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The Valley where dead men live by
Harold ward One, I have passed through

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the valley where dead men live.
My eyes have looked upon sights which God

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did not intend that man should see. My life must pay the forfeit as

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a man of science. You may
be interested in hearing what I have to

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say, and I must unburden myself
to someone before I pass out into the

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great unknown. But five days have
passed since I said goodbye to old Sourdo

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Jamieson. It seems as many centuries. Professor Parmley gave the speaker a quick

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glance. Did I understand you to
say that you left Jamieson's five days ago?

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Are you sure about that? The
man on the cot nodded on the

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twentieth of June to be exact.
There is no possibility of your being mistaken

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none whatever My diary will prove it. I made my last entry the night

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before I left Sourdough's place on the
nineteenth. The professor sat silent for a

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second. There is something wrong with
your story, Blake. The nearest route

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over the mountains from here is by
way of Chickahoochee Pass, which would make

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the distance from this point to sourdough
Jamison's cabin, a matter of over one

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hundred and fifty miles. This is
the twenty fifth of June. A well

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man couldn't do it. It is
impossible for you to have made it in

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five days in your weakened condition.
Not that I wish to dispute your word,

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but the sick man smiled Wanly,
don't you see, professor, that

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your own statement helps to support my
story. I tell you that I wandered

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into an undiscovered route through the mountains. You say that you picked me up

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half an hour ago, lying exhausted
and unconscious, a few rods from your

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camp. That being the case,
the entrance to the valley where dead men

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live on this side of the range
must be near at hand. You'll say

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I'm crazy when I tell you that
I have seen living dead men, dead

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men who do not know they are
dead. Can you imagine it? No?

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Neither could I if I had not
seen it myself. I've been through

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the Valley of the living dead and
come out alive. I've seen them living

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dead men by the millions and millions, fighting, stabbing, shooting, tearing

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at each other's throats like maddened beasts, and beasts. They are maddened by

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blood. Blood flows in the rivers
in the valley where the dead men live.

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It's the rage they were in when
they died. They carry it on

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with them beyond the grave, and
they're fighting it out in there. Can

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you hear the rumble of cannon?
Listen? You think that it is thunder,

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but it's not. And those flashes
that you notice just over the brow

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of the mountain, the flashes of
the big guns man spirit guns. No,

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no, it's not lightning. I'm
telling you the truth. I know

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that you think I'm insane. I
don't blame you. He stops suddenly,

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his nostrils dilating. Take a whiff
of that breeze, professor, don't you

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smell anything? Parmely sniffed. The
air from the mountains does have a peculiar,

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acrid odor. It's reminiscence of something. Gunpowder, by George, That's

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what it is. Somebody must have
fired a weapon close at hand. And

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yet why didn't we hear the report? The scientist gazed out the tent door.

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It was none of my party.
They are all accounted for. Yet

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I could have sworn that there is
not another human being within fifty miles.

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Blake smiled again. I merely called
it to your attention, professor, so

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that you would give more credence to
my story. It is so strange,

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this story of the living dead,
that it will stretch your imagination to the

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utmost. I am a sick man. I doubt if I survived the day,

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you, as a scientific man,
may be able to discover the solution

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to the puzzle. Perhaps you may
even be able to do something to help

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release those poor devils in there from
the tie of hatred that is binding them

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to this earth. At any rate, I would like to tell you my

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yarn. If you care to listen. Just give me another sip of that

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moose broth, will you? Raising
the sick man's head, Professor parmelely fed

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him a small quantity of the warm
soup. Then he sat down again beside

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the cot in an attitude of attention. Two. You are going to put

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me down as the greatest liar since
the world began, Lake said wearily.

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Yet every word that I tell you
is the absolute truth. My mind was

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never clearer than at the present time. So don't think that what I say

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to you is the raving of a
disordered brain either. You have heard the

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theory advanced by believers in spiritualism that
some people who die suddenly persist in keeping

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in touch with the earth, while
others go directly to their reward. I

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have seen enough to prove, but
I digress. My time is short.

