THE STORY OF THE LATE MR. ELVESHAM

I write this account not in the hope that it will be believed, but to warn whoever may come after me. My own fate is sealed, yet perhaps another may escape what I could not.

My name is Edward George Eden. I was born in Staffordshire and orphaned at a young age. My uncle, George Eden, adopted me and raised me generously. He was a journalist, self-educated and ambitious, and he inspired the same ambition in me. When he died, he left me a modest fortune of five hundred pounds and advised me to complete my education. With this money and a scholarship, I became a medical student at University College, London.

I lived frugally in a small, shabby room in University Street. It was during this time that I first met the man who ruined my life.

One afternoon, while carrying my shoes to be repaired, I encountered a strange little old man with a yellow face and dull grey eyes. He greeted me by name, though I had never seen him before. After some hesitation, I agreed to have lunch with him. Over a lavish meal, he revealed his purpose: he was an old man with no heirs and wished to leave his fortune to a young, healthy, intelligent man. He told me that I was his chosen one.

The man—who later revealed himself as Egbert Elvesham, a renowned philosopher—was intensely concerned with my physical and mental health. He required medical examinations, life insurance, and detailed investigations into my family history. Though uneasy, I was dazzled by the prospect of wealth and a future free from struggle.

One evening, after declaring everything satisfactory, Elvesham invited me to dine with him to celebrate my “accession.” Over champagne and fine food, he spoke of his achievements and hinted darkly at how little time he had left. He watched me eat and drink with strange intensity. At the end of the meal, he produced a pink powder and mixed it into our liqueurs, claiming it enhanced the flavor.

We toasted and drank.

Almost immediately, I felt a violent disturbance in my mind—confusion, noise, and a strange doubling of sensation. The world seemed unreal, as though I were seeing through inverted glass. Elvesham soon left, giving me two packets: one to clear my head before bed, and another sealed cylinder, heavy and mysterious, which he told me not to open until the next day.

On my walk home, I experienced disturbing hallucinations—false memories, unfamiliar places seeming strangely known, and a sense that my identity was slipping. At home, I drank the second powder and fell asleep.

When I awoke, I knew something was terribly wrong.

The room was unfamiliar—large, richly furnished, nothing like my own. My body felt weak and strange. When I spoke aloud, the voice was not mine: it was thin, aged, and trembling. In horror, I touched my face and found loose skin and toothless gums. At last, lighting a candle and looking into the mirror, I saw Elvesham’s face staring back at me.

I was young in mind, but trapped in the body of an old man.

Slowly, the truth became clear. Elvesham had transferred his mind into my young body and cast mine into his dying one. My memories remained intact; his did not replace mine. He had stolen my future—my strength, my youth, my life.

I searched desperately for proof, for money, for anything to undo what had been done. But everything had been prepared. The servants believed I was Elvesham, now mad. My behavior—confused, desperate, unfamiliar with names and places—only confirmed their belief. I was restrained, watched, and pitied.

Meanwhile, Elvesham lived on in my body, free, strong, and young.

In his study, I found manuscripts on memory and psychology, hinting at the terrible method he had perfected. He had solved the problem of immortality—not by preserving the body, but by abandoning it.

At last, I discovered a hidden drawer containing a small green vial labeled “Release.” I believe it was poison—left deliberately within my reach. Elvesham knew I would eventually understand the truth. He also knew no one would believe me.

If I end my life, the last witness to his crime disappears.

I write this now to leave some trace of the truth behind. I was Edward Eden. I am sane. I have been robbed of everything.

The manuscript ends here.

Elvesham’s body was found dead beside the desk, apparently by suicide. Yet one final, dreadful fact remains: Edward Eden had already died—killed in a street accident in London the day before.

Thus, the only man who could have explained the truth was gone, and the mystery passed into silence.

I leave this account to the reader’s judgment.