The Doors of Death — Story, Setting & Ideas

Voice and Tension in the Sickroom

The early passages rely on a slow, deliberate pace that mirrors the oppressive atmosphere. Sentences are long and descriptive, building a sense of confinement: “A heavy stillness hung about the great halls and richly furnished rooms… and even seemed to extend out over the velvet lawns.” The dialogue between McMasters and Biggs is clipped and charged with unspoken fear. McMasters' voice remains “still strong and commanding,” cutting through the semi-gloom like a knife, while Biggs responds in a quavering tone. This contrast in vocal quality underscores the power dynamic and the servant's emotional fragility. The narrative lingers on Biggs's internal turmoil—his tears, his prayers, his desperate hope—creating a psychological depth that amplifies the horror of the situation.

The Shift from Stillness to Alarm

After McMasters appears to die, the story's tempo changes dramatically. The long, static vigil is broken by the “peremptory, measured call of the telephone bell” and later by a “mad, incessant ringing from the hidden alarm.” The prose becomes more urgent, with shorter sentences and frantic action: “With fumbling, clumsy fingers he tried to hasten… his heart almost stood still, then mounted to his throat as if to choke him.” This acceleration mirrors Biggs's shattered nerves and the collapse of his carefully maintained composure. The hidden alarm—a mechanical intrusion into the Gothic atmosphere—introduces a note of modern technology that clashes with the servant's religious worldview.

Faith Versus Pragmatism in the Face of Death

Biggs's Christianity is presented as a simple, comforting faith: he hopes to go gladly, like him “who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams.” McMasters, by contrast, is a pragmatist who “believe[s] in facing a situation squarely” and has prepared a trap-door in his coffin. Their exchange about whether death is real reveals a fundamental philosophical divide. The story does not resolve this tension; instead, it leaves Biggs shattered and the banker resurrected, smiling at the foot of the stairs. The final image—McMasters pale but triumphant—undermines the servant's faith without explicitly endorsing the master's scheme.

Readers should pay attention to how Waltermire uses sensory details—the odor of drugs, the weight of silence, the sound of bells—to create a claustrophobic atmosphere. The story's brevity (under 7,000 words) means every detail counts, from the Napoleon portrait to the trap-door. Note also the shift in point of view: the narrative stays close to Biggs, so we experience the horror through his devout, increasingly unstable perspective.

This story brought back my grandfather’s whispered dread of the family crypt, that same suffocating panic. I found a quieter echo of it once in More Bywords — A Closer Reading, where a character’s stillness isn’t terror but a held breath—a waiting that feels almost holy. Both left me staring at the ceiling, feeling the walls breathe.