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I promised the butler that I would bank the fire for the night, and I meant to keep that promise. I admit, it wasn’t all that easy to go back into that room again, after all that had happened. Of course, I’ve never really felt comfortable in that part of the house, but then, I’m not a hunter and all of those stuffed animal heads on the walls just make me nervous. No wonder George got unhealthy ideas, with all those glassy eyes staring at him. It’s enough to give anyone the flimflams.
Of course, George shot all of those animals himself and that might make a difference. Colonel George Lambert, owner of this house and famous big game hunter, has been my friend for longer than either of us care to remember. I‘ve been in and out of this house since he bought it almost twenty years ago. The trophy heads have accumulated over the years from his various hunting trips, and now there are probably forty or fifty different specimens represented on the walls. I think he started out with a few white-tailed deer heads, and the others followed, one after another.
Now the paneled walls are lined with thick necks, sprouting horns, and shiny eyes: moose, impalas, antelopes, and elk stare down at you from all over the place. A brown bear stands stuffed in the corner, and a young male lion has been caught mid-prowl by an enthusiastic taxidermist. I personally think the cape buffalo head is the most disturbing, but the hippopotamus is not especially happy company either. They had to mount that silly thing with its mouth wide open, of course, so we may always and forever stare down its throat. Makes any retired doctor (such as myself) want to examine its tonsils, if it had any--which it doesn’t.
As I’ve said, I have never been really comfortable in that room, even before the all the trouble started. I suppose that I began to realize that something was not quite right with George the night I came over for dinner about three weeks ago. As befits two old bachelors, we usually get together at least once a month for chow; it’s less depressing that way. Not that either of us fuss with dinner parties and such, but we do appreciate decent food and drink, a good yarn, and one another’s company.
As a retired physician, I do my duty by pointing out that rich eating does little to improve George’s gout, but during our monthly get-together, I try to hold my tongue. And that last dinner had been an especially good meal. George’s cook has talent, and always makes up a fine feast. We had polished off more than adequate portions of roast pork and pheasant, and were finishing it off with coffee and port in the trophy room, when George said the strangest thing to me.
"You know, Edward," he had said, taking a healthy swig of his drink, "sometimes I think these things are trying to talk to me."
From Colonel George Lambert, pride of the third armored battalion, this comment was about as startling as if he had said he was growing horns himself. "Really, George," I answered, with an uneasy glance over my shoulder at the stuffed turkey behind my chair. "I’ve never known you to be fanciful. What makes you think these dead beasts are any different now than they ever were?"
"Nothing, I guess," George said a little sheepishly, "and I know it’s a silly notion. You are really the only one I could tell this to, Edward. We’ve been friends so long, I know you’ll indulge me. It began last week when I came in here after lunch for a nap. I sat here in front of the fire (just like we are now), and I soon dozed off."
George took another sip of his port as if to fortify himself and continued: "Actually, as a medical man, maybe you can explain it to me. I woke up sudden like, with a start, and I could swear I heard giggling. Now don’t look at me like that--I heard it, I tell you. Distinctly. hehehehehehehe Giggling."
I guess my opinion of this outburst was plain on my face. "Well really, George," I answered in my best, hearty professional voice, "you were obviously still half asleep. You must have imagined that you heard someone laugh."
"No, no, Edward, you’re not listening to me," he insisted. "It wasn’t laughter--not like people laugh. It was a whinnying, tittering noise, like an animal might make, if it thought something was funny. It was an animal noise, I tell you. And very disconcerting it was too. Really gave me a turn, at the time. Still gives me a turn, if you care to know, and now they have all taken to watching me to see what I’ll do about it."
This was very disconcerting. Here was my oldest and dearest friend, accusing the big game heads on his walls of tittering at him. I began to wonder if maybe he had been under some mental strain that I didn’t know about. So I said, as calmly as I could: "It was probably one of the servants, George, or a delivery man or something. I know Jackson and the cook are quiet, elderly people but they must get young people to come in now and again to fix things. You know how these young people are, high-spirited."
He hesitated like he was going to argue, but I suspect he saw the concern in my face, because all he said was: "No doubt you’re right Edward. Yes, no doubt you’re right." But he looked uneasily around at the walls, and I admit, so did I.
Well, I didn’t catch up with George again for a few weeks after that. I saw him downtown at the post office buying stamps and invited him to dinner at my house as per usual. He seemed thin and preoccupied, but not actually unhappy. In fact, he was in a rare good humor, and he was glad to accept my invitation. He promised he would be there at 6:00 with the wine and cigars.
There was something about the way he looked that worried me; however, and his manner was so odd, I felt it necessary to do a little snooping on his behalf. When I got home, I dialed George’s phone number and his butler answered.
Now, I have known Jackson the butler for almost as long as I’ve known George. We’ve three been together a long time, and he and I have taken care of the Colonel’s health since we were all much younger men.
