To the Reader of this Work:
In presenting Captain Carter's strange manuscript to you in book form, I feel it necessary to offer a few words on the remarkable man behind these pages.
My first memory of Captain Carter dates back to the months leading up to the Civil War, when he stayed at my father's estate in Virginia. I was but a child of five at the time, yet his presence left an indelible mark on me. He was a tall, striking man—dark of feature, with a smooth face and an athletic build—whom we affectionately called "Uncle Jack."
What I remember most vividly was his constant laughter. He carried an infectious joy that colored every moment he spent with us. Whether engaging in our childhood games or mingling with the adults in our family, he seemed to approach life with the same exuberance and energy. Yet he was no stranger to the quieter, more reflective moments either. I would often find him seated with my elderly grandmother, regaling her for hours with tales of his adventures—stories from far-flung corners of the globe, each more thrilling and outlandish than the last.
The man was adored by all who knew him. My family loved him and even our slaves, revered him with a devotion that bordered on the sacred. It was as though his very presence imbued the air with something rare and magical, a force of life that no one could resist.
He was the very embodiment of strength and manliness, standing a commanding two inches over six feet tall. His broad shoulders and tapered waist spoke of years of discipline and training, every movement radiating the confidence of a seasoned fighter. His features were sharp and striking—an aquiline nose, a firm jawline, and lips that seemed to hold both a ready smile and an unspoken challenge. Jet-black hair, cropped short, framed his face, but it was his steel-gray eyes that captivated all who met him. They gleamed with a mix of intensity and loyalty, betraying a spirit both unyielding and brimming with unshakable determination.
His manners were as polished as his presence, embodying the grace and refinement of a true Southern gentleman. He moved through life with an ease that turned heads, his charm effortlessly bridging the gap between poise and approachability.
In the saddle, he was nothing short of legendary. His skill as a horseman, particularly in the hunt, was the talk of the county, even in a land where expert riders abounded. Watching him pursue the hounds was both thrilling and humbling—a master at work, fearless and fluid, as though he and the horse were extensions of one another. My father, himself no stranger to the perils of the chase, would often urge him to rein in his daring. Yet, with a mischievous grin and a light in his eyes, he would always reply, "The horse that throws me to my death hasn't been born yet."
When the war broke out, he left us. I did not see him again for some fifteen or sixteen years, and by then, I had long stopped expecting his return. When he came back, it was without a word of warning. I was stunned, not just by his sudden appearance, but by how unchanged he seemed. Time had left no mark on him—not a line on his face nor a hint of wear in his step. He was the same as he had been before the war: genial, full of warmth, and quick with a laugh when in the company of others.
But I soon realized that this brightness was a mask. When he thought himself unobserved, his expression would harden into something I could scarcely bear to look at. I caught him more than once sitting alone, staring into the distance as if he were searching for something just beyond reach. His face would cloud over with a profound, silent grief that no words could explain. At night, he would sit outside for hours, his gaze fixed on the heavens as though waiting for an answer from the stars. I had no idea what haunted him so deeply—until I read his manuscript years later.
He told us little about where he had been or what he had done. All he said was that he had spent much of the time prospecting and mining in Arizona. The evidence of his success was undeniable; he had returned with more wealth than most could imagine. Yet, despite the riches, there was an air of detachment about him, as if the gold he carried weighed heavier on his soul than it ever could in his hands.
Whenever I pressed him for details about those lost years, he would evade my questions with a practiced ease. It became clear that whatever had happened to him out there in the desert was not something he intended to share.
He stayed with us for nearly a year before moving to New York, where he acquired a modest yet charming estate along the Hudson River. It was a picturesque cottage perched on a bluff, offering sweeping views of the river below. I visited him annually during my business trips to New York, as my father and I owned and operated a chain of general stores across Virginia at the time. Each visit to his secluded haven felt like stepping into another world, far removed from the bustling markets and daily grind of commerce.
During one of my last visits, in the icy winter of 1885, I noticed a change in him. He seemed preoccupied, often retreating to his study, where the scratch of his pen against paper echoed faintly through the cottage. I presume now, upon this manuscript.
