‘The Strange Disappearance of John Marlowe’
Another discovery! First it was the Bangor High School yearbook from 1917, the year leading up to Grandpa Vayo’s graduation.
Here’s his senior photo along with a memorable blurb:
We’ve already seen Grandpa’s high school artwork in an earlier version of The Oracle (apparently, there were monthly editions to highlight the students’ talents). In that edition, Dad’s father displayed his comic chops.
In this edition, though, Grandpa appears to be tip-toeing into the water a half century before a future Bangor horror writer (what the heck’s in that water anyway?!):
The Strange Disappearance of John Marlowe
It was evening in Ashton, and the summer sun, a fiery red ball, was slowly sinking to rest in a bed of fleecy golden clouds.
It had been a sweltering August day. One of those days when business men sit in their office-chairs, with the perspiration streaming from their brows, thinking, not of the business to be sure, but of the “ole swimmin’ hole,” in a secluded nook of the forest, where many joyful hours of their youth had been spent.
It was one of those days when the very air seems sticky and on the point of liquefying.
But at last it was over. A slight breeze was stirring in the treetops, and all business was done for the day. Every shop was closed, work had ceased; but not all, for there was at least one workman who had not laid aside his tools and who, to all appearances, was more absorbed than ever.
In his spacious laboratory, bending over a large black bench covered with vials, test-tubes, bottles of various acids and other chemicals, was Professor John Marlowe, the eminent English scientist. The professor was a small man of about seventy years, with a full beard, tiny deep-set eyes, and a leathery complexion. His hands were withered and stained with acids. He was clothed entirely in black and the only bit of brightness on his entire person was a golden wedding ring which he cherished, and wore on the third finger of his left hand. To the observer he gave the impression of a little insignificant goblin trying to make a noise in a huge uninterested world.
But, was he as insignificant as he looked?
No, indeed.
John Marlowe was the most celebrated scientist in England. He had made many valuable discoveries and had received medals from France, Germany, and America as tokens of the respect with which he was regarded abroad.
But, although he had acquired fame, he had not acquired what he sought. For years and years, he had been experimenting on the theory of the “Dissociation of matter.” Acid after acid he had compounded which would entirely destroy all non-metallic substances instantaneously, but as yet, he had been unsuccessful in finding a composition that would entirely destroy human life without leaving any trace of its effect.
Now, strange though it may seem that such a learned man should be deeply interested in such a ghastly pursuit, still this was his sole desire, to have humanity under his control and to be able to take from man his life at will; to be a master of masters. It was a devilish pursuit in the eyes of the world, but in his own eyes it was legitimate and perhaps even amusing.
John Marlowe was deeply absorbed in his task on this particular evening. Now, his rat-like eyes would glow with fiendish delight as he watched the effects of a certain compound upon a fly, a spider, or any other insect which he might find near at hand. At such moments he would raise his head, gaze through the window over the distant housetops, and murmur in a half audible voice, “Ah, it progresses. Just a bit more and I will have it. And then, – and then, – Ah, me, the praise that will be mine.
“I, John Marlowe, will be a master of men.
“Kings will quail at my name and all humanity will be at my feet.” And then he would return again to his work. His face would relax and he was again a human creature.
These actions were kept up during the whole evening and as the hours progressed, one could easily see that the scientist was fast coming to the end he so diligently sought.
Twelve o’clock struck. The professor’s face was now aflame with excitement. Outside, a stiff breeze rushed past the open window. Rain began to fall in huge drops. A low, rumbling sound could be heard from a distance, and flashes of lightning cut through the inky darkness. A severe electrical storm, which almost invariably follows such days as this had been, was at hand.
But none of these atmospherical disturbances did Professor Marlowe notice. At half-past twelve, the storm was at its height and still he worked on. He was now bending over a huge metal bowl of steaming, ill-smelling chemicals.
Ten minutes later he filled a small vial with the liquid and crossed the tile floor to one side of the room, where he exposed the contents to a gleaming radio light.
Immediately he uttered a cry of joy – the cry of a madman.
With his free hand he stroked his tangled beard with nervous rapidity. His eyes bulged; his whole frame shook with excitement.
“Ah!” he exclaimed in a maniacal voice, “I have it. … I have succeeded. … The secret is mine, – mine, – mine. Ah! precious fluid. Just a little of this innocent liquid would wipe out an entire regiment. And the secret is mine, – mine. And to think that just one ounce of you would completely annihilate a man.”
Talking thus, he recrossed the room to his bench and stood gazing intently into the bowl of man-eating acid before him. The longer he gazed into its depths, the more fascinated he became. Its very color lured his sparkling eyes towards it. He stood like one in a trance.
A vivid ragged streak of lightning shot into the room. The lights were extinguished. There was a crash as of a falling body, a loud splash, a shriek, a groan. A thunder-bolt shook the house and then all was still, save for the incessant pattering of the rain outside.
Morning dawned bright and clear and Ashton resumed its daily toil.
Professor Marlowe’s wife entered the laboratory at about half-past nine, in search of her husband. She looked and called, but found him not. There was no trace of murder, or foul play. Everything was in order save a badly battered metal bowl which lay upside down on the floor at the foot of the bench. Advancing to this, she picked it up. There was only one thing beneath it. It was the wedding ring of Professor Marlowe.
~ Harold E. Vayo, 1917
I wonder how much the World War affected Grandpa’s creative mind.
Here’s a photo of Bangor High School from The Oracle in 1917. Quite the fortress!
Grandpa – Harold Edward Vayo – in 1918:
Grandpa entered the Student Army Training Corps program at Bates College in 1918. Thankfully, the war ended soon after. Grandpa served stateside during World War Two, as well.
“The Strange Disappearance of John Marlowe” © 1917 Harold E. Vayo Sr. All rights reserved.
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