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.]
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.
"Absolute