No one goes to the top of Chapel Hill anymore.  That house belongs to Doctor Macabre.  Everyone says it’s haunted.  The ground there is dry and cracked; what little grass that’s left is parched and brown.  The trees are all dead, too, their skeletal branches reaching for the heavens, pleading for the tiniest ray of sunshine.  And the sky is always grey; the clouds never seem to part, and the air is peppered with ravens, all squawking at whoever’s foolish enough to approach the rusted iron gates.

The walkway is a sparse patchwork of cobblestone.  It looks as if the stone was put down over a hundred years ago, and the elements have not been kind.  If you’re not careful, you could easily twist your ankle.  A hearty “crunch” can be heard with each step, kicking up tiny clouds of dust and dirt into the still, stagnant air.  This must be what walking on the moon is like.

One look at the house is enough to turn the blood in your veins to ice water.  Originally built as a chapel in the early nineteenth century, it was bought by the Macabre family in 1879 and subsequently converted into the family mansion.  Over the years, however, the house has fallen into a sad state of disrepair.  The house itself is a sickly shade of grey, its wood siding warped and cracked like dry skin.  In fact, the entire house is warped, bowed inward like an hourglass.  Even the crucifix adorning the roof is broken, looking more like an upside-down ‘L’ than what Christ died on for our sins.

A pipe organ can be heard from the distance, a sad, chilling melody emanating deep within the bowels of the old chapel.  The sound of it adds the chill of doom to the gloomy doorway of the old Macabre house.  Embedded in the door is an ornate brass knocker, bright and shiny against the aged wood.  The brass has been molded into a lion’s head, its face frozen in a terrible roar, its eyes ablaze, challenging all who would dare to enter.  The brass ring hinged in the lion’s mouth is cold and heavy; it generates a resounding “boom” as it crashes into the door, echoing against the walls of the house.

All of a sudden, the old pipe organ falls silent.  A deathly calm falls over Chapel Hill, broken intermittently by the sporadic squawk of a raven.  The faintest hint of a breeze can be felt from the south, breaking apart the foul stench of stagnant air.  The breeze is cold—cold enough to give you goose bumps.  But it’s not enough to keep the palms of my hands from sweating.

I used to hear all kinds of horrible tales about this place when I was a kid.  Tales of Doctor Macabre’s scientific experiments, of how he would kidnap young children and drain the youth out of them.  Crazy stories like that.  And as a kid I believed them; every kid that age did.  Why fear the Boogieman when Doctor Macabre lives up the hill?  But that’s all kid’s stuff, isn’t it?  There’s no way a man can build a device that sucks years of life out of another human being, is there?  I’m just being superstitious, and I should know better.  They’re just old stories meant to scare kids and nothing else.

Shaking my head, I wipe the sweat on my palms against the legs of my jeans and pull the newspaper strip from my back pocket.  Unfolding it carefully, I look over the words I highlighted only a few days ago:

HELP WANTED
Laboratory assistant needed.
No experience necessary.
Hard-working young man or
woman looking for work in
the field of scientific R & D.

Pay is negotiable.

Dr. Darius R. Macabre
100 Chapel Hill
Ithaca, NY  14850

I’ve been looking for work in research and development since I graduated a little over a year ago, but I haven’t been able to find anything but work in retail.  Graduating in the top ten percent of your class doesn’t mean much when all the labs you send your credentials are fully staffed, interns included.  I’ve been working full-time at Best Buy and weekends at a small, privately-owned bookstore just to make ends meet.  I was about to give up hope on finding what I’ve been searching for when I saw this article in the Help Wanted section of the local paper.  In spite of all the rumors about Doctor Macabre, his reputation in the scientific world is well-known and highly respected.  Working as his lab assistant could open any number of doors for me; it’s an opportunity I simply can’t pass up.

Footsteps can be heard in the foyer, a slow shuffle punctuated by the harsh “thunk” of what sounds like a cane.  As these ghostly footsteps creep their way to the door, I find myself growing anxious, both excited and terrified to meet the legendary Doctor Macabre.  What will the old man look like?  Will he be a terrifying ghoul of a man too old to look human, or will he be a statuesque scientific god too proud to let age hinder his intellectual pursuits?  As my mind races, the footsteps come to a halt.  Without realizing it, I’m holding my breath as I wait for something—anything—to happen.  Everything falls still and silent; I can hear my own blood pumping in my ears.  This is it, the moment I’ve both longed for and feared:  I am going to meet Doctor Macabre.

