killing seems a little ahead
of the pure palpalis rate, if anything. Batta died three months and
eight days after infectionbut of course there is always a wide margin
of uncertainty. I almost wish I had let Gambas case run on.
Dec. 5Busy planning how to get my envoys to Moore. I must have them
appear to come from some disinterested entomologist who has read his
Diptera of Central and Southern Africa and believes he would like to
study this new and unidentifiable species. There must also be ample
assurances that the blue-winged fly is harmless, as proved by the
natives long experience. Moore will be off his guard, and one of the
flies will surely get him sooner or laterthough one cant tell just
when.
Ill have to rely on the letters of New York friendsthey still speak
of Moore from time to timeto keep me informed of early results, though
I dare say the papers will announce his death. Above all, I must shew
no interest in his case. I shall mail the flies while on a trip, but
must not be recognised when I do it. The best plan will be to take a
long vacation in the interior, grow a beard, mail the package at Ukala
while passing as a visiting entomologist, and return here after shaving
off the beard.
April 12, 1930Back in Mgonga after my long trip. Everything has come
off finelywith clockwork precision. Have sent the flies to Moore
without leaving a trace. Got a Christmas vacation Dec. 15th, and set
out at once with the proper stuff. Made a very good mailing container
with room to include some germ-tainted crocodile meat as food for the
envoys. By the end of February I had beard enough to shape into a close
Vandyke.
Shewed up at Ukala March 9th and typed a letter to Moore on the
trading-post machine. Signed it Nevil Wayland-Hallsupposed to be an
entomologist from London. Think I took just the right toneinterest of
a brother-scientist, and all that. Was artistically casual in
emphasising the complete harmlessness of the specimens. Nobody
suspected anything. Shaved the beard as soon as I hit the bush, so that
there wouldnt be any uneven tanning by the time I got back here.
Dispensed with native bearers except for one small stretch of swampI
can do wonders with one knapsack, and my sense of direction is good.
Lucky Im used to such travelling. Explained my protracted absence by
pleading a touch of fever and some mistakes in direction when going
through the bush.
But now comes the hardest part psychologicallywaiting for news of
Moore without shewing the strain. Of course, he may possibly escape a
bite until the venom is played outbut with his recklessness the
chances are one hundred to one against him. I have no regrets; after
what he did to me, he deserves this and more.
June 30, 1930Hurrah! The first step worked! Just heard casually from
Dyson of Columbia that Moore had received some new blue-winged flies
from Africa, and that he is badly puzzled over them! No word of any
bitebut if I know Moores slipshod ways as I think I do, therell be
one before long!
August 27, 1930Letter from Morton in Cambridge. He says Moore writes
of feeling very run-down, and tells of an insect bite on the back of
his neckfrom a curious new specimen that he received about the middle
of June. Have I succeeded? Apparently Moore doesnt connect the bite
with his weakness. If this is the real stuff, then Moore was bitten
well within the insects period of infectivity.
Sept. 12, 1930Victory! Another line from Dyson says that Moore is
really in an alarming shape. He now traces his illness to the bite,
which he received around noon on June 19, and is quite bewildered about
the identity of the insect. Is trying to get in touch with the Nevil
Wayland-Hall who sent him the shipment. Of the hundred-odd that I
sent, about twenty-five seem to have reached him alive. Some escaped at
the time of the bite, but several larvae have appeared from eggs laid
since the time of mailing. He is, Dyson says, carefully incubating
these larvae. When they mature I suppose hell identify the
tsetse-palpalis hybridisationbut that wont do him much good now.
Hell wonder, though, why the blue wings arent transmitted by
heredity!
Nov. 8, 1930Letters from half a dozen friends tell of Moores serious
illness. Dysons came today. He says Moore is utterly at sea about the
hybrids that came from the larvae and is beginning to think that the
parents got their blue wings in some artificial way. Has to stay in bed
most of the time now. No mention of using tryparsamide.