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Let me start at the beginning.
When the war broke out, I attempted

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to enlist, but I was rejected
on account of my physical condition nerves.

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But I finally succeeded in hooking up
with the Red Cross and got over.

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I was gassed and later got a
dose of shell shock. You know what

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that means, nerves, pure and
simple. It is needless to tell you

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that I suffered all of the torments
of hell, so will pass that up

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and go on. I landed in
the States a physical wreck. The doctor

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sent me to the mountains. I
am a wealthy man, but it suited

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my mood to travel light and alone. I wandered here and there until I

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finally reached this north country. I
studied geology once, and while I didn't

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need the money, I decided to
do a little prospecting. A week or

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so ago, I reached the cabin
of sourde Jamison, having canoed up the

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river nearly two hundred miles. I
remained with the old man three days,

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rested up, then announced my intention
of striking off directly into the mountains.

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Jamieson tried his best to dissuade me. He claimed that the Indians had a

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legend that there was a valley located
somewhere in the middle of the range which

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was the abiding place of spirits,
the valley where dead men lived, they

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called it, and that nobody who
entered it ever came back alive. I've

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been through it and I'm out of
it. But I'm no better than a

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dead man. So the old legend
holds good. But I hope when I

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do pass out that my soul can
rest in peace. God. I don't

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want to spend an eternity in that
hell hole back yonder. I will not

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bore you with the details of my
trip up the mountains, for I started

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early next morning in spite of Jamieson's
objections. That night, I camped halfway

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up the side of the range.
The next morning, that would be four

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days ago, I chanced upon a
little canyon that wound in and out.

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Among the rocks. There were signs
of gold, and I determined to explore

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it thoroughly before going further. As
I continued, the air grew colder.

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From somewhere ahead came a dull,
indescribable roar. I put it down to

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a waterfall somewhere in the distance.
Suddenly, after a two hour's tramp,

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I reached the end of the narrow
pathway and found myself on the edge of

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a steep decline, ice covered,
slippery, a veritable man trap, which

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seemed to surround a huge, deep
basin. The entire place was buried under

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the pall of smoke, which hid
everything from view. On all sides rose

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the mountains, rugged, their peaks
covered with snow, offering an impassable barrier.

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The path by which I had entered
seemed to be the only means of

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getting in or out. Up out
of the basin, there came to my

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ears as a steady, rumbling boom. The air was filled with it.

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The earth seemed to tremble under my
feet at frequent intervals. Sometimes the noise

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would die out for a second,
only to start again with renewed violence.

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There was nothing to be frightened at, yet I confessed that the goose pimples

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came to the surface and I felt
the icy chills running up and down my

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spine. My hair stood up like
the quills of a porcupine. The very

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atmosphere seemed filled with despair, with
a vague something the human mind could not

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grasp. Suddenly, the wind brought
to my ears a shout. Then came

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a shrill, piercing, agonizing scream
of a woman, a shriek that was

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filled with terror and helplessness. Again
and again it assailed my ears, shouting

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in answer. I ran along the
edge of the precipice, looking for the

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pathway that would lead me to the
rescue of her, who called. As

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I ran along the narrow shelf of
ice, I threw off my heavy pack

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and carried only my rifle. Then
I slipped and lost my footing. My

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gun flew from my grip. I
struggled to save myself, but without avail

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over the slippery edge, I slid
down, down, down. It seemed

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to me that I rolled for miles. There was absolutely nothing which I could

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grasp to stop my wild plunge,
nothing but ice, ice, ice,

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cold and smooth as glass. Faster
and faster I went, until my speed

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was that of an express train.
I almost lost consciousness. I could not

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think. Suddenly I struck the bottom
with a force that knocked me senseless.

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Three. I was awakened from my
stupor by a peculiar rat hat hat that

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sounded like the rattle of a drum. I opened my eyes. The air

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was filled with acrid smoke. It
hung over me like a great gray blanket.

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Was I dead? I raised myself
on my elbows and looked about me.

