The Murdering Hand

The tale you are about to read is an unspeakable horror that I personally witnessed befall one of my closest acquaintances. His name was Maarten Van der Meer, a renowned Dutch pianist from the city of Amsterdam. It was precisely in that ancient city of the Netherlands, in the year 1888, where this unprecedented story unfolded so tragically. My name is Peter Jansen, and I was in the local conservatory, seated in the audience, when my good friend Maarten was playing a rendition of Ode to Joy by Friedrich Schiller.

His magnificent fingers possessed an electric and masterful splendour, incomparable to those of other contemporary pianists of his epoch. He was a precocious child who had truly developed into one of the finest pianists in Europe. Thus, I admired his brilliance and his compositions, as a notable composer of classical music.

After his fabulous performance, we agreed to take a drink to celebrate and commemorate his recent success. He was a man of exclusive taste in fine Parisian wine, who indulged in the cultivated veneer of refinement, a proper gentleman to the core.

We shared a fascinating conversation on the topic of the cultural Renaissance, and he made mention of his next engagement at the Opera House in Amsterdam within a week. I was pleased for him, and when he offered me an invitation for that date, I told him I would attend and that it was an immense honour to be present among the audience. I was running late on the night of the concert and arrived in my carriage.

It was raining, I recall, and the theatre was full from top to bottom, with the expected members of Dutch society present. The performance was excellent, and Maarten was duly applauded and praised for his meritorious effort. Afterwards, we spoke for some time before the front gate of the theatre. When we brought our conversation to a close, we parted ways, and Maarten decided to cross the street to wait for his carriage.

As he was crossing, a heavy waggon passed uncontrollably and struck Maarten suddenly. I witnessed the horrible incident and hastened to his aid. Fortunately, he survived the brutal impact, but his right hand was badly mangled and crippled. There was a horrendous look in his eyes when he realised that his gifted hand would no longer be able to play the piano.

This was soon confirmed by the doctor’s examination. Maarten would never retrieve or recover his stellar ability to perform, his hand now a horrific deformity. Thereafter, he became a social recluse, living in daily isolation and gloom. He rejected every visitor who came to see him, including myself, his dearest friend.

His sullen nature and indisposition alarmed me and made me deeply concerned for his well-being and mental faculties. I thought often of how I might alleviate his wretched pall and distress, but he seemed utterly unreceptive to any convivial visitor at his estate.

Thus, I abided my time and hoped that he would gather his thoughts and attempt to resume his life, even without his musical endeavours. This would, indeed, require a difficult reckoning on his part. No one had news of him for many months, as he was forced to cancel his scheduled performances. He began to lose income and acclaim, and speculation was rampant in the newspapers regarding his misfortune and his life as a crippled man.

I could only imagine what it was like for him to endure the unthinkable notion of never performing before a live audience again. It must have been absolute madness to bear. Yet he was fully aware of the extent of his awful misery and ordeal. One day, I received a letter from him requesting that I visit his home on Kalverstraat. I was uncertain about this sudden change in his behaviour but extremely eager to see my old friend once more.

When I arrived, one of the servants escorted me to the parlour, where Maarten was waiting. I perceived that he was lost in profound meditative thought before I entered. There was a dreary and dull moroseness that seemed to pervade him constantly. He was seated in a fine oak chair with his back to me. When he finally turned around to address me, I immediately noticed his dishevelled and worn appearance, which surprised me.

At first, I did not know how to respond, so I remained quiet until he uttered a startling revelation that flabbergasted me. It was enough to make me ask him to repeat his words, and he did so promptly.

‘Peter, it is good to see you. I have excellent news. I found a surgeon who operated on me!’

‘What do you mean, Maarten?’

‘Dr Herbert Bierman agreed to amputate my hand and replace it with another, one in perfect condition’.

He showed me his new hand, noting my hesitant reaction. ‘Do you not seem pleased, my friend?’

‘Indeed, Maarten, but it is incredible to know that such a unique procedure was carried out. How was this even possible?’

He explained the details of his operation and how successful it had been. ‘The surgeon was truly magnificent in his technique and precision’.

