said that he always occupied the right-hand bedroom when he came to the
bungalow, but as it was found that my servant had deposited my bedding
and effects in this particular sepulchre, he retired to the chamber
across the hall.
I did not look forward to a night in this so-called “Rest House.” The
bedroom was as comfortless as a prison cell and as desolate as the
one sound room in a ruin. There was some comfort in contemplating the
familiar articles displayed on the dressing-table, yet they looked
curiously out of place.
I locked the door leading to the common room, but found that the door
to the bathroom had no lock; while there was merely a bolt to the
outer door that led from the bathroom into the open. This bolt I shot,
but left the intermediate door ajar, feeling that I should like to
assure myself from time to time that the far room was empty. There
was one small paraffin lamp provided, but the glass shade of it had
been broken, so that it was only when the wick was very low that it
would burn without smoking. By the glimmer of this malodorous flame I
undressed and, blowing it out, got into bed.
The place was as black as a pit, as stifling and as silent. I lay awake
a long time, for the stillness was oppressive. I found myself listening
to it. It seemed to be made up of some faint, far-off sounds of
mysterious import of which I imagined I could catch the rhythm. It was
possible to believe that these half-imagined pulsations were produced
by the rush of the earth through space, and that the stillness of the
night made them audible.
I went to sleep in time and slept—as I afterwards discovered—for some
hours, when I was aroused by a noise in the room. I was wideawake in
an instant, with my head raised off the pillow, listening rigidly for
the sound that I must have heard in my sleep. The place was in solid
darkness. I felt that there was something alive in the room, something
that moved.
At last the sound came again. It was the pattering of the feet of some
animal. The creature was coming towards the bed. I could hear others
moving along the floor, always from the bathroom, until the place
seemed to be alive with invisible creatures. Such is the effect of
imagination that I conceived these unknown animals to be about the size
of retrievers. I wondered if their heads would reach the level of the
couch, until I was relieved to hear that many were now running about
under the bed. I resolved to shout at them but fancied that the noise
of my own voice would be as unpleasant to hear as the voice of another
and unknown human being in the room.
I noticed now a faint odour of musk, and was glad to think that these
pattering feet belonged to musk-rats, and that these animals must
have entered through the drain hole I had observed in the outer wall
of the bathroom. I dislike rats, and especially rats in a bedroom.
This prejudice was not made less when I felt that some of them were
climbing up on to the bed. I was certain I could hear one crawling over
my clothes which lay on the chair by the bedside. I was certain that
others were searching about on the dressing-table, and recognized—or
thought I did—the clatter of a shoe-horn that lay there. I recalled
stories in which men had been attacked by hordes of rats, and I
wondered when they would attack me, for, by this time, the whole room
seemed to be full of rats, and I could picture legions swarming in from
the plain outside in a long snake-like column.
In a while I was sure that a rat was on the pillow close to my head. My
hair seemed to be flicked by the whiskers of one of these fœtid brutes.
This was more than I could tolerate, so I sprang up in bed and shouted.
There was a general scuttle for the far door; but it was some time
before I ventured to pass my hand over the pillow to assure myself that
a rat was not still there.
I had a mind to get out of bed and light the lamp; but to do this
seemed to be like taking a step into a black pit. I lay down again.
For a while all was quiet. Then came once more the pattering of feet
from the direction of the bathroom, the sickly odour of musk and a
conviction that at least a hundred rats were pouring into the room.
They crept up to the bed and ran about beneath it with increasing
boldness. I was meditating another shout when there came a sound in
the room that made every vein in my body tingle. It arose from under
the bed, a hollow scraping sound which I felt sure was due to the
movement of a human being. I thought it was caused by the scraping of a
belt buckle on the cement floor, the belt being worn by a man who was
crawling on his stomach. I disliked this sound more than the rats.
