H G Wells, A lost Letter

Dear Dr Abigail

To answer your query, it has taken many weeks to write this letter as there are no quiet rooms. In the early 19th-century, fellow scientists like Tesla invented the modern world, while I invented immortality. The elixir, the sea creature and the surgical procedure will remain a mystery for you, and you will not seek it if you know what is good for you. I do not mean to threaten but only to save you my pain.

Now, in this electronic age of internet interconnectivity and capitalistic greed, this knowledge you seek could be more catastrophic than you can conceive, and I know you to be brilliant. Therefore, I will tell you my story and ask that although it may seem fantastical, you accept it is firmly factual.

I undertook the procedure first on an African pygmy mouse in Mrs Coddywinkles boarding House in Surrey in 1901. The mouse lived and showed no signs of ageing for six years until it met its end in the jaws of a tabby cat. You must understand that these mice typically live for two years. It took me another year to find a down-on-his-luck vet to do the knifework procedure on myself. I drank the elixir and several stouts.

I woke several days later, ravenously hungry and in a pool of clotted blood. I had a thick slice of stale bread and drippings. Then I showered and dressed and became obsessed with the idea of cakes. Other than that, my faculties were in fine order.

I carried on about my business with no bother until the draft of 1914. Now my papers stated I was forty-three, but my face said I was in my early twenties. I heard many a tut, and quite a few white feathers were thrust into my pockets by strangers. But my papers, although questioned, were accepted thanks to old Father Daniels.

In 1940 the same occurred, but Father Daniels was long dead, and if he had seen me and believed me to be myself, the shock probably would have tolled the bell for him. So, I did my duty in the mud and booms and blood.

I was incensed with these men, who were so much poorer in the wealth of longevity. I could not comprehend why they were so eager to give their life away. They were vagabonds prepared to gift their only coin. While I, who have this immortality, wanted only to live.

It was following that horror I met my Evelin. So sweet she was with her copper hair. To me, she was the only flower in a meadow. Oh, and how the world changed and kept changing until I could believe I was its axis. Evelin asked for children, and I denied her. Not because of the lack of wanting but because of lack of ability. You see, the procedure makes that impossible. Then she threatened to leave me. I thought she must love a life I could not create more than our sweet time.

Evelin could not shake the idea from her mind, and finely, after drinking too much sherry, I told her of the elixir and the procedure that made my fountain of life sustain only me. I offered eternity to her, and she denied it. I begged her, and she denied it. Then when her mother passed in such pain, Evelin accepted.

I laid Evelin on our kitchen table. She drank the elixir. I cut her open and completed the procedure. She, too, slept for three days, and I had ready for her a hearty meal of cheeses and cakes. Later, we made love and celebrated, and it was beautiful to know we may have forever.

What is it now? 2044. Ah, yes, you won the Nobel peace prize for genetic research last year. This type of short life extension does not seem to have the ill effects my wife, and I have lived.

The agony started with a baby crying. It happened night after night without failure. So obsessed we were with this noise in the middle of the night that we levied up the floorboards to find the source of it. But it was simply everywhere and nowhere. We moved home having sold that house successfully. It was not a dire thing because people were starting to notice our longevity. We started again in our new house, made love and were happy. Nine months later, the baby's crying began again. We both agreed that the crying was different in tone and temperament.

This pattern repeated several times until we let our house and took lodgings in boarding houses. The constant moving worked for several years until we woke to a disembodied child’s voice; a boy of no more than five. “Why did you not birth me?” the boy repeated until we had gathered our clothes and ran.

Later the voices doubled. The boy was perhaps seven, and the girl five or six. Still, they asked why they were not born. Then three voices, then five, then seven, and we could not move location fast enough.

Without discussion, we drove to France and then Vienna and stayed in a small apartment in the 18th district. We abstained from sex because of our suspicions but were happy there for the best part of a century. Then one stark snow-lit night, we made love, and nine months later, an unfindable baby cried.

Then many more were back. Children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were all crying and asking why they were not born. They are here now in this room, all of them, a chorus. Evelin drowned herself in the Danube. A Hexe from the tenth district told us the secret. A ghost is not those who have died, but it is those who have never lived.

So there it is, believe it or not, Doctor. Do not pursue your research unless you wish to make ghosts.

Your Obliged Friend

A O Hallows

(A tribute to H G Wells, by Steve Barnett)