Our work advanced steadily, and by the end of the summer Prof. Glauben felt that we had achieved our goal: a way to achieve immortality by arresting the aging process. The body would not decay. “But ve need ein volunteer on vhich to test ze formula.” He stared at me. “Und ve cannot afford another arrest.” I immediately understood his meaning, and offered to drink the potion myself. “It vill be dangerous,” he intoned in a way that suggested raised eyebrows, which, of course, his naked skull lacked. I assured him not only that I was willing to take the risk, especially in light of his own earlier sacrifice. “Schoen. You are ein gut scientist,” he said as he placed a bony arm around my shoulders.

Bolstered by the praise from my mentor, I took the flask into my hand, fearing that if I waited any longer my courage would evaporate. I raised the vessel but, just before the liquid touched my lips, Prof. Glauben grabbed my arm with a skeletal hand. “Nein! Halt!” With a sigh half of frustration and half of relief, I set the flask back on the table. “Venwick, do not you think zhat ve should make a presentation?” In response to my confused look he went on. “Great discoveries should be presented to ze scientific community formally. Ve should assemble ze scientific minds of the area at your Hause, und tell them of our experiments. Und then you should drink ze potion in front of zhem. There vill be no dramatic change for zhem to see, of course, but ze drama vill be gut nonetheless. Und then,” his eye sockets here widened, “Und then, I shall come before zhem as proof zhat ve can achieve immortality!”

Prof. Glauben had become quite excited, and a sweat had broken out on his skull. He spoke of national attention, of world recognition, of general notoriety. He talked about changing the course of history. He mentioned power, honoraria, and patents. It was with regret, therefore, that I felt compelled to interrupt him. 

“Professor, this is, undoubtedly, a great moment. Our discovery, if successful–nay, it will be successful; it is successful–our discovery, I say, should certainly be shared with mankind. But I believe a presentation such as you suggest, featuring a living skeleton, would be unwise. Let us sacrifice the theatrics and instead publish a monograph on our findings. Monographs command respect; monsters create a scene.”

This last comment, prompted by a vivid recollection of my dream, seemed to strike the calcium figure like a blow to the cranium. He shook; his chin dropped to his sternum; he fell with a slight rattle into the armchair behind him. Then he murmured something which I could not discern.

The room was excruciatingly quiet. I watched the professor’s bleached face, and immediately I regretted having spoken out as I had. I had called my teacher and my friend a monster. I had rejected his desire for public recognition of his work which was, to be sure, brilliant and revolutionary work.

There sat the pitious form with bowed head and slumped shoulders. Compassion and regret overcame me, and I offered my sincere apologies to the object of my earlier ridicule. “Nein, you are right, Venwick. I have achieved immortality, it is true, but vhat good is immortality if I cannot enjoy the companionship of other persons? I have not extended mein life; I have protracted mein death!”

I was dumbfounded. What could I possibly say to correct my error? I tried to console the miserable being, first by proclaiming my undying gratitude for his friendship, and then, seeing that it had no effect, by espousing the virtues of solitude, viz. Undivided attention to one’s work, peace of mind through meditation, and the pleasures of single-player card games. But my efforts were all in vain; the sad, sullen skeleton still sat silently. With a sigh I gently suggested that we should delay the experiment until a more appropriate time. I bade him goodnight and retired to my bedroom to consider my increasingly absurd predicament.

PART 8 WILL APPEAR ON WEDNESDAY

That night I had the most disturbing dream. In it I was hosting a dinner party for the most distinguished doctors and physiologists in the country. Everybody was absolutely spellbound by my conversation, and not a small amount of wine was flowing. At the height of the evening, just as I was entering a pleasant conversation with one of the doctors’ enchanting daughters, a bleached assemblage of bones descended the staircase and made its way to the punchbowl. “How do you do?,” spoke the skeleton with an airy wave to the entire room. “I am ze famous Ludwig Glauben.” It held up a glass of punch and made a toast “to science.” 

As it raised the glass to its teeth the liquid spilled through the jaw and splashed against the ribs and onto the floor. Women fainted, men rushed to the doors, and plates and glasses broke upon the floor. My dinner party was a complete failure.

In a fit of pique, I grabbed the intruder by the bony neck with both my hands and insulted it with numerous epithets. When I awoke, however, I had succeeded only in strangling my bedpost.

