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The Doors of Death
By ARTHUR B. WALTERMIRE
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October1936. 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 whoseonly fear was that he might be buried alive, like his grandfather beforehim_]
A heavy stillness hung about the great halls and richly furnished roomsof Judson McMasters' residence, and even seemed to extend out over thevelvet lawns, the shrub-lined walks and sun-blotched reaches under thelacy elms and somber maples.
Biggs glided about the sick-chamber like a specter, apparently strivingto keep busy, while he cast countless furtive, uneasy glances at theheavy figure under the white sheets. An odor of drugs and fever taintedthe air, and a small walnut table near the flushed sleeper was ladenwith the familiar prescription bottle, tumbler and box of powders. Onthe wall behind the table, near the head of the bed, hung a smalloil-painting of Napoleon.
The sleeper stirred restlessly, raised himself painfully and slowly, andattempted to seek fleeting comfort in a new position. At the firstmovement Biggs was a shadow at the bedside, deftly manipulating thecoverings and gently aiding the sick man with a tenderness born of longservice and deep affection. As the massive gray head sank into thefluffed pillow the tired eyes opened, lighted by a faint glint ofthankfulness. Then they closed again and the once powerful body relaxed.
With a pitiful, wistful expression on his aged face, the faithful Biggsstood helplessly peering at the sick man until hot tears began to coursedown 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 overthe windows, whirled as though he had touched a live wire, and in aflash 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'mgoing."
"Oh, but sir," expostulated the old servant, as he parted the curtainsand partially opened a casement window, "I wish you wouldn't say that,sir."
"I believe in facing a situation squarely, Biggs. My father andgrandfather died from this family malady, and I guess I'm headed overthe 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, notknowing 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 ourservice 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 younever 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 ofEdgar Allan Poe's, sir!"
"What poem was that, Biggs?"
"I don't recall the name of it, but I remember the line," falteredBiggs.
"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 bankerresorted to it only on occasions when he shared his deepest confidenceswith 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 atomb-like silence, "Good reason for building the mausoleum."
"Yes, sir, I think so, sir."
"Well," with an apparent effort, "when they exhumed my grandfather'sremains 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 uppart-way."
"That's the way he always slept--in life." Biggs' voice was a hollowwhisper.
"And that's the reason my father, after building himself a mausoleum,insisted that his body be cremated," said McMasters. "He took nochances."
Biggs' horrified eyes traveled dully to the massive urn over the greatfireplace 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 ofabout sixteen miles a minute," figured the banker. "Now you say heavenis 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 voicefull of relief.
"Never mind the drugs," commanded McMasters, "until we finish ourproblem in higher mathematics. Now, if I ask you where heaven is atmidnight, which will be twelve hours from now, where will you point,"triumphantly.
"Why, up there," replied the bewildered servant, again indicating theceiling.
"Then," cried McMasters, "you will be pointing directly opposite fromthe place you indicated a moment ago; for by midnight the earth willhave 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 shoutedthe sick man.
"Out there," replied the servant, hopelessly, pointing toward thewindow.
"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 thinkingthis thing over, and I've got to talk about it to someone."
"But don't you believe in a hereafter?" queried Biggs, a horrible noteof fear in his pitiful voice.
For a moment the banker was silent; the massive clock ticked solemnlyon. A coal toppled with a sputter and flare in the fireplace.
"Yes, Hiram," in a thoughtful voice, "I suppose I do."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," cried Biggs in very evident relief.
"Ah, if you could but tell me," continued the banker, "from whence wecome, and whither we go?"
"If I knew, si
r, I'd be equal with the Creator," answered Biggs withreverence.
"That's well said, Hiram, but it doesn't satisfy me. I've made my placein the world by getting to the root of things. Ah, if I could only get apeek behind the curtain, before I go--back-stage, you know--mayhap Iwould not be afraid to die," and his voice fell almost to a whisper.
"The Great Director does not permit the audience behind the footlights,unless he calls them," answered Biggs whimsically, the ghost of a smilelighting up his