The Ghost Hunters

by Neil Spring

  Alerted by my account of the train journey, Wall’s face became serious. ‘You’re obsessed with him, aren’t you? Totally obsessed.’ He removed his arm from around me. ‘What exactly does he do for you, Sarah?’

  ‘Most things, actually.’ The voice belonged to Price. I jolted at seeing him there in the doorway behind us, half hidden in the shadows. ‘Not that Miss Grey’s career is any business of yours, Mr Wall.’

  How long Price had been eavesdropping on our conversation I couldn’t say, but now Mr and Mrs Smith were behind him, their forms half swallowed by the darkness of the main hallway. The couple were the picture of concern, the rector with his arm wrapped protectively around his wife, and she standing nervously, twisting her rings on arthritic fingers.

  I rose sharply. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The cold,’ whispered Mrs Smith, stepping forward. It had become her habit to look over her shoulder as she entered every room and she did so now, as if a great beast might leap forward from behind and pin her to the ground. She rubbed her arms. ‘Don’t you feel it?’

  ‘Well, of course we feel it,’ said Wall, standing suddenly. ‘We all feel it. All of us, that is, except – perhaps – Mr Price here.’

  ‘I will need to check my instruments,’ said Price grudgingly, turning away. ‘I left a thermometer at the bottom of the main stairs.’

  ‘I think,’ Wall broke in, his voice rising steadily, ‘that it’s high time you actually did something.’

  All of us stood in silence for a moment.

  Price turned, his eyes narrowing. ‘Such as?’

  The reporter stepped forward. ‘If there is a presence in this house – and I for one believe that indeed there is such a presence – then the thing clearly isn’t shy. It wants to be noticed.’

  ‘Let’s assume, for argument’s sake, that you are right.’ Price’s words had the tone of quiet menace. ‘What would you suggest we do?’

  ‘Speak to it,’ said Wall. ‘Ask it what it wants.’

  Horrified, Reverend Smith said, ‘No, we must not enter into any dialogue with it.’

  ‘But why not?’ Wall insisted. ‘If there is the slightest chance that we might learn just something more about what is happening here then I see no reason not to question it. Mr Price, I demand that you lead us in a seance!’

  ‘You demand?’ Price was indignant.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Oh yes, that would make an excellent story for your newspaper, wouldn’t it? No, Vernon, I will do no such thing.’

  ‘I agree with Mr Price,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘My boy, you must understand that there is such a thing as pure evil. Are you so confident in your standing in this world that you can be sure to recognise it when you see it?’

  ‘And I agree most wholeheartedly with Mr Smith,’ said Price. ‘Under the present circumstances it would be irresponsible for us to take this any further.’

  Wall looked intensely dissatisfied. ‘What do you think, Mrs Smith?’ he asked.

  ‘I think we should do this.’

  We all looked at the woman.

  ‘What?’ spluttered the rector. ‘Mabel, you can’t be serious.’

  She took her husband’s arm. ‘Guy, if a seance will help us understand more about the occurrences in this house, help us to learn more about whatever it is that is causing so much trouble, then perhaps we can do something to help. And these things, whatever they are, might leave us in peace. Isn’t it worth a try?’

  Mrs Smith looked pleadingly at her husband. The rector sighed, patted her hand and said, ‘Very well, my dear, if that is your wish.’

  ‘It is. But we need guidance.’ Mrs Smith turned to Price. ‘Harry, won’t you help us? You said yourself that ghouls are for the gullible. Well then, let us be gullible.’ She looked down at the curious collection of objects that had come rolling down the stairs some moments before. ‘Now you have seen for yourself what we endure in this house. You came here to help us. Please help us.’

  Price considered the plea with obvious reluctance. I understood his dilemma. To agree to Mrs Smith’s request would be halfway to admitting the fallibility of his science and, worse, the possibility that his staunchest critics had been right all along. But even I, in my constrained scepticism, had to acknowledge that the phenomena we had witnessed this night – ringing bells, falling bricks and fleeting shadows – had no easy explanation. Reliving these events in my head, I could well imagine Mother telling me how wrong I had been to doubt the possibility of an afterlife on earth, and for the briefest moment I questioned why I had.

  I thought of my father and imagined the impossible.

  ‘Do it,’ I said, turning towards Price.

  He gave me a quizzical look. ‘Sarah?’ ‘We have nothing to lose now,’ I said firmly.

  Beside me, Wall seconded his support, catching my eye and throwing me a charming smile that touched me with excitement and a little guilt.

  ‘Very well,’ Price said. ‘But I want to make myself very clear. During the proceedings, I will be watching everybody extremely carefully.’ He turned to Mrs Smith. ‘All right, madam?’

  ‘So be it, Mr Price. Where shall we carry out the seance?’

  ‘Most of the unusual events you have described focus in or around the Blue Room upstairs. Shall we conduct it in there?’

  Mrs Smith nodded her agreement, but she didn’t look at all happy about the idea.

  ‘Come on then. And please bring as many candles and lamps as you have available.’