As the chains, locks, and deadbolts slowly unfasten from the other side of the door, my hands begin to sweat again in anticipation.  I wipe the sweat from my hands onto my jeans one more time as I prepare to meet the man who may very well shape the walls of my future.  As the corroded knob of the door slowly turns, I can’t help but lick my lips and swallow hard, repeating my name over and over again as if to remind myself of who I am in fear I might forget.  I jump as the heavy door opens with a jerk, all the oxygen fleeing my lungs in a last-ditch attempt at an escape from what lies before me.  I hurry to catch my breath as the door swings open and I lay eyes upon the face of Doctor Macabre.

His appearance is exactly as I expected it to be, though I’m less than happy to admit it.  He looks exactly like one would expect a mad scientist to look:  his body is frail and hunched at the shoulders; his frame is that of a tall man—six feet in height at the very least—though he appears somewhat malnourished; his skin is pale as a ghost—a sickly yellow-grey—and freckled with burgundy liver spots; his hands are slender and delicate, the finger nails thick and yellow like claws, the knuckles and joints swollen from age; his fingers are wrapped tightly around the head of his cane, much akin to an eagle perched on a rock; his hair is long and wiry and white, pulled back in a loose ponytail to keep it out of his face; and his face is long and slender with a hooked nose and a high forehead, reminiscent of an oval or an egg.  His eyes betray his appearance as he looks me up and down, scrutinizing my appearance as I’ve been scrutinizing his.  His taut lips split apart as he addresses the stranger knocking at his door.

“Greetings, young man.  Is there something I may assist you with?”

His voice is stern yet cool.  At first, I’m too awestruck to reply, but I quickly gather my wits and fumble with the newspaper article in my hand, clumsily spreading open the folds.  I trip over my tongue as I introduce myself and give the doctor a brief history of my education and experiences.  When I get to the part about why I’m here, his lips crack wide into a wicked smile.  His free hand floats upwards and begins to stroke his hairless chin.  He glances me up and down once more, carefully sizing me up.

“So you’re here to assist me in my laboratory.  Excellent.  I was beginning to wonder if anyone would be answering my ad in the papers.  I seem to have developed a bit of a…reputation over the years.  Especially amongst the children.”

Slowly finding my confidence hidden in the pit of my stomach, I muster up the courage to admit I used to believe many of the fantastic stories as a kid.  The doctor grins even wider, showing off a full set of perfectly white teeth.  He begins to chuckle but is quickly cut off by a brief coughing fit.  As the coughing begins to subside, the doctor carefully drums his chest with his free hand and clears his throat.  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing.

“But it is good to see some are too smart to let their superstitions get the best of them.  Young men like you.

“By the by, young man, just how old are you?”

I tell the doctor I’m twenty-four and eager to assist him in his work.

“Twenty-four.  Yes, excellent.  A fine age for the work we’ll be doing.  A fine age indeed.

“Please, come inside, young man.  Since you are here to assist me in my laboratory, I may as well give you a tour of the house.  Are you prepared to begin working immediately?”

I nod and tell the doctor I’ve come ready to start working right away.

“Most excellent.  Come this way; there is much to see.”

The doctor turns around and heads back into the house, beckoning me to follow with a wave of his hand.  The slow shuffle of his feet on the floor is the only sound in the foyer, quiet against the heavy “thunk” of his cane.  As I step inside, my eyes begin to adjust to the change in light.  As dark as it was outside, it’s much darker inside the old Macabre house, the only light coming from candles burning throughout the house.  Now that I can see clearly, I can see the inside of the old Macabre house is in much the same state as the outside.  Dust is everywhere; there are tracks on the floor from where the doctor has walked.  Cobwebs clog the corners of each room, hanging like spectral hammocks in the air.  Even the walls are in atrocious condition, the paint flaking and peeling and the wood splintering from neglect.  I find myself wondering when the last time the house had a good cleaning.

As we exit the foyer, the doctor stops for a moment in the main hallway and waits for me to catch up.  His attention is focused on a series of old paintings.  I walk to his side and take a look; the paintings are those of his family, from the first Macabre—Sir Henry T. Macabre—to the doctor’s father—Jonathon H. Macabre.  Standing amongst his forefathers, the doctor appears even frailer than when he answered the door, as if death could come along at any second and snatch away what little life force he has left.  He stands in front of the paintings transfixed, as if in deep meditation.  With a slow breath, he carefully begins to roll his shoulders back and stand fully erect.  He puffs up his frail chest like a bird in the midst of mating season, perhaps as a gesture of strength in the face of his ancestors.  Or perhaps it’s a challenge to death itself, a challenge to take the life of one who’s already lived so long.  The display of strength is short-lived, though, as the doctor’s body is racked by another coughing fit, forcing him to hunch over onto his cane once again.  This fit is worse than the last, leaving him gasping for breath once the coughs finally subside.

