Абрахам Меррит: Burn, Witch, Burn!

I am a medical man specializing in neurology and diseases of the brain. My peculiar field is abnormal

psychology, and in it I am recognized as an expert. I am closely connected with two of the foremost

hospitals in New York, and have received many honors in this country and abroad. I set this down,

risking identification, not through egotism but because I desire to show that I was competent to observe,

and competent to bring practiced scientific judgment upon, the singular events I am about to relate.

I say that I risk identification, because Lowell is not my name. It is a pseudonym, as are the names of all

the other characters in this narrative. The reasons for this evasion will become increasingly apparent.

Yet I have the strongest feeling that the facts and observations which in my case-books are grouped

under the heading of "The Dolls of Mme. Mandilip" should be clarified, set down in orderly sequence and

be made known. Obviously, I could do this in the form of a report to one of my medical societies, but I

am too well aware of the way my colleagues would receive such a paper, and with what suspicion, pity

or even abhorrence, they would henceforth regard me so counter to accepted notions of cause and effect

do many of these facts and observations run.

But now, orthodox man of medicine that I am, I ask myself whether there may not be causes other than

those we admit. Forces and energies which we stubbornly disavow because we can find no explanation

for them within the narrow confines of our present knowledge. Energies whose reality is recognized in

folk-lore, the ancient traditions, of all peoples, and which, to justify our ignorance, we label myth and

superstition.

A wisdom, a science, immeasurably old. Born before history, but never dying nor ever wholly lost. A

secret wisdom, but always with its priests and priestesses guarding its dark flame, passing it on from

century to century. Dark flame of forbidden knowledge…burning in Egypt before even the Pyramids were

raised; and in temples crumbling now beneath the Gobi's sands; known to the sons of Ad whom Allah, so

say the Arabs, turned to stone for their sorceries ten thousand years before Abraham trod the streets of

Ur of the Chaldees; known in China-and known to the Tibetan lama, the Buryat shaman of the steppes

and to the warlock of the South Seas alike.

Dark flame of evil wisdom…deepening the shadows of Stonehenge's brooding menhirs; fed later by

hands of Roman legionaries; gathering strength, none knows why, in medieval Europe…and still burning,

still alive, still strong.

Enough of preamble. I begin where the dark wisdom, if that it were, first cast its shadow upon me.

I heard the clock strike one as I walked up the hospital steps. Ordinarily I would have been in bed and

asleep, but there was a case in which I was much interested, and Braile, my assistant, had telephoned me

of certain developments which I wished to observe. It was a night in early November. I paused for a

moment at the top of the steps to look at the brilliancy of the stars. As I did so an automobile drew up at

the entrance to the hospital.

As I stood, wondering what its arrival at that hour meant, a man slipped out of it. He looked sharply up

and down the deserted street, then threw the door wide open. Another man emerged. The two of them

stooped and seemed to be fumbling around inside. They straightened and then I saw that they had locked

their arms around the shoulders of a third. They moved forward, not supporting but carrying this other

man. His head hung upon his breast and his body swung limply.

A fourth man stepped from the automobile.

I recognized him. He was Julian Ricori, a notorious underworld chieftain, one of the finished products of

the Prohibition Law. He had been pointed out to me several times. Even if he had not been, the

newspapers would have made me familiar with his features and figure. Lean and long, with silvery white

hair, always immaculately dressed, a leisured type from outward seeming, rather than leader of such

activities as those of which he was accused.

I had been standing in the shadow, unnoticed. I stepped out of the shadow. Instantly the burdened pair

halted, swiftly as hunting hounds. Their free hands dropped into the pockets of their coats. Menace was

in that movement.

"I am Dr. Lowell," I said, hastily. "Connected with the hospital. Come right along."

They did not answer me. Nor did their gaze waver from me; nor did they move. Ricori stepped in front

of them. His hands were also in his pockets. He looked me over, then nodded to the others; I felt the

tension relax.

"I know you, Doctor," he said pleasantly, in oddly precise English. "But that was quite a chance you

took. If I might advise you, it is not well to move so quickly when those come whom you do not know,

and at night-not in this town."

"But," I said, "I do know you, Mr. Ricori."

"Then," he smiled, faintly, "your judgment was doubly at fault. And my advice doubly pertinent."

There was an awkward moment of silence. He broke it.

"And being who I am, I shall feel much better inside your doors than outside."

I opened the doors. The two men passed through with their burden, and after them Ricori and I. Once

within, I gave way to my professional instincts and stepped up to the man the two were carrying. They

shot a quick glance at Ricori. He nodded. I raised the man's head.

A little shock went through me. The man's eyes were wide open. He was neither dead nor unconscious.

But upon his face was the most extraordinary expression of terror I had ever seen in a long experience

with sane, insane and borderland cases. It was not undiluted fear. It was mixed with an equally disturbing

horror. The eyes, blue and with distended pupils, were like exclamation points to the emotions printed

upon that face. They stared up at me, through me and beyond me. And still they seemed to be looking

inward-as though whatever nightmare vision they were seeing was both behind and in front of them.

"Exactly!" Ricori had been watching me closely. "Exactly, Dr. Lowell, what could it be that my friend has

seen-or has been given-that could make him appear so? I am most anxious to learn. I am willing to

spend much money to learn. I wish him cured, yes-but I shall be frank with you, Dr. Lowell. I would

give my last penny for the certainty that those who did this to him could not do the same thing to

me-could not make me as he is, could not make me see what he is seeing, could not make feel what he

is feeling."

At my signal, orderlies had come up. They took the patient and laid him on a stretcher. By this time the

resident physician had appeared. Ricori touched my elbow.

"I know a great deal about you, Dr. Lowell," he said. "I would like you to take full charge of this case."

I hesitated.

He continued, earnestly: "Could you drop everything else? Spend all your time upon it? Bring in any

others you wish to consult-don't think of expense-"

"A moment, Mr. Ricori," I broke in. "I have patients who cannot be neglected. I will give all the time I

can spare, and so will my assistant, Dr. Braile. Your friend will be constantly under observation here by

people who have my complete confidence. Do you wish me to take the case under those conditions?"

He acquiesced, though I could see he was not entirely satisfied. I had the patient taken to an isolated