I believe I was the only one to spot that Dennings had fallen unusually quiet—our resident bank manager was usually loquacious on any number of subjects—but tonight, after the ‘performance’ he was definitely subdued and, to my eye anyway, rather wan.
I had intended to talk to him on the matter on the way home, for we often shared a carriage, but on this occasion he took off sharply such that by the time I went out onto the street he had already hurried off.
I never saw him again.
I got word three days later that our friend had passed away in the night, having fallen prey to a longstanding illness—one that none of us, his closest and dearest friends, had even known he suffered.
***
I had not thought to connect Dennings’ death to the night of Hoskins’ demonstration—it had simply not occurred to me to do so. But it seemed that Hoskins had been doing little else, and, as I discovered in the carriage on the way back from the small funeral, he quite blamed himself for our friend’s demise.
The poor chap was inconsolable.
“I did it, David,” he said to me once we were alone in the carriage. “If I had not used that bally contraption . . . ”
“Do not take it on yourself so badly. He was ill already, the doctors all said so.”
“But the shock of seeing that green aura, surely the shock set him off—brought his end more quickly?”
“Hush, man. Do not torture yourself. I have buried one friend already today, and I have no desire to bury another.”
He fell quiet for a time and we smoked in silence as the carriage rattled across the wet cobbles. When he did speak, I had to lean over to hear him.
“Come back to Belgravia, David,” he said in a hushed voice—there was a tremor in it I had never heard from him before—it sounded mightily like terror. “Come back—there is something I must show you.”
I had an appointment that evening but it was nothing I could not get out of with an apology, and I could not in good conscience leave poor Hoskins in the state he was in. I directed the carriage driver to his house in Belgravia, and kept a close eye on my friend all the way, for he was indeed working himself into quite a lather.
There was more evidence of his fractured state of mind in his parlor—the magic lantern lay on its side on the floor, the arc lamp tumbled alongside it, and the large circular glass slides were piled atop the small trolley where the lamp had originally stood.
“I gave my man a few days off,” Hoskins said. “So ignore the mess. I’ll get us a drink, then I have to tell you something.”
We left the parlor and retired to Hoskins’ small but well-appointed library, where he made a bit of a hash of getting a fire lit in the grate. His dashed fine Scotch and a Russian cheroot soon had me more at ease though, and my host seemed to be relaxing now that the funeral was done and he was back in familiar surroundings.
“So, what’s so bally important that you must get me here to tell me?” I asked when it became apparent that an explanation was not to be immediately forthcoming.
His gaze flicked away from me to the door of the parlor and back again—and suddenly I knew I did not really want to hear what he was about to say. But I forced myself to listen, for the sake of our friendship if nothing else.
“It was the night he died,” Hoskins started. He did not have to name the deceased—we both knew who he was referring to. “I was in the parlor with the lantern running, trying to figure out why his aurora had been green, and fearing that there was a flaw, a possible failure, in my apparatus. I had the same disc in as on the night of the demonstration, and was running it through a variety of speed cycles to see if the handle turning was affecting the image adversely. My own shadow continued to show the same wide rainbow aurora we all saw that evening, and no matter what speed I cranked the wheel, I could not get it to project the distinctive green hue we saw on poor Dennings’ shadow.
“Then it happened just as I started to slow the wheel down.”
He stopped and downed a slug of Scotch that would have floored a horse, and took a long drag on his cheroot before continuing.
“A green haze—I have no other word to describe it, but you would indeed recognize it if you saw it—drifted in from the edge of the projected circle. It started to interfere with my own rainbow aurora—the dancing colors started to take on a green tinge, and I began to feel weakness in my hand, as if the strength was being drained from it. I immediately pulled my hand away from the lens, but the green haze stayed, projected on the wall. Indeed, it started to firm, gaining definition, until I was looking at the shadow—the green shadow—of a man standing there, with a green aura flaring and glowing all around his body.