Feb. 13, 1931Not so good! Moore is sinking, and seems to know no
remedy, but I think he suspects me. Had a very chilly letter from
Morton last month, which told nothing of Moore; and now Dyson
writesalso rather constrainedlythat Moore is forming theories about
the whole matter. Hes been making a search for Wayland-Hall by
telegraphat London, Ukala, Nairobi, Mombasa, and other placesand of
course finds nothing. I judge that hes told Dyson whom he suspects,
but that Dyson doesnt believe it yet. Fear Morton does believe it.
I see that Id better lay plans for getting out of here and effacing my
identity for good. What an end to a career that started out so well!
More of Moores workbut this time hes paying for it in advance!
Believe Ill go back to South Africaand meanwhile will quietly deposit
funds there to the credit of my new selfFrederick Nasmyth Mason of
Toronto, Canada, broker in mining properties. Will establish a new
signature for identification. If I never have to take the step, I can
easily re-transfer the funds to my present self.
Aug. 15, 1931Half a year gone, and still suspense. Dyson and Mortonas
well as several other friendsseem to have stopped writing me. Dr.
James of San Francisco hears from Moores friends now and then, and
says Moore is in an almost continuous coma. He hasnt been able to walk
since May. As long as he could talk he complained of being cold. Now he
cant talk, though it is thought he still has glimmers of
consciousness. His breathing is short and quick, and can be heard some
distance away. No question but that Trypanosoma gambiense is feeding on
himbut he holds out better than the niggers around here. Three months
and eight days finished Batta, and here Moore is alive over a year
after his biting. Heard rumours last month of an intensive search
around Ukala for Wayland-Hall. Dont think I need to worry yet,
though, for theres absolutely nothing in existence to link me with
this business.
Oct. 7, 1931Its over at last! News in the Mombasa Gazette. Moore died
September 20 after a series of trembling fits and with a temperature
vastly below normal. So much for that! I said Id get him, and I did!
The paper had a three-column report of his long illness and death, and
of the futile search for Wayland-Hall. Obviously, Moore was a bigger
character in Africa than I had realised. The insect that bit him has
now been fully identified from the surviving specimens and developed
larvae, and the wing-staining is also detected. It is universally
realised that the flies were prepared and shipped with intent to kill.
Moore, it appears, communicated certain suspicions to Dyson, but the
latterand the policeare maintaining secrecy because of absence of
proof. All of Moores enemies are being looked up, and the Associated
Press hints that an investigation, possibly involving an eminent
physician now abroad, will follow.
One thing at the very end of the reportundoubtedly, the cheap
romancing of a yellow journalistgives me a curious shudder in view of
the legends of the blacks and the way the fly happened to go wild when
Batta died. It seems that an odd incident occurred on the night of
Moores death; Dyson having been aroused by the buzzing of a
blue-winged flywhich immediately flew out the windowjust before the
nurse telephoned the death news from Moores home, miles away in
Brooklyn.
But what concerns me most is the African end of the matter. People at
Ukala remember the bearded stranger who typed the letter and sent the
package, and the constabulary are combing the country for any blacks
who may have carried him. I didnt use many, but if officers question
the Ubandes who took me through NKini jungle belt Ill have more to
explain than I like. It looks as if the time has come for me to vanish;
so tomorrow I believe Ill resign and prepare to start for parts
unknown.
Nov. 9, 1931Hard work getting my resignation acted on, but release
came today. I didnt want to aggravate suspicion by decamping outright.
Last week I heard from James about Moores deathbut nothing more than
is in the papers. Those around him in New York seem rather reticent
about details, though they all talk about a searching investigation. No
word from any of my friends in the East. Moore must have spread some
dangerous suspicions around before he lost consciousnessbut there
isnt an iota of proof he could have adduced.
Still, I am taking no chances. On Thursday I shall start for Mombasa,
and when there will take a steamer down the coast to Durban. After that
I shall drop from sightbut soon afterward the mining properties
broker Frederick Nasmyth Mason, from Toronto, will turn up in
Johannesburg.
Let this be the end of my journal. If in the end I am not suspected, it
will serve its original purpose after my death and reveal what would
otherwise not be known. If, on the other hand, these suspicions do
materialise and persist, it will confirm and clarify the vague charges,
and fill in many important and puzzling gaps. Of course, if danger
comes my way I shall have to destroy it.
