be that this, rubbing against another surface such as the bottles, or even the electroscope itself -
I paused. Something rustled close to a green tin, a little across from me. I strained my ears to listen, searching the gloom for any sign of another mouse, perhaps even the same one that had caused me such mischief. If that poor beast showed its face, I was ready. The broom was only at arm's length, ready for action.
Duty brought me back, and I hastily jotted down:
Rustle heard. Could not see the source.
Then added, without thinking:
Possibly a mouse.
The Professor does not like me to include presumptuous explanations within my observations. He says that they can skew an audience's opinion before all of the evidence has been presented.
This was a different to the case of the electroscope, in that the rag was evident before me, a definite candidate for an explanation whereas, even though I had previously seen a mouse, and this certainly was the most likely explanation for the rustling, since I could not directly see the mouse, I should not have included it in my observations.
The Professor does not allow me to use an eraser, nor does he include one himself, “Only write what you see, hear and feel. If you made a mistake, correct it with another sentence.”
Even if I did have an eraser, or crossed out the words, the traces of my former recording would remain visible and perhaps compel the reader to consider that I removed a legitimate observation for my own agenda.
Such is the nature of the Professor's scientific research: Every note, every photograph, every measurement, every report must be meticulously performed, or there can be grounds for reasonable doubt as to the validity of the research, putting the investigation, present and prior, into jeopardy.
If you have read my previous documentations, you will understand exactly what I mean. The scientific community is necessarily a distrusting and unforgiving mob. It is in their nature, it is their duty, to question everything that is presented before them.
I finished up with my notes, pricked my ears and sat quietly in the dark cellar, waiting for the time to record the next observation, keeping the broom within reach.
Just in case.
The Interloper
After another few minutes I made my readings and I was concerned that the electroscope had not relaxed to its normally flat position. Simply touching the top of the electroscope is generally enough to release the charge from its confines, and this is what I did, noting in my pad that I had interfered with the instrument as a form of calibration.
The gold leaves within the glass returned to rest and I performed another reading:
Time: 10:35
Temp Delta: -1.4
Baro: 29.89
Hygro: 28
Vibro: 0.05
Electro: Flat
I wrote the last bit without looking for I made the natural assumption that the way I left it was the way it would be. I knew it was the wrong thing to do and, while the Professor would never know, I would know that, at one point in an investigation, I recorded without observation.
Frustrated at my nagging conscience, I yielded and inspected the electroscope, certain my recording would not need to change.
I was wrong.
I had not touched the cloth, for it was still where I had left it, and after I had discharged the electroscope the leaves were certainly fully flat.
Now they were separated.
Electro: (Flat) Correction - Parted by 1/8”
I stared for a while, watching in case they should part further or collapse, but they did not. Satisfied that this was some residual charge left from the previous episode, I discharged it once more, ensuring that it was flat, even going to the length of holding it against the light of the lantern.
As anyone knows, looking directly into the light of a lantern while sitting in a dark room ruins one's vision for a good minute. I put the electroscope down and sat there, blinking like an imbecile, thinking how best to formulate my words.
Manually discharged electroscope again. Reading is now flat. No possible cause for the charge is evident in the immediate area. I have not moved from my station, nor interfered with the environment.
That should satisfy the Professor.
Just then my nose picked up on a rather rancid odour, not unlike the pungent smell of eggs too far gone. I had not broken wind, for certain, so I assumed that the vermin I shared the room with had perhaps burrowed into a particularly nasty portion of their stash.
My keen ears picked up the rustling once more. It sounded very much like claws picking at a hessian bag, a staccato of tiny pins making their way through old, rough cloth.
“Aha! You have returned,” I whispered, slowly reaching to get the broom, “Show yourself, vermin!”
The scratching noise paused, almost as if that wretched creature was listening to me. For a minute I sat, broom in hand, poised to strike. I had visions of myself standing proudly over the limp carcass of a mouse, demonstrating to the Professor that I was not a coward.
