The Ghost Engine

by Theresa Fuller

Her chest heaved as she retrieved the rag again. She glowered at the Engine. If she could just get it working, she could program it, furthering the research on her grandmother’s mysterious illness. Faster than humanly possible.

  Most importantly it would vindicate you, Grandmother, prove your predictions correct.

  Berd grimaced as she dusted herself down, annoyed and disappointed at today’s outcome. She’d tried her best, but her best didn’t seem to be good enough.

  She studied the Engine, running her fingers along a bit of charred wood. Thank goodness, she’d extinguished the fire, but as her fingers brushed the wood, it disintegrated further.

  “Oh... oh,” Berd whistled, frustration replaced by curiosity as the wood crumbled, revealing what looked suspiciously like a metal drawer. The fire had revealed a secret compartment. Her hands shook as she slid the drawer open. A thin book bound in green leather. She picked it up.

  The log book of Charles Babbage Fotheringay the cover read. A chill slid down her back.

  Robert Fotheringay had named his son after his good friend Charles Babbage. That’d make this the journal of the missing man – the ghost said to inhabit the Engine.

  She sank onto an old trunk, remembering the phantom figure of the young man. It made perfect sense. Robert Fotheringay was co-inventor. His son, doubling as his assistant, had kept a journal, a log book of their experiments. Only when the invention was working would they be able to patent it. This logbook was, for the time being, the sole proof this Engine was theirs.

  And now it was hers.

  Maybe she’d find the answer she needed in here. She flipped the journal open.

  “A computer is a simple device.”

  The words were scrawled in tight, black loops – some careful and clear while others were slanted more strongly. Both reflective of entries written with careful deliberateness, while others, almost illegible, were entries scribbled in great haste. She turned the page.

  “The ability to insert data is through what we call the INPUT Section.”

  If she just knew which page held the answer she needed. She flipped through the pages until she came to the last entry.

  “No matter what Father and I have tried, we cannot surmount the power threshold. The obstacles seem too great, and I feel Father has given up. Last night I’d had an idea. Now we need to wait for an Act of God.”

  Berd lowered the book, shaking her head. Maybe this would all make sense tomorrow. She had a little time; James would no doubt be at his club this moment, or at least on his way to it. The earliest he’d be back would be in a week’s time. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, only to cover it with soot. She sighed and stood; she’d done all she could do for one day. Rest was needed now. Perhaps tomorrow she’d have answers.

  An Act of God...

  The only way to discover what they did was if she spoke with Charles Fotheringay.

  She had to speak with a ghost.

  Chapter Three

  HOW DID ONE speak to a ghost?

  Especially if one didn’t believe in séances. It was another reason Berd understood why she never fitted into society. Almost everyone she knew believed. But thanks to what she’d witnessed during the explosion yesterday, she was actually contemplating such foolishness.

  She rubbed a finger against her lips as she stared at the old leather journal in her lap. The rays from her lamp stained the pages yellow. Normally she enjoyed reading by the flickering light, but today the shadows they created in the stables made her skin crawl. And no matter how hard she’d tried, she couldn’t keep from thinking about what she’d experienced.

  Explosions. Ghosts. Murder.

  She tried not to look too hard at the shadows that stole along the floor, or the ones seeping from the corners of the stable. Light, however, appeared to be working in tandem with the dark, for each time the light quivered, the shadows trembled. Berd jumped each time it occurred.

  She’d never noticed the shadows in such a way before. It wasn’t the darkness alone that bothered her but the Engine to her left. Of course it wasn’t watching her! It was just a collection of cogs and wheels assembled for functional, rather than aesthetic, purposes. But then eyes with which to view something was a functional feature, too.

  She cleared her throat and read again. “A computer is a simple device made up of four sections. The first is called the INPUT SECTION. This section enables data to be fed into the computer, hence its name. Data is different to information because data by itself is meaningless.”

