The Ghost Club

by William Meikle

  He sleeps in the deep, in the depths far below.

  He dreams in the deep, in the dark,

  He sleeps with the fish, in the dark, in the deep,

  And the Dreaming God is Singing Where he Lies.

  Galloway checked every piece twice to make sure, but the verse was the same on each of them—indeed the same words ran in cursive script around the edge of the board. The same words were also carved in miniscule letters, almost too small to see under the lens, into the bone squares of the playing surface itself.

  Despite the small disappointment of not having found anything more profound in the inscriptions, Galloway was very well pleased with this new purchase. He sat in the armchair for several hours, just watching the firelight play on the figures and casting dancing reflections on the black lacquer. The flickering flames gave the ranks of sea creatures a semblance of vitality and caused wind to ripple in the sails of the tall masts that guarded the corners of the board.

  ***

  That first night as Galloway lay abed, his mind kept returning to the board. He played old games through from memory, but instead of the simple wooden pieces of his youth, he now had the scrimshaw Cetaceans at the front of his mind; humpbacks cavorted across the squares, dolphins darted in and out, white among black, and majestic sails patrolled the borders. He fell asleep, the game slipping seamlessly from memory into dream—a most peculiar dream where he was a great white Cachalot, proud and steadfast, surveying his forces and marshalling them in grand battles across the width, breadth and depth of the oceans.

  He woke with the taste of salt tang at his lips and the crash of waves in his ears. Rain lashed against his bedroom window, rattling the casement and threatening to crash into the room. Wind howled like a banshee through the rafters, and his bed itself seemed to buck and sway like a vessel caught in rough seas.

  Somewhere, distant, but clear and audible even above the whistling of the wind, somebody sang. A man’s voice, raised in almost a bellow.

  He sleeps in the deep, in the depths far below.

  He dreams in the deep, in the dark.

  The wind calmed, the rain slowed to a patter then stopped altogether, and the bed stilled in its buck and roll. A great drowsiness fell on Galloway, and he forgot the storm, forgot the scrimshaw, and finally knew only blessed, velvet blackness that bore him away into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  In the morning, all that he remembered was a vague recollection of a storm in the night, but when he looked out the bay window the cobbles were completely dry, and his man, Jennings, bore a blank expression at a mention of wind and rain.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the man said, “but I was up and about early and it was dry even then. I would surely have noted such a grave storm as you describe had there been one, since, as you are well aware, I am a light sleeper and am disturbed by the slightest hint of anything untoward.”

  Galloway did not press the man—he was vaguely aware that his dream had been fervid, to say the least, and put the experience down to the brandy, the daydreaming he had done while studying the chessboard, and the ramblings of the salesman the day before.

  But throughout the course of the day he kept returning to the fireside chair and the board. His fingers stroked the pieces as he moved them around in games that seemed to have no real thrust and cut to them but existed merely to ensure that all of the board was kept in motion. He sang under his breath, not even aware that he was doing so, the song set in his memory, brought there from out of a dream.

  He sleeps with the fish, in the dark, in the deep,

  And the Dreaming God is Singing Where he Lies.

  ***

  And now I must inject myself into this tale, your narrator brought forward as to better elucidate the strangeness that was in my good friend Galloway’s immediate future.

  I got a telegram on a Friday in September—I was later to discover that this was a full week onward from the purchase of the chess set. The telegram came, not from my friend himself, but from his man, Jennings, imploring me in the name of my friendship to pay a visit to the townhouse and see if I could perhaps ‘rouse the master from this madness that has afflicted him so sorely.’

  I could not honestly refuse such a summons, and made all haste as soon as I was able to the Upper Street townhouse, where I was dismayed to find Galloway in a state I can only describe as unhinged. He sat, in his underclothes and wrapped in a voluminous—and rather ghastly—dressing gown, hunched over a chessboard in front of a roaring fire. It was obvious he had not bathed or shaved that morning—perhaps for several mornings. His usually neatly combed hair stuck up in strange tufts from his scalp, there was a dark shadow at chin and cheeks, and his eyes—red and rheumy—were set back in shadowy pits beneath a furrowed brow. He did not even so much as register my presence on arrival, but instead seemed to caress the largest of the white chess pieces in a most unseemly manner, and he muttered under his breath. It was only as I approached him that I heard that he was singing, some nonsense doggerel about deep water and fish.

  Of course I could not in all conscience leave my friend in such a state. I had Jennings brew up some strong coffee and what with that, and offering him some of my strongest tobacco in a pipe, I at least managed to get Galloway to lift his head from the board long enough to start a conversation. And once I got him started, I’ll be damned if I could get him to stop. I got the tale I have outlined at the head of this story, of how he purchased the chess set and how it began to take hold of his senses. He was more than a little vague on particulars of what had become of him since that first night after his strange dream, as if that in itself was what had brought about this peculiar ‘unhinging’ of his daily persona.