Well, Moore is deadas he amply deserves to be. Now Dr. Thomas
Slauenwite is dead, too. And when the body formerly belonging to Thomas
Slauenwite is dead, the public may have this record.
II.
Jan. 15, 1932A new yearand a reluctant reopening of this journal.
This time I am writing solely to relieve my mind, for it would be
absurd to fancy that the case is not definitely closed. I am settled in
the Vaal Hotel, Johannesburg, under my new name, and no one has so far
challenged my identity. Have had some inconclusive business talks to
keep up my part as a mine broker, and believe I may actually work
myself into that business. Later I shall go to Toronto and plant a few
evidences for my fictitious past.
But what is bothering me is an insect that invaded my room around noon
today. Of course I have had all sorts of nightmares about blue flies of
late, but those were only to be expected in view of my prevailing
nervous strain. This thing, however, was a waking actuality, and I am
utterly at a loss to account for it. It buzzed around my bookshelf for
fully a quarter of an hour, and eluded every attempt to catch or kill
it. The queerest thing was its colour and aspectfor it had blue wings
and was in every way a duplicate of my hybrid envoys of death. How it
could possibly be one of these, in fact, I certainly dont know. I
disposed of all the hybridsstained and unstainedthat I didnt send to
Moore, and cant recall any instance of escape.
Can this be wholly an hallucination? Or could any of the specimens that
escaped in Brooklyn when Moore was bitten have found their way back to
Africa? There was that absurd story of the blue fly that waked Dyson
when Moore diedbut after all, the survival and return of some of the
things is not impossible. It is perfectly plausible that the blue
should stick to their wings, too, for the pigment I devised was almost
as good as tattooing for permanence. By elimination, that would seem to
be the only rational explanation for this thing; though it is very
curious that the fellow has come as far south as this. Possibly its
some hereditary homing instinct inherent in the tsetse strain. After
all, that side of him belongs to South Africa.
I must be on my guard against a bite. Of course the original venomif
this is actually one of the flies that escaped from Moorewas worn out
ages ago; but the fellow must have fed as he flew back from America,
and he may well have come through Central Africa and picked up a fresh
infectivity. Indeed, thats more probable than not; for the palpalis
half of his heredity would naturally take him back to Uganda, and all
the trypanosomiasis germs. I still have some of the tryparsamide leftI
couldnt bear to destroy my medicine case, incriminating though it may
bebut since reading up on the subject I am not so sure about the
drugs action as I was. It gives one a fighting chancecertainly it
saved Gambabut theres always a large probability of failure.
Its devilish queer that this fly should have happened to come into my
roomof all places in the wide expanse of Africa! Seems to strain
coincidence to the breaking-point. I suppose that if it comes again, I
shall certainly kill it. Im surprised that it escaped me today, for
ordinarily these fellows are extremely stupid and easy to catch. Can it
be a pure illusion after all? Certainly the heat is getting me of late
as it never did beforeeven up around Uganda.
Jan. 16Am I going insane? The fly came again this noon, and acted so
anomalously that I cant make head or tail of it. Only delusion on my
part could account for what that buzzing pest seemed to do. It appeared
from nowhere, and went straight to my bookshelfcircling again and
again to front a copy of Moores Diptera of Central and Southern
Africa. Now and then it would light on top or back of the volume, and
occasionally it would dart forward toward me and retreat before I could
strike at it with a folded paper. Such cunning is unheard of among the
notoriously stupid African diptera. For nearly half an hour I tried to
get the cursed thing, but at last it darted out the window through a
hole in the screen that I hadnt noticed. At times I fancied it
deliberately mocked me by coming within reach of my weapon and then
skilfully sidestepping as I struck out. I must keep a tight hold of my
consciousness.