The next morning I dressed hurriedly and rushed into the study. There, amid open books and strewn papers, were Prof. Glauben’s mortal remains. The head looked up at me as I entered the room. “Guten Morgen. You slept vell, I hope?” It was then that I realized fully that this really was Prof. Glauben. His form was admittedly altered, but his personality was the same. He was still a man of science. He still cared for me; we were still friends. The potion had indeed preserved his soul, and is it not the soul only that is the object of our mutual affections? “Yes,” I lied with an embarrassed smile, “I slept well.

“Gut! Ve have much work ahead of us!”

For several months we continued the experiments within the privacy of my apartments. Prof. Glauben’s laboratory and equipment had been seized by the government upon his arrest, though I had been able to spirit most of his papers out of the university before his possessions were auctioned to pay his legal fees.

One of our greatest difficulties was keeping Prof. Glauben from being observed. My valet was given strict instructions not to enter my laboratory or my study, and visitors were barred from those rooms as well. We kept the shades tightly drawn and were careful to cover Prof. Glauben with heavy clothes whenever it was necessary for him to leave my home. We experienced a number of close calls, but no one, to my knowledge, discovered our secret.

One day in the early spring Prof. Glauben called me to the table where he had been treating some muscle tissue with a greenish liquid. “Venwick, vhat does you think vould happen if somebody observed my appearance?” I was surprised at this sudden and unanticipated question, but told him, quite unabashedly, about the dream I’d had on the first night he came to stay with me. “Ja, das it vhat I thought,” he murmured dolefully. “Das is vhat I thought….”

PART 7 WILL APPEAR ON MONDAY

Once I managed to pry off the coffin lid my heart sank. All that was left of the grave’s tenant was a skeleton; nothing else remained of the Professor.

I signed, leaned against my spade, and stared at the bones in the box. Something was peculiar about the moonlight-bathed figure. Yes, it was the position: Bodies are traditionally laid to rest with the arms at the sides, bent at the elbows, with the forearms crossed on the chest near the wrists. The palms rest face down on the chest.

This body was arranged differently, however. The arms were folded in a casual position with the forearms parallel over the chest, with each hand near the opposite elbow. The right index finger was touching the left bicep (or rather where the left bicep used to be). But wait: Did it move? Yes! The right index finger was tapping against the left arm! It was almost as if… as if…

“Mein Gott, Venwick, you are quite clumsy at your work! Vhy, it took you a full two hours to disinter mein coffin–und almost a quarter hour more just to get ze confounded lid off!” It was Prof. Glauben; there was no mistaking it. The voice, the way he mispronounced “Fenwick,” the ridiculous hand gestures…It was surely he.

“Vell, don’t just stand where–Help me out of here! I am most anxious to stretch mein legs again.” What could I do? I offered my hand, which he grabbed in a boney clutch, and I pulled him out of the rotting box. There I was, standing eye-to-socket with a skeleton. We stared at each other for some time in the stillness of the churchyard, and I imagined a smile spread across the skull.

A few minutes later we were walking along the deserted rural road back to my house. The skeleton put its arm around my shoulder as we walked and turned its head toward me. “You should be happy, mein boy! Ze formula vorked!” I stared at him, not knowing what to say. “Ze formula! Ze vun ve vere vorking on before I vas imprisoned!”

“But…but it killed the old bookkeeper,” I protested, wondering why I was arguing with this hideous form. “That’s why you’re–why you were–in prison!”

“Ah, zhis is true. But ze day before ze police took me away I did some research on zhat man. I just couldn’t believe ze formula had failed. As it turned out, he vas allergic to ze lactic complex ve used. If not for his allergy, he vould still be alive today–and a good many decades hence, I vould postulate.” 

“Then you drank the potion?” I asked.

“I drank ze position.”

“But you were buried,” I protested.

“Ach, an unfortunate complication. After drinking the potion I was taken to prison, where a sadistic guard beat me for what he considered to be my insolence. I knew that I was not long for this world, so I left you the message which you evidently were able to decode.”

“But the potion…” I spluttered.

“Ja, ze potion. It vorked–at least to ze degree it forced mein body to retain mein soul. You see, it can do nothing to prevent ze decaying of ze dead body. So I rotted though I remained very much alive spiritually, even mentally. My psyche remained mit mein body. On ze night zhat I died I was avare of men pulling ein sheet over mein head und carrying me to ze morgue. I had not yet grown sufficiently familiar vith mein new existence, however, und I could not make mein lips nor limbs operate. In fact it vas not until I had been in ze ground ein month zhat I vas able to shift mein position. Do you know what it is like to lay in ze same position for ein month?” I shook my head. “Vell, it is no bowl of roses I assure you.”