In addition, I trusted Jackson’s discretion and his gift of observation. "Good morning, Jackson," I said, and came straight to the point. "You know, I just met the Colonel downtown, and he is coming to me for dinner tonight. For some reason, he seemed a bit more inattentive than usual, and in case he should neglect to mention it, I thought I would give you a ring so you could tell Cook."
"It was good of you to call, sir," answered Jackson, with evident relief. "You know, I have almost phoned you several times this week, myself. He isn’t himself, the Colonel isn’t, and Cook and I are at a loss as to what on earth to do. You know we don’t discuss the Colonel’s business outside the kitchen as a rule, sir, but this is getting serious."
"Whatever do you mean, Jackson?" I asked, for some reason expecting the worst.
"The Colonel hasn’t been himself, as I said, sir," answered Jackson in a hushed voice. ‘I don’t know quite how to say this, sir, but I feel I can talk to you as the Colonel’s best and closest friend. Colonel George spends almost all his time in the trophy room now. You won’t believe this, but he says the animals talk to him--and giggle; he says they go ‘hehehehehe.’ "
I guess I was at a loss for words, because he continued almost immediately. "Now don’t get me wrong, sir," he almost pleaded, "I’m not saying that the Colonel is actually hallucinating or going mad."
"Why certainly not, Jackson," I assured him, but I felt I needed to add: "but just what are you saying? What are his other symptoms, perhaps he needs to come in for a physical."
"Well, other than the voices, Doctor, he seems perfectly fine. In fact, he has been happier these last few weeks than he has been all year. It’s just so odd, sir, him saying these sorts of things, Cook and I hardly know how to react. Especially, when he tells the jokes, now that is very troubling."
"Jokes?" I asked with misgivings.
"Yes, sir," Jackson answered eagerly, "the jokes the animals tell him."
"Wait a minute, Jackson," I said firmly. "Are you saying that the Colonel thinks that those stuffed animal heads are telling him jokes?"
"Oh yes indeed, Doctor," answered Jackson, "and very entertaining they are too actually. The one about the antelope, the ibex, and the zebra was especially amusing. Apparently, the gazelle over the desk has a fine sense of humor."
"Jackson," I cried with dismay, "what are you are saying!"
"Oh, I am sorry, sir," he cried, "I’m that upset; I just forgot myself for a moment. Really, the way the Colonel tells it, you almost have to believe him. He comes out of the trophy room, laughing so hard he can hardly talk. The cook and I are very put out about it; I assure you."
He wasn’t the only one put out, I can tell you that, and I intended to get to the bottom of this "talking head" business with George, himself, after dinner tonight.
It was a pretty good meal at my house, if I have to say so myself. My cook isn’t quite up to George’s Martha, but she made an extra special effort. I was surprised that George hardly ate any of the roast beef. He had always been a big meat eater (which is probably one of the reasons that he developed gout), but he said that meat just didn’t seem appeal to him lately.
In any event, we retired to my study after dinner and broke open the port and the cigars. When the time seemed right, I asked him how he was feeling.
He smiled crookedly at me. It gave me a turn for some reason. Then he said, "Edward, I have to tell you that I am having the time of my life."
"Indeed George," I answered guardedly. "How so?"
"Well," he said blowing smoke to the ceiling, "I guess you could say that I have found some new friends--very lively, entertaining friends, in fact."
"Is that right," I answered casually, "anyone I know?"
"Oh yes," he said. "In fact they have been right under our noses for years, almost as long as we have known each other. They speak very well of you, Edward. I hope you will enjoy their company as much as I do."
My heart turned over at this speech. I almost begged him not to tell me what I suspected already. "And who might these people be, George?" I asked, with a catch in my throat.
"Oh, they’re not people, old man," he chuckled, "they’re my animals in the trophy room."
I stopped to take a breath. "Are you saying that the dead, stuffed animal heads are now actually talking to you George," I said, trying to keep the anguish out of my voice. "The last time we talked, you mentioned that they had taken to giggling."
You may well wonder at my matter-of-fact tone, since this was my oldest and dearest friend, apparently going crazy right before my very eyes.
"Why yes, I remember mentioning that," he answered calmly, tipping off the cigar ash into the fireplace. "It was a sort of ‘heheheheheh’ sound, rather disconcerting, but I haven’t quite thought of them as dead for some time. Of course, that is exactly what they are, you know. In fact, I killed each of them myself; we’ve had a good chuckle about that, I can tell you. Fortunately, there are no hard feelings."
"I see," I said--and I did see only too clearly, but I didn’t think it was polite to bring up dementia so soon after dinner.