  She slammed the book shut. Yes, she knew all that, but what she still didn’t know was how to get the blasted computer working, and this was her second reading.

  According to the book, Mr Fotheringay and his son, Charles, had attempted to use an Act of God to start the Engine...

  There were no more entries after Charles’s suggestion, as this was when he’d disappeared. Berd had no idea if it worked, or if they had been able to input data and to process it or to store the data and then output it. Or whether his father had murdered him, perhaps arguing over how to start the Engine, sacrificing him to the Engine like savages to a heathen god…

  The young man who’d bent over her yesterday had looked in fine condition. Vitally alive. She’d not noticed any strangulation marks about his neck. Or maybe he’d been knifed… there was that heart to think about.

  She stole another glance at the Engine, sitting idly without its cover. In the gaslight, shadows flickered amongst its tubes, as if they really were the buildings of cities, and tiny people were walking around them. She jerked her head back to the book in her lap. Stop it.

  The young man’s face had been smudged with soot, and his strange black sleeves rolled up, as if he’d been in the middle of something and interrupted. But she couldn’t comprehend what a ghost could be engaged in. That was the afterlife. They should all be playing harps and singing!

  Unless he wasn’t Upstairs...

  Berd shook her head, wishing she’d paid more attention in church; then she’d know whether one proceeded straight to heaven or whether there was a half-way stage before either. Or even if Hell was mechanised. The only non-risky way to find out was if she engaged the Reverend Waid in a discussion, but then she’d be stuck for hours. His mother would assume she was interested in him, and she’d affront all the other unattached women in the parish. Let them have him. She found nothing attractive in a sallow-faced young man who was always clasping and unclasping his hands.

  Charles Fotheringay, on the other hand, if that was in fact him...

  Intelligence had shone in his blue eyes. He looked to be someone she could commune with, in daily life. Perhaps, even a man to have a conversation with that didn’t involve her acting as if she’d her brains removed.

  Long hair, dim witted.

  That was regarded as man’s sole view of woman.

  Berd sighed. How ludicrous! She’d gone from disbelieving in séances to trying to contact the ghost of the late Charles Babbage Fotheringay.

  But he was the only person who could possibly solve her dilemma: how to get the Engine running so that she could solve the mystery of her grandmother’s illness. And vindicate her!

  She sat up straight as she stared at the journal in her lap.

  A woman could be the world’s first computer programmer. That’d prove to the world that women were equal to men. Grandmother Bird had started the journey, and Berd was determined to see it through.

  She turned to a dog-eared page and reread the contents. It appeared she’d not been the only person who’d had such thoughts. Even the late Mr Fotheringay had attempted to contact the spirit of his old friend, Charles Babbage. The Fotheringays must have succeeded as the Ghost Engine had come a long way from the Difference Engine. And though there were no clues in the logbook, maybe ole Sir Alphabet Function himself, as the late Charles Babbage used to address himself, had indeed been giving his friend hints from the Great Beyond.

  But contacting a spirit was entering the Devil’s Domain.r />
  A sin…

  All she wanted was an answer, not some diabolical contract whereby she’d lose her immortal soul. Sliding her hand to her throat, she remembered the ghost’s fingers, tightening, like a threat…

  Berd’s heart raced; she struggled to breathe. Even the hand she currently pressed over her dry lips was noticeably cold. She set the book aside, rose from the chair and faced the Engine.

  “If you could just speak, and tell me what I’m doing wrong. I need power.”

  The Engine remained silent.

  Berd gave a little laugh. “Here I am communing with an engine. And if you’d responded I’d have run out the door screaming like a lunatic and they’d cart me off to Bedlam.”

  She sighed, looked down at her black boots and then at the Engine. She sucked in a breath.

  The Engine looked different. Copper platters gleamed, a fiendish light arcing off edges that flashed, knife-sharpened. Every inch of its metallic surface flamed, protruding as if backlit by some mysterious inner light she could not place. In contrast, the wooden panels darkened as if the wood sweated.

  It was different.