‘I must commend him, then, for his remarkable accomplishment’.

He proceeded to invite me to hear him play the piano. ‘Please, sit, my friend, and listen to me play!’

I sat and listened, astonished by his unbelievable ability to master the piano once more. I applauded his effort. ‘Remarkable, Maarten! No one who knew you would ever notice that you had suffered a terrible accident’.

He did not want to be reminded of that haunting episode in his life and instead focused on his recovery. ‘Now that I have regained my ability to play, I must let the world know about my immediate return!’

There was a genuine thrill and conviction in his voice, and I was happy for him, eager to attend his next performance—a concert in Paris. After I departed his home, I returned to mine, still confounded by Maarten’s miraculous recovery, the pure thought of it utterly indescribable.

I had never heard of a previous case involving such a surgical operation, but who was I to doubt the advancements of modern science? The anticipation of his return was what all of Amsterdam was yearning and waiting for. How he was able to perform with such masterful perfection again, I do not know. I had heard of several cases of unnatural phenomena before, but this was the first I had witnessed personally of such a fascinating nature.

Why had Maarten not confided in me regarding his decision before the surgery? It was an apparent success, and it was good to see him rid of his former anguish and despair. I did not mention his operation or his plans to return to the theatre to any member of Amsterdam society, as he had specifically requested my discretion, and I honoured that earnest plea.

I left the city for a few days to attend to a personal engagement in Belgium, but I was not about to be idle and miss Maarten’s performance. After all, no event could compare to the exciting spectacle that had been programmed. The local newspapers, which had once written about the premature demise of Maarten’s musical career, were notified of his upcoming concert in advance.

Naturally, there was some reluctance to believe that he could play as he once did, when he had filled the halls and auditoriums of the conservatories, theatres, and opera houses of Europe and America with every performance of his extensive repertoire.

The memorable night of the concert in Paris had begun with a sudden air of anticipation amongst the members of the audience who attended. I was one of those curious members and had been seated in the front row of the proscenium. Maarten’s performance was better than expected, and he had, in sooth, regained his prominent status once more. His triumph had eclipsed the uncertainty of the sceptics who had doubted his glorious return.

He was lauded by the newspapers and Parisian society as a genius of European prestige. He had a distinctive manner to his persona, descriptive of his impeccable Dutch character. Afterwards, I joined him for a drink at a reputable pub located on one of the main thoroughfares of Paris. We passed our time there until the late hours, when I excused myself.

The alcohol had gradually affected my cognition, and I was forced to take a taxi back to my hotel. Maarten had remained behind with his other acquaintances. My memory of that occasion at the bar was neither completely pellucid nor detailed, for that matter. All I seemed to recall was the marvellous concert at the theatre.

The next morning, I was awakened by a tapping at the door. It was Maarten, who had sobered sufficiently to wish me well on my trip back to Amsterdam. I noticed he was extremely fidgety, as though something had unsettled him. At the time, I did not bother to enquire much, as I did not wish to be insistent. Instead, I bid him farewell with a firm shake of the hand, until we saw each other again in Amsterdam.

Before I departed Paris, I read an article in the newspaper mentioning a murder that had been committed near the vicinity of the pub where we had been the previous night. I did not think much of the murder, except for the unusual coincidence of the location.

The murder was heinous in nature, and the victim was a poor wretch whose name had not yet been revealed to the public. Upon my return to Amsterdam, I did not see Maarten for several weeks. He had been travelling through Europe, whilst I tended to my business of promoting my wine and vineyards.

We were both busy with our respective endeavours and engagements. I sent him a casual correspondence to Vienna, inviting him to be my bidden guest at the home I shared with my fiancée, Francis. He did not respond to my correspondence, which was peculiar, as he was always meticulous in his actions. When I heard he had returned to the city, I went to visit him at his home. I was greeted by him at the front door. He was in the process of leaving as I stood before him.