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For an instant I imagined I was
back in Flanders. Then I remembered

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my fall. But where was I? The ground was covered with bodies,

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heaped up in grotesque attitudes, lying
in odd shaped piles. It was a

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veritable charnel house, a page torn
from Dante's Inferno, and such bodies peculiar,

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transparent crystalline. I could see through
them as one looks through a heavy

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plate glass. Heavens, it was
horrible, hideous. The blood, the

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blood everywhere. The air rang with
shrieks and groans and laughter, wild haunting

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laughter that froze the marrow in my
bones. Close beside me, a machine

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gun was rattling, served by a
sergeant and two privates wearing the olive drab.

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All three were of the same peculiar
grayish cast of pellucidness, as were

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the bodies lying around on all sides. Guns were booming, the ground rocked

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beneath them. Was I dreaming?
Was I the victim of a horrible nightmare

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in which my subconscious mind was again
living the scenes I had gone through across

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the seas. I pinched myself to
make sure. I was at a loss

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for an explanation. I shook like
an aspen leaf. I was filled with

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supernatural terror. Then something happened that
gave me a better light on the matter.

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Just at my right was a small
knoll, scarred and pitted with machine

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gun nests. Through the drab,
smoky haze, I could see the ill

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fitting German uniforms on the men who
manned them. Across the gap which separated

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them from me, a man was
crawling, dragging himself along on hands and

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knees. He turned his head toward
me. For an instant I recognized Howard

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Preston, an old friend, a
captain of infantry, who had been killed

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at the Argonne after silencing a number
of German guns which had stopped the American

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advance. Did he still live?
But no? I had seen his body

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the day it was buried. Was
I crazy? My head whirled. I

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was unable to move, so transfixed
was I by what was on around me.

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Suddenly I saw Preston leap forward.
A dozen guns opened on him,

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yet they failed to stop him.
I saw him fire from the hip.

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Then he leapt among the Germans with
the butt end of his rifle. A

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second later he hurled the weapon aside, and drawing his automatic from its holster,

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he sprang into a second nest.
The man seemed to bear a charmed

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life. The Germans swarmed over him
time after time, but after each effort

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he emerged triumphant. His clothes hung
on him in tatters. He was bleeding

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from a dozen mounds. His face
was a red smear through which his eyes

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gleamed like burning coals. A German
officer, a great, hulking blonde man,

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fired a pistol point blank at him. It failed to stop his rush.

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Both for their trench knives. They
came together, locked in a death

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struggle, their weapons plying like mad. Slowly, the German dropped to the

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ground, a peculiar dazed look on
his flat, round face. Preston turned

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wearily away and beckoned as if waving
for his men to move forward. Then

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he crumbled up and fell forward across
his victim's body. Then I knew the

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truth, the horrible truth. The
legend of the Indians was not fiction.

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This was the valley where dead men
lived. Here, men who could not

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break their earthly ties came back to
fight on and on until their berserker rage

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had expended itself. Here they were
enacting, over and over again the final

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tragedy of their lives. God,
it was the most diabolical thing that a

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human mind could imagine. Think of
it. All Over that vast plain,

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in the midst of that ice bound
valley, similar tragedies were being enacted by

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men. Dead men race were grappling
here, there, and everywhere. The

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peculiar feature of it all was that
I seemed to be able to see each

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individual feet of valor at the same
time, although they had transpired over miles

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of territory. It was like looking
at an immense moving picture which unreeled itself

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before me. I can liken it
to nothing better than one of the huge,

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old fashioned panoramas that were in vogue
a few years after the Civil War,

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some few of which still remain in
southern cities. I seemed to be

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floating over the entire basin. The
guns seemed to be real guns, shooting

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real bullets. The cannons were monsters
of steel that I had seen in France.

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Yet I swear that several times I
passed directly through barrages unscathed. The

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weapons, like the men who served
them, were only phantoms God in heaven.

