The Ghost Hunters

by Neil Spring

  ‘Was your father a believer in Spiritualism?’

  Price nodded. ‘Oh yes, very much so. He taught me that the dead were all around us.’

  ‘And what happened to him?’ I asked as our train rattled deeper into the countryside.

  ‘Heart attack,’ he said softly. ‘It was a scalding hot Saturday in July 1906. I came home and there he was, sitting upright in his favourite chair. Just … sitting. Staring right at me. He was seventy-seven years old. A good life, Sarah.’

  ‘And afterwards … ?’

  ‘Yes.’ Price nodded slowly, the word catching in his throat. He knew what I was asking. ‘I saw him, or rather, I thought I saw him. Just one week after his funeral I woke in the early hours to see him sitting there at the end of my bed, daring me, challenging me, to test the mystery of his vision. These experiences were stepping stones for me, towards a conclusion I have yet to form. I thought William Hope was the real thing. I felt so close to the truth when I examined his photographs.’ He hesitated, cleared his throat, and resumed a businesslike tone. ‘But Mr Schneider is better by far. He has presented us with an opportunity to know, truly know, what all of this means, to discover what happens next. He gives me hope where I thought there was none. Just think what it could mean for you and for me, Sarah.’ He hesitated. ‘It was you who gave me the strength to open my mind again after Sir Arthur passed. It was you who urged me to dismantle my barricade of scepticism. Will you please consent to Mr Schneider’s terms?’

  ‘It’s just so deeply personal, Harry,’ I said tentatively. I didn’t want to commit myself. ‘What if Schneider fails? I can’t begin to imagine how that would make me feel, or even how I would feel if he succeeded. And how would Mother feel?’ It was such a logical reservation. But I knew, in spite of it, that I would consent. I cared for Price too deeply not to agree. When do we ever make good, rational decisions when we care for someone so strongly? Moreover, if there was the slightest chance that Schneider was genuine and Father had a message for me, and that this medium could succeed where others had failed and pierce the veil separating this world from the next, then I really had no choice. Curiosity, I knew, would compel me.

  ‘If I do this you must do something for me in return, Harry.’

  His eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘What is it?’

  I asked him to make the Borley investigation the full focus of his attention so that we could finish what we had started together. He hesitated, and for a moment I thought he might decline, but eventually he nodded thoughtfully and said, ‘Very well. It can do no harm.’

  I smiled, blissfully unaware of how wrong he was. ‘Then I agree to Mr Schneider’s proposal.’ I sat back, relieved and anxious, and asked him to show me Reverend Foyster’s full diary, which had recently been sent to us. I wanted to read the document before getting to the house.

  Price duly produced from inside his coat pocket a slim, leather-bound book. I thought he looked tired, older and worried, as though the weight of a problem was beginning to work upon him.

  ‘And you’re sure you’re up to this?’ I asked.

  He flinched and replied abruptly, ‘Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I’m only thinking of your health,’ I said; then, seeing his dismissive reaction, wondered why I bothered. I took the diary from him.

  ‘Take care of that, Sarah.’ He lowered his hat over his eyes. ‘It could be valuable one day.’

  As Price slept, our train rumbled through the late afternoon and the rain onward to our destination. My feelings were scattered and confused, for I was both placated and troubled by our conversation. Although I had learned a little more about his motivations I couldn’t shake the sense that he was keeping something from me, and not for the first time.

  I sat back, opening the Reverend Foyster’s Diary of Occurrences. And from the far corner of our compartment, the stranger from the railway station watched.

  * * *

  Note

  1 Sherlock Holmes had made his debut the previous month in Beeton’s Christmas Annual.

  By the time our taxi from Long Melford had traversed the winding lanes up to Borley I had reached the conclusion that Reverend Foyster’s diary provided a clear indication that something very odd was still happening at the Rectory. But my mind snagged on the peculiarity of the ominous stranger’s behaviour. For the duration of our journey a smile of amusement had played across his features as he watched me reading the diary. Did he, perhaps, know something I did not?

