Jolimont Street Ghost

by Jeremy Tyrrell

Jolimont Street Ghost

  By Jeremy Tyrrell

  Book 4 of Paranormology

  Copyright 2016 Jeremy Tyrrell

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is also available in print. Please visit www.jeztyr.com for more in the Paranormology series and other works by this author.

  Dedication

  For my fellow engineer, zealous reader and critic, Sarah.

  The Dark

  If the Professor were to realise that I have written these accounts, he might well release me from employment or worse, he would have grounds to enlist the services of a solicitor to sue me! He has reiterated to the point of distraction the importance of secrecy to the future of our field of research.

  Still, I cannot leave these tales untold, especially since the latest encounter.

  During our research, we have experienced many strange and unworldly phenomena, from rapping on walls to apparitions, from phantom smells to disembodied voices. None of these, I came to realise, were worthy of fear.

  Noises cannot harm. Smells cannot harm. A disembodied, floating head is repulsive, to say the least, yet it can do no more injury to you or me than a fly.

  My mother told me that there was nothing to fear in the dark, for, she said, there is nothing in the dark that is not there in the light. This was my creed and, coupled with my strange but benign experiences, I had lulled myself into feeling fearless, indomitable.

  The entities we had so far pursued were so innocuous that I scoffed at those who feared them, I brashly strode into every darkened room with an air of cockiness. I approached, rather than shrank from, manifestations. At times I would even resort to provocation in order to get a reaction.

  This boldness was almost my undoing.

  Like a warrior who fights only straw-men, I was completely unprepared for what I was to face.

  I am thus compelled once more to break my promise to the Professor and record the events in this journal. The scientific nature of our observations do not convey the full effect of what transpired in Jolimont Street and, I fear, they may never see the light of day.

  We had been investigating the house as part of our usual routine to make scientific observations. It had been reported as 'creepy' by neighbours, past and present, although our findings had shown the house to be decidedly sterile in nature.

  In fact, we had found so little in the way of activity, that the Professor had classified the building as a 'scientific control', a reference point for a house that is not haunted, a standard to which we might calibrate our equipment and compare environmental observations for similar locations and seasons.

  I would not look forward to spending time in Jolimont Street. Not because of any particular feeling or unease, no, I despised our sessions there simply because they were boring. On more than one occasion, I have voiced my indignation, as on the afternoon my story begins.

  “Professor, must we really spend tonight at Jolimont? In what way can one more set of observations be useful? We have a month of Sundays and more besides, and the deviation in results is nothing short of unremarkable!” I complained.

  The Professor looked up from his bag, “Unremarkable? Lad, are you listening to what you are saying or are you making a habit of letting your mouth run wild? The magnetoscope needs calibration. The new vibrometer as well. Plus we've not performed observations for the start of autumn.”

  “Wouldn't our time be better spent at Casings Place or North Avenue?”

  “Laddie, we need to make observations whether we want to or not. It is not a decision we, as proper scientists, get to make. We must have a control. If we don't, we'll have nothing against which to compare, nothing to call standard.”

  “I am thinking that the Board will not see this as useful.”

  “You let me worry about the Board!” he said, eyes flashing, “Those dry-headed chin-waggers are not your concern. We've a secure funding, now, so the finances are not under threat. Don't let all that nonsense enter your head.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “You are here to perform a duty. That duty requires that you treat each investigation as seriously as the last, that you maintain a scientific attitude at all times, that you do not question my decisions!”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Will that be all?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Good, good. The air is humid tonight, and at this eleva - which reminds me, take the hygrometer. Oh, and pack up those photographic plates. And wipe that look off your face! We will be taking photographs tonight,” he said, “Keep them well sealed, the humidity might spoil them. Now, if you'd be so kind?”

  I did my best to hide my disappointment. Not at taking the photographs, for that was second nature to me. Examining photograph after photograph from such inactive places as Jolimont was a thankless, mindless drudge of a chore. In a whole slab of plates, I would be lucky to find even one thing that I might classify as abnormal.

  Abnormal in the usual sense, not paranormal, mind. In such photographs there might be a fleck of dust floating near the lens, or a gnat flying by just as the aperture was opened. In older, dustier, infested houses, these were more common.

  In such well-kept houses such as the one on Jolimont, the most I could hope for was a corruption of the photographic plates: sometimes the salts had not been applied properly, or they were scratched or exposed prior to use.

  The Professor's concern about humidity was valid. It was possible, though rare, to discover that the ambient water vapour had condensed onto the plates or the lens as the night cooled, causing curious yet annoying artefacts to appear.

  All of these abnormalities had to be documented, if only as a reference for what does not constitute a haunting, and in order to find them I would spend the better part of the next day hunched over a pile of prints, magnifying glass in hand, scouring every corner of the image.

  What was the yield? What did we have to show for our efforts? In what way did all of the hard labour, the calculations, the hours bent over photographs and observations manifest? The same way it had for every other visit to Jolimont Street, as a single line at the bottom of the Professor's report:

  No paranormal activity observed. Refer to appendices for further information.

  After this the report, the photographs and all supporting documentation would be placed inside an envelope and sealed, preserved and waiting to be opened after eternity has been and gone.

  I guess that is partly the reason I am writing these cases. It is a selfish thing I am doing, unburdening myself by sharing my experiences, I acknowledge this, though I do claim that it is also in the Professor's interest to show that there is more to his investigations than statistics and tendencies.

  The Professor's peers mock him for his efforts. No others follow in his footsteps, none of influence consider Paranormology a valid science. The University Board barely tolerates his presence, let alone his choice of academia.

  Still, he insists on keeping to his rigid methodology, despite how fruitless it appears, and it was his dogmatic enthusiasm that led me, once more, to the overly familiar door of the house in Jolimont Street.

  Unassuming, it belonged to a rank of similar houses, each doing its best to remain as nondescript as the next. In fact, if it were not for the fences that separated the front yard of each property, one might think that the length of Jolimont Street was a giant wing of some obscure palace.

  The population was higher, here, being so close to the heart of the city, and as a consequence the houses tended to be more vertical than horizontal.

  Number thirteen had a token garden out the front, an effort to provide some vegetation to offset the solid wall of brown and cream brick, wrought iron
bars and black doors. There was a little patch of ground out the back, untended and overgrown, since the owner had been overseas, and an alley to provide access for the coaler.

  As one might imagine in such a closely arranged environment, with each neighbour able to hear the goings on of the other, and see, from their top floor, the movements in both the street and the backyards and alleys, gossip was rife.

  The Professor avoided conversation with the folk around there. He cited that the reason was to save time; less gabbing meant more investigating. The real reason, I am sure, was to avoid the drama, scandal and speculation altogether.

  I was of a different mind. I considered that by denying them the truth they would cling to any titbit of tantalising scuttlebutt and these were apt to grow into speculation and rumour if not set right.

  Missus Butterfield, neighbour and infamous fat-chewer, was at the gate when we approached, holding her bonnet onto her head even though the wind was not blowing.

  “Hello, Ma'am,” I called, jumping off the hansom, “How are you