At this moment, to add to my discomfort, I felt a rat crawling across
my bare foot, a beast with small, cold paws and hot fur. I kicked it
off so that it fell with a thud on the floor. I shouted again and,
driven to desperation, jumped out of bed. I half expected to tread
on a mass of rats, but felt the hard floor instead. I went to the
dressing-table and struck a light. The place was empty, but I could not
see under the bed. The match went out and in the blackness I expected
some fresh surprise to develop. I managed to strike another match and
to light the lamp.
I placed it on the floor and looked under the bed. What I saw there I
took at first to be a piece of a human skull. I got a stick and touched
it. It seemed lighter than a dried bone. I dragged it out into the
room. It was a cake of unleavened bread, much used by the natives—dried
up into a large curled chip. The rats had been dragging this away
and had so produced the scraping sound which I had exaggerated into
something sinister.
Having convinced myself that the room was empty I blocked up the
drain hole in the outer wall by placing the bath in front of it and,
feeling secure from any further disturbance, returned to bed, leaving
the lamp alight on the table.
For a long time I kept awake, watching every now and then the bathroom
door to satisfy myself that I had succeeded in keeping the beastly
animals out. During this vigil I fell asleep and then at once embarked
upon a dream, the vividness and reality of which were certainly
remarkable.
The most convincing feature was this. The dream, without a break,
continued the happenings of the night. The scene was this identical
bedroom at this identical moment. The dream, as it were, took up the
story from the moment that I lost it. Owing to my close scrutiny every
detail of the vile chamber had already become as clearly impressed upon
my brain as if it had been fixed by a photographic plate. I had not—in
my dream—fallen asleep again, but was still wideawake and still keeping
a watch over the bathroom door for the incoming of the rats.
The bathroom door was just ajar, but the very faint glimmer of the lamp
did not enable me to penetrate the darkness that filled it. I kept my
eye fixed on the entry when, in a moment, to my horror, the door began
to open. The sight was terrifying in the extreme. My heart was thumping
to such a degree that I thought its beats must be audible. I felt a
deadly sinking in my stomach, while the skin of my back and neck seemed
to be wrinkling and to be dragged up as might be a shirt a man is
drawing over his head. There is no panic like the panic felt in a dream.
A brown hand appeared on the edge of the door. It was almost a relief
to see that it was a human hand. The door was then opened to its
utmost. Out of the dark there crept a middle-aged man, a native, lean
and sinewy, without a vestige of clothing on his body. His skin shone
in the uncertain light, and it was evident that his body, from head
to foot, was smeared with oil. The most noticeable point about the man
was that he was blind. His eyelids were closed, but the sockets of his
eyes were sunken as are those of a corpse. With his left hand he felt
for the wall, while in his right hand he carried a small stone-mason’s
pick. His face was expressionless. This was the most terrible thing
about it, for his face was as the face of the dead. He crept into the
room as Death himself might creep into the chamber of the dying.
I realized at once in my dream that this was the native about whom my
friend had been speaking before we had retired for the night. This man
had heard of the doctor’s arrival, would know my room as the one he
usually occupied, and had now come there to murder him.
I was so fascinated by the sight of this unhuman creature moving
towards me that I could not stir a muscle. I was raised up in bed, and
was leaning on one elbow like an image on a tomb. I was so filled with
the sense of a final calamity that I felt I had ceased to breathe.
There were, indeed, such a clutching at my throat and such a bursting
at my heart that the act of breathing seemed wellnigh impossible. Had
I been awake I should, without doubt, have shouted at the uncanny
intruder and attacked him, but in the dream I was unable to stir, and
the longer I remained motionless the more impossible did it appear that
I could move. My limbs might have been turned into stone.
The figure crept on, feeling his way by the wall. There was a sense
of an oncoming, irresistible fate. Every time that a horrible bare
foot was lifted, advanced and brought to the ground I felt that I was
one step nearer to the end. The figure seemed to grow larger as it
approached me. The hand, with outstretched fingers, that groped its
way along the wall was like a claw. I could hear the breathing of the
creature, the breath being drawn in between the closed teeth. I could
see the muscles of the arm that held the pick contract and relax. There
was now in the air the loathsome smell of the unclean native mixed with
the odour of oil.
