Chimes of Death
Ellen Lynn
Brent Lockwood had no use for ghosts, hypnotists or the like. You see he was a scientist.
I
was in love with Brent, but I could not make up my mind to marry him.
Every time he pressed me to set the date for our wedding, I found new
excuses to put it off. It wasn't entirely clear in my own mind why I
experienced such conflict of emotions. Was I afraid that as the wife
of a research scientist I would be alone a great deal; his absorption
in his work would exclude me most of the time? Was I also resistant
toward his strong will and forceful personality — fearing to be
submerged by him?
Brent's
family was anxious for us to get married. I know they liked me, but
they felt he needed the influence of a wife and a home of his own to
take his mind occasionally off his research problems.
"Why
can't you set a date, Joan?" Brent's sister Alice asked me.
"We're all so anxious to have you in the family—and Brent's
been stuck in that laboratory of his so steadily we feel marriage
will do a lot for him.
"I
can't leave my job for the next two months," I answered, feeling
a sense of guilt. "My boss, Mr. Arnold, is in Europe and I just
can't walk out on him now."
Alice
shrugged. "Well, you know best, dear. But don't forget to be at
our house this evening—the whole family's coming and don't let
Brent make any excuses."
I
laughed. "I'll bring him if I have to kidnap him from his lab."
That
evening, Brent and I were driving to Alice's house. As usual he had
protested going. "I'm in the midst of something important—I
can't leave it for a mere party."
"You're
not leaving it for a 'mere party,'" I retorted. "We're
supposed to be engaged, remember? It's customary to spend an evening
occasionally with your fiance—and occasionally take her to
parties."
That
made Brent give in and we started off for Alice's house—almost an
hour's drive into Westchester.
"What's
the occasion for Alice's party? D'you know?" Brent asked.
"Yes.
The famous British telepathist, Dr. Abner Graham, is coming to her
house. The Nelsons are bringing him and your whole family is quite
excited about meeting him."
Brent
was frowning. He stared at me intently. "Are you serious?"
he asked. "My family—excited about meeting a telepathist—a
thought transmitter—! Why the man's a charlatan! Since when have
the folks gone over to such superstitious nonsense? Tell me, Joan!"
The
intensity of Brent's reaction surprised me. True, a scientist would
be expected to deride mental telepathy, the reading of the mind, but
why should Brent take it so personally.
I
answered Brent somewhat cautiously, hoping to calm him down. "Oh,
I don't know, Brent. Your family isn't particularly superstitious.
This Dr. Graham has performed some amazing feats of what looks like
telepathy. No one has been able to explain them."
"Don't
tell me that you, too, believe in mental telepathy!" Brent asked
me incredulously. "That would be—too much!"
"Too
much—for what?" I retorted. "Too much for you to
take—even from me?" I paused. Then, "Really, Brent,
you're getting excited over nothing. Not everyone has your scientific
mind. Some of us are awed by the unknown. I can't say I believe in
mental telepathy, but some telepathists have read the minds of
strangers—and I can't help wondering how it was done. Is that so
shocking to you?"
Brent
was still angry. He grew sarcastic: "I expected more
intelligence from the girl who is to be my wife."
This
intolerant attitude on Brent's part, this unwillingness to take
anything on faith, seemed more than I could stand. Perhaps this was
why I had been stalling about our wedding date.
"I'm
not your wife, yet, Brent," I reminded him. "You've been
saved just in time from marrying a girl of such low intelligence. You
are free to look elsewhere."
The
car pulled over to the side of the dark road and Brent turned off the
ignition. His voice quivered as he made his excuses. He put his arms
around me, explaining that his nerves were under a strain from
working so steadily at the lab. We kissed and made up, and continued
on our way to Alice's party. But I had misgivings. Brent was not one
to give up his opinions easily.
It
was at Alice's gay, lively party, with everyone enjoying drinks and
exchanging amusing talk that I realized how somber, almost sullen,
Brent had become. If I laughed at a humorous story, I caught Brent's
intent gaze riveted on me. At one point, Alice's husband, Jim,
whirled me into a dance, a good record was on, and to my amazement
Brent, who never danced, cut in. He led me outdoors and dropped his
arm, facing me sternly.
"You're
still angry with me," he announced. "You're trying to make
me jealous."
"Brent—don't
be silly," I answered. "If I laugh, if I'm friendly to the
guests, you accuse me of ulterior motives. What is the matter with
you?"
We
heard a loud humming of voices through the open door and Jim poked
his head out: "Come on in, you two. Dr. Graham just arrived.
He's really amazing."
