Conversations with Spirits

by E. O. Higgins

  Reaching across the bedside table, I picked up my cigarette case. Removing one of the Sheiks from the strap, I pushed it between my lips and stuck a match.

  “So, just to be clear…” I said, waving my hand about languidly and sending smoke twisting through the air. “You both saw a man walk through a ten-foot-deep brick wall and then out the other side? That’s what you’re saying?”

  Doyle and Billy seemed to hesitate. Turning, they exchanged a quick glance, before Doyle’s head swerved back to mine.

  “Well, it wasn’t quite that simple,” Doyle returned briskly. “But, then it was never going to be.”

  With an impatient air, Doyle thrust his arm out in front of me—willing me to accept the furled sheets of writing-paper from his wavering hand. “The details are there, Mr. Hart. Please, read it for yourself.”

  Plucking the cigarette from my mouth, I placed it in the ash-tray and, reaching out, took hold of the pages.

  Better weather could not have been desired. The morning had been hazy, but as the exultant crowds gathered about the sea-town of Broadstairs, Kent, the sun started to shine and the fog gradually rose. Upon a broad stretch of beach, known locally as Viking Bay, a brick edifice stood upon the sands, measuring ten feet square. This singular-looking construction of solid brick had been built by the Society for Psychical Research at the instruction of a local Psychic Medium by the name of Mr. Jean-Patric Beasant. By means of some process, apparently unknown even to himself, Beasant was preparing to demonstrate his power of ‘physical Mediumship’ and would cross from one side of the edifice to the other, through the very brickwork itself.

  Though I had met with Beasant a number of times, I had been considerably astonished when he had first proposed the feat. Despite being a genial and quite social man, whenever I questioned him on the subject of his Mediumship, though he would politely answer my enquiries, he would do so reluctantly and with manifest discomfort. I was of the opinion that what Spiritualists would have considered his great ‘gift’ was little more than a burden to him. Even the slight notoriety he attracted within the small seaside town in which he resided seemed hateful to him. However, it transpired that it was the will of his Spirit Guide that Beasant should forgo this natural reticence—for he was now of a mind that the time was ripe for a demonstration to be laid before the public.

  Beasant had remained in seclusion all day, except for half an hour just before noon when he strode up and down the sands beside the monument, anxiously checking preparations and meeting with the young men that had been engaged to assist him.

  Clear-cut and elegant, Beasant was hardly yet of middle age. However, the first thing that struck any audience about him was the shock of white hair that stood up dramatically upon his domed forehead. His eyes too contained their own peculiar fascinations. Half-hidden behind thick spectacles, they often contained such a recklessness of expression that one might think he was a man permanently in a state of helpless anxiety.

  At around a quarter-to-four in the afternoon, Beasant arrived, and, with some difficulty, made his way through the jostling crowd that was awaiting his appearance on the beachfront. Standing before them, he seemed somewhat distrait, and I observed that his shoulders were shaking. He looked the very picture of a man who had passed a restless and uneasy night, for his face was haggard and his eyes bloodshot. Then, peering out anxiously at the eager faces in front of him, he looked momentarily pensive, before speaking.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Beasant said loudly, his wavering voice betraying a lack of experience at public speaking. “As many of you are aware, this odd-looking structure blocking out your view of the sea has been built for me by a community of psychical researchers—some of whom are with us today.”

  Pausing momentarily, Beasant moved closer to the structure, stepping up onto the flagstones that surrounded it, and thrusting his hand hard against the brickwork.

  “Those of you that were either involved in its construction, or have examined it since, will be able to tell that it is completely solid. There are no secret passageways or trapdoors. It is nothing but brick throughout. And, as such, what I am about to attempt today would be, in the normal sense, outside the bounds of possibility.

  “What you will see today is not a conjuring trick,” Beasant continued, pushing his hand up and cradling his clouded brow. “And, although there are people assisting me, nothing has been rehearsed or stage-managed. I have received very specific instructions from the Spirit World, which we shall follow accordingly.

  “Like you, I don’t know how this will work,” Beasant’s eyes dipped and he continued with a brusque, nervous smile. “Or, indeed, even if it will. All I can tell you is that I have put my faith in the Spirit World and, to this day, it has never let me down.

  “Can we bring out the platform, please?”

  At his instruction, two of Beasant’s assistants, a pair of athletic young sailors dressed in jerseys and heavy sea boots, dragged a metallic platform across the sand and lifted it to the flagstones. Measuring about five feet in height, it was a sturdily-built metal podium with curved legs. The space beneath the platform was completely empty, and, it needs to be stressed, remained in plain sight for the entire duration of Beasant’s demonstration. After receiving further instruction from Beasant, the two sailors edged the podium to the side of the monument, pushing it hard against the brickwork.

  “And now the steps, if you please?”

