The Mystery Surrounding Hamplock House

by John Tan

  I said, ‘Sound is produced by vibrating sound waves, and hence, the appropriate organ to detect sound is the ear, where the sound is caught by the structure of the outer ear, and transmitted through the membrane, and then it is amplified, and sent as nerve impulses to be interpreted by the brain. To see sound, the entire ear would not only have to be entirely different altogether, as sound waves are by its very nature, different from light waves or particle, though both have varying wavelengths, it pulsates in a different way in the air, so no one is unable to see sound. By the same token, one is unable to hear color which is light waves of varying lengths being reflected by an object. Maybe, unless someone is on drugs and one’s brain chemicals are skewered. There is a reason why evolution has caused us to develop an organ for catching light waves and another for catching sound waves, which nature is very different. A different organ for sound, and an entirely different one for light, and these can’t mix; they are keep separate on purpose by nature, because light and sound are different things. I hope my answer will do—although I don’t know how good it is—and it’s given on the spur of the moment—yet I am by the way rather pleased, that I could give it because, if you like to know, science has been one of my favorite subjects in school.’

  ‘That’s a good answer and it will do,’ said Mrs. Cavendish with a little chuckle, while trying to affect an important air at the same time. She said, ‘It was Mrs. Elkland who devised the test and I am glad you passed it with flying colors. You do have potential: otherwise, she would not waste ‘time’ on you. This was exactly how she explained the answer to me herself before she went off, you know, went just like that--’

  ‘What was the test you gave me all about?’

  ‘It’s only to give her packet of letters and her papers and things, including a few diaries and some old photographs, old dog-eared photographs, if you are able to answer her question. And you are. Congratulations!’

  ‘Why should she want to give me her stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know, but she was rather—er—eccentric about it, you know?’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘She said, in the end, the person who was to occupy her bed would know; and I think, towards the end of her life, she had foreseen it would be you, or somebody approximating you. But she asked me after she had made me comply to her request with the promise, to ask you: would you accept her gift?’

  ‘She intrigues me: I guess it would do no harm, and it might be interesting. And Mrs. Elkland, looking down from a great height in heaven might be rather pleased if I accept her gift, so I will take it. And, thank you, Mrs. Elkland. I accept the letters and your scraps of paper and stuff.’

  ‘Shake my hand on it, then,’ said old white-haired Mrs. Cavendish, tearing up; and she then said, she was rather glad herself to have finally executed her duty towards her late friend, for it had been a weight laid on her mind ever since the time the bed had been left waiting for an occupant. Her knobby hands trembled with emotion and she gave me Mrs. Alice Elkland’s personal effects without further ado.

  ‘It would be something to remember this place by when I get out of this place; whether to go back to Queens or not, I am not sure. But I don’t think I have any emotional investment in my father’s house anymore.’

  Mrs. Cavendish said she was from Denver, Colorado, and Mrs. Elkland from her own mouth that the latter was from Miami, Florida but she grew up in California, and lived somewhere by the Santa Monica pier.

  ‘Why was she lobotomized? Do you know? It was in her late youth, wasn’t it?’

  ‘They—of the medical profession were crazy about the technique, then, to cure the severely depressed patients. I guess she was severely depressed, and unable to cope, and wasn’t responding well to the usual treatment: all those first-generation drugs that were just being developed. She said, it was a cruel thing, no doubt, and shortly after the operation which was performed by surgeons in Berkeley, she came to stay in Hamplock House for the first time. From the photos which was taken at this period, that she showed to me, she was a pretty little creature, with bold, round eyes and sassy hair and tallish; and from the pictures taken in her earlier years, you would never have thought she would have mental trouble of any sort.’

  ‘Did she get better at Hamplock House? How long did she stay here?’

  ‘Two years, exactly. In regard to your first question, you can find out for yourself, I suppose, by reading her letters and papers—her effects, yourself. That is why she wanted you to have them. She wanted you to be acquainted with her, and if you really want to know about her, hadn’t you better begin reading them soon, eh?’