  We disembarked and stood in the lane. Borley Rectory was as bleak as I recalled. As I gazed at the dreary building, I noticed a tall cowled figure near the porch. It did not seem to be a shadow, and I called Price’s attention to the form. But when we looked, it had vanished.

  ‘It’s your mind, Sarah – nothing more than that,’ said Price dismissively. ‘Remember that houses like this can play tricks with your mind, yes?’

  I nodded.

  Yet there was something disturbing about that figure, something – what was it? Something about its form, as though it were not quite solid.

  ‘Now then,’ said Price, ‘what time is it?’ Before I could check my wristwatch the clock in the church tower, buried in trees on the opposite side of the road, struck eight. ‘All right,’ said my companion. ‘Let’s get to it!’

  He strode towards the great front door, his feet crunching on the gravel driveway as he whispered to me to stay close. We stood in the stone-pillared porch, rang the bell and waited. I felt fired up with enthusiasm and wondered briefly, given the lateness of the hour, whether we might be forced to spend the night here for a second time.

  Eventually a tall man appeared in the doorway, partly concealed in shadow. He was holding an oil lamp and in its flickering light I recognised the frail, poorly shaven man from Miss Bull’s photograph; this was Lionel Foyster. But his face was more gaunt than I remembered, strained, and the gaze he turned to us was full of suspicion.

  ‘Yes?’

  We hastily made our introductions and apologised for our lateness. When Price offered his hand for a moment I thought the rector would refuse it.

  ‘I was beginning to think that perhaps you weren’t coming,’ he said, ‘or that you would delay until tomorrow.’

  ‘No, no,’ Price said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to any offence he had caused. ‘Time is of the essence, sir.’

  The rector looked concerned. ‘I say, did anyone meet you on your way here?’

  ‘No, sir,’ was my prompt reply, but I thought the question odd.

  He seemed satisfied. ‘Well then, I suppose you had better come in.’

  We followed him through the gloomy hallway and into the large drawing room where the lamps were lit and a good fire crackled and spluttered in the great stone fireplace. The rector crossed the room and prepared a brandy for us. He moved slowly, as if carrying a great weight.

  I told the poor gentleman how sorry I was for his predicament and he seemed to appreciate the sentiment. ‘Thank you, Miss Grey,’ he sighed. ‘We are luckier than we might otherwise be. Marianne and I have some help around the house from time to time. There’s the maid, of course, and a handyman – a good Catholic who lives in the cottage next door. But I will readily admit that we are quickly coming to our wits’ end in this house. Please, won’t you sit down?’

  We took our places in the low chairs nearest the fire. I should have felt warmed, but already the sense of loathing and suffocation that my memory now associated with this house crept upon me, bringing goose pimples to my flesh. How reasonable it seems to me now, in retrospect, to dismiss such feelings as simple imaginings; except that I knew – I knew – my feelings had to have more substance than that. Something, somewhere, at the fringes of my own life or in the fabric of this house, was rotten.

  ‘I trust that by now you have both familiarised yourselves with my Diary of Occurrences?’

  ‘Indeed we have,’ I said earnestly, though Price remained silent, his expression unwavering.

 
‘You know, I never believed in ghosts until I came here,’ said the rector, settling into a deep armchair. ‘And Mr Price, I can see that even you are sceptical. Well, believe me, I used to laugh at the stories people told about the Rectory. I’m sorry to say we have discovered it is anything but a subject for laughter. Just listen to this. One evening a few weeks ago I found that all the pictures, except for one, that hang above the central staircase in the hall had been removed and laid face down on the hall floor. The only exception was a particularly large picture, and that was hanging crookedly as though it had been pushed aside. Another time, I had just finished writing a letter concerning the haunting to a family relative, when I discovered two pins with their points sticking upwards, one on the seat of the armchair, the other on the chair I had been sitting on. Whenever I have attempted to address the spirits – if indeed that is what they are – I have been pelted with stones.’