  Guided by the flickering flame of the rector’s storm lantern, we followed him across the gloomy hallway and up the great staircase. Darkness and the smell of damp were on all sides of us. There was no need for us to turn the handle to the bedroom door, for it was already wide open, daring us to enter.

  ‘In here,’ said the rector, leading the way.

  ‘But as the others filed into the dusty bedroom, I noticed Price hanging back. His attention was centred upon me. ‘Sarah, a moment, please?’

  I went to his side and looked into his serious face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘In here,’ he murmured, before stepping into a shadowy doorway which led to the disused schoolroom.

  I hesitated. Wall was waiting for me at the entrance to the Blue Room, his face mulish and etched with disapproval. I smiled awkwardly, embarrassed, then stepped aside, following Price.

  The schoolroom was pitch dark. I could only just discern Price’s shape silhouette. I shivered from the cold and flinched as he took my hand.

  ‘Are you quite all right, Sarah?’

  Although the words were caring, the tone was stern. ‘Yes – of course,’ I blurted out. Perhaps it was because I could barely see him, but his scent seemed more noticeable in the dark – stronger, thicker, more masculine.

  He squeezed my hand firmly before leaning his head towards mine. ‘If there was something wrong, you would tell me, I hope?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘It’s this house, isn’t it? I sense that it is getting the better of you.’

  ‘The house,’ I acknowledged, my voice catching in my throat, ‘the people in the house. And the … things. Harry, what are they?’

  Price sounded thoughtful. ‘Ancient echoes of the past.’

  It took me a moment to realise that he was hypothesising rather than expressing a firm opinion.

  ‘Or, more likely,’ he continued, ‘the work of a clever deceiver concealed somewhere in these walls.’ A slight pause. ‘Tell me, what is your opinion of our intrepid journalist friend?’

  ‘Vernon?’ I said, with noticeable surprise. ‘Harry, no, you can’t possibly suspect him in all this.’

  ‘He claims he saw something outside that I did not see. Now, I’m not implicating him directly, but it is possible that he is intimately involved in the hoax. He has every motive.’

  I pulled my hand away. ‘Why are you so determined not to believe?’ I demanded.

  ‘Why are you so ready to believe?’

 
A wide silence opened between us. I wondered what notions about my suitability for this job were swimming in his head, what regrets, if any, he harboured about employing me; and I felt a stab of alarm to think that I had dissatisfied him. But facts are facts, and, reasonable or not, I could not allow myself to ignore them. I recalled, then, our conversation back at the Laboratory – so long ago now, it seemed – about one’s entitlement to believe in genuinely paranormal phenomena, violations of natural laws. ‘Do you remember, Harry, telling me that natural laws could never be broken?’

  ‘Yes, I remember very well.’

  ‘But surely,’ I challenged him, ‘we can’t claim to have discovered every law of nature, every possibility? If that were so, it would never be possible for science to progress, to make new discoveries.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Sarah?’

  ‘What I mean is, perhaps these events, these happenings – perhaps they are simply ungoverned by physical laws. And if that were so then there wouldn’t need to be any violation of any laws. No contradiction!’

  ‘Yes … Yes. Now that is an interesting idea.’

  I was surprised to hear him admit that the possibility had not occurred to him previously. It warmed me to think that I had impressed him; but before I could settle into complacency he was speaking again in a sharper tone.

  ‘Of course there is a long, inbuilt resistance to such ideas. And what we have here, in this house, though it merits attention, must be properly investigated. By us.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that task is beyond me?’ I asked coolly.

  ‘I am suggesting that you are allowing your emotions, your personal biases, to cloud your judgement.’

  ‘What? Harry, no—’

  ‘Listen to me!’ His face was inches from mine, his breath hot on my face. ‘As we speak, Mrs Smith and her husband and that mischievous journalist friend of yours are busy preparing the bedroom for a midnight seance, the sort of thing you and I have witnessed many times with unimpressive results. And you, Sarah – you encouraged it! I will not jeopardise the integrity of this investigation just to indulge a personal bias. As soon as we return to London we will be asked what happened here tonight, and what we say will matter. Our critics, my attackers – every psychical researcher in London worth his salt will pore over every detail of what we are about to do. They will send arrows of doubt to darken our skies. I want you to know that. They will be acute in their scrutiny. And you – both of us – will have to stand the test of their judgement.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I asked.

  ‘If this is too much for you, too personal, then now is the time to step away.’

  ‘Step away? No!’ I was adamant. ‘We’re too close now, and if you think you’re sending me packing back to London, you have another thing coming! Do you hear?’

  Price hesitated. ‘You would miss this job.’

  ‘Yes, I’d miss it!’

  ‘Like you miss your father?’

  That stung. The question hung in the air and in the darkness I nodded, holding back my tears, thankful beyond words that Price wasn’t able to see my reaction. I hadn’t been able to express what bothered me most: the memory that came back to me in flashes of my father in Mother’s bedroom, kneeling next to the wardrobe before an open trunk. He was sobbing quietly to himself. Why? I would have gone to his side, hugged him, consoled him, asked him what was wrong, but for some reason, I was too afraid. Like a spy, I watched him holding something. The light from the gas lamps in the street outside fell on three small white envelopes bearing a handwritten scrawl.