“I’m afraid…the tour…will have to…wait.  We must…get…to the lab…now.  Time…is of the essence.”

I merely nod and grunt in reply, following by the doctor’s side like a trained dog on an invisible leash as he shuffles down the rest of the hall and into the common room.  Taking in my surroundings as I scurry along, I’m flabbergasted by the horribly dilapidated state of the common room.  Initially constructed to be the chapel’s congregation area, two elegant spiral staircases were added after the building was bought by the Macabre family.  And much like the rest of the house, the common room is littered with dust, cobwebs, and broken glass.  The paint is peeling away from the walls in humongous sheets, leaving piles of peelings on the filthy floor.  The left staircase has rotted and fallen away, leaving behind the bones of its elegant frame and a heavy pile of rotten wood.  The right staircase is in slightly better condition with its railing completely rotten and a handful of missing steps.  It barely looks sturdy enough to support the doctor’s weight.  I let out a ragged sigh as I can’t help but imagine how beautiful this room must have been, long before its care and upkeep fell into neglect.

And then something catches my eye.  While glancing back down the main hallway, I notice candlelight dancing on the perfectly cleaned and polished wall, just to the right of the portrait of Jonathon H. Macabre—Doctor Macabre’s father.  It almost looks as if the wall was just recently cleaned and polished for the specific purpose of hanging another family portrait.  Upon further inspection, the polished area is exactly the same size the portraits to the left.  Could the doctor be preparing for his own death?  But if so, why would he reserve space on the wall of the family home when it’s in such disrepair?  As far as I know, the doctor is the last surviving member of the Macabre family; I don’t even think the doctor’s ever been married.

Before I can step back in order to investigate, I’m cut off by the doctor’s raspy voice.

“Pardon me, young man, but my laboratory is this way, not back down the hall.  You did come to assist me in my research and experiments, did you not?”

My body jerks to a screeching halt and I turn around—my head hanging a little lower—to catch up with the doctor.  I blush again and explain that I could’ve sworn I saw something down the hall and was simply going to investigate, but it’s certainly no more important than why I came here in the first place.  And what was I thinking, honestly?  Did I really see what I think I saw, or was my mind playing tricks on me?  Deep down, am I hoping all the terrifying tales about Doctor Macabre are actually real?  Childish nonsense.

With a crooked, knobby finger, the doctor points back down the hall, his hand shaking as it hangs in the dank air.

“Down the hall, you say?  I see nothing out of the ordinary.  Are you certain you saw something, young man, or could it have merely been a figment of your imagination?”

I turn my head slowly and crane my neck, straining my eyes against the dust and shadows for the flickering of the candle flame against the polished surface of the hallway wall, but I can’t seem to find it.  The candle that was burning just a moment ago must have burned out while I wasn’t looking.  Or maybe the doctor’s right; maybe I imagined it.  There’s no denying the fact that this house gives me the creeps.  It’s dark, dusty, littered with cobwebs, and practically falling apart at the seams.  It’s the quintessential haunted house, complete with ghoulish caretaker.

From over my right shoulder I hear the doctor let out an exasperated “harrumph,” and so I turn back around, defeated.  The doctor scrutinizes the pitiful expression on my face and raises two white, wiry eyebrows.

“Nothing there?”

The accusation in his voice hurts—almost physically—but it’s the accusation in his eyes that hurts the most.  I wag my head and mutter an apology for being so superstitious, feeling more than a bit like a fool.  I can only hope that Doctor Macabre decides to still accept me as his research assistant.

The doctor sighs and turns around, slowly shuffling away as he leans heavily on his cane.  He travels several feet before coming to a complete stop and turns his head just enough to address me without actually looking at me.  He coughs twice, phlegm audibly rattling in his chest.

“Young man, if you still desire to be my assistant, the entrance to the laboratory is just ahead.”

With his free hand, he beckons me to follow him.

“Come, follow me.”

