A Taste for Monsters

by Matthew J. Kirby

  She ignored me, just as she had the first night I saw her.

  “Polly,” Mr. Merrick said. “Why are you here? Why have you come?”

  The ghost withdrew her hand from Mr. Merrick’s face and stood upright. “I don’t know. I … I’m getting married.”

  “I can see your dress,” Mr. Merrick said, his voice strengthening. “It’s lovely.”

  “It’s the first happy day in me life.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Merrick said. “Why is that?”

  She seemed to shrink then, with a fading away like scattering smoke.

  “Polly,” Mr. Merrick said, “don’t go. Please. We won’t hurt you.”

  “My father will,” she said, her voice smaller. “If I tell. It weren’t natural what he did to me. It weren’t what a father ought to do to his daughter. William don’t know, or he wouldn’t have me, I know it. But he’s marrying me. He’s taking me away, and it will all be better.”

  I’d known girls and women whose fathers had ill-used them, and I counted myself blessed to have had a father who, until he left me, had loved me exactly as a father should. My heart broke for Polly, and suddenly I didn’t feel so afraid.

  Mr. Merrick shook his head. “I am very sorry.”

  “But William don’t know it, see?” she said. “He don’t know he’s saving me. I want to tell him, but I’m so afeared he’ll toss me over.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Mr. Merrick said.

  “Yes, he will. I know it. Any man would do the same.” She shook her head. “I won’t tell him. I won’t.” Then she looked down and smoothed her wedding gown. “We’ll just marry, and all will be well. You’ll see.”

  Mr. Merrick was silent for a moment. “Then … my congratulations to you,” he said. “I’m glad for your day of happiness.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am, too,” she said, but there was no happiness in her voice.

  “I’m glad for you, too,” I said, but still she ignored me. Perhaps I was merely a shade of the darkness around her.

  “I best get to Saint Bride’s,” she said. “Don’t want to keep William waiting.”

  “Go, then,” Mr. Merrick said. “Godspeed, Polly.”

  She nodded and smiled, though her eyes remained the same mournful gray, and turned toward the open door. “It’s so black out there. But I don’t want William to think I jilted him.” She stared a moment longer and then moved toward the portal, and once she’d passed through, the door closed behind her, leaving behind a wake of pained memory in the room. Mr. Merrick and I were both silent for a long time.

  “It’s almost unbearable, isn’t it?” he finally said. “I feel so sad for her.”

  “I think she’s beyond anyone’s help, Mr. Merrick. God rest her soul.”

  “But she’s clearly not at rest.”

  I agreed with him on that, but I could not think what she needed, for I’d only just accepted without doubt the fundamental reality of ghosts, and that she was truly one of them. There were Spiritualists and others who held convocations with the dead, but I had always dismissed them as charlatans and mountebanks, and still put no faith in their parlor tricks.

  “You listened to her,” I said. “Perhaps that’s enough.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think she’ll return. But I no longer fear her.”

  I also took consolation in that, at least.

  “You asked her if she was murdered,” Mr. Merrick said. “Why?”

  “Because she was,” I said. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a madman loose in Whitechapel. They say he’s killed three women. Polly’s soul was set free the very same morning she first came to you. She was killed but one street away, not far from this very spot. If you think on that, is it any wonder she’s haunting?”

  “I think her murder was the end of her pain,” Mr. Merrick said. “Not the beginning.”

  “Clearly not the end,” I said.

  He nodded. “True. But what I mean is, I don’t think that’s why she haunts.”

  As my fear abated, a weakness crept up and began to overtake me by the limbs, and I didn’t want to think on the encounter any longer. “I don’t pretend to know what desires and compulsions govern the affairs of ghosts.”

  “Nor I,” Mr. Merrick said.

  “The fire’s almost out,” I said. “I’ll fill your coal hod straightaway, so you won’t be cold.”

  He nodded. “Very well.”

