The Ghost Club

by William Meikle

  I shall relate the tale the way it was told to me at the table—in Mackie’s own words, which might lend it the trace of truthfulness required by such an outlandish tale.

  ***

  “We came up the valley road yesterday afternoon, just the two of us, in the pony and trap with a hamper in the back,” he began after the table had been cleared of supper, the ladies having retired, the port fetched out, and the cigars lit. “We did not want any servants or porters or such—you know how they gossip, and I proposed to maintain at least a modicum of discretion to protect the lady’s reputation during our stay. Besides, what more do any of us need up here but some grub and some heat?

  “We arrived in the early evening, and by the time I got the pony seen to and settled out back, then lugged the hamper into the scullery, the sun was already going down behind the mountains. The lady and I partook of several large gins, finishing off a bottle on the verandah, and I had a smoke as we watched the light play on the mountains and the sky turn dark until the night air chilled enough to steer us indoors and toward the bedchamber.

  “This, of course, was the part of the evening I had most eagerly been anticipating. But I am sorry to say that I never made it as far as the bed, although the lady surely did, for I saw her form under the cover as I did my ablutions. I was looking forward to joining her when I heard it—the soft, but unmistakable sound of a dart thudding into the board in the smoking room next door. You have all heard the noise. You know exactly what it sounds like, for there is none other quite like it in all the places I have traveled. And it came again, a soft thud. I waited to see if anyone called a score, or threw the third dart, but everything had gone deathly quiet again.

  I thought it must be some of the chaps come up from town, despite my forcible instruction that I wanted the place to myself. I went through, wearing little but a thin nightshirt, intent on giving them a piece of my mind. But there was only an empty room, and not even a dart stuck in the board. I cursed myself loudly for an idiot, hearing things that weren’t there, and turned to go back to the bedchamber and the waiting lady.

  “There was a distinct click-clack behind me—if you have ever played billiards you will know exactly what I mean as that is another sound like no other, and once you have heard it you would never mistake it. Three ivory balls collided as one ball cannoned off the others. I turned back to the table—there was only a second between the noise and me turning; I can assure you that there was no question of anyone having time to hide. There was no one else in the room, the flat tabletop was empty and the three balls were in the near side pocket in my clear line of sight.

  “Now, I am not afraid to admit to you chaps that I took a bit of a funk at that, and instead of going back to the bedchamber I made my way swiftly to the scullery and straight for the hamper. Luckily I had plenty of liquor apart from the gin packed away for the weekend amongst the bread, cheeses, and meat. I got three fingers of neat Scotch down me right fast, I can tell you.

  “It was while I was contemplating giving in to temptation and pouring myself a second that a new sound came, perfectly clear in the stillness of the late evening air—a tapping, insistent and persistent, from somewhere underfoot. At first I thought it must be an animal of some kind, trapped under the house—a mongoose perhaps—but the sound was too regular, first stopping for several seconds, and then starting up again. It very quickly became an annoyance, one that I would not be able to blithely ignore, despite the fact that I was only too aware of the lady waiting for me just through the door in the bedchamber.

  “Then, there it was again, by Jove, three taps in quick succession. It was only when I looked down to see if I could pinpoint the source that I noticed there was a trapdoor underfoot, so neatly worked in to the floorboards as to be almost invisible to the casual glance. I have stayed many times in the bungalow and never before took note of it, but now that I had, it was the only thing I could think of.

  “Three more taps, silence, then another three, and I knew I would not be able to rest until I knew the source.

  “I returned to the bedroom to dress—my lady friend had quite given up waiting for me and was sound asleep, lying with her back to me. More than anything else I wished to join her and let black comfort take me away to the land of Nod, but the damnable noise had wormed its way into my ear and would not let me be. It stayed there as I put on shirt, trousers, and my boots—if I was indeed going investigating underneath the bungalow I had no intention of allowing myself to be bitten on my feet or ankles by something that might be bally venomous.

  “When I returned to the scullery the tapping was louder still. I don’t know if you chaps have ever been in a room beneath a billiard hall, but there is a certain sound made when the butt of a cue hits a wooden floor in appreciation of a good shot. The sound that echoed around me, there in the scullery, reminded me of that and nothing else. And in so reminding me, it brought another thought, a reminder of one I’d had earlier. I came to the conclusion that some of the chaps had indeed come up the hill to the bungalow behind me, and were even now engaged in a prank with no other purpose than to keep me from the lady’s bed.

  “It was anger rather than apprehension that I felt as I prized up the door, eased it up on its hinges, carefully to avoid any creaks that may awaken the lady, and peered down into the dark hole below. It took a second or two for my eyes to adjust and I saw that, rather than being merely an access point to the crawlspace under the house, there was a set of stone steps hewn into rock, and they disappeared into some deeper blackness yet. Loath as I was to venture into the dark, it appeared I had found the source of the bothersome tapping, for it came up again, and again, ringing clearly now, from whatever chamber was at the bottom of the steps.

  “I went down two stairs, and lit a match, but there was a breeze from below, sufficient enough to almost immediately extinguish the small flame. It was easily remedied though, for the bungalow has a supply of oil lamps and I found one such by the side of the kitchen door. Seconds later I was on my way down the steps, three of which were lit by the flickering light at any given moment.