I let out a sigh of relief and gallop to the doctor’s side.  As soon as I catch up to him, his cane slips on the dusty floor, and he starts to fall.  Given his horribly frail condition, I quickly drop and catch him before he hits the ground.  His body is surprisingly heavy for how badly his body’s emaciated.  I quickly adjust my body to the shift in weight, and the doctor is steadied in mere seconds.  With my hands on his sides, I can feel his ribs pressed up against the ancient grey skin that holds his insides inside.  I can even feel his heart beating in his chest, soft but labored from the excitement.  What amazes me the most about the doctor is how he has managed to be so resilient to the detriments of old age.  He must be in his nineties if he’s a day old!

As I aid the doctor in standing upright, he lays a cold grey hand on my wrist and gives it a squeeze.  His touch seems to almost siphon the strength from my body; my knees feel shaky like they’re about to wobble.  And then the doctor sets his cane on the floor and his weight on the cane, standing once again under his own power.  His hand, however, is still squeezing my wrist.

“My, my, my young man!  You certainly are a strong one!  Thank goodness you were here to catch me; that could have been a most unfortunate accident!  But please tell me:  are you the athletic type?  Your grip is so strong and firm; so muscular and virile.”

Taken aback a bit from such an unusual question, I stutter a little before I can answer.  I tell the doctor that I used to play football in high school and college, and that I even spent time lifting weights, though mostly to impress the girls.  His face lights up like a Christmas tree, his face utterly beaming with excitement.

“Oh, goody!  I do so need an assistant with a little bit of muscle!  My last assistant was, how might you say, a bit of a weakling?  His health was most terrible.  A smoker and a drinker, that one.  Not one to exercise—to feel a little fresh air in the lungs—that one.  He did not last as long as I had hoped.”

I had no idea that Doctor Macabre had previously accepted laboratory assistants before me.  I nervously ask him about his previous assistant, trying hard to keep from prying into affairs that really don’t have much to do with me.  But the doctor isn’t offended in the slightest, waving my question away as if it were some annoying fly buzzing around his head.

“It is no matter.  This was quite a few years ago.  I’ve since continued my work, but I am to the point where the spirit is more willing than the body is capable.  Hence the ad.”

I nod in agreement with the doctor and recommend we finish making our way to his laboratory.  Again he waves for me to follow, and we both make our way to the back of the old chapel.  We climb the tiny steps to the pulpit and make our way into the rectory.  It’s here where we find the entrance to the doctor’s laboratory.  Sometime during the renovations made by the Macabre family, a lift was installed in the farthest corner of the rectory, an ancient open elevator with a crank on the platform to coax the chains into taking passengers up and down.  As we step onto the cold metal platform, the doctor asks that I close the grated door and pull the lever.  I do, and we slow descend into the dark bowels of the Macabre family home.

For a while the doctor is completely silent, leaning gently on his cane, but then he breaks the silence with a barrage of questions.  He asks me things like, “Have you ever smoked before?” and, “Are you a heavy drinker?”.  I tell him that I tried cigarettes a few times in middle and high school, and again one time in college, but that I’ve only smoked a handful of cigarettes in my life.  Maybe four or five.  And I tell him that I’m not a heavy drinker, but I do enjoy an occasional drink every so often.  I’m a big fan of red wine, especially since it’s good for you.  He then asks me if I’ve ever used drugs before and if I have a family history of things like cancer and other hereditary diseases.  I tell him that I’ve never used drugs before in my life—I’ve never wanted to—and that I have a family history of colon cancer, but that my doctor told me a high fiber diet will help fight off the Big C for quite some time.  Other than that, my family’s bill of health is pretty clean.  I never even had chicken pox as a little kid.

With each answer I give him, Doctor Macabre quietly moans to himself and strokes his hairless chin as if taking extensive mental notes on my answers to his questions.  And he intermittently nods his head as if what I have to say is the answer he was looking for.  If I had known he’d be asking me for my family history, I would have made sure to bring copies of all my medical records.

We finally reach the bottom of the elevator shaft.  Once the elevator comes to a stop, I pull open the grated door and help Doctor Macabre step into the well-lit hallway.  This section of the house in absolutely nothing like the house above ground.  It’s clean, well-maintained, well-lit, and even free of dust and cobwebs.  The walls are made of cold, grey stone, rounded perhaps in a machined process for making basements just like this one.  I let out a sharp whistle as I take in my surroundings, almost missing the doctor as he quickly begins shuffling down the hall.  His speed is much faster than before, his footing sure and strong.  I can tell he spends much of his time here in his laboratory; it’s like being in a completely different world down here.