I asked him where he was going, and he appeared to be disingenuous in his response. His mien had changed towards me, and this was swiftly noticed by my keen perception. Ever since that night in Paris, some unknown thing had altered him and our friendship completely. The inducement to that alteration was an insoluble mystery that complicated my understanding.

I departed his estate and returned to my home, with growing confusion in my mind. I was worried that his behaviour would begin to overshadow his tremendous accomplishments. Perhaps regaining his fame had not prepared him for the ramifications of that success. Whatever it was had disturbed his human conscience—that much I had detected in him.

A week transpired before I saw him again, but this time it was at the front door of my home. I was in the study when I heard a loud banging on my side window. It was Maarten, banging so forcefully. When I let him enter through the window, there stood before me the terrifying image of a frightened man. His eyes were completely dilated and enlarged, with a madness I had never before witnessed in him.

He had profuse blood on his clothing and it was dripping from his right hand. He desperately urged me to conceal him from the police, who were searching for him. I was aghast at the sight of blood and, with immediacy, I asked him to tell me what had occurred. The following account is the explicit wording he expressed, with the actual veracity found in the sheer horror of his grievous actions.

‘What is happening, Maarten? I don’t understand anything!’

‘I don’t have time to explain, for the police will find me at once!’

‘We can speak here plainly, for I shall close the windows and shutters. But before I do that, I must be apprised of what you are fleeing and attempting to abscond from. At least tell me this!’

He sensed he had no other option but to disclose the horrid truth of his direful situation. It was a truth that would shock me to the core of my troubled soul:

‘I am a murderer, but it is not I who have murdered. It is the despicable hand that wields total dominion over me. I tell you, it compels me to murder at its command!’

‘Maarten, what are you insinuating? Do you expect me to believe this version of events?’

‘It is all true, Peter. The dreadful hand that was given to me murders for its own absolute satisfaction. I have murdered countless people in the European cities I have visited. I abhor that gruesome reality, but I am feckless to impede its volition upon me!’

His words were more indecipherable than his unstable posture.

‘For the love of God, Maarten, do you realise what you have just confessed to me? When did this all begin?’

‘It all began that horrible night after the concert in Paris, when you left me in that pub. I was walking the dark streets of the city when suddenly the hand commanded me to kill that poor vagabond.’

‘The one reported in the newspaper?’

‘Yes, precisely that same individual! I never meant to kill him, I swear by the grace of God!’

‘Then what you are saying is true! But how? I cannot fully comprehend this implausible story of yours. It has no logical rationale.’

He then raised his hand, and I saw it tighten in a powerful clutch as it moved towards me, with the imminent desire to kill.

‘You must help me, Peter, before it murders again. I don’t want to kill you, but the hand will command me to do so! You don’t understand the devilish hand!’

I was uncertain what had beclouded his judgement, nor whether these murders were the deliberate actions of a conscious decision on his part. For an instant, I had that lingering doubt within me.

‘I shall allow you to hide in the cellar for now, until I can determine what to do next. However, I cannot promise you what will happen afterwards.’

‘Thank you, Peter!’

I hid him in the cellar until the police had dispersed from the area entirely. When they did, I opened the door to the cellar—and Maarten was gone. He had somehow found a passage from the cellar into the underground conduits of the city and vanished into thin air.

I followed his path and reached the edge of the Damrak, close to the square of Oudekerksplein. My home was on Warmoesstraat, parallel to the River Amstel. I managed to climb out of the underground conduit and saw Maarten running past the narrow houses, with their gabled façades and Gothic architecture. He was fleeing from the police, who were hot on his trail.

The area was comprised of the main canals of Amsterdam, making it difficult to escape on foot. He climbed the houses and leapt from roof to roof, eluding the police until he was able to outwit and beguile them.

The next morning, the newspapers reported that a mysterious maniac had been killing people and was being sought by the police forthwith. There was no mention of Maarten’s name or description. Apparently, they had not got a good look at his face or features. As for Maarten, the threat of being identified and arrested for the murders was too much to bear.

Thus, he left Amsterdam and hid outside the country for the time being. He went to Ghent in Belgium to avoid recognition and disguised himself from anyone who might identify him. At my house, I was visited by a certain detective named Gerhard Visser. He came to ask me several questions, including ones about the murder of a Mr Albert De Vries.