  “The tapping got louder as I went deeper—by the time I had gone a dozen steps it was almost deafening, like gunfire in my ears, and I was wondering whether I was not in fact partaking of a descent into the very pits of hell. It was an opinion I was starting to favor as I continued descending, and the temperature rose until I had worked up quite a sweat, despite the high mountain air.

  “Once again I was on the point of abandoning the enterprise and heading back up to the cool night, when the light showed me that the path opened out ahead. I stepped down off the final stair.

  “And into sudden silence.”

  ***

  The Captain stopped at that point to get his cigar going again and to take some port, giving us all a chance to do likewise, for we had all been so rapt in the telling of his tale we had quite forgotten our surroundings. It was a cold night, but such had been the Captain’s storytelling prowess that I had felt the heat in the underground chamber for myself, and heard the tapping in my ears. All of us around the table were most eager to hear what might be coming next, and were waiting, rather impatiently, for the Captain to start up again.

  ***

  “As I said before, I have been up here many times to that same bungalow, and never with any idea that such a chamber might exist below my feet the whole time. And it had clearly been there much longer than the bungalow above, for as I raised my lamp I saw that the walls, floor, even the roof above my head were all intricately carved. And while I may not have had any idea as to the age of the work, as soon as I saw the stonework I had a bally good idea as to its meaning.

  “I know there are several brothers in the craft at the table here tonight, so you will understand if I do not dwell too deeply on the specifics, but I was on a square, in a Lodge—I would bet my last penny on it. Although I could not see how that was possible, here in the high Punjab, stood there in a rough chamber with carvings that had t
o be centuries older than the oldest Lodge of which I have understanding.

  “But there could be little doubt of the matter—there were the twin pillars, and the compasses—there was the tale of the hanged man—as clear as could be, carved into the very wall in front of me.

  “Being a keen student of all aspects of the craft, I was very much of a mind to explore further. But just as I was about to step deeper into the chamber I sensed movement high above me and heard my lady call out, having woken and taken note of my absence. I hurried back up the steps, just in time to meet her at the top, intent on venturing down. It was a jolly close shave for, as you chaps well know, we cannot let a lady see the secrets of the square, and to do so would forfeit my membership of the brotherhood completely.

  “As it was, I was sore pressed to keep her away, for she was as curious as a cat as to what I might have discovered below the house, and adamant that I should tell her—just as I was equally adamant that I could not. A shouting match seemed to be brewing, and the only way to silence her was to take her to bed. Luckily she went willingly, and I shall draw a discreet veil on the proceedings of the next hour or so.

  “Now you chaps might think that is more than enough of a tale for one night, but my story has only just begun to reveal the depth of its peculiarity. I woke, some time deep in the night, to the sound of more insistent tapping. I do not know whether it was memory, a dream, or a combination of that and the sound, but suddenly I recognized the beats; I knew exactly what they signified. It was as if I could hear in my head what came next.

  “‘Worshipful Master, while engaged in the lawful pursuit of Masonry, there is an alarm at the inner door of our Lodge.’

  “And on cue, there came the next raps, three from the Senior Deacon. I leaned out of bed and rapped on the wooden floor, just once. And just as I expected, I was answered, a single tap, followed by a loud creak in the scullery. I knew what that was too—the trapdoor had been opened again—I had just been given an invitation to enter the lodge. As a brother of the craft I could hardly refuse, so I rose—carefully so as not to awaken the lady, dressed yet again, and once more made my way by lamplight down into the deep cavern.

  “I moved faster now, no longer apprehensive. If truth be told, I was jolly eager to see what manner of ceremony might be enacted in this strangest of the strange Lodges. Besides, what was there for a brother to fear among fellow members of his craft? As before, it got warmer as I descended, but when I reached the bottom step I felt a colder spot to my left, and there was a dark shadow where the light from my lamp would not penetrate.

  “A voice spoke from the darkness in clipped English—an officer’s tones, one that would brook no argument.

  “‘Is he worthy and well qualified?’

  “I whispered the response, not willing to raise my voice and break whatever strange spell held sway here.

  “‘He is.’

  “‘Duly and truly prepared?’

  “I whispered again.

  “‘He is.’

  “‘Who vouches for him?’

  “‘A brother.’

  “The darkness fell apart like black ash and I felt a breeze on my face, as if a door had just been opened. I walked forward, gingerly, into the chamber.

  “A taller, darker figure stood in the center of the square between the two central columns. There was little definition to the shadow, and my light could not penetrate its depths. But I had the impression of an upright stance that once again put me in mind of an officer’s bearing, and when the voice came out of it, it was in the tones of one who was used to command. There was also a definite hint of an accent—Scottish—Highland Scottish if I was not mistaken.

  “‘From whence came you, and whither are you travelling?’

  “I had so many questions of my own, but I sensed that if I broached them, in this place, then the spell might be broken and I would never get an answer. So I replied, as I knew I must.

  “‘From the west, travelling toward the east.’

  “‘Why leave you the west, and travel toward the east?’

