The Ghost Club

by William Meikle

  “At least that is something to be thankful for,” he muttered, then turned his attention back to the sleeping lad, whose breath came heavy and panting, as if he had been overexerting himself to the point of collapse.

  Templeton looked up from where he was bent over the prone boy.

  “What is to be done, Captain? We cannot in all faith let him stand before the Empress—not in his condition. The insult might prove so grave that our very livelihoods would be put at risk, if not our lives themselves.”

  “Hush, man. What other choice is there before us? We will give insult whatever course of action we pursue. And at least the lad might provide some entertainment for the ball goers. Without him, we have only our empty hands and air. Bring him awake, we shall have need of him anon.”

  Templeton turned his attention to the prone boy, then looked sharply back at the Captain, who knew immediately that a bad night had just taken a sharp turn into an even worse situation.

  “The boy will not be going anywhere, Captain,” the purser said. “He has already gone where we cannot follow.”

  When Templeton stood aside, Marsh saw Drydon’s death mask stare looking back at him from a body that was now completely still for the first time that day.

  ***

  “We should flee, Captain,” Templeton said “The tide will be with us, the ball itself will provide ample cover for our departure, and no one will know.”

  “I will know,” Marsh said softly. “I have been thinking of little else this long day. She asked for me—not for some other Captain, not for a tavern keeper—but for me alone. What kind of man would it make me should I turn my back on an Empress so blithely? No. I shall make my apologies and take the consequences. Stay with the lad. If I do not return in good time, make your way back to the Havenward, wait for me until the next tide, then sail for home at all speed, for if I have not come aboard by then, I fear I never will.”

  And with that Marsh turned away and headed back out into the antechamber. He walked directly to the door to converse with the guards there.

  “I must make an apology to the Empress’s aide,” he said. “My Scotsman will not be available to provide entertainment tonight.”

  The guard smiled.

  “But sir, your man is already in her Majesty’s presence.”

  The guard opened the door to let Marsh into the Grand Ballroom of the palace. It was a high, vaulted, almost cathedral-like space, the floor of which was filled with massed ranks of costumed revelers—all of whom were silent, their attention fixed on a lone figure who stood before the throne. The man had his back to Marsh. He was well dressed enough in black wool breeks and a white shirt, if a little drab in comparison to the surrounding throng, and he had his hair tied back in a knot, in the fashion favored by farm workers and laborers. Marsh did not recognize the man, but whoever he might be, it was obvious that he held the ball goers in rapt attention as he declaimed—first in Scots, and then in Russian.

  Is there a bard of rustic song,

  Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

  That weekly this area throng,

  O, pass not by!

  But, with a frater-feeling strong,

  Here, heave a sigh.

  The Scotsman—his accent was such that he could be no other—moved among the gathered crowd. He drank wine from the glasses of noblemen, he kissed their wives and companions, he sang songs, old and new, and he perfectly charmed all who saw him.

  Marsh moved to one side in order to have a clear sight of the Empress—she sat on the Great Throne, leaning forward, all too clearly as entranced by the entertainment as her guests at the ball. The poet finished his tour through the throng and returned to stand before her. The gathered crowd fell quiet and a hush hung over the whole span of the hall. The Scot’s voice carried, high and clear, soaring over them all.

  As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

  So deep in love am I,

  And I will love thee still, my dear,

  Till a’ the seas gang dry.

  Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

  And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;

  And I will love thee still, my dear,

  While the sands o’ life shall run.

  And with those last words he stepped forward. Before the guards even thought to move, he was face to face with the Empress—and planted a strong kiss, full on her lips.

  Another hush descended on the hall, expecting uproar. But none came—Yekaterina Alexeyevna clapped her hands and smiled broadly in delight. The Scotsman bowed before her, and stepped back as the Empress spotted Marsh and waved him forward. Marsh passed the poet, who merely greeted him with a wink, and all too suddenly, the Captain was stood once again before the Empress.

  She was smiling yet at the memory of the stolen kiss.

  “If all Scotsmen were like your entertainment, Captain Marsh, I might have sought out one for a husband, for they would surely have been better than any other choice I have made thus far.”

  The whole hall—save Marsh himself—laughed at that, but Marsh found that he was tied at the tongue and unable to give a reply that might not give offence in some manner.

  “Come, poet,” the Empress said. “Let us have another song.”

  But when Marsh turned to wave the man forward, he was nowhere to be seen, and although the whole ballroom was searched, and no guard would admit to having opened a door, the bard was never found again.

  ***

  It was only two weeks later, as Marsh stood on the dock overseeing the delivery of his promised furs, that he received some understanding of the events of the night of the ball. The boy, Drydon, had been given a proper Christian burial, and the entertainment—despite the disappearance of the poet—had been deemed a great success. Furthermore, Marsh himself found that his stature had risen among the traders at the dock, and was now seen as possessing the Empress’s favor, which boded well for his future trade in the city.

  All in all, the Captain was feeling mightily pleased with himself while standing on the dock that day. It was the purser who brought the news that changed his mood entirely, and turned his mind to darker thoughts and matters metaphysical.