  I made a mental note of these details and the rector observed my obvious surprise. ‘Oh, that is not all. One night Marianne found pebbles behind her pillow; another time, just outside the Blue Room, she was struck in the face by some unseen force only to be turned out of bed, weeks later, three times in one night!’

  ‘How was she afterwards?’

  ‘How do you think? She was distraught! Day after day we found the bedding in our rooms dishevelled and scattered all over the floor and the beds themselves overturned!

  ‘Afterwards we found a small fire had broken out by the skirting board in one of the empty bedrooms. And all the time, on the landing during the night, we heard the strangest noises: bangs, tapping on doors, and incessant bell ringing. In the corner of the library I keep a selection of walking sticks; those too have moved all on their own. I hear them sometimes on the floors of the rooms above. Thud. Thud. Thud. As though someone is up there, pacing the boards! And even my Sunday sermons go missing, only to turn up again later.’

  We listened attentively as the rector told us of the male figure (Harry Bull, so he claimed) that he and his wife had seen in the Rectory corridors; of noises and lights in empty rooms; of books and other objects being thrown about; of unearthly whisperings; and, most intriguingly, of writing that had appeared on scraps of paper found about the house and on the walls of various passages.

  ‘You understand,’ said Price seriously, ‘that if genuine, such writing would be one of the greatest catalogued occurrences in the history of psychical research.’

  ‘I don’t care what it means to you,’ the rector snapped. ‘I care what it means for us.’

  ‘What does the writing say?’ I queried.

  ‘A great many things,’ his tone was grave, ‘although we haven’t been able decipher all of it. I would welcome your assistance with that. The first writing appeared over a few days … random letters, swirling letters, scratched out. Then my wife’s name appeared on the walls in the bedrooms and in the kitchen passage. The rest is just a terrible mess. The writing … I am convinced it is supernormal. That’s the only word to describe it. Supernormal.’

  ‘There are children living in this village,’ said Price quickly, ‘and many people who know the stories that go with this house. Is it not more likely that someone is playing a very mischievous and cruel trick on you both?’

  ‘You think so, Mr Price? Well, consider this. One afternoon I was working in my study when I saw a pencil rise from my desk into the air. It just hung there. Floating.’

  ‘Before your eyes?’ I said with wonderment.

  The rector nodded and spoke so quietly it was as if he were mouthing the words. ‘Before. My. Eyes. No hand was visible. The pencil stayed that way, suspended motionless in the air, for some five or six seconds; and then it struck the wall, scrawling words and phrases right in front of me. Tell me, does that sound normal to you?’

  We exchanged hurried glances, ‘And what of the infamous nun?’ Price asked. ‘The Dark Woman, as I believe she is known.’

  The rector’s narrow face darkened. ‘What of her? We feel her presence in the garden and about the house. She watches us. Judges us. As she has done with every family that has occupied Borley Rectory. And we live with that; it’s all we can do.’

  ‘Then you have seen the apparition?’

  ‘My wife has seen her.’ He made a sign of the cross. ‘I sense her, all the time, around us, observing us. It’s like living with a permanent shadow.’

  Hearing these words I too felt the strangest sensation of being watched. I quickly shook my head and tried to focus. Notes! I had forgotten to take notes, so enthralled was I with his tale. I reached down to my bag, which I had left on the floor next to me, and retrieved my notepad and pen.

  ‘What are those for?’ Foyster asked. His tone was suspicious.

  ‘Records for our investigation,’ said Price. ‘If we are to get anywhere near the heart of the matter then it is vital we document everything we see and hear tonight in this house. I trust you have no objection to that?’

  With particular delicacy, Foyster rose to his feet. ‘Oh, but I do object. Please, Mr Price, don’t think me rude, but my wife and I have been warned about your – well, your methods.’ As he spoke he went slowly across the room to his desk.

  ‘My methods?’

  ‘Yes, your fondness for the sensational.’

  ‘My what?’

  I quickly motioned for Price to be silent and shot him a reproachful glance.