  Unmistakably letters.

  ‘You’re not to go in there. Not under any circumstances.’

  But why not? The noises that came at night signalling disturbances within Mother’s room: the wardrobe door creaking open, the trunk inside snapping open.

  Sarah … do you know what she is looking for?

  Then a terrible thought: she wasn’t looking for something, she had already found it.

  Letters …

  Was there a connection? There had to be, surely? I should just confront Mother and ask her for the truth. Why hadn’t I?

  Because you don’t know how she will, react, do you, Sarah? You have no idea what she’s hiding from you, or what confronting it will do to her. Or to you.

  ‘Sarah?’ Price’s voice pulled me out of private reflection.

  ‘Don’t push me, Harry,’ I said eventually. ‘You can trust me. You can rely on my support.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Then we will carry on.’

  I followed him out onto the dim landing. The door to the Blue Room was ajar and I could see the flicker of candlelight. A voice from within made me start. ‘Mr Price, Miss Grey, are you joining us?’

  I glanced up at Price, whose eyes were fixed on the bedroom, his face a mask of tense anticipation. ‘Harry?’

  He jerked his head towards me, staring straight at me out of wide, wild eyes. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you have even the slightest idea what’s about to happen?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ he said, then reached for my hand. ‘Well – are you coming?’

  I must be crazy, I thought. ‘Yes,’ I said, placing my hand in his. ‘I’m coming.’

  And together we stepped out of the darkness to face whatever was to come.

  – 17 –

  A MIDNIGHT SEANCE

  ‘Now, I must insist that we make this quick and work with the very best light,’ said Price, ‘so that we can all see one another and ensure that there is no interference by anyone.’ He placed his lamp on a large dressing table on top of which stood a wooden-backed swing mirror while Mrs Smith lit a candle. There was only one armchair, into which Wall dropped, seemingly putting his notes in order. Price, the rector, his wife and I all sat down on the side of the bed facing the table, wedged in between the two pieces of furniture.

  Shouldn’t we sing some sort of hymn?’ I suggested, recalling the traditional seances that Mother had described to me over the years. It was strange, but I had never even thought to suggest such a thing in the presence of mediums back at the Laboratory.

  ‘Very well,’ said Price, looking dubious. ‘If you think it is necessary.’

  ‘I for one certainly think that would be appropriate,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘In times of uncertainty like this, we need divine guidance.’ Her husband nodded in agreement.

  And so that is what we did, the rector’s wife beginning, the rest of us joining in hesitantly:

  Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

  The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.

  When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

  Help of the helpless, O abide with mes.

  Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;

  Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;

  Change and decay in all around I see;

  O Thou who changest not, abide with me.1

  ‘Very good,’ said Price quietly. ‘Now join hands, please, fingertips touching.’

  We did so. Mother would be proud of me, I thought, fully aware of the irony of this situation. To be honest I was a little embarrassed, but I was also curious and – after the incident outside and the falling brick and drop in temperature about the house – afraid. Was I foolish to have agreed to this? To have pushed Price into proceeding when it was obvious he would have preferred to spend more time questioning witnesses and searching the house for intruders.

  ‘Miss Grey, are you all right?’

  Wall’s concerned voice cut across my thoughts.

  ‘I address whatever intelligence may be present,’ Price interjected, frowning at him. ‘If any presence is here with us tonight and wishes to do so then please come forward and make yourself known to us.’

  No sound followed, only the gentle spitting of the rain against the window.

  ‘I ask again. If there is anyone present in this house, unseen to us but who wishes to communicate with us, please come forward
now and make yourself known.’

  And so we waited, the minutes passing like hours.

  By the time the clock downstairs in the hall chimed half past eleven I had concluded we were wasting our time and would be better to retire to bed. However, before I could suggest as much there came, quite suddenly, a decisive tapping from the window. It was faint at first but as the seconds passed it grew louder.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ Mrs Smith whispered, her eyes wide. ‘Tell me you do!’

  ‘I should say so,’ said Wall, standing. He went over to the window and pressed his ear against it.

  ‘Come here and sit back down,’ scolded Price. ‘We should all be joined if we’re to do this properly.’

  Wall did as he was told, throwing Price a resentful look as he sat down on the bed next to me.

  ‘Now then, I will repeat the question. One. More. Time.’

  After he had spoken we waited, hushed and tense. This time within seconds of Price’s question I noticed a shift in the atmosphere. The door was shut firmly and there were no windows open to account for the draught that sprang up, and from the far corner of the room shadows were encroaching on us, pooling around the bed and the table until I was convinced they would surely envelop us. Among the shadows was a sprinkling of tiny blue lights.

  ‘Do you see that?’ I whispered.

  ‘I do,’ said Wall, amazed.

  I gasped at a sudden gust of cold air. The light from our storm lantern flickered; the candle that Mrs Smith had brought into the room spluttered and died. And with our hands resting flat on the table in front of us, each touching our neighbours’, we waited for our world to meet the next.

  The sound came again, just seconds later. ‘It’s coming from the back of the mirror,’ Mrs Smith whispered. We all leaned away from the dressing table.