  With a nod, the two sailors turned and headed across to a large shrouded object sitting upon the sand. When they had removed its top-sheet, it was revealed to be a broad set of metal steps, matching exactly the style of the podium. With some difficulty, the two men lifted the steps across to the podium, where they maneuvered them into place so that they lay beneath it, but with the top step leading exactly to the summit of the podium.

  With the steps now in place, Beasant climbed them and walked onto the platform, where he stood before the crowd for a moment, before turning and looking speculatively at the brickwork. Raising his hand slowly, he pushed his flattened palm against the wall. Turning back once more, he made his descent to the sands, and, once again, called upon his assistants: “Can you now please attach the screen?”

  His assistants moved back across the sands to a large sea chest. Opening the box, they took out three metal frames covered with a taut white fabric, similar to oriental silk. Which, when brought across to the podium, were discovered to match exactly the dimensions of its outer edge.

  The frames (which, like the podium and steps, were custom-built by Beasant, using the exacting specifications relayed to him by his Spirit Guide) comprised of two large squares, which covered the front and back edge of the podium, and a longer, rectangular one, which was put into position at the platform’s side, just above the steps.

  Long metal struts protruded from the bases of each of the frames, which slotted into holes in the side of the podium, so that they stood bolt upright. Once in place, the overall result was a three-sided cloth screen standing some six feet up at the top of the platform.

  It should be recorded, that at this point, many of the observing crowd began to voice concern that whatever Beasant was about to do would be completely obscured from their view. However, this matter was soon put to order. With the desultory chatter of the crowd rising, Beasant cut through it, turning to one of his assistants and requesting that ‘the lamp’ be brought out.

  Presently, the two sailors returned to the sea chest, taking from it a bull’s-eye lamp, so large that it might have been the headlight of an engine. This was then carried out, together with a support, and pushed through what was clearly a specially-designed panel in the m
aterial of the back frame so that, when the gates on the lamp were opened, its beam was directed forward, illuminating the screen from the inside.

  “What’re ’em covers for?” shouted an elderly man standing at the forefront of the crowd, clearly voicing the consternation of a great number of the congregation.

  Beasant looked thoughtfully at him and, in a measured tone responded: “If I am successful in what I am about to do—the merging of my own flesh with bricks and mortar—it would be an horrific sight to see.

  “This way, though you will still see everything, it will at least not serve to upset the balance of your minds. Observe.”

  Climbing up the steps, Beasant stood at their summit, and, drawing his hand back quickly, he pulled back some of the silk material at the front of the centre frame and thrust his arm through, so that it was inside the screen. Since the light from the lamp was trained on the frame at the front of the podium, Beasant’s arm, entering from side, was caught in the beam of the lamplight and projected in sharp silhouette against the pale cloth.

  When Beasant had pulled his arm free once more, he turned and walked back down to the steps and, standing upon the flagstones, addressed the crowd once more.

  “Could someone with a pocket-watch please give me the time?”

  A worn, ascetic old man, standing at the front of the crowd, with a soldierly bearing and a grey forage cap, dipped into his pocket and took out his watch.

  “It’s coming up to four.”

  “The exact time, if you please!” urged Beasant.

  “Three fifty-six.”

  “Very well,” Beasant returned with a nod. “Thank you, sir. Please could you keep looking at your watch? When it is exactly the hour, could you please let me know by saying ‘now’ in a loud voice?”

  The old man nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Addressing the crowd for what was to be the final time, Beasant said loudly: “If I could ask the rest of you to please be as quiet as possible for the next few minutes—what I am about to attempt will require a great deal of concentration.”

  Slowly, the crowd fell quiet, with every eye keenly watching Beasant, who stood, waiting for the coming hour, with his eyes closed and his head lowered.

  When the old man finally decried the word ‘now’, Beasant roused himself, and nodded solemnly. He then turned and climbed up the steps once again.

  Placing his right foot onto the top step, Beasant paused briefly and swept the crowd with a troubled eye. Then, with a look of determination, he pulled back the silk at the far end of the centre frame and pushed his foot through onto the podium. With a single deft movement, Beasant twisted his body through the aperture in the silk, following quickly after it.

  The audience naturally jostled about as Beasant disappeared behind the screen, and they attempted to better their views of the frame at the front of the podium. The lamp quickly did its work, however, with Beasant’s silhouetted form coming, almost instantly, into clear view on the front of the screen. As it did so, a small element of the audience could not help but cheer. But then, remembering Beasant’s call for silence, the noise soon died away.

  Standing in the centre of the platform, Beasant stood facing outwards, towards the direction of the crowd, but then turned to face the outer wall of the monument. As he did, one of the assistants moved forward and pulled the steps away from the podium. The implication seemed clear—whatever Beasant was about to do, he was now on his own.

  The rapt audience watched in silence. Beasant raised his arm, and moved it, tentatively, towards the brickwork. Taking half a pace backwards, Beasant straightened his arm and thrust it forward—pushing it through the wall ahead of him.