Jan. 17Either I am mad or the world is in the grip of some sudden
suspension of the laws of probability as we know them. That damnable
fly came in from somewhere just before noon and commenced buzzing
around the copy of Moores Diptera on my shelf. Again I tried to catch
it, and again yesterdays experience was repeated. Finally the pest
made for the open inkwell on my table and dipped itself injust the
legs and thorax, keeping its wings clear. Then it sailed up to the
ceiling and litbeginning to crawl around in a curved patch and leaving
a trail of ink. After a time it hopped a bit and made a single ink spot
unconnected with the trailthen it dropped squarely in front of my
face, and buzzed out of sight before I could get it.
Something about this whole business struck me as monstrously sinister
and abnormalmore so than I could explain to myself. When I looked at
the ink-trail on the ceiling from different angles, it seemed more and
more familiar to me, and it dawned on me suddenly that it formed an
absolutely perfect question-mark. What device could be more malignly
appropriate? It is a wonder that I did not faint. So far the hotel
attendants have not noticed it. Have not seen the fly this afternoon
and evening, but am keeping my inkwell securely closed. I think my
extermination of Moore must be preying on me, and giving me morbid
hallucinations. Perhaps there is no fly at all.
Jan. 18Into what strange hell of living nightmare am I plunged? What
occurred today is something which could not normally happenand yet an
hotel attendant has seen the marks on the ceiling and concedes their
reality. About eleven oclock this morning, as I was writing on a
manuscript, something darted down to the inkwell for a second and
flashed aloft again before I could see what it was. Looking up, I saw
that hellish fly on the ceiling as it had been beforecrawling along
and tracing another trail of curves and turns. There was nothing I
could do, but I folded a newspaper in readiness to get the creature if
it should fly near enough. When it had made several turns on the
ceiling it flew into a dark corner and disappeared, and as I looked
upward at the doubly defaced plastering I saw that the new ink-trail
was that of a huge and unmistakable figure 5!
For a time I was almost unconscious from a wave of nameless menace for
which I could not fully account. Then I summoned up my resolution and
took an active step. Going out to a chemists shop I purchased some gum
and other things necessary for preparing a sticky trapalso a duplicate
inkwell. Returning to my room, I filled the new inkwell with the sticky
mixture and set it where the old one had been, leaving it open. Then I
tried to concentrate my mind on some reading. About three oclock I
heard the accursed insect again, and saw it circling around the new
inkwell. It descended to the sticky surface but did not touch it, and
afterward sailed straight toward meretreating before I could hit it.
Then it went to the bookshelf and circled around Moores treatise.
There is something profound and diabolic about the way the intruder
hovers near that book.
The worst part was the last. Leaving Moores book, the insect flew over
to the open window and began beating itself rhythmically against the
wire screen. There would be a series of beats and then a series of
equal length and another pause, and so on. Something about this
performance held me motionless for a couple of moments, but after that
I went over to the window and tried to kill the noxious thing. As
usual, no use. It merely flew across the room to a lamp and began
beating the same tattoo on the stiff cardboard shade. I felt a vague
desperation, and proceeded to shut all the doors as well as the window
whose screen had the imperceptible hole. It seemed very necessary to
kill this persistent being, whose hounding was rapidly unseating my
mind. Then, unconsciously counting, I began to notice that each of its
series of beatings contained just five strokes.
Fivethe same number that the thing had traced in ink on the ceiling in
the morning! Could there be any conceivable connexion? The notion was
maniacal, for that would argue a human intellect and a knowledge of
written figures in the hybrid fly. A human intellectdid not that take
one back to the most primitive legends of the Uganda blacks? And yet
there was that infernal cleverness in eluding me as contrasted with the
normal stupidity of the breed. As I laid aside my folded paper and sat
down in growing horror, the insect buzzed aloft and disappeared through
a hole in the ceiling where the radiator pipe went to the room above.