"I can understand that you would be skeptical," said George, completely nonplussed. "I knew you had reservations when I told you about their giggling. I admit that behavior was rather rude, but they have no formal knowledge of etiquette of course and didn’t want to startle me. I must say I appreciated the warning. One doesn’t get to make the acquaintance of one’s own hunting trophies every day of the week. They were really damned considerate, if you ask me."
I was certainly in no mood to argue that point. Instead, I said, "George, what you are telling me is highly unusual. If you were anyone else, I would suspect that you were either drunk, drugged or losing your mind."
"I have considered that myself, of course," George answered calmly. "I can only assure you that I am neither drunk nor drugged. As for losing my mind, why don’t you come up to the house and I’ll introduce you around."
"If you think that’s best, George," I said. "But what if you friends won’t talk to me? It could be embarrassing for all of us, don’t you agree, if the animal heads should turn out to be merely animal heads after all."
"There's always the possibility that they won’t open up," he said, "but they seem to like you. Let’s give it a try. If they won’t talk, they won’t."
I found myself in the absurd and unenviable position of agreeing to return to the Colonel’s house with him in order to interview a room full of stuffed animal carcasses.
Jackson met us at the door with a look of surprise. He took our coats and searched my face for a sign of what might be going on. To relieve the old fellow’s mind, I said: "Good evening, Jackson. The colonel and I are just going into the trophy room for a few moments. If you have coffee made in the kitchen, I would greatly appreciate a cup."
"Very good sir," he said with evident relief and scurried off to get coffee.
It was around 9:00 when we came into this room. I admit I was uneasy with the entire situation, wondering if my friend was about to exhibit serious symptoms right on the spot. However, he merely walked in and sat down in front of the fire in his favorite seat. I took my usual chair, and we both waited.
"Come on boys," George said quietly, "we’re all friends here. You all know Doctor Milborn, he’s been here often enough. No need to be shy."
Not a peep.
"Do you think they might not talk, because I don’t believe in them," I asked, trying to remember all I had read about magic beasts from fairy tales.
"Don’t be insane, Edward," he snapped. "This isn’t Peter Pan, you know; they are perfectly articulate, adult beasts. Be quiet, or you’ll insult them."
Several more minutes passed in complete silence.
"Really, George, this has gone on long enough," I said, finally. "You're acting like a mental case. Don’t you realize that you have your friends and servants worried sick? You’re making a complete fool of yourself. Aren’t you ready to give up this farce? Come on, now, is this a practical joke, or should I really be seriously worried about you?"
"All right, Edward," he said, with a sigh, "you win." "In my heart, I really didn’t believe they would talk with you; it never happens that way in stories. Still, that doesn’t actually change anything much, does it?"
"Doesn’t change anything?" I asked incredulous. "Doesn’t change anything, indeed. It’s off to bed with you and a sedative to settle your nerves. You’re a sick man, George. Some worry has been too taxing, and it has overturned the balance of your mind. You need help, man."
About this time Jackson came in with coffee. "Jackson," I said, firmly. "It is time we put your employer to bed. He’s been under a strain and needs rest and quiet."
"Certainly, sir," said Jackson, who put down the tray and tried to help the Colonel out of his chair. George shook off the help in irritation and bounced up from his seat under his own power.
"All right, you two, I’ll go to bed; I know when I’m licked," he said. He looked around the room, and I could have sworn that he actually winked at the gazelle head that hung over the desk. Still, I might have been mistaken, so I held my peace.
Well, we finally got the Colonel off to bed, Jackson and I, and he seemed to settle down without any trouble. All the same, I can understand why the butler would be leery about coming back into the trophy room to turn out the lights and see to the fire. I was a little spooked by it myself, but it would only take a minute. Besides the idea of talking animal heads is absurd, of course, simply absurd.
hehehehehehehehe
"What’s that!" I looked around; there was no one in the room besides myself. No one besides myself and the trophy heads.
hehehehehehehehe
"Speak up, I tell you. I can hear you giggling; speak up!"
"So tell me, Doctor," said the gazelle head over the desk, "have you heard the one about the buffalo and the farmer’s daughter?"
"I have not and I shall not," I replied, and left as quickly as I could. Was I alarmed? Not at all. Everyone is subject to hallucination, even doctors.
The important thing is not to yield to it.
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"Well, fellows, that was rather rude," remarked the stuffed bear, after the doctor had bolted from the room. "I’ve never seen anyone his age move that fast before in my life. What do you think’s biting him?"
"Who knows, Harry" answered the gazelle, suppressing a giggle, "but there is no call to be too offended. After all, you have to realize that most of these humans have no sense of humor."
Bio: Linda Kohut has worked at a highway garage, a community college, a security guard training school, a battered women's shelter, and a media research company, and is now in the process of finishing the classwork for a Master of Arts in Modern Humanities. She and her husband live in rural Western Maryland.
E-mail: lkohut@mail.gcnet.net
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