The Seventh Pan Book of Horror Stories

THE LAST EXPERIMENT By John D. Keefauver

It was the absence of noise that bothered him. From the very beginning of his stay inside the soundproof and lightless cubicle, a crushing, total silence had forced him — within the first hour — to make his own sounds.

He did not mind the dark; in a sense, he enjoyed it. For years he had closed his eyes and daydreamed in a private dark.

He had been in the room now for days, it seemed, with only a bed, some cans of food and jars of water and a toilet in the nine-by-seven-by-seven-foot cubicle.

A psychologist had led him inside, smiled, shaken his hand and then left him alone, shutting him into the dark silence, into the waiting. And into his thoughts.

At first he had gone over the incidents of the last few days and weeks that had led to his being in this room. As usual, his thoughts were pegged to sounds — the sound of the voice calling him to the company orderly room a few weeks ago, the sound of the sergeant's words as he was told to pack his gear. 'You'll be told what it's all about, Nelson, when you get over there,' he had said.

Neff Nelson, unassigned Army private just out of basic training, hadn't waited long. Within a few days he and 24 other young men had been taken by truck to a far corner of the post. There, housed in barracks, they'd been interviewed by two psychologists.

Nelson remembered in particular the voice of one, a soft monotone, almost a purr, that was calm and reassuring. The psychologists had said that because Nelson and the other young men were all healthy and of above average intelligence, they were being offered a role in an important experiment in human research.

The project was to discover the effects of solitude and monotony on human efficiency. What happens to a man when he is completely shut off from society for a number of hours or days; when he has absolutely nothing to do? 'What happens when you eliminate all stimulating sights and sounds?' the soft-voiced psychologist had asked. 'That's what we're trying to find out; how well a man can perform various skills in such a situation.'

The Army wanted to develop tests that would indicate the type of person best suited to man a remote radar, missile or weather station, or any other job — perhaps in outer space — where a man might be alone and doing a monotonous job.

The psychologists had also explained what the volunteers would be getting into. Research assistants in a control room would record all sounds from the cubicles and 'they may ask questions of you subjects' through a microphone. The 'may' had been emphasized, Nelson remembered. The questions would test the volunteers' ability to think, to solve problems, to retain independent judgment. The answers and reactions of each volunteer would be compared with those he gave before entering the cubicle. He would also be given another test after completing his stay in the room.

'From this comparison,' the soft-voiced psychologist had said, 'any differences caused by the experiment in the cubicle may be isolated.' His voice purred on, explaining that the door of the cubicle would not be locked; that a volunteer could walk out at any time he wanted to, although if he did he would be disqualified. Both psychologists declined to say how long the volunteers would stay in the soundproof, lightless rooms. They explained that if they disclosed the time they would invalidate the test because the men would anticipate the time when they would get out of the cubicle.

'Would you like to be a part of the project?' each man was asked.

Private Neff Nelson remembered the exact tone of his own voice as it had said emphatically, 'Yes.' He remembered it clearly because the matter of going into a soundless cubicle was a decision he would never forget. He knew he was volunteering for something that might very well drive him insane, and he was afraid.

Not literally all the way off the deep end, he told himself; not to a point where he would go blubbering off to the psycho ward. But all his life he had lived not with but on sound. The absence of it, if only partial and for a short time, drove him to seek and find a sound, a noise, be it ever so slight. The breathing of another person would be enough, even the sound of a dog walking on a carpet. He had consulted specialists since he was a child but they had never been able to help him. During his waking hours he simply had to be constantly aware of sound.

He had been trying to break himself of the need for years. And when this chance to go into a soundless world was offered, he had jumped at it. Here was an opportunity that would force him to go without — like a dope addict in confinement. If he could survive, his habit would be broken.

Yet when he was actually on the way to his cubicle, his mind had uncontrollably strained to hear, record and store up everything audible in those last moments.

Now he remembered the footsteps of those who went first up the steps of the building that housed the cubicles. He remembered the scurrying sounds of caged rats — also being experimented upon — which they had passed just inside the corridor along which the cells were situated. There were eight cells. Each man received a handshake and last instructions from one of the psychologists as he entered his room. Nelson's cubicle was the last one at the end of the hall. He went in, followed by the psychologist with the purring voice.

The small room, well ventilated and kept at a constant temperature of 72 degrees, was entirely white, corklined and as spotlessly clean as a hospital. A toilet sat in one corner, a food-and-water-stocked refrigerator in another. There was a bed with a pillow and a blanket. That was all.