  As the stunned crowd looked on, Beasant reared up a little, before lunging forward and striking the wall. Hitting the brickwork with force, Beasant’s body seemed to judder. Slowly, he pushed forward and, before the disbelieving eyes of the crowd, the outline of his body became smaller and smaller, until, finally, it disappeared completely from sight—merging entirely with the brickwork.

  Soon, there was nothing more to see, except the blank, white screen billowing gently in the breeze.

  Disquiet in the crowd grew rapidly, with many of the more vocal people assembled shouting to Beasant’s assistants to remove the coverings from the platform. After a moment, one of the assistants, apparently aware of the increasingly hostility of the crowd, walked across to the raised platform, and removed the front panel. There was a gasp from the crowd—a noise that was replicated as he removed the remaining coverings. The platform where Beasant had been standing moments before was now entirely empty.

  As the crowd looked on in stunned silence, the assistants (many of whom looked just as shocked as the audience) collected up the silk coverings as they had been instructed, and took them, together with the lantern and the steps, to an identical platform at the far side of the monument.

  There was a great skirmish, as the attention of the crowd moved from one side of the monument to the other. Many children clustered around the base of the raised platform, hoping, presumably, to uncover some evidence of how this conjuring trick was performed.

  It was under this heavy scrutiny that the assistants set about placing the silk-covered frames at the top of the new platform. Soon, a three-panelled silk screen was formed, identical to the one that had been on the other side of the monument minutes before. Once again, the bull’s-eye lantern was positioned at the back of the screen with its beam shining out and illuminating the front panel.

  For some minutes, there was a hush from the crowd which, all the time, thrilled with anticipation. But, as the minutes drew on and nothing further occurred, many of the people there gathered became restless. Some voiced their concern for Beasant, whilst others praised the Lord or recited prayers because of the miracle that had been witnessed.

  Suddenly, a woman standing at the front of the crowd gasped and pointed a tremulous finger towards the front of the screen. A small, dark shape had appeared within it, reaching out from the brickwork. The crowd stilled as the dark shape grew and stretched into a form that was undeniably a human arm.

  The shadow on the screen continued to take shape until soon the dark outline of a head and upper torso appeared—and, finally, in front of the rapt and incredulous crowd, pulling away from the brickwork was the full figure of a man.

  No sooner had this transpired, than an assistant pulled the covering away and Beasant stood before the crowd once more—now shaking in the middle of the podium, with a look of disorientation crossing the blanched features of his face. Beasant’s brow glistened with perspiration and he looked wildly about himself until, finally, he turned and staggered down the steps, falling senseless upon the sand.

  The crowd rushed forward, gathering around and staring down at Beasant’s exhausted form, with expressions in which horror, surprise, and something approaching joy were contending for mastery.

  Having fortunately remembered to collect my medical bag in case of some kind of an emergency, I rushed through the crowd.

  Beasant was being propped up by one of his assistants, and was seated upon one of the steps, with his cheeks pallid and hands shaking. After administering ammonia, I then took out my flask and pushed it to his mouth. The brandy seemed to have a reviving effect. Within a few moments, his eyes, which had been glazed and uncomprehending, were blinking rapidly and seemed to have regained their reason.

  Five minutes later, though still unable to converse freely, Beasant obviously felt fit to stand and, with the aid of
two of his assistants, was able to slowly cross the sands, away from the crowds.

  Despite my wishes, it was impossible for me to follow after Beasant, as I needed to attend to a great number of the people present, many of whom were in a state of shock following the miracle and needed to be given chloral and bromide of potassium just to steady them down.

  Turning the pages over in my hands, I stood up and walked to the window, withdrawing into thought. As I stared blankly into the darkness beyond the window casements, the room fell into silence.

  “Well?” Doyle urged.

  Slowly turning back, I chewed my lip for a moment, before looking down again at the papers in my hand.

  “Well…” I said limply. “I suppose the first thing to say is that, judging by this, you obviously have a good editor.”

  “It’s a first draft,” Doyle snapped. “And is that really all you have to say?”

  Withholding a smirk, I dropped my eyes back to the text once more.

  “These flagstones? Where did they come from?”

  “I suppose…” Doyle said cautiously. “They must have been laid on Saturday afternoon—following the completion of the building.”

  “How far do they come out from the brickwork?”

  “A few metres perhaps?”

  “And they surround the entire outside of the building?”

  “Yes. I believe so,” Doyle said. “Why? Do you think it’s significant?”

  “No,” I said distantly, my eyes falling back onto the page once more. “Not if it was a miracle…

  “It’s also odd about those silk coverings though, don’t you think?”

  Looking up from the page, I saw that Doyle was studying me intently—his eyes remaining fixed on me as I crossed back to the bed and sank to the edge of the mattress.