One more step and he was so near that I could see the faint light
glimmer on his teeth and could notice that they were dry. The
outstretched, claw-like hand that felt its way along the wall was now
nearly over my head. In another moment that awful pick would crash into
my skull or plunge into my neck. I bowed my head instinctively so that
I should not see the blow coming, and at the same time I thought it
would be less terrible if the iron were driven into my back rather than
into my head or face.
The evil creature was now close to the bed. The extended arm was
clawing along the wall above my pillow, for I had now shrunken as
low as I could. With my head bent I could now see nothing of the man
but his wizened thigh, upon which the muscles rose and fell. A bony
knee-cap was advanced slowly, and then I saw a shadow move on the
floor. This I felt was the shadow of the arm with the pick raised to
strike.
I was mesmerized as would be a rabbit in a corner within a foot of
a snake. Suddenly the lamp flame gave a little crackle. The sound,
breaking the silence, was intensified into an explosion. It seemed to
call me to my senses. With one maddened half-conscious effort I rolled
gently off the bed, away from the pursuer, and slipped, between the
couch and the wall, on to the floor.
I made little noise in doing this, for my body was uncovered, the bed
was very low, and the space between it and the wall so narrow that I
was let slowly down to the ground. To the blind man I may merely have
turned in bed.
As I lay there on the floor I could see the two sinewy feet close to
the couch and could hear the awful hand moving stealthily over the very
pillow. I next knew that he was bending over the couch to find what
was between the bed and the wall. Turning my head, I saw a shadowy
hand descend on the far side of the bed, the fingers extended as if
feeling the air. In a moment he would reach me. His hand moved to and
fro like the head of a cobra, while I felt that with a touch of his
tentacle-like fingers I should die. The climax of the dream was reached.
I was now well under the bed. In a paroxysm of despair I seized the two
skinny ankles and jerked them towards me, at the same moment lifting
the frail bed bodily with my back so that it turned over on its side
away from the wall. The wretch’s feet being suddenly drawn away from
him, he fell heavily backwards upon the bare floor, his head striking
the stone with a hollow sound. The edge of the bedstead lay across him.
The feet, which I still held, were nerveless, and he made no movement
to withdraw them. I crept back clear of the bed and, jumping upright
against the wall, bolted through the bathroom and out into the plain. I
had a glimpse of the man as I went by. He was motionless and his mouth
hung open.
I ran some way from the bungalow before I stopped. I was like a man
saved from the scaffold as the very axe was about to drop. There was a
gentle air blowing, cool and kindly. Above was a sky of stars, while in
the east the faint light of the dawn was appearing behind the Indian
village.
For a moment or two I watched the door leading from the bathroom,
expecting to see the man with the pick creep out, but the anticipation
of the sight was so dread that I turned away and walked to the other
side of the bungalow. Here my greatest joy was merely to breathe, for I
seemed to have been for hours in a suffocating pit.
The relief did not last for long. I was seized with another panic. Had
I killed the man? I felt compelled to return to the abhorred room and
learn the worst. I approached it with trembling. So curious are the
details of a dream that I found—as I expected—the bolt on the outer
door wrenched off and hanging by a nail. I stepped into the disgusting
place, full of anxiety as to what further horror I had to endure. The
little lamp was still alight. The bedstead was on its edge as I left
it, but the man was gone. There was a small patch of blood where his
head had struck the floor, but that was the sole relic of the tragedy.
I awoke feeling exhausted, alarmed and very cold. I looked at once
at the floor for the patch of blood, and, seeing nothing, realized,
to my extreme relief, that I had been merely dreaming. It was almost
impossible to believe that the events of the latter part of the night,
after the departure of the rats, had not been real. At breakfast I
retailed to my companion the very vivid and dramatic nightmare in which
I had taken part. At the end he expressed regret for the mistake the
servants had made in allotting us our rooms overnight, but I am not
sure that that regret was perfectly sincere.