  The rector continued speaking as he delved in the top drawer of his desk. ‘As I explained in my letter, I think it desirable that none of our personal details end up in the newspapers. Our predecessors had quite a bit of bother with the locals when details of your previous antics in this house were made public.’ Though I conceded that the old man had a right to privacy, I couldn’t help wondering whether there was more to his reluctance.

  Moments later Foyster had rejoined us by the fireside brandishing a document we were politely but firmly requested to sign – an affidavit swearing us to complete confidentiality. ‘I’m sure you both quite understand,’ said Foyster, thrusting a pen into Price’s hand. ‘Just imagine what the people in the community would think if they knew what was happening in this house within a comparatively short distance of their own homes.’

  To my great surprise Price signed the document without any hesitation or complaint and when he had done so said, ‘Where shall we begin our inspection? Sarah, I propose you and I take a look around, familiarise ourselves once more with the old place, and then Mr Foyster can show us the curious wall writings.’

  Reverend Foyster looked astonished. ‘You’re not proposing to undertake a comprehensive investigation at this hour?’

  ‘But of course! Why else would we have come here?’

  ‘I was under the impression that this would merely be an informal interview. My wife is asleep upstairs and—’

  ‘Nonsense – we’re here now; it would be a shame to waste the journey.’

  There was a brief pause and then, reluctantly, ‘Very well. But I’d be grateful if you tried not to disturb Marianne or upset her. It doesn’t take much these days.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘She is prone to outbursts, periods of excitement that come upon her, so I would prefer that she wasn’t unsettled.’

  ‘But of course,’ repeated Price in a strained tone. ‘We wouldn’t wish that.’

  Reverend Foyster scowled. ‘Good. I am glad you say that, Mr Price. You see, I have been rather worried about your coming here. Mr Salter from the Society for Psychical Research warned us that—’

  ‘Mr Salter?’ Price was taken aback by the mention of the man. ‘If I hear that name one more time—’

  ‘I thought you knew that Mr Salter had visited the house.’

  ‘Indeed,’ answered Price sharply, ‘but I wasn’t aware that his opinion was considered relevant any longer. I suppose he was checking up on me, was he? Hmm? Now, let me make one thing absolutely clear, Reverend Foyster. Sarah and I have come at the request of a member of your f
amily. We have not come out of the kindness of our hearts. I have a job to do, as does Miss Grey, and we fully intend to do it. I must insist that the Society you mention, and Mr Salter in particular, maintain an indefinite disassociation from the entire matter. This is my investigation now, not his; in fact, no one else’s.’ He paused, softening his approach. ‘This is the way it has to be if we are to help you. Do you find these terms agreeable?’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right, Mr Price. I … I can see that you wish to be in charge.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, Mr Foyster. I wish to be in charge,’ Price agreed with an unpleasant note of satisfaction.

  The frail rector nodded uncertainly. ‘Then my wife and I shall place our fate in your hands.’

  *

  The Rectory was pervaded by the same odour of dank decay that I recalled from my first visit. Little about the place had changed. The stillness in the air was so delicate it seemed that at any moment it might splinter, and it was that perfect quiet that conferred the mournful atmosphere I found so dispiriting. Except now I was at one with the Rectory’s sadness, a part of its history. The house was familiar with our sins. And wherever I walked, my secret walked too.

  Finding our way by the light of paraffin lamps, we followed the rector upstairs, stepping carefully over fallen plaster and odd bits of rubble that made me question the cleanliness of the Foysters. And as we reacquainted ourselves with the grim house and its thick, thick darkness, I felt more unsure of myself than ever. An almost unbearable distraction began pressing down upon my senses; slight movements, barely discernible, flickered at the edge of my vision, and every couple of minutes my hearing became muffled as though I were underwater. In these giddy moments the world itself seemed off balance, and I managed to catch only snatches of the conversation passing between Price and Foyster, and one phrase in particular. The name of the house, whispered at me in short, puncturing bursts: Borley Rectory. Borley Rectory. Borley Rectory!