The psychologist was a tall, stoop-shouldered man, with unblinking owl eyes. He shook Nelson's hand and wished him luck. 'Remember, the door is not locked,' he said. 'You can leave whenever you want, but if you do you're automatically disqualified.' He left with the words: The light will go out in a few minutes and the one in the corridor, too.'

Five-feet-ten-inch Neff Nelson was left alone in a nine-by-seven-by-seven-foot cubicle with water and canned food — each can a balanced meal — to keep his 174 pounds nourished. Suddenly aware of his loneliness, he listened intently for the sound of the psychologist's footsteps in the corridor. But he heard nothing; the room was soundproof.

For the first few minutes he had listened to the hum of the refrigerator, until it had stopped when the light was turned off. The hum would constitute an audial cue,' the psychologist had said. You would not be completely cut off from society if it were on.'

So he had begun a life of fumbling in the dark for food and water, washing with chemically treated wash cloths, and lying on the bed. There was nothing else to do. He had no schedule, no wristwatch. Dressed in pyjamalike clothes, he could sleep whenever he wanted to — in a quiet that noise could not penetrate, in a darkness that completely blanketed him.

And he could wait. He ate, slept, washed; ate, slept, washed. And waited.

And he thought. In a soundless world his thoughts swirled around sounds. His life had always been one of noises; now there were none.

Once, twice, three times he stuck his head under his pillow and pressed it to his ears in hope that when he released it there would be some contrast, some sound — even if ever so slight. But when his ears came away from the pillow there was no difference. The only thing he could hear was his heart. It pumped on and on, like the pound of a sledge. But this was noise of his own making, an inside sound, like the one he made by tapping his fingers on the wall or the floor. What he needed was a sound from outside, something, anything, to tell him an outside world existed.

And though the darkness itself did not bother him, it intensified his isolation from the outside world and made the lack of sound worse. In addition to hearing nothing, he saw nothing. He could not see the wall or refrigerator when they were inches from his nose. The only way he knew anything existed was to touch it.

Once, after only a few hours in the room, he went to the door and quietly opened it, then shut it, opened and shut it, over and over, listening greedily to the slight noise it made. But, again, it was a sound of his own making and he needed an outside sound. And the corridor was as dark as his room.

At first he had gone over the sounds accompanying the incidents that had brought him into his soundless world. But he had soon used them up. Then he started back over his life, a man on a desperate hunt, searching for sounds he had heard, recalling and listening to them, sucking all noise from them greedily, almost frantically, as his cubicle-stay extended from hours to a day, to days. He clawed into his experiences, going back, back, looking, listening.

He went through the roar of the airplane engines he'd heard on his way to camp, the thump of his foot on a football in high school, the ringing cheer of spectators, the loud ticking of his first wristwatch (a sound that others barely could hear), the squeal of his first car's tyres, the scream of his voice when he fell from a tree, the br-r-r-r the cutting tool made in the cast on the leg he'd broken, the screech of chalk on a blackboard (a sound that had almost driven him out of school), his sister breathing on the other side of a bedroom wall…

Yet now his mind kept grabbing onto and holding a sound that had first frightened him — the faint scurrying and nibbling of rats.

The sound had originated on a 30-minute radio show he'd heard when he was a child, a harrowing story of starving rats chewing their way closer and closer to a terrified man.

The man was a lighthouse keeper, and more than a hundred starving rats had drifted to his island in an abandoned row-boat. The keeper had seen them pour off the boat as it touched land, had seen them swarm toward him in the lighthouse. He had slammed and locked the ground floor door but in their frenzy they quickly ate through the wood.

Nelson vividly recalled the panting of the rats and the frightened monologue of the man as the starvation-crazed rodents slowly, relentlessly, chewed their way up to the top of the lighthouse.

Higher and higher, the man had climbed, slamming a trap door shut behind him at each floor. But the rats, their feet scurrying, their teeth grinding, maintained a constant background to the man's terrified words. He'd waited at each door until he saw the wood begin to splinter, then with a choking cry of terror he'd sprinted up to the next floor and slammed shut the door.

The rats kept coming, their efforts growing more frenzied at each level, as if they could almost taste the meal so near them. A chewing wave, they washed through every floor until they reached the top, the glass-enclosed room from which the keeper had first seen the rodents. The floor of that room had been made of metal, Nelson remembered; it had stopped the rats — for a while.