The departure did not soothe me, for my mind had started on a train of
wild and terrible reflections. If this fly had a human intelligence,
where did that intelligence come from? Was there any truth in the
native notion that these creatures acquire the personality of their
victims after the latters death? If so, whose personality did this fly
bear? I had reasoned out that it must be one of those which escaped
from Moore at the time he was bitten. Was this the envoy of death which
had bitten Moore? If so, what did it want with me? What did it want
with me anyway? In a cold perspiration I remembered the actions of the
fly that had bitten Batta when Batta died. Had its own personality been
displaced by that of its dead victim? Then there was that sensational
news account of the fly that waked Dyson when Moore died. As for that
fly that was hounding mecould it be that a vindictive human
personality drove it on? How it hovered around Moores book!I refused
to think any farther than that. All at once I began to feel sure that
the creature was indeed infected, and in the most virulent way. With a
malign deliberation so evident in every act, it must surely have
charged itself on purpose with the deadliest bacilli in all Africa. My
mind, thoroughly shaken, was now taking the things human qualities for
granted.
I now telephoned the clerk and asked for a man to stop up the radiator
pipehole and other possible chinks in my room. I spoke of being
tormented by flies, and he seemed to be quite sympathetic. When the man
came, I shewed him the ink-marks on the ceiling, which he recognised
without difficulty. So they are real! The resemblance to a
question-mark and a figure 5 puzzled and fascinated him. In the end he
stopped up all the holes he could find, and mended the window-screen,
so that I can now keep both windows open. He evidently thought me a bit
eccentric, especially since no insects were in sight while he was here.
But I am past minding that. So far the fly has not appeared this
evening. God knows what it is, what it wants, or what will become of
me!
Jan. 19I am utterly engulfed in horror. The thing has touched me.
Something monstrous and daemoniac is at work around me, and I am a
helpless victim. In the morning, when I returned from breakfast, that
winged fiend from hell brushed into the room over my head, and began
beating itself against the window-screen as it did yesterday. This
time, though, each series of beats contained only four strokes. I
rushed to the window and tried to catch it, but it escaped as usual and
flew over to Moores treatise, where it buzzed around mockingly. Its
vocal equipment is limited, but I noticed that its spells of buzzing
came in groups of four.
By this time I was certainly mad, for I called out to it, Moore,
Moore, for Gods sake, what do you want? When I did so, the creature
suddenly ceased its circling, flew toward me, and made a low, graceful
dip in the air, somehow suggestive of a bow. Then it flew back to the
book. At least, I seemed to see it do all thisthough I am trusting my
senses no longer.
And then the worst thing happened. I had left my door open, hoping the
monster would leave if I could not catch it; but about 11:30 I shut the
door, concluding it had gone. Then I settled down to read. Just at noon
I felt a tickling on the back of my neck, but when I put my hand up
nothing was there. In a moment I felt the tickling againand before I
could move, that nameless spawn of hell sailed into view from behind,
did another of those mocking, graceful dips in the air, and flew out
through the keyholewhich I had never dreamed was large enough to allow
its passage.
That the thing had touched me, I could not doubt. It had touched me
without injuring meand then I remembered in a sudden cold fright that
Moore had been bitten on the back of the neck at noon. No invasion
since thenbut I have stuffed all the keyholes with paper and shall
have a folded paper ready for use whenever I open the door to leave or
enter.
Jan. 20I cannot yet believe fully in the supernatural, yet I fear none
the less that I am lost. The business is too much for me. Just before
noon today that devil appeared outside the window and repeated its
beating operations; but this time in series of three. When I went to
the window it flew off out of sight. I still have resolution enough to
take one more defensive step. Removing both window-screens, I coated
them with my sticky preparationthe one I used in the inkwelloutside
and inside, and set them back in place. If that creature attempts
another tattoo, it will be its last!
Rest of the day in peace. Can I weather this experience without
becoming a maniac?
Jan. 21On board train for Bloemfontein.
I am routed. The thing is winning. It has a diabolic intelligence
against which all my devices are powerless. It appeared outside the
window this morning, but did not touch the sticky screen. Instead, it
sheered off without lighting and began buzzing around in circlestwo at
a time, followed by a pause in the air. After several of these
performances it flew off out of sight over the roofs of the city. My
nerves are just about at the breaking-point, for these suggestions of
numbers are capable of a hideous interpretation. Monday the thing dwelt
on the figure five; Tuesday it was four; Wednesday it was three; and
now today it is two. Five, four, three, twowhat can this be save some
monstrous and unthinkable counting-off of days? For what purpose, only
the evil powers of the universe can know. I spent all the afternoon
packing and arranging about my trunks, and now I have taken the night
express for Bloemfontein. Flight may be useless, but what else can one
do?