I hurry to keep up with the doctor as we make our way through the hall and into his laboratory.  Once inside the lab, I can’t help but gawk at all of the elaborate and gigantic machines that line almost every inch of the room.  And the lab space itself must be at least the size of the congregation area upstairs—perhaps even bigger.  I walk open-mouthed into the center of the room and continue to stare at everything around me.  My eyes eventually come to rest upon two sets of heavy wooden chairs, both with arm and leg shackles, head straps, and an assortment of needles and wires all connected to a large machine in between.

From the shadows of the laboratory, I hear Doctor Macabre’s voice boom and bounce off the stone walls.  There is something sinister about the way his voice sounds down here, and something powerful.  There is strength to his voice that I haven’t heard, and it sends a chill down my spine.

“By now, I am certain you are wondering exactly what it is I research and experiment on down here underneath my ancestral home.  With the wide assortment of gadgets and gizmos, I imagine it must be difficult to ascertain the true nature of my scientific exploits.  My assistants always do.”

I look around the laboratory but can find no sign of the doctor.  I can feel his presence in the room, but he’s become hidden amongst the monstrous machines littering the chamber.  And the acoustics of the old stonework cause his voice to bounce from every corner, making it completely impossible to pinpoint where the sound of his voice is coming from.  With the utmost futility, I ask the doctor what scientific field he specializes in.  There is a long pause before his answer.

“Gerontology.”

His voice is coming from directly behind me, and I spin quickly on my heels in order to turn and face the old man.  I have the most terrible feeling that something very, very bad is about to happen.  My best hope is to knock the doctor’s cane away from the floor, causing him to fall down again and hopefully keep him from catching me before I can make it to the elevator.  I’m beginning to believe that I really did see that candlelight reflecting on the wall back in the grand hallway, and I don’t think I want to know exactly what it’s for.  But before I can react—before I can even re-gain my balance—Doctor Macabre grabs my wrist and sticks a needle directly into my vein.  He injects something into my body, something that immediately causes me to break out into a cold sweat.  When I finally get a chance to gain my balance, I’m dizzy and unable to stand upright anymore.  I sway some to the left, then a little to the right before I drop to my knees, watching the doctor’s face the whole time.  There is a wicked smile there—wicked and cruel.

I try asking him what he’s injected into my body, but I’m so far gone now that I can barely speak.  I can barely even kneel as my body starts to go numb, and I fall onto my right side with a loud “thud.”  Doctor Macabre now stands up straight and holds his cane in the air.  He had been faking his frail health the entire time!  I try to speak again—to shout at him to let me go—but I can’t even open my mouth.  The doctor bends down and rests his face close to mine, his mouth hovering just above my ear.

“What is coursing through your veins as we speak is a little nerve toxin I developed some time ago.  It will completely paralyze your body and your nervous system in a matter of seconds, and you will be nothing more than a puppet without its strings.  But I have plans for you, young man, and I need you to stay alive for just a little while longer.”

He stands up again and spins his cane, tucking it underneath his left armpit.  At least I think it’s his left armpit.  The room won’t stop spinning.

“But don’t worry…you will still get to be my assistant, and the real experiment will begin very soon.”

As I begin to black out, the last thing I hear is the cackling laughter of Doctor Macabre.  I’m not really sure how long the injection knocked me out, but I’m no longer lying on the floor when I come to.  The doctor has somehow managed to move my lifeless body into one of the chairs in the center of the chamber, my limbs all strapped down tightly to keep me from moving or trying to free myself.  As the feeling begins to return to my body, I can feel several needles in my body.  I look around to see needles stuck into my arms, legs, and chest.  I can also feel several in my back, and I think one may even be imbedded in my spinal column.  I scan the room with my eyes, trying to find Doctor Macabre.  I can’t find him, but I can see that the other chair is still empty.  Whatever he has planned for me, he wants me to be awake for it.  And now I begin to cry.  I think about my mom and my dad, about my little sister who’s just about to graduate from high school.  I think about my ex-girlfriend Cindy and how I’ll never be able to take back the last things I said to her or about how much I miss her and how sorry I am.  And I think about how I’m probably going to die in this chair, and I’m only twenty-four.  I feel the tears run down my face, warm and wet as they congregate on my chin before slowly dripping off my face.

“Ah, you are awake.  Excellent!  Now we can begin the experiment!”

Doctor Macabre slides into view, uncommonly spry for someone his age.  He’s ditched his cane; I can see it now against the wall by the chamber entrance.  I want nothing more than to get out of this chair right now, but there’s simply no escape.

“I must say, you are certainly the most observant assistant I have ever had.  To think you noticed where I cleaned in the main hall.  That was sloppy of me!  But not that it matters.  There is no escape for you now.”