  She knew it.

  Berd could not explain the manner of the change. It was as if, before, the Engine had been an inanimate object, and now, as if something had entered it, possessed it, and controlled it, she felt it was listening to her. Nervous, she fingered the little gold cross around her throat.

  “Mr Charles Fotheringay?” she whispered, feeling foolish. “If you’re in there…” She rolled and unrolled the logbook. “Please, if you’re in there. I know you’re dead, and I’m very sorry for that. But could you help me, please? I just need to...”

  Find out how you got the Engine working. And you’re the only person who can help me.

  The words stuck in her throat; she squeezed her eyes shut. Somehow, being without sight made talking to a ghost easier. “I can’t believe I’m even doing this. But I saw you. I know I saw you. So if you’re in there, please give me a sign. Please.”

  Her throat tightened. She opened her eyes. And screamed.

  The brick walls were blurring as they leaned over her; the ceiling had shrunk away. And the Engine – the macabre Engine – was rolling forward like a juggernaut. The floor rumbled as if pistons were going off beneath the soles of her feet, and a dull humming filled her ears.

  Berd wanted to run. But she couldn’t. She wanted to call out to stop what was happening, but her lips wouldn’t form the words. She could not move. It was as though she’d passed through a gateway into some unknown dimension; a giant eye had opened and now stared at her.

  She finally shrieked and jumped backward, her mobility returning to her all at once. The lamp light trembled, its rays shimmered; the shadows quivered.

  Then the room returned to normal. Everything was as it had been – quiet, still, and in normal unwavering proportions. Even the Engine now sat in its regular position – dull and innocuous.

  But her heart was still racing.

  Lord, she couldn’t go through with this! She’d never attempt to contact the dead again. Ever!

  Frantic to escape the stables, she flung the logbook down and ran towards the door. A wisp of wind fluted through the bottom, as if enticing her back to the world. To life. She shoved the door open, but all around her was darkness.

  The light was gone.

  It was supposed to be morning, but there was no blue sky to reassure her all was right. This had to be hell.

  Berd stood still in the doorway, unable to understand what was happening. The sun had disappeared.

  The skies were black.

  Black shapes roiled like oil within the infernal canvas overhead.

  Black.

  That’s it!

  It was about to rain. Rain! The wavering wraiths across the sky were storm clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Thunder... She clapped her hands. Of course!

  Lightning.

  Lightning was an Act of God!

  That must have been what Charles and his father had done.

  She flung her hands to the sky. “Thank you, Lord! Thank you.” She dashed back to the brick townhouse.

  “You!” She stabbed a finger at a footman coming down the steps. He was one of the new help. “Peter, was it?”

  He doffed his cap. “Henry, if it please, my lady.”

  “Henry! I need for you to get me a chimney sweep!”

  The footman frowned. “A chimney sweep, Miss? In the middle of a storm?”

  “Half a crown if you can get him within the hour.”

  “Straight away, Miss!” Henry grinned, bowed, and ran down the front stairs.

  Within the hour, the lightning conductor at the top of Aunt Agatha’s townhouse was taller by at least six feet, but there was no time to celebrate. Berd was too busy struggling to attach a length of telegraph wire from the Ghost Engine in the stables to the end of the lightning conductor. She’d just finished and was stepping off the ladder when Rose hurried up to her with an umbrella.

  “My lady, it’s raining,” Rose said, trying to shield Berd from the rain.

  “I know, Rose. It’s glorious!”

  “Come inside, my lady, please.”

  Berd allowed Rose to guide her towards the front door as lightning split the skies. A second later, thunder crashed in her ears. At her doorstep, Berd dreamily lifted her gaze to the sky as rain pelted her body, drenching her mauve silk blouse and running down her upturned nose. If she could but see lightning strike the conductor and race to the Engine…

  The Engine! Oh no! It wasn’t even on. She’d forgotten entirely.

  “Wait! I’ve got to do something.”

