Kolchak The Night Strangler by Richard Matheson, Jeff Rice
Authors: Richard Matheson, Jeff Rice
Tags: Horror
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photograph in sepia tones.
“Dr. Richard Malcolm was one of the original staff members of the Westside Mercy Hospital when it opened in 1882. This is the original story copy and photograph.”
Original was right. This was not just the story as printed in the Chronicle . Somehow, Berry had unearthed the photograph itself along with the original copy in the hand of some long-forgotten reporter. The ink was faded and almost illegible in spots. The photograph had also deteriorated somewhat, but it was clearly the photograph of a bearded officer in a Union Army uniform; the face of a man, slim of build, good looking, and about 40-45 years of age.
“Civil War?”
“He was a surgeon with the Union Army.”
“Get me a magnifying glass, could you.”
Berry had one in his hand. He had anticipated everything. I could have kissed him. I went over the photo, very slowly studying the face. There was a thin white scar almost straight up from his right eye, just cutting through the eyebrow. The face was handsome, a bit aristocratic, and, to me, somewhat cold.
“Is this .. uh… Westside Mercy Hospital still in operation?”
“I don’t believe so, Mr. Kolchak.”
My spirits fell along with my shoulders. “Oh, hell!”
“It was badly gutted by the Great Fire. However, if I’m not mistaken, it was refurbished later on and there’s a clinic there now.”
“Mr. Berry, I don’t dare give voice to what I’m thinking. Are you game for a little adventure?”
His eyes brightened.
“Come on, then.”
“The game’s afoot?”
“Exactly!” I was laughing like an idiot. “Come on, Watson!”
Berry shrank back. “Uh… no, Mr. Kolchak. This,” he swept his hand around the room, “Is my world. As I said, the chase is not for me. But you be sure to let me know what you find.”
Chapter Thirteen
What I found was a very old four-story building in a semi-dilapidated state just off the waterfront, not five blocks from Pioneer Square. A restful place within good listening distance of the traffic rumbling down Alaskan Way.
What I found inside the main area stopped me dead in my tracks.
“My God!” I pushed a passing nurse out of my way and made for the nearest telephone booth to summon Mr. Berry.”
“John, bring all that stuff out to the Richards Free Clinic. NO! I need you, Mr. Berry. Right now! I need a witness. Now move! Please!”
There was an immense photograph hanging in an ornate, gilt-painted frame over a fireplace. The face belonged to Dr. Richard Malcolm, but it was clean shaven and wearing clothing from the Woodrow Wilson era. Bearded or beardless, in uniform or out, it was the same man. Right down to the scar over the right eye!
I kept pacing up and down and went through half a cigar until a nurse told me to put it out. Finally I lost my patience. I climbed up on a nearby cabinet and then onto the mantelpiece. Balancing precariously, I took a grease pencil from my pocket and began to draw a beard on the good Doctor Richard’s cold, handsome face.
A nurse raced over and began to yell. “If you don’t get down from there this instant, I’m calling the police.”
I ignored her and completed the moustache.
“Do you hear me, sir?”
She grabbed my leg as I was working up the beard, and I almost fell off. I shook my leg free and kept right on working.
“All right. All right!! I warned you.” She moved off. I finished the beard and, just for good measure, drew a Union Army officer’s hat over his close-cropped hair. It was perfect.
The nurse was still shouting.
“Fisher! Call the police. Tell them there’s some nut here destroying property. Get them over here, stat!”
I was just climbing down when Mr. Berry arrived and walked timidly into the commotion. We were surrounded by nurses, and orderlies were moving in on me.
“This is dreadful, Mr. Kolchak.”
“Let’s see that photo again, Mr. B.” He pulled it out of an envelope. The old tintype and the poster-sized
“Dr. Richard Malcolm was one of the original staff members of the Westside Mercy Hospital when it opened in 1882. This is the original story copy and photograph.”
Original was right. This was not just the story as printed in the Chronicle . Somehow, Berry had unearthed the photograph itself along with the original copy in the hand of some long-forgotten reporter. The ink was faded and almost illegible in spots. The photograph had also deteriorated somewhat, but it was clearly the photograph of a bearded officer in a Union Army uniform; the face of a man, slim of build, good looking, and about 40-45 years of age.
“Civil War?”
“He was a surgeon with the Union Army.”
“Get me a magnifying glass, could you.”
Berry had one in his hand. He had anticipated everything. I could have kissed him. I went over the photo, very slowly studying the face. There was a thin white scar almost straight up from his right eye, just cutting through the eyebrow. The face was handsome, a bit aristocratic, and, to me, somewhat cold.
“Is this .. uh… Westside Mercy Hospital still in operation?”
“I don’t believe so, Mr. Kolchak.”
My spirits fell along with my shoulders. “Oh, hell!”
“It was badly gutted by the Great Fire. However, if I’m not mistaken, it was refurbished later on and there’s a clinic there now.”
“Mr. Berry, I don’t dare give voice to what I’m thinking. Are you game for a little adventure?”
His eyes brightened.
“Come on, then.”
“The game’s afoot?”
“Exactly!” I was laughing like an idiot. “Come on, Watson!”
Berry shrank back. “Uh… no, Mr. Kolchak. This,” he swept his hand around the room, “Is my world. As I said, the chase is not for me. But you be sure to let me know what you find.”
Chapter Thirteen
What I found was a very old four-story building in a semi-dilapidated state just off the waterfront, not five blocks from Pioneer Square. A restful place within good listening distance of the traffic rumbling down Alaskan Way.
What I found inside the main area stopped me dead in my tracks.
“My God!” I pushed a passing nurse out of my way and made for the nearest telephone booth to summon Mr. Berry.”
“John, bring all that stuff out to the Richards Free Clinic. NO! I need you, Mr. Berry. Right now! I need a witness. Now move! Please!”
There was an immense photograph hanging in an ornate, gilt-painted frame over a fireplace. The face belonged to Dr. Richard Malcolm, but it was clean shaven and wearing clothing from the Woodrow Wilson era. Bearded or beardless, in uniform or out, it was the same man. Right down to the scar over the right eye!
I kept pacing up and down and went through half a cigar until a nurse told me to put it out. Finally I lost my patience. I climbed up on a nearby cabinet and then onto the mantelpiece. Balancing precariously, I took a grease pencil from my pocket and began to draw a beard on the good Doctor Richard’s cold, handsome face.
A nurse raced over and began to yell. “If you don’t get down from there this instant, I’m calling the police.”
I ignored her and completed the moustache.
“Do you hear me, sir?”
She grabbed my leg as I was working up the beard, and I almost fell off. I shook my leg free and kept right on working.
“All right. All right!! I warned you.” She moved off. I finished the beard and, just for good measure, drew a Union Army officer’s hat over his close-cropped hair. It was perfect.
The nurse was still shouting.
“Fisher! Call the police. Tell them there’s some nut here destroying property. Get them over here, stat!”
I was just climbing down when Mr. Berry arrived and walked timidly into the commotion. We were surrounded by nurses, and orderlies were moving in on me.
“This is dreadful, Mr. Kolchak.”
“Let’s see that photo again, Mr. B.” He pulled it out of an envelope. The old tintype and the poster-sized
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