Jan. 22Settled at the Orange Hotel, Bloemfonteina comfortable and
excellent placebut the horror followed me. I had shut all the doors
and windows, stopped all the keyholes, looked for any possible chinks,
and pulled down all the shadesbut just before noon I heard a dull tap
on one of the window-screens. I waitedand after a long pause another
tap came. A second pause, and still another single tap. Raising the
shade, I saw that accursed fly, as I had expected. It described one
large, slow circle in the air, and then flew out of sight. I was left
as weak as a rag, and had to rest on the couch. One! This was clearly
the burden of the monsters present message. One tap, one circle. Did
this mean one more day for me before some unthinkable doom? Ought I to
flee again, or entrench myself here by sealing up the room?
After an hours rest I felt able to act, and ordered a large reserve
supply of canned and packaged foodalso linen and towelssent in.
Tomorrow I shall not under any circumstances open any crevice of door
or window. When the food and linen came the black looked at me queerly,
but I no longer care how eccentricor insaneI may appear. I am hounded
by powers worse than the ridicule of mankind. Having received my
supplies, I went over every square millimeter of the walls, and stopped
up every microscopic opening I could find. At last I feel able to get
real sleep.
[Handwriting here becomes irregular, nervous, and very difficult to
decipher.]
Jan. 23It is just before noon, and I feel that something very terrible
is about to happen. Didnt sleep as late as I expected, even though I
got almost no sleep on the train the night before. Up early, and have
had trouble getting concentrated on anythingreading or writing. That
slow, deliberate counting-off of days is too much for me. I dont know
which has gone wildNature or my head. Until about eleven I did very
little except walk up and down the room.
Then I heard a rustle among the food packages brought in yesterday, and
that daemoniac fly crawled out before my eyes. I grabbed something flat
and made passes at the thing despite my panic fear, but with no more
effect than usual. As I advanced, that blue-winged horror retreated as
usual to the table where I had piled my books, and lit for a second on
Moores Diptera of Central and Southern Africa. Then as I followed, it
flew over to the mantel clock and lit on the dial near the figure 12.
Before I could think up another move it had begun to crawl around the
dial very slowly and deliberatelyin the direction of the hands. It
passed under the minute hand, curved down and up, passed under the hour
hand, and finally came to a stop exactly at the figure 12. As it
hovered there it fluttered its wings with a buzzing noise.
Is this a portent of some sort? I am getting as superstitious as the
blacks. The hour is now a little after eleven. Is twelve the end? I
have just one last resort, brought to my mind through utter
desperation. Wish I had thought of it before. Recalling that my
medicine case contains both of the substances necessary to generate
chlorine gas, I have resolved to fill the room with that lethal
vapourasphyxiating the fly while protecting myself with an
ammonia-sealed handkerchief tied over my face. Fortunately I have a
good supply of ammonia. This crude mask will probably neutralise the
acrid chlorine fumes till the insect is deador at least helpless
enough to crush. But I must be quick. How can I be sure that the thing
will not suddenly dart for me before my preparations are complete? I
ought not to be stopping to write in this journal.
LaterBoth chemicalshydrochloric acid and manganese dioxideon the
table all ready to mix. Ive tied the handkerchief over my nose and
mouth, and have a bottle of ammonia ready to keep it soaked until the
chlorine is gone. Have battened down both windows. But I dont like the
actions of that hybrid daemon. It stays on the clock, but is very
slowly crawling around backward from the 12 mark to meet the gradually
advancing minute-hand.
Is this to be my last entry in this journal? It would be useless to try
to deny what I suspect. Too often a grain of incredible truth lurks
behind the wildest and most fantastic of legends. Is the personality of
Henry Moore trying to get at me through this blue-winged devil? Is this
the fly that bit him, and that in consequence absorbed his
consciousness when he died? If so, and if it bites me, will my own
personality displace Moores and enter that buzzing body when I die of
the bite later on? Perhaps, though, I need not die even if it gets me.