IX
IN ARTICULO MORTIS
The recent work on “Death and its Mystery,”[2] by Camille Flammarion,
the eminent astronomer, cannot fail to be of supreme interest. The
second volume of the series, entitled “At the Moment of Death,” will
more especially appeal to medical men, and it is with this volume and
with the reminiscences it has aroused that I am at present concerned.
About the act or process of dying there is no mystery. The pathologist
can explain precisely how death comes to pass, while the physiologist
can describe the exact physical and chemical processes that ensue when
a living thing ceases to live. Furthermore, he can demonstrate how the
material of the body is finally resolved into the elements from which
it was formed.
The mystery begins in the moment of death, and that mystery has
engaged the thoughts and imaginations of men since the dawn of human
existence. It was probably the first problem that presented itself
to the inquisitive and ingenious mind, and it may be that it will be
the last to occupy it. Beyond the barrier of death is “the undiscovered
country” where a kindly light falls upon Elysian Fields or happy
hunting grounds, or fills with splendour the streets of an eternal
city. To some, on the other hand, there is no such country but only
an impenetrable void, a blank, a mere ceasing to be. Certain who read
these works of the learned astronomer may perhaps feel that he has
thrown light upon the great mystery. Others may affirm that he leaves
that mystery still unillumined and wholly unsolved, while others again
may think that he makes the mystery still more mysterious and more
complex.
M. Flammarion deals with the manifestations of the dying, with agencies
set in action by the dying, and with events which attend upon the
moment of death. He affirms that in addition to the physical body there
is an astral body or “psychic element” which is “imponderable and
gifted with special, intrinsic faculties, capable of functioning apart
from the physical organism, and of manifesting itself at a distance.”
This leads to the theory of bilocation where the actual body (at the
point of death) may be in one place and the astral body in another.
It is this power of bilocation which explains the phantasms and
apparitions of which the book gives many detailed records. These
apparitions may be objective—that is to say, may be visible to several
people at the same time—or they may be subjective or capable of being
perceived only by the subject or seer. “These apparitions,” the author
states, “are projections emanating from the soul of the dying.” They
are astral bodies detached for the moment from the physical body of
which they are part. “It is,” the author continues, “at the hour of
death that transmissions of images and of sensations are most frequent”
(p. 108).
These phantasms appear, either in dreams or in broad daylight, to the
friends of dying persons. They may announce in words, “I am dying,”
or “I am dead.” They may merely appear with signs upon their faces of
alarm or of impending dissolution. They may appear as bodies lying dead
upon a couch or in a coffin. They may predict the hour of their death,
but more usually their appearance coincides with the exact moment at
which their physical bodies ceased to exist.
M. Flammarion gives numerous instances of these apparitions seen under
such varying circumstances as have been named. In certain examples the
phantom appears to have substance and to be capable of making its
presence actually felt. Thus in one case the subject saw the apparition
of her sister who was dying in a place far away, and at the same time
“felt a hand brush lightly against the sheets.” The subject, when
questioned, said: “No, no, it wasn’t a dream! I heard her steps; they
made the floor creak. I’m sure of it; I wasn’t dreaming; she came; I
saw her” (p. 345).
It may be further noted that persons who announce their deaths to
others by visions or by spoken words may at the time of such warning
be in perfect health. Moreover, the apparition may announce to the
dreamer the exact date of the speaker’s own death many days in advance.
In one such instance a man—then in sound health—appeared to a friend
in a dream on August 2 and informed him that he (the subject of the
apparition) would die on August 15. The event happened as foretold.
An instance which involved an interval of years is recorded by Robert
Browning the poet. Seven years after his wife’s death she appeared in
a dream to her sister, Miss Arabel Barrett. Miss Barrett asked the
apparition, “When will the day come on which we shall be reunited?” The
dead woman answered, “My dear, in five years.” Five years, lacking a
month, after this vision, Miss Barrett died of heart disease.