By now we had reached my apartments. I glanced at my pocket watch; it was half past two in the morning. I looked at Prof. Glauben’s skeleton, fumbled with my key, and opened the door. I searched for something to say.

“Vell, aren’t you going to invite me in?” demanded the specter.

“Invite you in?! What would my servant say?”

“Nothing. He is undoubtedly asleep at this hour. Besides, I vill need to catch up on your papers if I am to direct your further experiments. Ve must refine ze process to arrest decay.” A combination of fatigue, confusion, and obedience caused me to step aside. I gestured for him to enter, to which he obliged me with a bow as he entered my home.

I showed Prof. Glauben’s remains to my study, wished them a goodnight, and retired to my bedroom. Within half an hour I had fallen sound asleep, and within another hour I wished I hadn’t.

PART 6 WILL APPEAR ON FRIDAY

Before I knew it I was turning the calendar to another bleak November. It was just short of one year since the unfortunate bookkeeper’s death and Prof. Glauben’s subsequent conviction. So preoccupied had I been with my grim employment that I failed entirely to visit my mentor in prison. And while I faithfully continued the experiments, I must confess that my progress was despairingly slow. Prof. Glauben and I had been on the brink of success, but without his guidance I now felt hopelessly lost.

I therefore resolved finally to make a call at the penitentiary, hoping for a word of encouragement or an enlightened suggestion from my mentor. But when I arrived at the stark stone edifice and inquired of Ludwig Glauben, the duty officer informed me that he had died on December 21, just days after he had first arrived. My teacher and friend was dead! The cause of death was recorded as cardiac arrest, but surely there was more to the story. I felt profound sadness at his passing, anxiety about the loss of my teacher, and agonizing guilt for having neglected to visit him earlier.

The duty officer mentioned that the prison authorities had been unable to identify any next of kin, and that they still retained a small box with Prof Glauben’s few personal effects. He asked if I would like to have them. I answered in the affirmative and within 20 minutes I was riding home with a dusty pasteboard box on my lap.

The hackney deposited me back at my apartments near the university. Dusk was settling as I ascended the narrow stairway. The weather had turned frightfully dreary and cold, and the wind howled through the branches of the property’s ancient yew trees that endlessly grasped at passersby. I entered my rooms and reposed in front of the fire with the box. It contained a pair of gold spectacles, a malodorous briar pipe with deep tooth marks on the stem, a well-worn rosary, and a small, dog-eared journal. This last item I opened to a few pages at random, finding it was in essence a cross between a journal and commonplace book. Entries were recorded chronologically and included summaries of contemporary news, some chemical formulae, selected Bible passages, and other snippets of information. Most of the entries were in German, but the final entry, which was dated December 20th–the day before he died–was written hastily in English. It read thus:

You may think me mad, but I

must have more asparagus. I hope to

retrieve a small bunch from the commissary.

My mind and my

body demand it

immediately!

Had my friend and mentor succumbed to madness? These senseless ravings were incongruent with his customary enunciations. But while the words did not ring of his voice they clearly were of his hand. I searched the lines for meaning, and then somehow my eye glanced along the left edge of the page. At once it all became clear; Prof. Glauben’s mind had been sound when he wrote this. And he wrote it specifically for me. He had created a modified acrostic, delivering a message that employed the first word of each line:

You

Must

Retrieve

My

Body

Immediately!

Without hesitation I ran downstairs and out the front door, procured a spade from the garden shed, and hastily returned to the penitentiary, whose graveyard stood on a low hill behind its chapel. I held my dark lantern to a score of headstones before its weak light fell on the name I sought. After drawing a long breath, I threw down my coat and, with shaking hands, began to remove the moist earth from the rectangular plot in front of the granite grave marker. Down, down I dug, until at last I heard the hollow knock of my spade against the coffin. After a few more minutes I had cleared away the mouldy clay from the lid and was prepared to pry it from the box. I experienced trouble, however, in forcing the crowbar under the lid, and after fully 10 minutes of effort I threw down my tools in frustration.

I wiped my brow and stretched my neck, then gazed at the coffin. Although buried not even a year, rust streaked from the nail heads and mould had accumulated on the rotting wood. Surely there was no point of retrieving a body thus buried! But having come this far, I resolved to make one last attempt. I held the crowbar to the lid and swung the hammer with all my strength. The crowbar slid through my hand and under the lid, and decay instantly filled my nostrils.

PART 5 WILL APPEAR ON WEDNESDAY