  She broke away from Rose and ran for the stables. Overhead the storm’s front line was beginning to pass. Hurry, hurry! She’d have to turn the Engine on fast.

  The door swung open with a bang, and Berd hurried inside. Thank goodness the lamp was still on. Her fingers felt for the Engine’s handle. Hurry! Hurry!

  Berd cranked the handle furiously. Brilliant light flashed in her eyes.

  Everything seemed to be outlined in gold. The after-effect burned in her brain. Berd was aware she was standing, and that she saw the lamp clearly hanging from the wall. She reached for the switch.

  Flicked it.

  And the world disappeared.

  Chapter Four

  HORRIFIC SCREAMING WAS echoing through Berd’s head when she awoke. Blue light wavered all around her, fishtailing and bubbling, giving her the impression of being underwater. But that was impossible. She would not be able to breathe if that were the case.

  But she was, undeniably, floating in a world of blue radiance.

  Her skin tingled, even as water pushed in from all sides. Berd lifted her hands in scrutiny, expecting to find a gaping hole in one of them. She had dreamed it. The black dirt under her fingernails was gone, and every torn nail had regrown.

  Baffled, she continued her examination, pressing the skin of her face and running fingers down the delicate curves of her ears. Jagged bursts of intermittent pain erupted in various parts of her person. The stink of charred flesh made her wonder if she had been set alight, but soon all was replaced by overwhelming bliss.

  This had to be the afterlife…

  She was beginning to revel in the peacefulness when a subtle sound filled her ears.

  Water that sounds like bees humming…

  She looked up and saw a blue radiance wrinkling in sheets before her. Then intense yellow light flashed. Blinding. A searing dread rose from deep within as she squeezed her eyes shut.

  I must get out.

  Berd moved her hands back to raise herself, only she could find no purchase…

  There was nothing beneath her.

  Her chest constricted and her heart thundered above the sound of the supernatural water. She opened her mouth to scream just as a voice spoke.

  “Please, relax.” A melodic voice burred. Male and young, it had a firm guiding tone like a doctor’s.

 
Of course! She had to be at a retreat. James must have sent her to take the waters after the explosion. With that in mind, she closed her mouth and unclenched her fists.

  The voice came again. “It’s far safer to keep your eyes closed while you’re under. At least you’re whole again.”

  Whole again? What kind of spa was this?

  Confusion seeped into her consciousness, and her muscles tightened. She squinted against a halo of sulphurous yellow light.

  “What has happened to me? Where am I?”

  To her annoyance, the speaker ignored her questions. “Excuse me, my lady, while I carry you out of the river.”

  A shadow passed over her. Pain re-entered her body. Her muscles tensed. It was all she could do just to clench her teeth and hold back her scream.

  “I’m sorry it hurts. Being one with the energy of the river causes you to feel pain as you’re removed, but it’ll pass.” As he spoke the light dimmed, and as he placed her on her feet the pain subsided. Finally, she was able to see.

  Only what she saw did not make sense. She had expected to find herself indoors, instead she was outdoors and the ground she was standing on, if it was indeed ground, was composed of bright green enamel that reflected the frail light like polished glass.

  She tapped her foot, and heard the resulting echo. Whatever it was, it seemed solid enough. She appeared to be on the bank of a river, but this was like no river she’d ever encountered. It rippled with translucent blue silk skeins, its surface undulating and shimmering as if worked by a million looms beneath. And she had been in there. Inside. She lifted her gaze. The heavy odours of metal shavings, paraffin, and engine oil wafted over her face.

  A city was spread to the horizon. A city composed of blocks. Huge blocks. Gigantic blocks. So titanic that even as she stared, she felt herself shrinking into the landscape. Copper, brass, silver, and polished steel took the place of brick and painted wood. The cubes, arches, pyramids, and rectangular prisms closest to her were the size of the workmen’s cottages back on the estate, but others in the distance rivalled the Great Pyramid at Giza.

  This was no spa.