“As you can imagine, it gave me quite a bally turn, and I switched the damned lantern off there and then, vowing to leave it that way and have done with it.
“Then, the very next morning, we found out that poor Dennings had passed. And I cannot help but fear that I was the cause of it.”
Hoskins fell silent again, and I thought his tale was done, but he was by no means finished.
“Our friend’s death is something I shall have to live with till my own demise,” he said. “But that is not why I asked you here. I asked you here for the sake of my sanity, which I fear is failing me, and I need someone else to confirm the reality of what is happening, and that it is not merely a fever dream inside my febrile mind.”
“What in blazes are you talking about now, man?” I said. “What has you so spooked?”
He laughed at that.
“Spooked is the operative word, my friend. I am being haunted, and I think we both know by whom.”
***
I was quite dumfounded by this outburst and had not the slightest idea as to how to respond. As it turned out, I did not have to, for Hoskins sat bolt upright in his chair, so suddenly that he spilled what was left of his Scotch on the carpet.
“Did you hear that?” he said. His gaze was fixed on the parlor door again.
“I hear nothing untoward,” I replied, but quickly realized I was wrong—there was a sound. At first I couldn’t place it, then, realizing it was emanating from the parlor, it came to me. Someone in the room beyond was cranking the wheel of the magic lantern!
I had the foresight not to spill any of my own Scotch as I swallowed it, stubbed out the cheroot, and stood.
“Wait,” Hoskins said, and I saw fear in my friend’s eyes.
“Wait? For what? Somebody is playing silly beggars in your parlor, Hoskins, and I intend to put a stop to it.”
I did not quite feel as certain as I gave out while I walked toward the parlor door.
“It’s happening again.” I heard Hoskins say behind me.
As I approached the parlor door I saw white light flickering beyond—a white light that took on a greenish tinge as I entered the doorway. The lantern sat on top of the trolley, the arc lamp was in its place and—impossible as it will seem—the glass slide spun in place as the wheel handle turned of its own accord. I was so astonished at the sight of the contraption working of its own volition that it took me several seconds to take note of what was projected on the wall.
It was the same white, almost ivory, opaque simmering circle, but right in the middle of it stood an all too human shadow—not black, but a dark, olive green, with a shimmering, almost smoke-like, aurora that stretched a foot and more in a sickly-green and danced around the body.
Even then I suspected that this was all just an elaborate prank on Hoskins’ part, one I found in jolly bad taste, on today of all days. I strode forward, intent on examining the lantern further.
I saw no possible explanation as to how the bally thing was continuing to turn, for there seemed to be nothing at all attached to the cranking handle. There was a faint but noticeable smell of ozone as I bent over the lantern, and a loud humming that was almost musical. Suspecting that there was something inside the projector itself that was emitting the shadow onto the wall, I put my hand in front of the projecting lens
, aiming to cut off the light show.
Several things happened at once. Hoskins shouted from the doorway—a warning by the sound of it, but I was too slow to take heed. My hand’s shadow overlaid the smoky figure on the wall and the green started to leech into it. I felt a most peculiar draining sensation, and in the white circle, the rainbow of my hand’s aura was slowly taking on the same, peculiar olive green tinge. The lantern wheel spun faster, and faster still; the humming drone rose into a crescendo of noise, and my knees went weak as the green shadow seemed to rush forward toward me, as if in an attempt to engulf me completely. I felt cold, to my bones, my very soul, and felt blackness seep in at the edges of my mind.
I do believe I might have gone then, been taken completely, had not the spell been suddenly lifted from me. I was distantly aware of a crashing sound, and a white, opaque circle spiraling away from me, down into darkness.
I followed it down.
***
I came out of it sometime later, with the taste of good Scotch on my lips. I sucked at it gratefully, and felt Hoskins put a full glass into my hand. I got half of it inside me before I felt like talking. I noted that we were once more in the chairs by the fireplace in the library, although I had no memory at all of getting out of the parlor.