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It was the most horrible scene of
carnage I have ever witnessed, more

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awful than the hell of France and
Belgium, for every detail was the result

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of the terrible ire under which the
combatants labored. When they met their death,

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as fast as they had played their
parts, they started in at the

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beginning and went through it again and
again, over and over, like automatons,

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held to their posts by a divine
decree of some kind. Words fail

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me. It was so unspeakably ghastly
weird, a futuristic nightmare, a bedlam

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of noise and infusion, a kaleidoscopic
phantasmagoria of light and color. Death walked

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everywhere. Remember, Professor, on
a battlefield, the men do not die

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in great numbers and lie around in
heaps. Hours, days, sometimes weeks

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pass without carnage. Even in the
heat of conflict, only a small percentage

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of those engaged meet death. Here
it was different for miles. In every

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direction there was death, death,
death, nothing but cold, stark death.

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Explain, I can't. My idea
is as I stated before, that

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man must work out his own salvation, that those who die in the heat

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of anger must work that hatred off
before their spirits can quit this earth.

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God, in his infinite wisdom,
did not care to inflict the horror upon

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the hire world. So he set
aside this barren hole as a place where

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dead men might sever the ties which
bind them here, and, with their

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passion cooled, pass on to a
better life. No, the man never

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lived who could describe it, that
cold, ice bound hell, the air

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tingled with madness, and the look
of awful malignity on the faces of those

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poor souls as they went on and
on and on through the same monotonous performance

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of killing and being killed. It
was butchery. The place was a slaughter

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house. Ah, the deeds of
valor that I saw performed wonderful, magnificent.

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History will never be able to record
the actual happenings, the cold blooded

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bravery through the hazy heavens. Phantom
airplane manned by ghostly pilots, dipped and

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maneuvered, dodging falling to earth,
Entangled masses, often burning gigantic balloons in

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00:21:11,759 --> 00:21:18,559
flames tossed across the clouds. Among
a heap of stones, the remains of

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what had once been a tiny church
located in the center of an ancient graveyard,

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A sniper carried on his nefarious trade, his hiding place at tomb from

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which the bodies had been hurled aside, I saw a group approach the place,

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grim determination written on their faces.
Their beloved colonel had been the victim

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of the sniper's bullets. They found
him after a long search. A youngster

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he had been the colonel's orderly leaped
upon him. A knife, plunged up,

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down, up, down, slowly, monotonously, while the screams of

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him into whose body it was sinking, made the night hideous. And when

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he had completed his work on the
dead thing with the glassy eyes that gazed

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upward unseeingly, the youngster calmly wiped
his weapon on the tunic of the vanquished

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foe. Oh the look of vengeance
that was upon the countenances of that little

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group, a shell came screaming through
the heavens. They attempted to dodge to

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cover, but too late, and
so the awful drama went on and on

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and on. There is no rest
for those who dwell in the valley where

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dead men live. Men fought with
the ferocity of wild beasts. They were

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blood mad, frenzied. A little
detachment of Englishmen were laboring with automatic rifles.

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Just at the edge of the wood
hoods. In front of them was

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a tiny veil through which wound a
sunken road. On the opposite side of

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the valley was another thicket, in
which were a seemingly equal number of Germans.

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It was a duel to the death
between the two groups. Both seemed

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to exhaust their ammunition at the same
time. By what appeared to be mutual

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consent, they left their guns and
charged at each other, Meeting in the

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middle of what had once been a
peaceful little dell. There were not over

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twenty men on either side grappling.
They fought hand to hand, using knives,

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clubs, stones, their revolvers,
their bare hands. They were like

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cave dwellers, giving no quarter and
asking none. At the end, there

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was no one left on either side, only a heap of dead and dying.