  I went for the bucket, feeling grateful he hadn’t protested, and left his room quickly. Outside, I found the morning was in earnest now, the sky possessed of a faint light that quietly flushed out the abandoned quality of the courtyard. Everything that had just transpired grew distant with each step, as though a dream upon waking, and, believing it impossible to convince myself none of it had happened, I hoped I could at least push it far out of mind. Now that I knew Mr. Merrick didn’t seem to be endangered by this ghost, I didn’t want any part of the undead world. One experience with it was quite enough for me.

  After I’d gone to the coal shed and filled the hod, I lugged it back to Mr. Merrick’s room, where I found he’d moved himself from the armchair to his bed.

  “I could have helped you get situated, Mr. Merrick,” I said as I fed the fire, trying to keep any trace or weight of the last hour from my voice.

  “There are times I prefer to manage on my own,” he said. “Is there really a madman murdering women?”

  “Yes.”

  “How dreadful,” he said, and it was almost a moan. “Those … those poor women. Poor Polly.”

  A different pain afflicted him upon hearing the news than I supposed the rest of us felt. He looked at the world in a way I still did not fully understand, but it seemed to me that he found a semblance of his mother in every woman he met, and the murder of any was the murder of her. He closed his eyes, brought his legs up, and bowed his head upon his knees.

  “Would … would you like to get some sleep?” I asked.

  He looked up at me. “Yes, I think I would.”

  “Very good, then. I’ll make sure it’s a late breakfast for you.”

  “Thank you, Evelyn.”

  “You’re welcome.” I curtsied, something I had not done for Mr. Merrick in several days, so familiar had we become. But I did so then perhaps to remind myself that I was a servant, and his affairs were his affairs, and I had no rightful part in them—nor did I want a part in them. I went for the door, hoping that I also might reach my bed and find as many moments of rest as I could before an accusation of dereliction.

  “Evelyn,” he said as I reached the door.

  “Yes, Mr. Merrick?”

  “Thank you.”

  This time, his words conveyed all those things I was trying not to think on, and I could only allow myself to acknowledge his appreciation with another curtsy, and then I left his room. Back in my own, with Becky and Martha still sleeping, I fell into my bed and closed my eyes, but I was still haunted. The ghost of Polly Nichols hadn’t left my mind as surely as she had Mr. Merrick’s room, and it took some time to fall asleep, but when I did, my rest was deep and deathly.

  I awoke with the other staff, and throughout that morning, I kept myself somewhat aloof from Mr. Merrick and performed my duties with formality, but he seemed quite preoccupied with his own thoughts and failed to make note of it. Such was his distraction that he hadn’t eaten a bite of his luncheon when I returned later in the afternoon with his tea. Ordinarily I would have asked him what was the matter, but I knew too well the answer to that. I did feel a measure of guilt at not asking after him, but I also knew that nothing I could say would afford him any comfort.

  Later in the evening, he ate his dinner and had his bath, and afterward asked if I would read from Emma. That, I was grateful to do, and we sat with Miss Austen by the fire well into the evening, until my eyes grew heavy-lidded and I had to close the book.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That is much better.”

  “Better?”

  “Than Northang
er Abbey. Now you know why I wanted to stop reading from that book. I thought perhaps it had summoned Polly.”

  My body became tense at the mention of the ghost, a subject I had successfully avoided all day. “I see” was all I managed to say, and I rose to leave before he could draw me into that conversation further. “Will you need anything else tonight, Mr. Merrick?”

  He regarded me for a few long and uncomfortable moments, and I wished his rigid face could intimate at least a hint of what he was feeling inside.

  “Are you cross with me?” he asked.

  “Oh no.” I shook my head vigorously. “Not at all, Mr. Merrick. But even if I were, it’s not my place to say so.”

  “Your place? I think of you as my friend. I hope you would express whatever you might feel.”

  “I … thank you for that,” I said, feeling badly that he believed I was cross with him.

  “Do you think of me as your friend?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Which I found was true as I said it.

  He nodded his great head. “I am happy to hear that.” Then he paused. “I believe Polly will return. But … I no longer fear her.”