  ‘You are being too uncommunicative. Hold on a minute, so—you say, if I hear you correctly,--that her papers are mostly about her stay in Hamplock House, is that correct? And they chronicle in part her struggles to get back on track in life? Didn’t she tell you anything?’

  ‘She was half-Hispanic—you know? And, from young she had an aversion towards learning English, but she started writing poetry in English while she was living in Hamplock House, and later became an English teacher and taught music in Elementary School as well. She also acted in one of Goldsmith’s plays, and was Cilia in Oscar Wilde’s famous satire on modern manners. (I think, The Importance of Ernest, it was.) She sang and danced as a prima donna in a ballet, and all these, after her breakdown, and her lobotomy, and her having left Hamplock House. She had a happy marriage, of course, later; and, what was her secret—you might come to discover because I never did—when the rest of the people who stayed here at her time were stuck being ne’er-do-well’s and human nonentities—by examining those piles of old writing and shift through her stuff that is now on her chair. Are there any more of her things, I can’t seem to remember.’

  I was glad seeing that old Mrs. Cavendish was animated, and in an agreeable, talkative mood, which had rarely came upon my friend of late; ‘I hope you to prosper in your quest as you rummage through her things for whatever clues you might discover. For the time being, I am all talked out, and I see the nurse is here to give us our daily regimen. I was severely depressed once, you know, but having been on maintenance dose for a long time now, my mood is mostly stable,’ she said.

  11

  I obtained the key to the Hamplock House library from the assistant clerk and betook myself to examine Mrs. Elkland’s papers, at seven o’clock at the day’s termination, after dinner. The prospect before me, of a quick, startling discovery set my heart beating; and the blood in my veins coursing in my temples--throbbing pleasantly. It was a relatively cold night, and I had learnt from the assistant who doubled as the librarian that Mrs. Elkland had donated some of her books to the place, and looking through their titles, I saw these were mostly children’s books such as The Little Foundling Fox, and a tattered, purple-colored copy of an illustrated Kingsley’s Water-babies. Some of her other books were her books from her school-days, which include Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra and Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. Then, unwrapping her packet and taking out her first brown sheet, I examined it, and saw her poem, titled, ‘The Sea Has its own Folk-lore.’ And, typewritten underneath the title, was an introduction or explanation: ‘This is sheer bliss: You can look around you three hundred and sixty degrees, at the loving, sheer sea-scape. I just love it very much, with a love that has just got to be as wide as a special sea, my concrete love that never wavers, despite the waves do.’

  Next looking down the page right down, the mysterious words: ‘The whole philosophy is right there, designed to protect me, the new inmate; and her works are bearing fruit, because she did that--for me. I am the new sapling that was planted two months ago.’

  And then, I guess the first thing that stuck me when I opened up the next source of writing, her diary, was Mrs. Elkland’s note to herself, presumably.

  ‘Well, Alice, my dear, you can now only get better.’

  And she had written it down so the reason for this was that, she had decided to donate ‘that o
rgan of yours’ for research and to science,--‘and so, all to best to you in the future, A.S. ’