Then had come a terrible silence; for the first time since the rats had hit the first door there was no sound of them. The keeper had thought the metal floor had stopped them, that he was saved, and Nelson remembered the strong disappointment he had felt then — and was feeling now — not because he wanted the black rodents to tear the man apart, but because he was left with no sound after having had it with him in long, rich moments of mounting tension.

Then Nelson heard again the keeper's gasp and the scraping of rat feet on the glass enclosing the light room. They had scurried to the ground and then climbed the outside of the building, and two had got into the top room before the keeper could slam the window shut. Nelson remembered the man's scream as the rats sprang at him, teeth bared. But he had desperately kicked and struck at them until lie killed them. Then Nelson heard only the sound of claws on glass.

The rats finally left. For some reason they went back to the boat, perhaps because they saw it was moving. Then the shifting tide caught it and carried it away. Nelson could not remember the exact reason for their leaving the glass top. It really didn't matter. What did matter was his reliving, rehearing the programme's sounds; when the sounds went, so did his memory of the programme.

He had brought it back many times in his life, times when there weren't enough outside sounds, even though the memory sent shivers over him like rat feet. And here, in the lost silence of the cubicle, the radio story was more real to him than it ever had been. Over and over the programme repeated itself in his mind. It came back even when*he realised he had heard it enough — too much — repeating, repeating, until he couldn't stop the sounds of rats gnawing and scrambling on the lighthouse.

No matter what he thought of, it kept pushing to the surface and began again from beginning to end.

Nelson lay on his bed and tried to sleep. Unable to, he fumbled with food and water and tried to eat and drink. He washed again and again until his body was raw from scrubbing. Still, regardless of what he did, the rats were always with him. He couldn't keep them out. Their noises were part of his life in his noiseless world. They were needed and he welcomed them. Gradually he realised that he was afraid they would leave him. When their sounds faded away for a few minutes, he bit his fingers until he drew blood.

He smiled as he lay on his bed, eyes closed, listening. Noises filled his thinking — it was as if there were rats in the cubicle. He was content, he was not afraid. After all, he assured himself, the sounds were in his mind, and he could turn them off whenever he wanted to.

The day grew longer and with each passing hour he became increasingly troubled when rat sounds continued to be the only ones he heard, when they shoved all others back into silence. I wonder, he thought, can I really stop them if I try? If I wanted to? If I have to! Am I capable of even lessening their noise and dominance? If so, what would be the effect on me? I must know the answer.

He concentrated on pushing the rat sounds back. Slowly they diminished; the noise of their feet, their chewing grew faint. Gaps came when there was no noise.

No sound… no sound… nothing. A horrifying block of

Boundlessness. No noise to lean on, to give him meaning, to give him reassurance that an outside world existed.

No sound! his mind screamed and he concentrated wildly on bringing back the rats. 'Come back! he muttered, talking aloud to himself for the first time since he'd entered the room. 'Rats! come back.' He reached out with intense concentration, hungrily, almost frantically, and the creatures scrambled in for a moment. Then they went away; then came back again, but only partially. Slipping, slipping, they were slipping from him; their sounds were leaving him as if they were no longer conceived, controlled by his mind, but separate entities with the ability to go and come as they pleased. They scuttled away from his grasp and disappeared.

Nothing. There was no sound now except the lonely beating of his heart, the gulping of the drink he needed so badly and the sob he couldn't hold back.

The rats and the radio show were gone.They had gone on their own. The words flashed like a neon sign in Nelson's mind, repeating themselves. Then the reason for the repetition came.

If the rats had gone on their own, then they could return on their own. His mind could no longer make the sounds the rats themselves could. If there were rats in the cubicle, they would make sounds and he would hear them, even though he wouldn't be able to see them.

Yes, he could hear them if they were here. And immediately he heard them, heard their busy feet in the corner of the room at the foot of his bed. Their squeaky noises were a re-assuring, comforting sound. He smiled, relaxed — rat sounds were in his mind and all was right with his world. He listened for a moment, relaxed and satisfied, then sat up on the bed and looked toward the noise. Even in the pitch dark he could see a group of rats in the corner on the white floor.

A dagger of fear slit him. Pieces of his mind flew. He wanted to kick out, to scream. Then he realised he couldn't be seeing rats if it was too dark even to see the wall.

He was remembering the wall, that was what was happening. He was remembering how the wall looked when the lights had been on earlier. And, somehow, he was remembering rats. Of course, 'seeing' the rats was something in his mind, like hearing them. It was just a trick of his imagination.