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When it was all over, the
dead arose and again went through the

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monotonous performance. Four. I was
hypnotized, held by a spell I could

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not break. Try as I would, I seemed unable to drag myself away

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from the ghastly sights. I don't
know how long I remained in the Valley

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of horrors. You say it was
four days. Look at my hair snow

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white. When I left Sourdough's cabin. My locks were dark. I am

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just past thirty years of age,
yet from my appearance one would swear that

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I had passed threescore years and ten
allotted to men. I have not slept

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for the hellish panorama continued on and
on and on. Only at night a

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different group of actors filled the stage. The darkness was hideous, with the

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roar of the big guns, the
screeching of shells. Signal rockets filled the

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air, as if by magic.
Trenches appeared here and there, little sectors,

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each with its own melancholy drama of
life and death. Here was a

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00:25:22,480 --> 00:25:27,359
stretch of no man's land, with
its grisly tenants. Men hung on barbed

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wire, entanglements, their clothes in
tatters, swaying to and fro in the

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breeze, like scarecrows in a farmer's
field. Once I lost consciousness fainted.

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I suppose much of the time I
wandered about in a daze. I knew

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not which way to turn. Dead
men living dead men everywhere. I dragged

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myself into a tiny house that seemed
to stand in the center of the valley.

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It was empty. I threw myself
on the floor, thinking to gain

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a minute's respite from the horrors around
me. I dropped into a deep sleep.

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I was awakened by the sound of
voices. I crouched further back in

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the darkness of the corner, frightened, not daring to make a move.

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What was I frightened of? I
do not know. One need not fear

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specters, need he There was a
sound of a match being scratched, and

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then a candle flared up. By
its uncertain light, I made out the

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figures of two men wearing the German
uniform. They groped about until they found

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a trapdoor cut in the floor.
Raising it, they lowered themselves through the

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opening, Seized by some impulse which
even now I am unable to explain.

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I determined to follow them. The
events that transpired are inexplicable to me.

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The only solution that I have for
the puzzle is that, for the time

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being, I was someone else,
some poor devil who lost his life in

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the attempt to avert a German surprise
on ver Dunn. For I swear that

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I was propelled by some force stronger
than my own will. Cautiously, I

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00:27:30,960 --> 00:27:37,359
waited until I heard their voices trailing
off in the distance. Then I sprang

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to the trap, and a second
later dropped through into the darkness of the

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cellar. I stumbled about until I
found the wall, following it with my

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hands, I came to an opening. Far ahead. In the darkness,

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I saw a tiny speck of light
bobbing up and down. It was the

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00:27:57,160 --> 00:28:03,480
candle carried by the man I was
following. Without thought of the future,

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I followed in their wake. On
on they went. Then suddenly the passageway

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widened out into a huge cavern.
Relying on the darkness, I crept closer

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until I was only a few yards
away from them. Hiding behind a huge

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00:28:25,200 --> 00:28:30,440
pile of boxes and barrels heaped up
at one side, I listened to their

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00:28:30,440 --> 00:28:36,279
conversation. At first I was unable
to understand what they were about to do.

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00:28:37,440 --> 00:28:41,920
Then, with a murmured one of
them cautiously drew aside a small block

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of what appeared to be solid rock, and peeping out over my hiding place,

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00:28:48,880 --> 00:28:55,160
I gazed through the little opening into
a brilliantly lighted passageway. I caught

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00:28:55,200 --> 00:29:00,559
a glimpse of uniforms. Through the
opening came scraps of conversation in French.

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00:29:00,759 --> 00:29:06,920
The truth flashed over me. I
was looking into the underground defenses of their

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00:29:07,000 --> 00:29:11,680
done. The Germans had tunneled up
to them and were waiting only for the

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00:29:11,759 --> 00:29:18,119
minute. That the defenders were the
fewests to break down the tiny barrier which

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00:29:18,160 --> 00:29:22,799
held them back and throw their hordes
into the very vitals of the French defense.

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00:29:25,000 --> 00:29:29,279
Even as the thought came to me, a watcher closed the opening softly,

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00:29:29,759 --> 00:29:33,400
and with a muttered word to his
companion, lighted a lantern and waved

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00:29:33,440 --> 00:29:38,559
it across his body like a signal
torch and a signal it was for.