  From looking cursorily here and there through the diaries, I realized that she first came to stay in Hamplock House in December, 1920. And I saw an entry dated March 23, 1921, three months later, saying she was starting to read a copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury today. Then came a list of funny, evocative words that she hinted—or wrote in so many words, were names of demons with distinct personalities that were tormenting her, and she gave their names as ‘favela’, ‘blink, balaclava’, ‘gameover’, ‘pullover’, ‘pedantic’, ‘slaughter’ and ‘electrum’. Later, was added the word, ‘moocow’ which she admitted she took from Joyce’s Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and I suppose she must have been reading the book which was first published five years earlier, and her mood might have smacked something of the Joycean moral dilemma! Why these were the names of her demons, I tried dimly to guess, but she said that there was something—or someone—in her head, controlling, catching and preventing these nasty spiritual entities from doing dastardly things to her, some heavenly policeman, who was fetching them up for her to view and recognize; in regard to their personalities and characteristics—in regard their modus operandi to seduce her to even a deeper nadir, as well; for, the tactics they employed were invariable: employed to dupe their victim and cause her to stumble. They want her to act rashly it seemed, by stirring up vengeful emotions, and flung herself headlong in her indiscretion into trouble! She said she noticed their tactics were few and seemed to follow the same lines, especially if they surged with evil, having succeeded earlier upon tricked their inexperienced victim. Her friend that was also inside her and fighting on her side against these tempters were standing behind them, and the young Alice said, it was catching them by the scruff of their neck. For the benevolent agency, seemed to require her trust and her confidence in herself, Miss Alice Salvador, so that as the days went by, she was able to rule over them and beat off their every attack—until, at last two months later, the demons seemed to have backed off because they were quickly disheartened; and her entry on that Monday in the summer was brief as it was meaningful:

  ‘They seemed no longer interested. I guess I have won in my battle against them, and I can foresee they will ever come back again.’

  I looked at a photograph of Mrs. Elkland, her wedding photo, and remarked to myself, ‘Such a person of great sensitivity to her inner cog-wheels and such tremendous spiritual maturity. I wish I were like her.’

  And this was to set the tone of my involvement with Mrs. Elkland’s effects, her somewhat slim volumes, papers, and scraps of photographs and her books. And, when I need it, could I perhaps say, there was she to take me out of my head?

  12

  I was still poring over one of the late Mrs. Elkland’s books whenever I had the time to pop into the library, and it was after dinner in early November and, I was there alone—again! I had made some progress going through her papers, and was at that time considering the difference between a good and a bad haunting – a good haunting being an extraordinary condensation on the part of good spirits to uplift and to lead one along the right path to life—while in a bad haunting not only does the bad spirits batter us but they battle against the good spirits in order to set up malefic outcomes within these ancient and venerable walls; they stir up impulses and feelings of fear and shock that reverberated long in one’s system and made one unable to forget, in its shift from the light towards the darkness in the movement of one’s soul. It was more than a morsel of undercooked spud or spoilt food we had ingested during a meal that caused it: more than a temporary upset of the nerves. Something—when these hauntings were going on—was trying its level best to throw a person out of kilter, and weaken her mind—so that despair that she would never unshackle herself from its chains would be the outcome; and, thus, driven to desperation the person would be in a blue funk, and eaten up with worry, and in the end, she would be a pale ghost of her former self—with her nerves all shot to pieces. I guess I had experienced both these types of haunting to varying degrees ever since I stayed in Hamplock House, although I had managed to keep my head above high-tide. But my mood—perhaps, as a throwback to my childhood—would wobble and I often caught myself blaspheming or uttering a chain of expletives in my thoughts, especially, at odd moments, when my spirit was low; but otherwise, for no accountable reason at all.

  It was as if my natural disposition had taken a whack in the face or tumble, and some kind of unholy spiritual agency was doing the whacking or shoving. These angry feelings welled out of me in the form of sudden mood swings and impatience, and inconsequential nothings just like a chanced word or a sudden thwarting of my expectations, of the most innocent kind, would get my heart pounding like a drum and seething with the desire to hit back. In a word, being vindictive! This release of negative chemicals—maybe because things was suddenly going well and it did set up the expectation of more good things to come—made me selfish in my relationships and standoffish in regard to the other patients. But of all a sudden I would receive a check—and it was as if my bad thoughts and negative feelings coming home to roost; for me to rue my badness. I became unusually wary of the other inmates; and easily taken to dislike and disapprove of anyone who was worse off than me. I began to shun others and abjure them for their illness and look upon such as their own fault and for being idiots, because they couldn’t manage to live successful lives; it was as though these people were abnormal or harbor deep, dark secrets where sin and evil abounded in profusion; and their staying here, instead of showing how well they were coping, was a sign of divine retribution; with worse to come!