  “I just heard from a new arrival. Robert Burns is dead,” Templeton said. “They have had a grand funeral for him back home.”

  “When did he pass?” Marsh asked, although he bethought he already knew the answer that would come.

  “Two weeks ago—on the very night of the ball. As far as can be established, he passed away at the same moment as young Drydon breathed his last.”

  On several occasions our dinner guest has not been able to attend at the scheduled time, either through circumstance or thoughtlessness. On these nights, we fall back on entertaining each other with stories of our own. Sometimes they are older tales that have already been published, sometimes tales we have thought too strong for public consumption and, sometimes, works in progress where we are trying to work out whether we even have a tale to tell in the first place.

  Stoker brought a story to the table last summer, and at first it was little more than an idea to tell a tale though a series of letters and journal entries. He was unsure as to his approach—and indeed James had qualms as to whether it would hold the interest over a longer piece of work—but we all agreed that for this particular story, it suited the material just fine.

  Here is his tale.

  IN THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

  Bram Stoker

  From the journal of Brian Mulrooney, Sep 29th 1889

  I stood for George Calhoun at his wedding two years ago, and I stood beside him again today at the funeral of his dear Lizabet. She has been taken by the consumption aged just twenty-three, with a baby on the way, having just this past summer moved into a new, now empty, house in leafy Beckenham. In her passing she has left behind a bereft husband who I fear will never be the same man again—the shock has shriveled and diminished him to the merest shadow of his former self.

  My poor friend, George, started weepi
ng on my arrival on his doorstep this morning and he was still sobbing bitterly as I held him upright by the graveside several hours later, despite my liberal application of liquor to his sore affliction. It was a perfect autumn day in South London, the tree colors softened by the season to a melancholy that matched our moods as the lady—and the child she was carrying—were lowered into the ground.

  The priest did a lovely job in sending her off, and many of those present—myself included, I am not ashamed to admit—shed a tear, but George heard none of it, and I had to remind him when it came to throwing earth on the coffin. I do believe he heard nothing of what was said to him—not a word of sympathy or an offer of help—until we retired to the back room of The Fisherman’s Arms and I handed him a large glass of whiskey. He looked up at me, his eyes red from the weeping.

  “How am I going to cope now, Brian?” he asked, and I was just smart enough to keep my mouth shut, for even I know better than to answer a question like that on a day like this. We drank—we drank like we were returned to our old bachelor days in Dublin, although there was none of the dancing and singing that would have been the norm back then. Instead George spoke, and I listened—it was why I was there after all.

  It is why I have always been there for George—even as far back in memory as our early schooldays in Mrs. Collins’ Bible classes. Back then his mouth always ran faster than his brain, a trait that persisted in all the years ahead, through to the wenching and dancing days before we had a care in the world or jobs to tie us in place. George talks and I listen. That is the way of things.

  I did a lot of listening today, and at the start he was not saying anything I did not expect from him—he talked of Lizabet, a dead wife, a dead child, and dead hopes, ashes in his mouth. I could not do anything for him but give him more drink and hope it would, eventually, at least, give him the release of sleep.

  People—acquaintances, mourners, and some of George’s work mates—came and departed again and the day drew on. The drink seemed to have no noticeable effect on George, no matter how many I plied him with. He had twice as much as I had, and was still coherent, and still smoking like a chimney, when the crowd finally thinned and we were left alone, just the two of us, all alone with too many dead memories.

  George got weepy again for a time, and I thought the liquor was finally starting to take its hold, but he surprised me by taking an envelope from his pocket and handing it across the table to me.

  “I received this yesterday morning—a terrible thing to send to a man in mourning I thought, and almost burned it right off—but something made me put it in my pocket, and it has been weighing on my mind. I need your advice, Brian, as my oldest friend I shall trust your judgement on the matter.”

  I opened the envelope to find a letter written in a fine, feminine, hand, addressed from a house in Whitechapel.

  ***

  Dear Mr. Calhoun,

  Please forgive my intrusion into your grief, but there is really no good time for you to hear what I have to tell you, and indeed, it might be best to hear it now, while your memory of her is yet fresh.

  You can see her again.

  I know you are a good Christian man, and that you believe that in any case, but you do not have to wait for your own demise. There is a house—there are many houses—where those who suffer can come and seek solace, where they can peer into a life where their loved ones go on, and can be seen, and heard.

  As I said, I know this is an intrusion, but I feel it is my duty to write, for, you see, your Lizabet is here even now, at my very shoulder, and it is she who has asked me to pen this note.

  Please take this letter in the spirit it is intended, and believe me when I say it is written in all sincerity. She is here waiting for you, should you wish to see her.

  Yours Faithfully,

  Ms. Susannah Greenling.

  ***

  I started to crunch the vile thing up, intending to toss it aside, but George took it from me, smoothed it out, folded it up and put it away again.

  “Do not even consider it, man,” I said vehemently. “It is an attempt to fleece you of what little coin you have. These vile Spiritualist scum prey on the recently bereaved—you can bet that every death notice in the papers all across the city has received a similar missive. You asked for my counsel? Follow your first instinct on the matter. Burn it. Burn it now. That is my counsel.”