Really, I should have listened to the Professor and recorded what I was observing.
I remember thinking, “I will get to that in a second.”
But that second never came.
The scratching noise began again in earnest.
“Come on, then, show yourself! Come out at once! Come out, I say!”
At that instant, the flame within the lantern crackled and leapt, then sputtered out as if a wild storm had suddenly formed inside the glass, plunging the basement into an unnerving darkness. I had checked the oil level of the lantern, I know it, and there was most certainly enough for another hour at least, so I was more than a little surprised – and frustrated.
“Blast it! Everything goes wrong all at once,” I muttered.
The Professor was sure to admonish me for failing to check my equipment and, on top of everything that had happened earlier, I was in no position to argue my innocence.
The wind dropped from my sails. My situation became apparent and a flood of shame swept over me. I let go of the broom, let go of my vengeful thoughts and assessed my options.
My best bet was to get back to the kitchen where the main lantern would be burning, check my own lantern and get back to observing before the next point of observation.
I groped above me, remembering the relative distance between myself and where I last saw the lantern, being careful not to burn myself on the hot glass.
Dust and a spider web were dislodged and fell across my face as my fingers fumbled, seeking the handle somewhere in the darkness above me. I cursed like a Jack, I am not at all proud to say, though I kept my profanities under my breath.
Eventually I found the wire and unhooked it from the nail, and brought the lantern down. With my hard-won prize in one hand, I spat and wiped my face on my sleeve in a bid to remove the web while I made my clumsy way back to the stairs.
It was as black as pitch in there. The light from the lantern in the kitchen was unable to reach under the door to the cellar, so my eyes, though wide as dishes, saw nothing. No outline, no faded silhouette, no contrast to aid my egress.
After three hesitant steps, I caught my shirt on a nail.
Vulgarity is the refuge of the ignorant. It did not aid my predicament, serving only fill the darkness with uncouth utterances. As I left off cursing, the resulting silence let my mind catch up with the situation.
I wiped the grit from my mouth, closed my eyes and resolved to calmly and slowly get back to the kitchen.
The scratching noise began anew, only it sounded less like a mouse and more like a large rat or a cat.
Composed, I muttered, “And I will deal with you when I get back, vermin!”
I held my hand out in front of me as I shuffled closer to where I thought the steps were. My fingers found the wall, then the shelf of preserves, then the brickwork where the stairs were.
Probing with my foot, still holding onto the wall, I made the first step without incident. Then my blood
froze.
My brain, having given up getting anything interesting from my eyes, had devoted its attention to the rest of my senses. As a consequence, my hearing, ordinarily keen, was even more acute, so much that I could hear the sound of Earth if I held my breath.
And what they heard was unmistakable; feet crunching over the broken glass on the cellar floor behind me in a rhythmic pace: crunch-scrape-crunch-scrape. In fact, I could hear the little shards of glass clinking against stones as they were knocked up from the dirt.
There was no other way in or out of that cellar, certainly no way anyone could have hidden in there. The walls were stacked with brick and mud, which ruled out the existence of a hidden door. None of the boxes and crates were big enough to hide a person.
My skin prickled as a rippling wave of cold swept over me. I suddenly felt naked. Naked and exposed. Anyone who has dealt with an intruder in their house knows the sensation. It arises from the knowledge that there is someone close by, someone who does not belong, someone who means to cause harm, someone who can see you even though you cannot see them.
“Hello?” I called, as bravely as I could, “Who is there?”
The pacing on the floor continued. It sounded as if the footsteps were moving in a small circle around the room. Crunch-scrape-crunch-scrape-crunch. The suffocating stench of sulphur and ammonia intensified. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
Funnily enough, my thoughts were not to run. Rather I was still smarting from the mouse incident and, despite all good sense to the contrary, I wanted to prove that I was
Jolimont Street Ghost Page 4