  Sometimes, I thought Hamplock House was a dark place where the diseased and the unspeakably vile flourished prolifically, hidden from the eyes of ordinary people and even the doctors, behind these grey solid walls. At such times, I could not myself escape pointing a finger at myself and considering myself an unsuccessful human being who had mess in her life, and moody, dejected and guilty—I would consider how much of my late mother’s money I had spent in staying in Hamplock House. At such times I would regret coming here, and took the view that things in my life was still at six’s and seven’s and they were not going to sort themselves out any time fast, and thus moving to Hamplock House was a sheer mistake. But, the consultant psychiatrist earlier had recommended that I come here; and anyway, I had gained a little respite from having to return back home. And then I thought—were it not for the excellent doctors in this place, I would probably have decamped some little time ago; but to where, I didn’t know. I was undergoing counseling and group therapy, and I was encouraged constantly to talk about my relationship with my father and my feelings that I felt in regard to the loss of my mother. I felt I was unsure of myself and couldn’t express what I wanted to express properly, and so what was inside my mind was put off from day to day. To encourage me they started calling me Pebbles and encouraged to talk about my father as if he were Barney Rubble. Would I still think he was a bad father? Needless, I disliked being known as Pebbles; as if my father was Barney going off with Fred just to have a couple of beers. That was not my father at all—people here didn’t know my father!

  We were a reclusive family and never had neighbors over and never celebrated birthdays, and my mother’s spirit and joyful effervescence—if there was any such—had long been killed by my father’s indifference and callousness a long, long time ago. She used to nag at us children, especially if we displeased her, and she picked on me—and then, after a long time of neglect and coldness—my mother cracked and became bipolar. I regretted I was not there to help her when she needed my help; being too weak and wrapped in my own concerns and school. Not that my bipolar mother was at any time a saint; even when I was very young, in looking back, she seemed to have been plagued by hormonal trouble. Maybe because of her emotional trouble, she developed diabetes and had high-blood pressure. I remembered the night before she passed away. She had a row with
my father, and went off alone to bed. Now, I thought she must have gone to sleep in tears and with black depression in her mind; which made her inadvertently forgetting to take her nighttime medication. I found her at dawn just as the sun was going up, but she had already slipped into a coma; and had a heart attack alone in the night, with no one by her side to help her, because I was out of the house for a couple of hours. All I could say is I shouldn’t have gone out; especially, that night, since I was hounded by a feeling of dread and impending disaster. My father was downstairs in his toolshed, drinking himself silly, and drinking himself blind. I had a row with him when it transpired what had happened to my mother—and I had followed the paramedics to the hospital to accompanying my mother; but she never recovered and passed away two weeks later. Soon my father and I stopped talking with each other; and tempers flared every time we were in the same room together. My mother used to hit him physically in addition to abusing him verbally—when she was up to it. And he usually hit her back, or pushed her away.

  As I started to say, I was down in the library, and today, I was not in the best of my moods, and when I stared at the few rows of books in the shelves, I fancied I could hear the life experiences of the many writers who penned these books making a ruckus—from the shadows of yesterday. These were shillyshallying voices—breaking upon my consciousness with a droning: as though fragments of their lives, not from the words in their books alone, but those that were half-hinted at, in some of these volumes, were urging me to recognize and accept their presence in this little room that was adjacent to the kitchen. I got up abruptly, and eyed the door, debating with myself if the moment had come for me to exit the library. All of a sudden, I saw white powdery dust on the table and on a page of diary, and covering the word, ‘gameover.’ Something suddenly made me looked up at the low, whitewashed ceiling with the lamp and I thought I saw the lizard that must have dislodged the dust, but when I looked up again, the lizard had disappeared into thin air. There was no cover where it could have moved to.