“What in blazes has happened?”
Hoskins smiled thinly.
“The same thing that happened to me two nights ago,” he said. “And, as then, only the act of tumbling the lantern to the floor saved you. Now do you believe me?”
In truth I was too shaken to believe much of anything at that point, but once I polished off the Scotch, had Hoskins pour me another, and got a fresh cheroot lit, my hands stopped shaking and I was able to start thinking.
“That is what you meant by ‘haunted’? You believe that—shadow, for want of a better word—is our friend Dennings? Our dead friend?”
Hoskins had also taken to the Scotch, and had a smoke of his own lit that he puffed on before answering.
“I believe it is indeed Dennings, or some part of what he once was at least.”
I motioned for him to continue as I struggled to regain a proper equilibrium. He saw my discomfort, and also seemed eager to talk, so I let him go on for some time. I only listened with half an ear, for I had taken quite a shock and was still in something of a funk. Even then, I only understood the half of it, it being talk of the Egyptian Ka, the vital force and something he called the ‘Farside’—which I took to be a plane of existence that I had hitherto thought of as a vague kind of afterlife, Heaven if you like. Although I must admit, that green hazy cloud and dark shadow I had just encountered had me thinking of somewhere rather less pleasant and distinctly warmer.
I was finished with both the Scotch and my cheroot by the time he fell quiet again, and I finally asked the question that had been on my mind.
“That is all very well, Hoskins. But what can be done about it?”
“That’s just it, old chap,” he replied. “I’m bally well stumped. It seems I have invited someone—something—into my parlor, and dashed if it doesn’t seem to like it there. And given the way it tugs and drains at one, I get a feeling it plans to settle in for a while, perhaps even permanently.”
“That does not sound like Dennings’ way of doing things, does it?”
On that point we were both agreed, but the link between the green shadow and the night of Hoskins’ demonstration could not be avoided.
“Well, if you do not know how to deal with it, let us take this back to the beginning. Perhaps if we investigate what brought you to your experiment in the first place, a means of bringing it to an end might present itself?” I said.
Once again Hoskins smiled thinly.
“I have thought of little else these past two days, old friend. I am indeed stumped, and not afraid to admit more than a little terrified.”
“Humor me then,” I said. “Get us another drink and smoke, and let us think this through like rational chaps should.”
He did as he was bid, charged our drinks, and we lit up fresh smokes as he told me about the history of Magic Lanterns, their use in conjuring shows, their place in the history of entertainment, and then he headed into more esoteric territory—color theory, he called it. It fair made my head spin, but something he said stuck, and gave me the glimmer of an idea.
“What was that you said about complementary colors? Go over that again.”
“Well, the primary colors are red, green and blue. The light of two complementary colors, such as red and cyan, combined at full intensity, will make white light and . . . ”
I stopped him there.
“What is the—what do you call it—complementary color for green then? What would we need to make it white?”
I saw that he thought we were on to something, for he got quite excited all of a sudden.
“Magenta! Of course. That’s what we need. It will flush out the green completely, dispel it if we’re dashed lucky. You are a bally genius, old friend.”
“If you say so, old chap. So you’re saying we need a magenta Chromatrope for your contraption?”
“It’s not quite as simple as that—I need to add magenta sectors alongside the current set up. But we are on the right track, I am sure of it. Give me half an hour and we’ll see if we’re getting anywhere.”
He left, heading downstairs to where I knew he kept a small workroom, leaving me in the chair by the fire with the Scotch and my cheroot.
He had not been gone long when I heard the most distinctive whir. It came through the open parlor door, and I did not have to glance that way to know that there would be a flickering light in the doorway—opaque white, with a tinge of green.
***
Hoskins returned as I was considering helping myself to more of his fine Scotch; the damned whirring from the parlor was sorely affecting my equilibrium again. He carried a large glass disk, holding it away from his body.