  After the pipe was done, he allowed Jennings to lead him upstairs where he could at least be washed and dressed more appropriately. I took the opportunity to have a closer study of what had so bewitched the poor man. While I could appreciate the workmanship and the detail with which the scrimshaw had been fashioned, the set had no hold on me, no spell with which to beguile and bewilder me, and—if truth can be told—appeared to be rather ugly. I would have much preferred a more traditional cast to the figures, liking my battles to feature actual representations of kings, queens, courtiers, and vassals rather than these rough brutes of the sea.

  I heard Galloway moving around overhead, so, working swiftly, I boxed the set up in the chest by the window and rearranged his armchairs so that they were both in front of the fire once more. By the time my friend arrived back in the library, I was puffing on a fresh pipe, and feeling rather more content, for I felt that I had at least made a start on banishing what had so sorely ailed him.

  Galloway’s first action ion his return was to berate me mightily for daring to remove the chess set from its position by his chair. But the very act of bathing and dressing appropriately seemed to have broken much of its hold on him, and he joined me in a pipe by the fire as we had done many times in the past, punctuated only by his occasional glance toward the chest in the corner.

  “You have allowed yourself to become far too insular, James,” I said to him after a time. “What you need is to be seen more in society, to surround yourself with people and fine conversation, to become part of the world rather than shutting yourself away from it.”

  Much to my astonishment, he agreed with me, and called Jennings into the room to immediately have him make preparations for a supper party the very next Saturday, to which I was—of course—invited. By the time I took my leave of my friend he was much improved, both in physical wellbeing and in mental attitude. I took the trouble to ask Jennings to keep an eye on Galloway, and to call for me should he show any sign of further infatuation with the scrimshaw, but I had no further communication from Upper Street before arriving back on Galloway’s doorstep for supper the next Saturday evening.

  ***

  As ever, Galloway’s household had done an immaculate job of preparing the room for supper—it is only a shame I cannot be as effusive as to his
choice of guests at the table. Being a bachelor, I am, sadly, all too used to being harnessed in tow to the latest young lady in want of a husband when it comes to seating arrangements at grand tables, but tonight’s lamb to the slaughter was more akin to mutton. Sarah-Jane Worthington and I were old—but rarely polite—acquaintances, and I wondered whether Galloway was not perhaps getting back at me in some manner by having her perched at my right shoulder throughout what proved to be an overlong, and frankly rather tedious, meal. I could not escape without giving offence, and had to listen to her discourse on the merits—and demerits—of every young officer due to graduate from West Point. By the time it came to dessert I was about ready to use one of the knives on myself, and was greatly looking forward to a glass of port, a cigar and a merciful release from the lady’s company.

  It was not to be. I noted there was some degree of rather more animated conversation at the other end of the table—talk had turned to Galloway’s chess set and his story, rather embellished it would seem, of a haunt attached to the pieces. Poor Galloway was not to know, of course, but he had just infringed on another of Ms. Worthington’s pet topics of discourse. She had a strong interest in the spiritualist movement then current in some sections of society. Although Galloway had saved me from being the main focus of her volubility for the rest of the evening, my heart sank as the lady insisted that the table be completely cleared away for a demonstration of her ‘contacts with the great beyond’ as she so gracelessly put it.

  The table was indeed cleared, and Ms. Worthington, at her own insistence, seated at the head of it. Of course, the scrimshaw chess set was fetched from the library, and arranged in display as a centerpiece before us all. There were many exclamations of admiration from most of the gathered guests, but I was watching Galloway all the while—his eyes had taken on the look of some hunted beast, and I could tell he was already regretting his decision to give Ms. Worthington her head on the matter. Had the gathering been in my own household I would have had no qualms in calling an early end to proceedings there and then, but it was not my place to embarrass our host by doing so here in Upper Street. I resigned myself to enduring whatever farcical mummery the lady might have in mind, and settled back in my chair, keeping a close eye on Galloway to ensure he did not suffer any undue distress from this latest development.

  I will say one thing, and one thing only, in the lady’s favor at this juncture—she most certainly knew how to play an audience, and what initially followed was theatre in its purest form. Firstly, she had the lights dimmed, and soon there was only a three-pronged candelabra for illumination, positioned a quarter of the way up the length of the table, and midway between her seat and the chess set. The only other light came from the red tips of our smokes, and any diffuse gaslight that penetrated through the curtains from the street outside. She called for quiet, and the murmur of conversation died away. A carriage passed by, rattling along on the cobbles outside, but soon that too trotted away into silence. The very air in the room seemed to darken and thicken as she invited us to form a circle and hold hands in a ring. Of course there was much self-conscious nervous laughter as smokes were discarded, and not a few joking rejoinders as seats were rearranged to accommodate her wishes, but the lady could be most persuasive, and proved to be so again on this occasion.

  Once everyone was settled, I found that I had our host himself on my right hand side now, and his hand felt hot—almost too much so—in mine as Ms. Worthington started a singsong chant that sounded almost like a prayer.