He was the poor fellow who, supposedly, had been murdered by Maarten the night before. I could not fathom Maarten as the sadistic murderer they were seeking. If this was the real truth, I knew I was assisting a criminal at large. I told the detective that I had not seen anything out of the ordinary, and I regretted having to lie to him. I could not concede that my dearest friend Maarten Van der Meer was that heartless fiend.

What had gone wrong for him to deviate from his wholesome nature? Could his unbelievable tale of the murdering hand be true? There were too many unanswered questions and too little time to distinguish the truth from falsehood. I received another unique correspondence from Maarten, this time from Ghent. His words were disconcerting and reflected the utter desperation that was unravelling him daily.

He pleaded and begged me to visit him in Ghent—and I did. When I found Maarten, he was in an abhorrent slum area of the city at night, with an unkempt appearance, hiding from the police. His clothing was not typical of his usual attire or predilections. Regardless of his shabby appearance, I spoke to him and urged him to surrender to the local authorities. He refused and made another request—one that struck me as utterly deranged.

I saw a horrendous stare in his eyes, full of bewilderment and apprehension. He grabbed a sharp knife from inside his pocket and screamed at me to do the unthinkable: cut off his right hand. I was speechless at first; I did not know how to react to this precarious suggestion.

Once more, he begged me to cut off his right hand, and after witnessing the terrible anguish he was in, I walked away forever from my dear friend Maarten Van der Meer. As I did, he proceeded to cut off his own right hand and threw the bloody hand into the nearest canal. Then he ran from the spot, as the police, having heard the commotion, arrived to investigate.

When they saw me, they asked what had transpired and whether I had seen the murderer nearby. I said nothing, except that I had vaguely seen someone running towards the riverside. They left straightaway in pursuit of the dastardly culprit.

I returned to my hotel near the centre of the city and pondered the harrowing encounter I had just had with Maarten. I never imagined the daunting trepidation that would soon manifest into a dreadful consequence I would regret the next day.

I could not sleep for the rest of the night, thinking about where he might be hiding. A lamentable guilt entered my soul and made me ponder the significance of my refusal to help him in his extreme distress. Was I imagining all of this, as if it were a terrible nightmare with no justifiable explanation? If not, then my best friend was a detestable murderer.

That following morning, I awoke to a loud banging on the front door of my room at the hotel. This time, it was not Maarten who was knocking, but the police, who had come to speak to me about him. At first, I was startled that they even knew where to locate me.

They asked if I was Peter Jansen, and I acknowledged that I was. I was certain they had come to arrest me or enquire about Maarten’s present whereabouts. They ordered me to come with them. They did not tell me where, but I went voluntarily.

There, on the east side of the Citadelpark in Ghent, was the inanimate body of Maarten Van der Meer, hanging from a lone tree. He had taken his own life, and with it, the secret behind the mysterious murders as well. I was heartbroken and perplexed by his ghastly death, but I endeavoured to remember him for his immense talent and the priceless friendship I had appreciated over so many years. I received another correspondence from Maarten after his unfortunate death.

The letter had been written before his suicide took place. In it, he described the unspeakable terror he had been experiencing uncontrollably with the murdering hand. I shall share only the last paragraph of that letter, out of my deep reverence for him.

From the letter of Maarten Van der Meer:

I do not expect you, Peter, to understand the brutality of the murders I have committed, or the nature of my greed for ultimate success. I know that what you are about to read will disturb you immensely, but you must know that the hand that was given to me belonged to a callous murderer by the name of Adolf Van Dijk, who had been hanged a few days before my surgery.

His spirit and hand did not die with the rest of his body. I know it may seem insane to believe this unimaginable story, but I can attest to its accuracy. For many months I have been haunted by its diabolical influence and thirst for blood. Do not judge me solely for my deplorable actions, and know that although I cannot prove any of this, I am certain the good Lord shall forgive me for my shameful sins on this earth.

