The Damned Thing
Harker went to the open window and leaned out across the sill, faint and
sick. Dropping the handkerchief upon the dead man's neck, the coroner
stepped to an angle of the room, and from a pile of clothing produced
one garment after another, each of which he held up a moment for
inspection. All were torn, and stiff with blood. The jurors did not
make a closer inspection. They seemed rather uninterested. They had, in
truth, seen all this before; the only thing that was new to them being
Harker's testimony.
"Gentlemen," the coroner said, "we have no more evidence, I think. Your
duty has been already explained to you; if there is nothing you wish to
ask you may go outside and consider your verdict."
The foreman rose--a tall, bearded man of sixty, coarsely clad.
"I should like to ask one question, Mr. Coroner," he said. "What asylum
did this yer last witness escape from?"
"Mr. Harker," said the coroner, gravely and tranquilly, "from what
asylum did you last escape?"
Harker flushed crimson again, but said nothing, and the seven jurors
rose and solemnly filed out of the cabin.
"If you have done insulting me, sir," said Harker, as soon as he and the
officer were left alone with the dead man, "I suppose I am at liberty to
go?"
"Yes."
Harker started to leave, but paused, with his hand on the door latch.
The habit of his profession was strong in him--stronger than his sense
of personal dignity. He turned about and said:
"The book that you have there--I recognize it as Morgan's diary. You
seemed greatly interested in it; you read in it while I was testifying.
May I see it? The public would like--"
"The book will cut no figure in this matter," replied the official,
slipping it into his coat pocket; "all the entries in it were made
before the writer's death."
As Harker passed out of the house the jury reentered and stood about the
table on which the now covered corpse showed under the sheet with sharp
definition. The foreman seated himself near the candle, produced
from his breast pocket a pencil and scrap of paper, and wrote rather
laboriously the following verdict, which with various degrees of effort
all signed:
"We, the jury, do find that the remains come to their death at the hands
of a mountain lion, but some of us thinks, all the same, they had fits."
IV
In the diary of the late Hugh Morgan are certain interesting entries
having, possibly, a scientific value as suggestions. At the inquest upon
his body the book was not put in evidence; possibly the coroner thought
it not worth while to confuse the jury. The date of the first of the
entries mentioned can not be ascertained; the upper part of the leaf is
torn away; the part of the entry remaining is as follows:
"... would run in a half circle, keeping his head turned always toward
the centre and again he would stand still, barking furiously. At last he
ran away into the brush as fast as he could go. I thought at first that
he had gone mad, but on returning to the house found no other alteration
in his manner than what was obviously due to fear of punishment.
"Can a dog see with his nose? Do odors impress some olfactory centre
with images of the thing emitting them? . . .
"Sept 2.--Looking at the stars last night as they rose above the
crest of the ridge east of the house, I observed them successively
disappear--from left to right. Each was eclipsed but an instant, and
only a few at the same time, but along the entire length of the ridge
all that were within a degree or two of the crest were blotted out. It
was as if something had passed along between me and them; but I could
not see it, and the stars were not thick enough to define its outline.
Ugh! I don't like this. . . ."
Several weeks' entries are missing, three leaves being torn from the
book.
"Sept. 27.--It has been about here again--I find evidences of its
presence every day. I watched again all of last night in the same cover,
gun in hand, double-charged with buckshot. In the morning the fresh
footprints were there, as before. Yet I would have sworn that I did not
sleep--indeed, I hardly sleep at all. It is terrible, insupportable! If
these amazing experiences are real I shall go mad; if they are fanciful
I am mad already.
"Oct. 3.--I shall not go--it shall not drive me away. No, this is _my_
house, my land. God hates a coward....
"Oct. 5.--I can stand it no longer; I have invited Harker to pass a few
weeks with me--he has a level head. I can judge from his manner if he
thinks me mad.
"Oct. 7.--I have the solution of the problem; it came to me last
night--suddenly, as by revelation. How simple--how terribly simple!
"There are sounds that we can not hear. At either end of the scale are
notes that stir no chord of that imperfect instrument, the human ear.
They are too high or too grave. I have observed a flock of blackbirds
occupying an entire treetop--the tops of several trees--and all in full
song. Suddenly--in a moment--at absolutely the same instant--all
spring into the air and fly away. How? They could not all see one
another--whole treetops intervened. At no point could a leader have been
visible to all. There must have been a signal of warning or command,
high and shrill above the din, but by me unheard. I have observed,
too, the same simultaneous flight when all were silent, among not only
blackbirds, but other birds--quail, for example, widely separated by
bushes--even on opposite sides of a hill.
"It is known to seamen that a school of whales basking or sporting on
the surface of the ocean, miles apart, with the convexity of the earth
between them, will sometimes dive at the same instant--all gone out of
sight in a moment. The signal has been sounded--too grave for the ear
of the sailor at the masthead and his comrades on the deck--who
nevertheless feel its vibrations in the ship as the stones of a
cathedral are stirred by the bass of the organ.
"As with sounds, so with colors. At each end of the solar spectrum the
chemist can detect the presence of what are known as 'actinic'
rays. They represent colors--integral colors in the composition of
light--which we are unable to discern. The human eye is an imperfect
instrument; its range is but a few octaves of the real 'chromatic scale'
I am not mad; there are colors that we can not see.
"And, God help me! the Damned Thing is of such a color!"