  I grew wary. “That’s good, Mr. Merrick.”

  “What I mean is, I will not ask you to be here again when she comes. If that is troubling you. So you need not maintain this distance, and we can be friends again.”

  “I—” He had noticed my aloofness, after all, and his words set the hound of guilt upon me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Merrick. I didn’t mean for you to think me cross with you. I suppose I was frightened.”

  “I see,” he said. “But now that we’ve aired it all out, we don’t need to speak of it again. Can we return to how we were?”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved to have that settled.

  “Good. Now I will answer your question, and that is no, I will not need anything else. Good night, Evelyn.”

  “Good night, Mr. Merrick.”

  I left him then and went to my bed, where I slept well, and the next morning I arrived at his room feeling a great deal more settled in my nerves than I had been the day before. I was thankful to Mr. Merrick for putting me at ease by speaking openly about the ghost, for in guessing accurately my fears, he’d been able to partially alleviate them.

  He ate his breakfast, had his bath, then had a visit from Dr. Treves, who came most every day to see him for at least a few moments, if not longer.

  “You’re looking tired,” Dr. Treves said to Mr. Merrick. “Are you sleeping well?”

  I stood at the mantel, arranging a few recently delivered pictures and cards, but I felt Mr. Merrick look in my direction.

  “As well as can be expected,” he said.

  “Your rest is important, John.” Dr. Treves walked toward Mr. Merrick’s bed. “Perhaps we could fashion you a better arrangement.”

  “No, thank you,” Mr. Merrick said. “It’s not the bed.”

  “I see.” Dr. Treves frowned, a movement accentuated by his mustache. “Well, do let me know if there is anything we can do. There are funds enough, so don’t worry yourself on that score.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Merrick said. “I do have one question.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Doctor?”

  I froze where I stood, while Dr. Treves’s frown dug even deeper toward his chin. “Ghosts, you say?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Merrick said.

  “I don’t—that is, I hold no personal belief in them. I’ve opened countless human bodies in surgery and I’ve yet to locate the seat of the soul. But there are some who study Spiritualist phenomena. I’ve a few friends among the Society for Psychical Research.”

  “A society that studies ghosts?” Mr. Merrick asked.

  “Among other subjects. Thought transference. Mesmerism. That sort of thing. Their president is a man named Sidgwick. A professor at Cambridge.”

  “Do you suppose I could meet him?” Mr. Merrick asked.

  Dr. Treves raised his eyebrows. “I think that may be possible. He lectures in London on occasion. I could write an invitation to him, if you’d like.”

  “I would like that,” Mr. Merrick said.

  “Very well,” Dr. Treves said. “But might I ask, why the sudden interest in ghosts?”

  Mr. Merrick looked in my direction again. “I want to know what happens when we die.”

  Dr. Treves chortled. “As do we all, I should think. Mortality is our collective obsession.” He strode toward the door. “I’ll let you know as soon as I receive a reply from Professor Sidgwick. Meanwhile, enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

  After he had gone, Mr. Merrick fell silent, but not in melancholy or sullenness. He seemed contemplative, and though I’d decided I didn’t want to know any more about his ghostly dealings, I nevertheless found myself curious whether she had returned—or perhaps I was anxious, for I said nothing.

  For the next few days, Mr. Merrick and I resumed what had briefly been our customary pattern of activities. Between his meals we would talk, read, and work on his model church, which seemed to rise up at the same centurial pace as an actual stone cathedral, due to the cumbersomeness of his hand and his desire to do as much of it by himself as he could. He did not seem to mind the slowness of progress, but applied himself with the same deliberate care he took with his speech, and a stubborn resolve to get it right.

  Late Thursday morning, I returned to Mr. Merrick’s room with fresh bedding from the laundry and found Charles there, already playing his violin. My arrival caused not a pause or a missed note in the lovely song he played, which had no words, and would have sounded quite out of place in the sort of establishment where I assumed Charles normally performed.