Brent
tried to control himself, but he could not suppress a sneer. He took
my arm, "Come on, let's meet your great thought transmitter, and
get our thoughts read." I drew my arm away and walked inside.
Dr.
Graham was an attractive man of about thirty-six. He was standing in
the midst of a group of guests who were expressing gasps of amazement
as the telepathist demonstrated, on a parlor-game level, some
examples of his skill. As I stood well back at the other side of the
room, watching Dr Graham, his eyes caught mine and for several
minutes our gazes held. Then, to my surprise, Brent spoke in a low,
tense voice: "So, you're quite intrigued with this charlatan! A
handsome face and a well-cut suit—and people are ready to believe
anything. I'll prove to you what a fraud is this Dr. Abner Graham."
Before
I knew what Brent was doing, he grabbed my arm and approached the
group around Dr. Graham. In a cutting voice that rang out, Brent
said, "Dr. Graham, I am a scientist and as such I wish to
declare that I consider your practice of telepathy a fraud."
I
wanted to sink through the floor. And when Dr. Graham answered with a
quiet dignity I was embarrassed to realize that Brent was still
holding tightly to my arm.
"Everyone,
even a scientist, is entitled to his opinion. However, you make an
accusation based on no evidence," was Dr. Graham's answer.
"My
evidence is about to be revealed to all your admirers present,"
said Brent. "I would like you to tell us all what is written on
the tomb of—Brent Lockwood, III."
There
was an exchange of glances all around the room. Brent's sisters and
brothers looked embarrassed.
Dr.
Graham lowered his eyes and was silent. Brent turned to look at me, a
triumphant sneer on his lips. I turned away. It was quite tricky of
Brent to have thought up that one, but his whole attitude made me
uneasy. I didn't like it. Of course, Dr. Graham couldn't know his
mocker was Brent Lockwood—and there was no tomb. Just then Dr.
Graham's voice was heard—I turned back quickly.
"Yes...,"
he said, "I can tell you. It is a very simple inscription. It
reads: 'Brent Lockwood, Born Dec. 10, 1920; Died June 16, 1951.'"
Brent's
laughter rang out in the quiet room. "Now, dear family and
friends, you can see what a fake this man is. Dr. Graham, it seems I
have to inform you who I am: Brent Lockwood, III." Brent laughed
loud again. "And since today is June 16th, 1951, and it is
almost midnight, and since I am a healthy young man of thirty-one,
your reading of my tombstone is—well—invented, to put it gently."
A
silence fell over the room. Somehow Brent's victory seemed an empty
one. His sisters and brothers looked glum and the party began to
break up. Dr. Graham shook hands with Alice and Jim and asked to be
excused. He threw one glance at me and with an almost imperceptible
nod left the room. Everyone else made their goodnights brief and
Brent and I escaped with the rest. We sat in the car without a word.
Finally he broke the silence between us: "Well, Joan, I hope you
and the rest are cured of this telepathy nonsense. And I want you to
make up your mind about us and give me your final answer. When are we
getting married?"
"I
have made up my mind," I answered quietly. "We're not
suited to each other at all, Brent. You're the intelligent scientist,
I, just an average, unenlightened person."
"You
mean you won't accept the fact that Graham is a fraud—as I showed
him up?" Brent asked incredulously.
It
was hard to answer him, but I said, "You caught Dr. Graham with
a trick. But there is something about him—something sincere and
genuine ..."
Suddenly
I felt afraid of the angry gleam in Brent's eyes, as again he turned
his gaze from the road and looked full at me. We were near a
cemetery. It was almost a relief when we heard the roaring sound of a
speeding car coming closer and closer to us. As it came alongside, it
veered so close to our car, Brent had to pull over and come to a
stop. Four men, wearing slouch hats, jumped out and we found
ourselves being held up by gunmen! I shrieked when I saw Brent start
to grapple with one of the men. "Stop, Brent," I shouted.
"Don't struggle, there're too many! Please, please, Brent."
While
one man pointed a gun at me, the other three beat up Brent. I heard a
terrible moan and saw blood gushing from the side of his head. They
were dragging us both somewhere when I felt a blow on my head and
fell unconscious.
When
I came to, Brent was dragging himself over the ground. I pulled
myself up to a sitting position and saw the horror that we were in a
graveyard. Then I heard Brent calling me in a guttural voice that
sent shivers up my spine. His eyes looked full of terror and he was
pointing with rigid finger at a tombstone. I staggered over and red:
"Brent Lockwood, Born Dec. 10, 1920; Died June 16, 1951."
