The Living Mummy by Ambrose Pratt — Read

It is not worth while describing the next few days. They were quite or almost colourless. Once each four and twenty hours, Belleville, taking sound precautions, released me for a short while from my prison chair to let me stretch my limbs and in the interests of keeping me alive for his own purposes. We had very little conversation, for he had fallen into a morose and gloomy mood, the result of an attack of insomnia. In answer to direct questions I learned that Sir Robert Ottley's funeral had passed without incident, but that Miss Ottley's violent grief had been succeeded by a long stupor. She was being nursed by a creature of Belleville's, an old Frenchwoman named Elise Lorraine in whom he evidently reposed a deal of confidence. Belleville spent most of his time at work in the laboratory, but what he did I could not see, for he conducted his labours behind my chair.

On one occasion he gave way to a savage fit of passion, and without any cause whatever that I could perceive, he broke a number of glass implements upon the floor. Another time, having cut his hand in some experiment, he revenged himself by flogging me with a piece of whalebone until my flesh wherever he could reach it was covered with weals and blisters. He was not a nice man to live with and my hatred of him grew daily more intense. But perforce I was civil to him. On the eighth day he entered the room with a chalk-white face. I knew at once that something had happened; but I was not to learn what it was immediately. He disappeared forthwith behind my chair and for ten minutes stamped about swearing like a pagan. Then the lights went out of a sudden and he departed in the dark. He returned about four hours later, but I did not see him enter, although he put on the lights immediately.