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00:29:38,680 --> 00:29:45,480
Instantly, a distant whistle sounded.
Then lights leapt up as far as the

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00:29:45,519 --> 00:29:52,640
eye could see, and from the
distance came the tramp tramp of marching feet.

300
00:29:52,200 --> 00:29:56,720
I forgot that I was dealing with
phantoms. The thing was too horribly

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00:29:56,839 --> 00:30:02,799
real. I searched about me for
a weapon, for some way to warn

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00:30:02,839 --> 00:30:07,240
the unsuspecting men on the other side
of that frail partition. In the semi

303
00:30:07,319 --> 00:30:12,039
darkness to which I was rapidly growing
accustomed, my eyes fell upon an open

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00:30:12,119 --> 00:30:18,000
box. It was heaped up with
hand grenades. I made out the markings

305
00:30:18,079 --> 00:30:23,960
of other boxes. I almost shouted
for joy, for the pile was a

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00:30:25,079 --> 00:30:30,400
huge ammunition dump, placed there by
the invaders in readiness for the crucial moment.

307
00:30:32,759 --> 00:30:36,559
Seizing a grenade in either hand,
I pulled the pins with my teeth

308
00:30:37,039 --> 00:30:42,680
and held them in readiness. Closer
and closer came the German hordes. The

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00:30:42,839 --> 00:30:48,880
whole cavern and passageway was filled with
them. There were thousands, it seemed.

310
00:30:49,480 --> 00:30:55,240
The air was thick and heavy with
the odor of their sweat. Then,

311
00:30:55,720 --> 00:30:59,440
just as the head of the column
reached me, I hurled the bombs

312
00:31:00,200 --> 00:31:04,519
at the advancing enemy, but straight
into the big pile of ammunition. The

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00:31:04,720 --> 00:31:10,920
leaders heard me, saw me.
They came at me with a rush.

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00:31:11,079 --> 00:31:18,400
The ground trembled a concussion. I
felt myself being hurled through the air around

315
00:31:18,440 --> 00:31:26,119
me rang screams and cries of mortal
agony. Then came oblivion. There is

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00:31:26,200 --> 00:31:30,079
nothing more that I can tell you
how I came here. I have no

317
00:31:30,200 --> 00:31:36,039
recollection. Evidently my mind a blank. I found some exit on this side

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00:31:36,039 --> 00:31:41,720
of the valley. I only know
that you found me here outside. My

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00:31:41,880 --> 00:31:45,279
secret is yours. As a man
of science, you will probably try and

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00:31:45,359 --> 00:31:51,839
find the way into the place from
which I have come. Take my advice

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00:31:52,039 --> 00:32:00,400
and stay away. Now. I
am tired, Professor, I must rest

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00:32:00,559 --> 00:32:07,839
five extract from the report of Professor
Phineas Parmaly A B. L. L.

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00:32:07,920 --> 00:32:14,720
D et cetera. Mister Blake passed
away shortly after completing his strange narrative.

324
00:32:15,720 --> 00:32:21,279
The members of the Parmaly scientific Expedition
spent nearly a week searching the vicinity

325
00:32:21,400 --> 00:32:24,519
in the hope of discovering the opening
through which he came from the valley,

326
00:32:25,200 --> 00:32:30,720
but our efforts were fruitless. I
would be tempted to put his story of

327
00:32:30,759 --> 00:32:37,880
the Valley where Dead Men Live down
as an hallucination resulting from his terrible experiences

328
00:32:37,960 --> 00:32:44,039
during the war, But for one
thing, I sent a courier by way

329
00:32:44,079 --> 00:32:50,400
of Chickahoochee Pass to interview Jamison.
The letter says that the date given by

330
00:32:50,440 --> 00:32:54,880
Blake was correct. He crossed the
mountains, as he stated, in five

331
00:32:55,000 --> 00:33:02,720
days. I confessed myself puzzled.
We buried poor Blake where we found him.

332
00:33:04,799 --> 00:33:09,960
Rescue yat in Pass, the end
of the valley where dead men live.

333
00:33:10,920 --> 00:33:12,920
By Harald Ward