Before I leave this world at last, I know I shall be deemed the worst person you have ever known by the world. I shall be called a monster. Goodbye, my friend.

In the end, the inexplicable murders were attributed to his name, and his reputation was forever to be ostracised and entwined with these killings.

Perhaps I was the only one who truly understood Maarten, yet the madman he had become was something I had failed to recognise in its entirety. What if Maarten had been telling the truth about the murdering hand? In the days that followed, I could not help but brood over that heavy thought.

As I sat in my chair in the study, I began to hear a peculiar tapping at my window. Odd, I thought—who could it be? I rose to my feet to investigate, but saw no one standing by the window. There was a slight breeze, but when I opened the window, I still saw no one. I took my seat once more and resumed my contemplation.

Whilst I was deep in thought, a strange object entered the study unbeknownst to me. It began to crawl onto my chair from behind. Suddenly, I felt a taut grasp around my neck, attempting to choke me. I seized the object and hurled it to the ground in alarm. When I looked down, I realised with horror that it was a menacing, crawling hand.

It was the morbid hand of Maarten Van der Meer.

I stood there, paralysed, watching as the disembodied hand twitched and flexed on the polished wooden floor, as if regaining its bearings. Its pallid fingers curled and uncurled with eerie precision, as though it still retained the murderous intent Maarten had spoken of in his final letter. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs, and my breath came in shallow gasps. How was this possible? Was I descending into madness, or had Maarten’s warning been frightfully true?

The hand suddenly sprang up, its fingers splayed wide, and scuttled towards me like a grotesque spider. I stumbled backwards, knocking over a chair as I scrambled for safety. Without thinking, I seized a heavy book—an old volume of Gothic tales—and hurled it at the creeping monstrosity. The hand darted aside with uncanny agility, evading the book, which landed with a dull thud against the wall.

I dashed towards the door, flinging it open, and fled the study, slamming it shut behind me. My chest heaved as I pressed my back against the door, listening. For several seconds there was only silence, and I began to wonder if the horror had somehow been a figment of my fractured imagination. But then, faintly, I heard the scrape of fingernails on wood—slow, deliberate, relentless.

Inspector Willem DeWitt, the officer who had led the investigation into Maarten’s crimes was knocking on the front door. When I answered, his tone was gruff but curious.

'Inspector, it’s Peter Jansen,' I stammered. 'You must come at once. Something… something terrible is happening here'.

He pressed me for details, but all I could manage was a garbled insistence that he hurry. He promised to be there within the hour.

I had barricaded myself in the parlour, moving an old armoire against the door to prevent any intrusion. Every creak of the house seemed amplified, every whisper of the wind a sinister murmur. I could not help but stare at the gaps beneath the doors, half-expecting the ghastly hand to slide through like a monstrous serpent. Time dragged, each second a weight on my chest.

Finally, I unbolted the door, throwing it open to find Inspector DeWitt standing there, accompanied by two uniformed officers. His stern gaze swept over me, taking in my dishevelled appearance and wild eyes.

“Mr Jansen, what on earth is the matter?”

I ushered them inside, speaking in a rush. 'It’s here, Inspector. The hand… Maarten’s hand. It’s alive. It attacked me—it tried to choke me!'

The inspector’s eyes narrowed. 'You’ve had a terrible shock. Sit down and calm yourself. A severed hand, you say? Are you certain it wasn’t some kind of animal?'

“Do I look like a man who can’t tell the difference between a rat and a human hand?” I snapped, my nerves frayed to breaking point. 'It was his hand, inspector, crawling like a thing possessed'.

Seeing the seriousness of my distress, DeWitt motioned to his men. 'Search the house. Every room, every corner'.

The officers obeyed, rifles in hand, their boots thudding heavily across the floorboards. I sat with the inspector in the parlour, my ears straining for any sound. Minutes passed—long, torturous minutes—until one of the officers returned.

'Sir, we found nothing. No intruders, no sign of any…hand'.