One evening, as we sat by the crackling fire, he spoke with an unusual intensity. "If anything happens to me," he said, his voice grave, "I want you to oversee my affairs." He handed me a small, ornate key, its brass worn smooth with age. "This unlocks a compartment in the safe in my study. Inside, you'll find my will and a set of instructions. Promise me," he implored, fixing me with a piercing gaze, "that you'll follow them to the letter."
I pledged my word, though I could not shake the sense of foreboding that lingered in the air.
That night, long after I had retired, I awoke and, drawn by some unexplainable pull, glanced out my window. There, bathed in silver moonlight, stood Captain Carter on the edge of the bluff, his arms outstretched toward the heavens. He seemed lost in some profound plea, his silhouette stark against the vast expanse of the night sky. At the time, I believed he was praying, though I had never known him to be a particularly religious man. The sight was both haunting and mesmerizing, as if he were reaching beyond this world to some distant, unseen realm.
It was only later that I realized how significant that night would prove to be.
Several months had passed since my last visit, when, on the first of March, 1886—if memory serves—I received a telegram from him. The message was brief but urgent, imploring me to come to him without delay. As his favorite among the younger generation of Carters, I felt an unspoken obligation to comply, and I set off immediately.
I arrived at the small railway station near his estate early on the morning of March 4, 1886. The air was crisp, carrying with it a sense of foreboding I couldn't shake. When I asked the liveryman to drive me out to Captain Carter's residence, his expression darkened
"If you're a friend of the Captain," he began hesitantly, "I'm afraid I've got terrible news for you. He was found dead this morning, just after dawn. The watchman on a neighboring property discovered him."
Though his words should have shocked me, I felt no surprise—only a deep, unsettling certainty, as though I had been bracing for this very moment without realizing it. Swallowing my grief, I urged the liveryman to take me there at once.
The ride was a blur, my mind racing as I prepared myself for the grim task ahead: taking charge of Captain Carter's body and affairs, as he had wanted. The landscape, usually serene and welcoming, now seemed cloaked in an unnatural stillness, as if mourning his loss.
I found the watchman, the local police chief, and several townspeople gathered in his modest study, their voices low and uneasy. The air was heavy with tension, the kind that settles in the wake of something inexplicable. The watchman, his face pale and drawn, recounted the details of his grim discovery.
"I found him lying there," he said, his voice trembling, "his body still warm when I touched him. He was stretched out in the snow, arms raised above his head, as if reaching for something... or someone." His eyes flicked to mine, searching for some reassurance. "It was by the bluff," he added, "the same spot I've seen him before, always with his arms lifted toward the sky."
A chill passed through me, and my mind flashed to those nights when I had watched him from afar, transfixed by the sight of his silhouette framed against the stars. His strange gestures had seemed almost ritualistic then, a man communing with something beyond our understanding. Now, the memory unsettled me in ways I couldn't fully articulate.
The coroner's examination revealed no signs of violence. The verdict was swift: death from heart failure. Yet the circumstances gnawed at the edges of reason, leaving whispers of something more elusive.
When the others had gone, leaving me alone in the stillness of his study, I turned my attention to the safe. With trembling hands, I opened it and retrieved the documents he had spoken of—the instructions he had left for me. The papers bore an odd weight, not in their physical heft but in the strange gravity of their contents. They were peculiar indeed, but I have followed them to each last detail as faithfully as I was able.
He directed me, to transport his body to Virginia without embalming. There, it was to be placed in an open coffin inside a tomb he had meticulously constructed years prior—a tomb, I would later discover, that was uniquely designed with excellent ventilation. His instructions were explicit and unwavering: I was to ensure this was done precisely as he wished, even if it required absolute secrecy.
The peculiar nature of his will extended beyond his burial. He had arranged his estate so that I would receive its entire income for twenty-five years, after which the principal would pass to me outright. Among his effects, I discovered a manuscript—sealed and untouched—that I was instructed to leave unread for eleven years. Even after that, I was forbidden from revealing its contents to anyone until a full twenty-one years had passed since his death.
But perhaps the strangest detail of all lay within the tomb itself. The massive iron door, its surface gleaming faintly with gold-plated embellishments, was fitted with a single, enormous spring lock. What chilled me most, however, was not its grandeur but its peculiar design: the lock could only be opened from the inside.
Yours very sincerely,
Edgar Rice Burroughs.