  “‘In search of further light in Masonry.’

  “Again I felt a breeze on my face, as if a doorway had opened—and a hissing that became a drone that became the skirl of bagpipes, distant, but definitely getting closer. And now my lamplight was not the only light in the chamber. Ahead of me, through the pillars, something seemed to dance in rainbow shimmering, like oil spilled on rock in the midday desert sun. It appeared to be a jet-black tear in the fabric of space, no bigger than a sliver of fingernail. Initially I thought I had a hair near my eye and tried to brush it away before I realized I was looking at something several yards away, hanging in space at eye level.

  “I moved closer, but looking at it straight on hurt my eyes—they struggled to focus, never quite managing it, so that the only way I could really see the thing was by turning side on, so that it was just on the edge of my peripheral vision.

  “It appeared to be spinning slowly in a clockwise direction. As I watched, it quivered and changed shape. It settled into a new configuration, becoming a black, somewhat oily in appearance droplet little more than an inch across at the thickest point. It hung there, its very impossibility taunting me to go over and look for the trick strings that had to be holding it in place.

  “It swelled, and now looked like an egg more than anything else—a black, oily egg from some creature whose nature could only be guessed at. As I stepped forward a rainbow aura thickened around it, casting the whole chamber in dancing washes of soft colors as it continued to spin and the aurora danced in time to the skirl of the pipes.

  “The oil lamp hummed, hot in my hand as I moved closer.

  “The egg quivered and pulsed. And now it seemed larger still. The chamber started to throb, like a heartbeat. The egg pulsed in time. A song started up, somewhere far below—a song I knew well—one that my brothers around the table here will recognize immediately.

  “‘Solemn strikes the funeral chime, Notes of our departing time’

  “‘As we journey here below, Through a pilgrimage of woe!’

  “The pulsing egg kept time with the song, like a metronome.

  “And now it was more than obvious, it was most definitely growing. The oil lamp sent a new flash of heat, like a searing burn in my palm and the drone of the pipes deepened, became a rapid thumping; the chamber shook and trembled. The vibration rattled my teeth and set my head spinning.

  “The aura around the egg wavered and trembled—and now there were two eggs hung in the air at eye level, side by side, just touching, each as black as the other, twin bubbles only held in check by the dancing rainbow colors. The walls and floor throbbed like a heartbeat. The singing started up again, making the room rock and quake in an almost operatic wall of sound.

  “‘Mortals, now indulge a tear, For Mortality is here’

  “‘See how wide her trophies wave, O’er the slumbers of the grave!’

  “The eggs pulsed in synchronized agreement and calved.

  “Four eggs hung in a tight group, all now pulsing in time with the still rising noise. Colors danced and flowed across the sheer black surface; blues and greens and shimmering silvers that filled the room with washes of color. The song got louder. The eggs throbbed, beating time like a giant drum. Soon there were eight, then sixteen.

  “My head pounded with the rhythm, and nausea rose as my stomach turned last night’s booze over. I started to back away, back toward the pillars, hoping for some respite.

  “Thirty-two eggs now and the chamber shimmered with dancing aurora of shimmering lights that pulsed and beat in time with the song as the eggs calved again, and again, everything careening along in a big happy dance. The Scotsman’s voice rose in a bellow bringing the song to a final climax.

  “‘Here another guest we bring, Seraphs of celestial wing,’

  “‘To our funeral altar come: Waft this friend and brother home.’

  “‘Lord of all! Below, above, Fill our hearts wi
th truth and love,’

  “‘When dissolves our earthly tie, Take us to thy Lodge on High.’

  “As the last drone of the pipes faded, the last echo of Scotsman’s voice going with it, I suddenly knew what I was being shown. The eggs were the blocks of the builder, the Great Architect’s tools of the trade. I felt awe and wonder grow, and was about to step forward to receive further illumination when I heard a voice behind me, back at the entrance to the chamber, standing at the foot of the stairs.

  “‘Mackie? What do you think are you doing down here? Come back to bed.’

  “My lady had discovered the secret, and penetrated the lodge, and I had betrayed the brotherhood. All chance of illumination went with her approach. The eggs popped with soft bursts of color that left yellow blobs behind my eyelids and then, as suddenly as she had arrived, the chamber was just a chamber again, rough hewn rock, with no carvings, no pillars, no square on which I could make my stand.

  “I believe I wept as I accompanied the lady upstairs. She entreated me to return to bed, but she had suddenly lost all charm for me, and I spent the rest of the night sitting on the verandah, drinking Scotch and pondering that which I had just lost.

  “I was still there when the sun came up, and only came out of my reverie when I heard the pony and trap clatter away down the hill—it seems the lady has grown weary of my inattentiveness, but I cannot find it in myself to give a damn.”

  ***

  The Captain stopped speaking and drained an almost full glass of port.

  “So there you have it, gentlemen, make of it what you will. In the cold light of day I have come to believe that I must have taken a malarial fever during the night. When I returned down to the chamber this morning there was nothing to see but bare rock, and there is no sign that there has ever been anything there but a couple of bags of moldy stored grain. Madness I tell you, sheer bloody madness.”