The inspector sighed, rubbing his temples. 'Mr Jansen, I believe you’re under immense strain. Your friend’s death, the gruesome nature of his crimes…it’s understandable that your mind might—'

A sudden, blood-curdling scream echoed from the upper floor, cutting off his words. We bolted from our seats and raced upstairs. One of the officers was lying in the hallway, clutching at his throat, eyes bulging with terror. His face was pale, and he struggled for breath.

'God in heaven!' The inspector shouted. 'What happened?'

The second officer, wide-eyed and shaking, pointed down the corridor. “It…it attacked him, sir! A hand—it leapt at him out of nowhere and tried to strangle him! I—I shot at it, but it disappeared into the shadows'.

Inspector DeWitt looked at me, his face ashen now, no longer sceptical. 'Mr Jansen…it seems your story has some truth after all'.

The following days were a haze of fear and restless anticipation. The police intensified their search, turning my home inside out, setting traps and surveillance. Yet the hand remained elusive, striking when least expected and vanishing before it could be captured. The newspapers caught wind of the tale, and soon headlines screamed of a ‘Cursed Killer’s Hand Haunting Ghent’.

But my private ordeal deepened one night when, unable to sleep, I decided to visit Maarten’s old house on the outskirts of the city. Driven by a gnawing instinct that the answer to this madness lay there, I brought with me a lantern and a crowbar, determined to uncover whatever secrets still lurked in his decaying abode.

The house stood like a mournful sentinel against the night sky, its windows dark and gaping like empty sockets. I forced the door open and stepped inside, greeted by the cold breath of abandonment. Dust swirled in the beam of my lantern as I moved from room to room, each corner steeped in shadow and silence.

In Maarten’s study, I discovered something curious. Behind a bookshelf, half-hidden, was a trapdoor I had never seen before. Heart pounding, I pried it open and descended into a dank cellar, where the walls seemed to close in around me. The smell of earth and mildew was suffocating.

My lantern’s flickering light revealed a makeshift laboratory. Strange surgical instruments, jars filled with unidentifiable specimens, and piles of medical notes cluttered the tables. My eyes were drawn to a large glass jar on a pedestal, filled with a murky liquid—and within it, another severed hand, eerily still.

I scanned the notes scattered across the bench. Maarten’s handwriting, meticulous yet frantic, described experiments in nerve regeneration and spiritual transference—his obsession with pushing the limits of science and fate. One passage caught my attention:

'If my theory holds true, the transplanted limb retains not just memory but essence. A murderer’s hand, once joined with a new host, may corrupt utterly—body, mind, and soul. It can cause a man to go mad'.

Suddenly, the lantern sputtered, casting long, writhing shadows across the room. I froze as I heard a familiar, dreadful scraping sound behind me. Turning slowly, I saw it—the cursed hand, its fingers flexing with sinister purpose, creeping down the cellar steps.

I backed away, heart hammering, but tripped over a loose stone and fell hard. The lantern clattered to the ground, its light dying, plunging me into near-darkness. I scrambled to my feet, gripping the crowbar tightly, my eyes fixed on the slithering shape that came ever closer.

'Maarten!” I cried into the gloom, half in plea, half in fury. “If there’s any part of you left in that thing, end this now!'

The hand paused, its fingers curling inwards, as if momentarily hesitating. A strange silence settled—a moment of eerie stillness where it seemed, impossibly, that the hand was listening. Then with renewed fury, it lunged.

I swung the crowbar with all my might, striking the hand squarely and sending it flying across the room. Without wasting a second, I smashed the jar containing the second hand and doused both it and the cursed hand in the lantern’s oil. With shaking hands, I struck a match and watched as flames consumed the writhing abominations, their final death throes casting ghastly shadows on the cellar walls.

The fire brigade later found me outside, sitting on the cold ground, staring blankly as Maarten’s house burnt, the flames licking the sky. When Inspector DeWitt arrived, I said only one thing:

'It’s finally over'.

But as the weeks passed, and I sat alone in my study once more, I couldn’t help but glance at the lingering shadows by the window, half-expecting to hear that dreadful tapping once again.

For who could say, with certainty, that evil like that ever truly dies or remains hidden?

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