In messages or warnings from the dying M. Flammarion affirms that
telepathy (or the transmission of thought to a distance) plays an
important part. More than this, he says: “It is beyond doubt that at
the moment of death a subtle shock, unknown in its nature, at times
affects those at a distance who are connected with the dying person in
some way. This connexion is not always that of sympathy.” The method
in which telepathy acts is explained by the author in the following
words: “It is admitted that a kind of radiation emanates from the
dying person’s brain, from his spirit, still in his body, and is
dispersed into space in ether waves—successive, spherical waves, like
those of sound in the atmosphere. When this wave, this emanation, this
effluvium, comes into contact with a brain attuned to receive it, as
in the case of a wireless-telegraph apparatus, the brain comprehends
it—feels, hears, sees” (p. 284).
The manifestations produced by these passages between the living and
those who are on the point of death are very varied. They may take the
form of warnings, predictions or notifications of death. They may be
conveyed vast distances and are usually received at the very moment
at which the body from which they emanate ceases to be. Warnings or
announcements may be conveyed by voices or by visions of various kinds.
The voices may be recognized as those of the dying, or the actual death
scene, “visioned from a distance,” may be presented complete in every
detail. Some of the manifestations may take a physical form, such as
knockings upon doors and windows, the sound of footsteps or of gliding
feet, the moving of articles of furniture, the falling of portraits
from the wall, the opening of doors, the passage of a gust of wind.
Many of the phenomena appear to me to be hardly worthy of being
recorded. As illustrations I may quote the movement of a hat on a
hat peg used by the deceased, the violent shaking of an iron fender
to announce a daughter’s death, the fact that about the time of a
relative’s decease a table became “split completely along its whole
length,” while on another like occasion a gas jet went out in a room in
which a party was sitting, playing cards.
The following circumstance will not commend itself to the reasonable as
one that was dependent upon a supernatural agency. “My grandmother,”
a student writes, “died in 1913. At the hour of her death the clock
which hung in her room stopped, and no one could make it go again. Some
years afterwards her son died, and the very day of his death the clock
again began to go without anyone having touched it.” “It is strange,”
comments M. Flammarion, “that the spirit of someone dying or dead
should be able to stop a clock or start it again.” Assuredly it is more
than strange. The same comment might apply to the following testimony
provided by a gardener in Lunéville. “A friend, when one day cleaning
vegetables, seated in a chair, was struck on the knee by a turnip which
was on the ground, and heard at the same instant two cries: ‘Mother!
Mother!’ That same day her son, a soldier, was dying in our colony of
Guiana; she did not hear of his death until very much later.”
M. Flammarion’s work is probably the most orderly, temperate and exact
that has appeared on the subject of death from the point of view of the
spiritualist. It has been the work of many years and its conclusions
are based upon hundreds of reports, letters and declarations collected
by the writer. To many readers the book will, no doubt, be convincing
and inspiring, while possibly to a larger number of people the author’s
position will appear to be untenable, and much of the evidence upon
which his conclusions are based to be either incredible or impossible.
With those who may hold this latter opinion I am entirely in accord.
Many of the so-called manifestations, such as the spirit visitants,
the visions and the voices, can be as fitly claimed to be illusions
and hallucinations as affirmed to be due to the action of the psychic
element or astral body. The tricks of the senses are innumerable.
The imagination, stimulated and intensified, can effect strange
things in sensitive subjects; while, on the other hand, the powers
of self-deception are almost beyond belief, as the experience of any
physician will attest. Belief in the supernatural and the miraculous
has a fascination for many minds, and especially for minds of not
too stable an order. Such persons seem to prefer a transcendental
explanation to one that is commonplace. Apparitions are not apt to
appear to those who are healthy both in body and in mind. Dreams, it
will be admitted by all, are more often due to indigestion than to a
supernatural or a spiritual agency. Voices are heard and non-existing
things are seen by those whose minds are deranged, and it must be
allowed that not a few of the men and women upon whose evidence M.
Flammarion depends exhibit a degree of emotional excitement or
exaltation which borders on the abnormal.