  George nodded sadly.

  “I know you are right, Brian, and you are a good friend. But it hurts—it hurts like blazes.”

  That was the last bit of sense I got out of him, for the liquor did indeed finally take hold, and I helped him away up the road to his bed. He is up there now, sleeping like a babe and snoring—he almost sounds contented. I wish with all my heart that he did not have his grief to wake up to in the morning. But I shall stay to ensure that the morning does indeed come. And in time, poor George might find, if not contentment, then at least acceptance, and a modicum of peace.

  ***

  From a letter, sent 1st October 1889, George Calhoun to Brian Mulrooney.

  I know you advised strongly against it, Brian—I was not that far drunk to forget that—but after you left yesterday and I was on my own again in the house, it was as if that bally envelope kept calling to me. I sat in the kitchen all morning, drinking tea, tears tripping me, just reading it again and again. And the house just felt too empty—so bloody empty. Everywhere I looked I expected to see her, to hear her.

  So I went out for a wee walk—I promise you, that is all I intended—at first, at least. But I found myself at the railway station when I happened to look up, and five minutes later I was on a train, heading into town, making for the center, to be among people, to feel alive—although I was not sure I would ever feel fully alive again.

  I got off the train at London Bridge and had a pint in The George, letting the old building remind me that people came and went in this town, but pubs endured. Then after a couple there, I wandered up to Borough Market, had a pie, and a few more beers—a lot more beers—in the Market Porter. Watching the city work around me did much to ground me back to reality, but as I crossed London Bridge heading north, it all came back to me again—the coughing and the crying and finding her poor wee body spent and dead on the floor. I almost ran into the first bar I spotted, and started in on the rum—doubles, straight up, three of them before I stopped shaking.

  Things got a bit hazy after that for a while. As dusk came I was sat in a bar I didn’t remember entering, one I didn’t recognize, and from the décor and clientele, I knew I wasn’t anywhere near the town center. It was a working man’s pub—dockers, at a guess—battered wooden tables and chairs, leather seats around the walls which were split and patched. I had a large glass of rum and a half of beer on the table, with no memory of ordering either.

  And I was no longer alone. An elderly woman had joined me across the table.

  “You look like you need some company, dearie,” she said.

  If she’d been younger I might have taken her for a prostitute, but she reminded me of my auld Auntie Maggie, and I was too tired to argue in any case. I merely nodded, and almost jumped out of my seat when the lady took my hand.

  “Don’t worry, dearie,” she said. “Surely it can’t be that bad?”

  That’s all she had to say to get me started. Despite a usual reticence, and no wish at all to speak about it, I found it all tumbling out.

  The old lady never let go of my hand.

  “You don’t know it yet, son,” she said when I finished, wrung out and spent, “but you’ve come to the right place.”

  “There is no right place, not anymore,” I said. I finished off the rum, but before I could turn to order another, the old lady put a fresh glass in my hand.

  “What if I told you that you could see her again?” she said softly.

  That’s when I remembered the letter in my pocket, and your words, Brian.

  “I’m not buying. Not tonight—not ever.”

 
“Lizabet said you’d say that,” she said quietly. “And you came didn’t you? You got the letter? Will you come to the house? It’s just round the corner. We’ll have a chat and a wee drink, I’ll make you some supper. A big lad like you needs to eat when he’s drinking, and I’ll tell you why you came here and what you need to know.”

  Somehow, fate, providence or my own dreams leading me by the nose, I know not how, but I had come to find the writer of that very letter you read in The Fisherman’s.

  And God help me, I think I wanted to be here.

  Mrs. Greenling—for it was indeed the letter writer herself—was as good as her word. She led me to a tall townhouse just around the corner from the bar.

  “I’m the concierge,” she said, rather grandly, as if it was a title rather than a job description. She was in number one, just inside the hallway door. She showed me to an armchair and I sat gingerly near the front edge, afraid to relax into it lest is swallowed me whole.

  The old lady was still on the other side of the room, but I felt something touch the back of my hand—a soft stroking. She—Lizabet—had always done that when she felt I needed calming.

  “You’ll have questions?” Mrs. Greenling said.

  “I will have questions,” I agreed. “Many of them. Here is an easy one to start with. What in blazes is going on here?”

  She smiled, and for the first time I saw the deep sadness in her; something in her eyes that told me she too had suffered—still suffered.

  “It is an outlandish story, I am afraid,” she replied. “There are houses like this all over the world. Most people only know of them from whispered stories over campfires; tall tales told to scare the unwary. But some of us, those who suffer, some of us know better. We are drawn to the places, the loci if you like, where what ails us can be eased. Yes, dead is dead, as it was and always will be. But there are other worlds than these, other possibilities. And if we have the will, the fortitude, we can peer into another life, where the dead are not gone, where we can see that they thrive and go on. And as we watch, we can, sometimes, gain enough peace for ourselves that we too can thrive, and go on with them.