  When he finished playing, I asked him, “Is that a classical piece of music?”

  “Not quite,” he said. “It were a romantic tune. Mendelssohn wrote it for pianoforte, but I made better use of it, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You made a worthy use of it,” I said, not wanting to agree with his conceit.

  “Yes,” Mr. Merrick said. “It was very pleasing, Charles.”

  “I thank you both most graciously.” He bowed his head. “How about another?”

  Mr. Merrick agreed, and Charles played a second song, and a third, both again romantic and somewhat mournful, like the first, and by their end it felt to me as if a solemn draft of church air had wafted into the room. In the silence that followed, Charles knelt to put his instrument away.

  “I best be going,” he said. “Good to see you, Joseph, my ugly bloke.”

  “Thank you for coming, Charles,” Mr. Merrick said. “As always.”

  “Miss Fallow,” Charles said, “always a pleasure to see you, too.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Weaver.”

  “Fancy a walk with me sometime?”

  I felt warmth bloom in my cheeks. “I’ve already answered you. No, I’m sorry.”

  “Right, then.” He smiled and crossed to the door. “But I’ll keep asking, you know.”

  “Why?” His obstinate confidence irritated me. “Do you not believe me?”

  “Oh, I believe you,” he said, and then laid a hand on his chest. “But you see, I’m a God-fearing man, and I also believe in miracles. You might yet have a change of heart. Good day to you both.” He opened the door and left.

  His invitation flustered me, and I set about tidying Mr. Merrick’s room, though there was no disorder.

  Mr. Merrick let out a sigh. “That music he played … I feel as if it should have reminded me of something.”

  “Oh?”

  “A place. Or a person, maybe.”

  I could not say whether Mr. Merrick was unaware of Charles’s flirtation with me or if he simply chose to ignore it.

  “Perhaps it simply reminded me of a feeling,” he said.

  “Perhaps so, Mr. Merrick.”

  “Why do you not go walking with Charles?”

  He was aware of it after all, then. I planted my hands on my hips and said, “I do
not want to.”

  “Are you not fond of him?”

  “No, that isn’t—I mean …” The truth was that I still felt uneasy around Charles, but I was becoming increasingly confused by why that should be, and I had no rational reason for it, to say nothing of the idea of leaving the hospital grounds, which frightened me all on its own. “I don’t know him well enough to feel any way toward him,” I finally said, hoping that would suffice.

  “Then, why—”

  “Mr. Merrick, would you go out walking the streets of London looking as you are?” My question came out more sharply than I intended it.

  “Perhaps not,” he said, his voice low. “But I wish that I could.”

  “I … wish I could, too,” I said. “But that isn’t to be. I am the way I am. It can’t be changed, and there’s no sense pretending otherwise. I’ve no intention of returning to those streets, for Charles or anyone.”

  “Are you going to stay here in the hospital the rest of your life?” he asked.

  I hadn’t thought on the matter in quite those terms. “I don’t know what the future holds for me. All I know is what’s right now.”

  “I suppose that’s all any of us knows,” he said.

  “Mr. Merrick, I know Charles is your friend.” I stopped short of saying that I didn’t trust Charles, with his easy charm, or to ask what sincere interest he could possibly have in me. Instead I simply pronounced, “I won’t be accepting his invitation, and I’d appreciate it if we said no more on the matter.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Merrick said. “I meant no offense.”

  “And I’ve taken none. We’re friends, remember?”

  “Right. Friends.”

  “Friends. Now, shall we work on your model for a bit before I fetch your luncheon?”

  He agreed, and we spent some time with the church, and then he ate, and then we read, and soon the day was at an end. The following evening, Dr. Treves returned with a letter from Professor Sidgwick stating that he would be honored to come into London to visit with Mr. Merrick.

  “That is most generous of him,” Mr. Merrick said.

  “You are worthy of all generosity, John,” Dr. Treves said. “But it certainly doesn’t hurt that you are also something of a celebrity.”