There is always a chance with tryparsamide. And I regret nothing. Moore
had to die, be the outcome what it will.
Slightly later.
The fly has paused on the clock-dial near the 45-minute mark. It is now
11:30. I am saturating the handkerchief over my face with ammonia, and
keeping the bottle handy for further applications. This will be the
final entry before I mix the acid and manganese and liberate the
chlorine. I ought not to be losing time, but it steadies me to get
things down on paper. But for this record, Id have lost all my reason
long ago. The fly seems to be getting restless, and the minute-hand is
approaching it. Now for the chlorine. . . .
[End of the journal]
On Sunday, Jan. 24, 1932, after repeated knocking had failed to gain
any response from the eccentric man in Room 303 of the Orange Hotel, a
black attendant entered with a pass key and at once fled shrieking
downstairs to tell the clerk what he had found. The clerk, after
notifying the police, summoned the manager; and the latter accompanied
Constable De Witt, Coroner Bogaert, and Dr. Van Keulen to the fatal
room.
The occupant lay dead on the floorhis face upward, and bound with a
handkerchief which smelled strongly of ammonia. Under this covering the
features shewed an expression of stark, utter fear which transmitted
itself to the observers On the back of the neck Dr. Van Keulen found a
virulent insect bitedark red, with a purple ring around itwhich
suggested a tsetse-fly or something less innocuous. An examination
indicated that death must be due to heart-failure induced by sheer
fright rather than to the bitethough a subsequent autopsy indicated
that the germ of trypanosomiasis had been introduced into the system.
On the table were several objectsa worn leather blank-book containing
the journal just described, a pen, writing-pad, and open inkwell, a
doctors medicine case with the initials T. S. marked in gold,
bottles of ammonia and hydrochloric acid, and a tumbler about a quarter
full of black manganese dioxide. The ammonia bottle demanded a second
look because something besides the fluid seemed to be in it. Looking
closer, Coroner Bogaert saw that the alien occupant was a fly.
It seemed to be some sort of hybrid with vague tsetse affiliations, but
its wingsshewing faintly blue despite the action of the strong
ammoniawere a complete puzzle. Something about it waked a faint memory
of newspaper reading in Dr. Van Keulena memory which the journal was
soon to confirm. Its lower parts seemed to have been stained with ink,
so thoroughly that even the ammonia had not bleached them. Possibly it
had fallen at one time into the inkwell, though the wings were
untouched. But how had it managed to fall into the narrow-necked
ammonia bottle? It was as if the creature had deliberately crawled in
and committed suicide!
But the strangest thing of all was what Constable De Witt noticed on
the smooth white ceiling overhead as his eyes roved about curiously. At
his cry the other three followed his gazeeven Dr. Van Keulen, who had
for some time been thumbing through the worn leather book with an
expression of mixed horror, fascination, and incredulity. The thing on
the ceiling was a series of shaky, straggling ink-tracks, such as might
have been made by the crawling of some ink-drenched insect. At once
everyone thought of the stains on the fly so oddly found in the ammonia
bottle.
But these were no ordinary ink-tracks. Even a first glance revealed
something hauntingly familiar about them, and closer inspection brought
gasps of startled wonder from all four observers. Coroner Bogaert
instinctively looked around the room to see if there were any
conceivable instrument or arrangement of piled-up furniture which could
make it possible for those straggling marks to have been drawn by human
agency. Finding nothing of the sort, he resumed his curious and almost
awestruck upward glance.
For beyond a doubt these inky smudges formed definite letters of the
alphabetletters coherently arranged in English words. The doctor was
the first to make them out clearly, and the others listened
breathlessly as he recited the insane-sounding message so incredibly
scrawled in a place no human hand could reach:
SEE MY JOURNALIT GOT ME FIRSTI DIEDTHEN I SAW I WAS IN ITTHE
BLACKS ARE RIGHTSTRANGE POWERS IN NATURENOW I WILL DROWN WHAT IS
LEFT
Presently, amidst the puzzled hush that followed, Dr. Van Keulen
commenced reading aloud from the worn leather journal.
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