“The paint hasn’t quite set yet, but I have no desire to leave this any longer than is necessary. Are you with me?”
In truth, I would have much preferred to stay in the chair, but once more the bond of friendship proved stronger than my apprehension, and I followed him as we went back through to the parlor again.
As I had feared, the lantern sat on the small trolley in the center of the room, the glass disk spinning, the white circle shimmering on the far wall, and the olive man-shaped shadow—somehow it seemed more menacing than before—dancing inside its wreath of wispy smoke.
“What’s the plan, old man?” I said, with more bravado than I actually felt.
Hoskins strode over to the lantern. The glass disk spun so fast that any attempt to stop it might have caused us injury, but that wasn’t his plan. He hefted the new Chromatrope plate he had brought up from the basement, and slid it quickly in place beside the disc already there. The new disc started to spin rapidly alongside the old, and the opaque white circle on the wall took on a distinct reddish tinge.
“It’s working,” Hoskins said. He grabbed my arm so tight that I had a huge bruise there the next morning, but at the time I did not feel a thing, being engrossed in the sight ahead of me.
As the red tinge got stronger, washing across the white, the green started to fade in turn. I thought it might be quickly consumed, but even as I celebrated, the olive shadow slid away to one side, escaping out of the projected circle, disappearing from view completely. It left just a circle—now magenta-red—on the wall that faded as the wheel stopped turning, the lamp fizzled out and the lantern went dark and quiet.
“We have it on the run,” Hoskins said excitedly.
“You mean to say that you think it is still in here with us?”
That thought did not make me feel very happy about the situation, and I was considering beating a strategic retreat again to the relative safety of the library. Hoskins, however, had other ideas. He turned the arc lamp back on, and pulled me toward the trolley.
“We must find it. Here, crank the wheel a
nd turn the trolley around so that the projected light circles the room, quickly now.”
“What will you be doing?”
“What must be done. Trust me, and follow my lead.”
I did as I was bid, turned the wheel and projected a now red circle on the far wall.
“Clockwise, slowly,” Hoskins said, and I followed him as he stepped around the trolley, pushing it with my left hand as I cranked the lantern wheel with my right. At first I felt rather foolish, and thought it was a lost cause, then, as the projected light reached the window and the drawn curtains, I caught a hint of green—smoky and indistinct but definitely there—in the rightmost part of the circle. An olive shadow took shape, then started to sidle away from the approaching red.
“Match its speed! Follow it, man,” Hoskins shouted.
I did my utmost, but the dark shadow seemed equally determined to keep away from the red, and even when I spun the trolley through a full circle, I could not entrap the green inside the red.
“This is getting us nowhere, Hoskins,” I said.
“Perhaps—and perhaps not,” he said, and before I could stop him he stepped forward and put his hand in front of the projector beam, casting his hand’s dark shadow on the wall. A yellow—almost golden aurora shimmered around it now, flaring like a smokeless fire.
And almost immediately he got a response. Green started to leech in, threatening to overpower the red even as the darker olive man-sized shadow stepped in from our right.
“Faster,” Hoskins shouted. “Much faster.”
Hoskins waved his hand around. Sickly green spread further into the gold aurora, but it wasn’t having everything its own way. As I sped up the wheel, red spread into the darker olive shadow, which once again sidled away to one side. Hoskins reached out so that his hand’s shadow was right next to it. The smoky green slid through the yellow, until Hoskins’ whole hand was enveloped. He staggered, leaned against me, but kept his hand in front of the beam.
“Faster,” he whispered, almost too faint to hear, as the olive darkness swelled—and reddened.
I spun that wheel for all I was worth. Hoskins—sweat beading at his brow, seemed to grip the remnants of the dark green shadow in his hand, preventing it from making an escape. He tugged at it, drawing it into him until, finally, all that was projected on the circle was his hand, now surrounded with a thin green aura, the rest being a wash of shimmering magenta.
The Ghost Club Page 8