The doctor steps out of view for a moment.  I can hear the flipping of switches, and then I hear the hum of an electric generator.  The machine is now on.

“This machine is my greatest invention.  In all my years studying gerontology, I never thought that I would find the key to immortality.  You see, the key is inside the human body—the human spirit.  One can harness it and utilize it as a source of energy, much like the human body does.  One can even…drain it.”

Sweat beads begin forming all over my body.  I feel rather cold and clammy right now.

“And my machine does just that:  drain human energy.  But it does much more than simply drain the body’s energy; it can also channel it into another host.  All you need to do is insert the needles in the proper places, hook them into the machine, and throw the switch.  It is a rather simple process, one that I have streamlined over the many, many years that I have continued to develop the technology.  And I have been through many, many test subjects, much like you, young man.  With my machine, I will drain the very youth from your body, harnessing it with my machine and channeling it into my body.  To put it simply, I will use your life force to reverse the affects of time on my body.  And I will go on to continue my research, perfecting my machine in order to truly achieve immortality!”

Doctor Macabre steps back into view, visible through my peripheral vision.  He slowly slips into the chair opposite mine, his upper body naked as he lowers himself into the seat.  He grunts as he slides into the seat, most likely forcibly inserting the needles into his back.  He then takes the next several minutes to insert the series of needles into his legs, arms, chest, and head, strapping himself into the seat and headgear once the needles have all been adequately inserted and secured.  I make one final attempt to beg the doctor to spare my life, but little more than indecipherable gibberish spews from my mouth.  A rubber mouth guard keeps me from protesting my poor treatment any further, pressing gently on the top of my tongue to ensure my silence.  And so I resign myself to my fate, fully prepared to die at the hands of Doctor Macabre’s terrible machine.  I don’t even bother wondering whether or not it actually works; at this point I’m certain it does.  In fact, I get the feeling it was Doctor Macabre who purchased the chapel back in the late nineteenth century, having his portrait painted shortly before killing his laboratory assistants.  It would explain why all his relatives looked so much alike; each was his own portrait.  And as the doctor wraps his knobby fingers around the lever to the left of his chair, I find myself admiring his devious ingenuity and his devilish ambition.  He’s simply too afraid to die.

The pain of the doctor’s machine is too intense to describe.  It’s both hot and cold as it drains the life force from my body, infusing it into the doctor as he sits cackling like a hyena—like a mad scientist—in his throne.  All I can see is white, as if my eyes are too blinded by the pain to function properly.  And then the darkness of the chamber returns, leaving me temporarily blind.  I feel weak, like I’ve just age a hundred years in a matter of seconds.  My head is almost too heavy to hold up, so I let it sag and droop against my shoulder.  Even my eyelids feel heavy, so I close my eyes in order to let them rest and regain their composure.  And that’s when I hear the doctor’s cry.

“Yes!  Successful once again!  The modifications worked perfectly!  Wouldn’t you say, young man?!”

When I open my eyes again, the man standing before me is not the man who sat in the chair a few moments ago.  He’s young and fit, his long hair a vibrant brown, his body tight and muscular.  He reaches down to unfasten my headpiece, and my head droops once again, my neck muscles unable to support the weight.  With much effort, I hold up my head and look the doctor square in the eye.  I slowly ask him what he’s done to me, what his machine’s done to me, and what he’s done to himself.  The words trickle slowly from my tongue.

“Why, my young man, I’ve just stolen your youth!  Is that not so obvious to you?  Why else would you feel so fatigued—so weak—when you were so strong before?  Here, allow me to grab for you a mirror to see just what I have done!”

The doctor quickly dances away to a shelf on the chamber wall.  He brings back a small hand mirror which he holds up for me to peer into.  What I see horrifies me.  It’s me, but I look exactly as I feel—a hundred years older.  The doctor quite literally sucked the youth from my body.

“And now it is time to clean up the mess I made.  Very soon you will die, your body too weak from my little experiment.  Then I will bury you behind the house where I have buried my many former assistants.  After that, I will hang a new portrait in the main hallway and assume a new identity, once again as my own son.  And then I think I will have a bath.

“But before all that, we shall have music!”

The doctor dances to the far corner where he has an old victrola on a tiny wooden table.  He blows the dust off an old vinyl record and winds the crank on the side of the player.  With the utmost care, he places the needle on the record, and the music begins to play.  The last thing I see as my eyes slowly become too heavy to keep open is the doctor dancing to his old music, a deadly, sinister dance.  The deadly dance of Doctor Macabre.