He relaxed again on the bed. But now, instead of closing his eyes and listening, he continued to stare at the ceiling. Creeping into his thinking was an itch, an anxiety, a desire to do something. He fought it, then let the desire out. He said aloud, I want to go to the corner.:. feel to see if the rats are actually there.'

But he didn't, he stayed in the safety of his bed, wondering: Am I avoiding the corner because I'm afraid rats will be there, or because I'm afraid they won't?

Private Neff Nelson remained on his bed for hours and listened to the scurrying and nibbling of rats. Their noises filled his cubicle. They surrounded him and he was very happy. He eased his foot off the bed once to see if one would nibble at his toe, and he was disappointed when nothing happened. 'You little vermin,' he said, 'you don't know what you're missing.'

He didn't bother to eat or wash, and he found he wasn't thirsty. He didn't think about the outside now, or how long he had been inside the room. And he rarely thought any more about when they would come to let him out. He was happy in his dark world of never-ending sounds, soothing rat sounds, like a mother's cooing words.

Private Neff Nelson talked regularly now with the rats in his cubicle. It was a friendly relationship, one of the best he'd ever had. And his mind was doing it all. He had it made, he figured. He had so much that the others didn't have. Who else could spend a week in a dark, silent room, yet have so much company?

His mind was doing it all, he kept repeating to himself. And he had it under perfect control. I'm a pretty creative guy, he told himself. I might even decide to live in a room like this all my life. I'll think it over and let them know.

'What do you think about that, you rats?' he said.

'We don't like the idea,' one answered in a squeaky voice.

The private laughed. It was the first time one had answered

him, the first time he'd actually heard one talk. It was a wonderful thing, this mind of his: it could make nonexistent rats talk.

'We don't like living with a nut,' another one said.

'Oh, you don't,' Nelson answered, smiling. 'Well, I don't like you either.'

'We're not joking,' another rat said. 'You're losing your mind.'

'He's lost it, you mean,' another squeaked disgustedly. 'Talking with rats… He's done for.'

'Now, come off it,' Nelson said. 'You know I'm making all this up.'

'Yeah,' two of them said together. 'Sure, sure.'

Nelson didn't like their tone. They were getting out of hand. 'I'm in control here,' he said, tightly.

Their sarcastic, squeaky laughs seemed to fill the room.

'Goddam it!' he exploded, sitting up. 'When I want to talk to rats, I do! And when I want you to answer me, I make you 1 That's all there is to it!'

'He's losing his mind. He's lost his mind,' they chanted.

'Shut up, you filthy sneaks!'

'He's insane, he's insane,' they kept chanting.

'I'm not!' It was almost a scream.

'Insane, insane.'

'I'm not! I'm not!'

'Insane, insane,' their wailing tone mounted. Hundreds of tiny feet scampered on the floor in a whispering tempo. 'Insane, insane, the private's insane.'

'No, I'm not! No!' The last 'no' was a scream. It went tearing through the room, bouncing from wall to wall. 'No!'

'Insane, insane.'

'No! No! No!'

And light from the corridor suddenly flooded through the cubicle door.

The two research assistants in the control room had not known the experimental rats caged just inside the corridor had escaped through some defective wire mesh. Nor would they have learned of it until feeding time if it hadn't been for Nelson's screams. The men had recorded on tape his talking to himself from the beginning. They hadn't thought it unusual; they were used to strange talk over the microphone after the subjects had been in the cubicle a while. But when Nelson seemed to be losing control, when he started screaming in terror, they had run from the control room toward his cubicle and noticed, as they passed the cage, that the experimental rats were loose. The researchers knew the rodents had to be in the hall some place.

They had opened the soundproof door at the entrance to the corridor, turned on the hall lights and the one in Nelson's room, and hurried to his cubicle. They saw his door was open a crack.

When they went into the cubicle, a flash of white fur scurried by their feet and into the hall. Nelson was sitting up in bed screaming at the other rats in the corner. The creatures, twitching their noses at the light, were trembling with fear.

One attendant realised immediately what had happened. The rats, after escaping from their cage, had scampered down the dark corridor to the end. There, finding Nelson's door open a crack, they had run inside.

But the attendant didn't know that when Nelson had repeatedly opened and shut the door he had unknowingly left it open enough for the rats to get in. The corridor was as dark as the room and no light had come in to let Nelson know it was open.

The attendant also didn't know why the volunteer kept screaming now.

Private Neff Nelson kept screaming 'No! no! no!' because the rats he had seen and talked to before were black, and the ones he saw now were white.