  In truth, I paid it little to no attention. I had sat in on such a performance twice before now in her presence. I knew there would be a most unconvincing medicine man spirit guide along in a matter of minutes, followed by a Scottish man of the cloth with an atrocious accent and some tired homilies. And that was even before Ms. Worthington got to show off her knowledge of the smallest parts of everyone’s lives while pretending to contact our ‘dearly departed loved ones’. It reeked of fakery and showmanship and I wanted nothing at all to do with it, so I focused all of my attention on my friend beside me.

  James stared down the table. I had just enough light available to note that his gaze fell, not on the charms of Ms. Worthington as she brought forth her terrible Scottish accent, but on the scrimshaw set itself. The pieces—the larger ones in particular—seemed to cavort and dance in the flickering candlelight caught by the high lacquer. At that instant I began to get some inkling of the hold and pull the board had taken on my friend, for I felt the call of the sea grow within me, although I am and ever shall be a city man born and bred. James’ grip on my hand grew tighter, almost painfully so, as the lady at the far end of the table started to sing. The room filled with some old Scots folk tune about fruit, if I recall now, but as James’ mouthed a song of his own in reply I saw that he was once again somewhere far off, in the dark, in the deep—with the fishes.

  I must pause here and collect my thoughts, for much happened in such a short span of time, and my impressions of it all came at such a rush that to set them down in words with the same manner of impact as they had on my emotions will surely prove impossible. And yet, I must attempt it, if only for the sake of the memory of my friend, James, and his part in what followed.

  Ms. Worthington had, thankfully, released her Scotsman from his duties, and was about to move on to the part of the evening where she could indulge her gossip mongering when the table seemed to lurch, first left, then right. We all thought this to be part of her performance, but a quick glance along the length of the table showed that she was as surprised as I at this turn of events. James’ grip on my hand tightened, and went cold at the same instant as I tasted salt spray at my lips and felt the floor buck and heave. Timbers creaked. The room filled with the howl of a raging wind, and my face felt wet and cold. Sails snapped and rustled, curses were shouted and, even above the wind, I heard a whiff and blow, smelled fish, dead and rank, in my nostrils. The chandelier above the table seemed to recede into a great distance, to be replaced by swirling darkness—storm clouds full of icy pellets that were lashed against my cheeks.

  James’ grip felt as cold as that ice, and had tightened such that I feared for the bones in my fingers. It was all I could do to stay in my chair as the floor rolled, first left, then right, then upward, so that I—and everyone else—was looking at the ceiling. The clouds parted and the great maw of a white whale opened up, threatening to engulf us and send us, like Jonah, down into the belly of the beast.

  It was James who saved us—or so I believe now. He was still gripping my hand when he stood and, voice raised to more of a bellow, launched into the doggerel I had heard him declaim previously.

  He sleeps in the deep, in the depths far below.

  He dreams in the deep, in the dark,

  The room stopped bucking, the table stilled, and the vast white Cachalot seemed to dim and fade, like mist in a breeze.

  He sleeps with the fish, in the dark, in the deep,

  And the Dreaming God is Singing Where he Lies.

  James’ grip loosened and he let go of my hand. The room fell deathly quiet for several seconds, then there was uproar until Jennings turned up the gaslights and some manner of decorum was eventually restored.

  And that was the end of James’ dinner party.

  ***

  Ms. Worthington, of course, once she was recovered from the initial shock, took all the credit. She declaimed at great length that the spirit of a Nantucket Sea Captain—she called him Whitlock, although I do believe she made that up right there and then—had poured his essence into the chess pieces, sealing it there in the great beyond for all eternity. I, for one, was firmly of the belief that sea captains on whalers have better things to do with their time than carve chess sets and commune with eternity. But I held my peace, as James had gone ashen, was quite exhausted and clearly in need of some help.

  I had Jennings clear the house—the lady was none too pleased to have such a short-lived period as the center of attention. I knew I wo
uld be hearing far too much more from her on the matter at a later date, but for now I needed to tend to my friend.

  Once the guests—many still bewildered and reeling from the evenings ‘entertainment’—were shown out into the night, Jennings helped me get Galloway upstairs, undressed, and into his bed. The poor man was delirious and feverish, such that I thought it best to send Jennings for a doctor while I stayed by his bedside, administering brandy and what little comfort I could give him.

  Jennings was gone for quite some time, and in that period James rambled sometimes incoherent, but at others all too clear—far too clear for my liking. He spoke of sea voyages and whaling, navigation and weather gauges, expounding on them all like a master seaman despite the fact that Galloway had never left dry land in his life to my certain knowledge.

  Finally he fell into what I took to be a fitful sleep, although even then he continued to sing under his breath—that blasted song that I was already coming to hate with some degree of vengeance. I could only surmise that the hold of the chess set had never fully left his mind, and continued yet to exert undue pressure on his increasingly frail mental fortitude.

  When Jennings returned with the doctor I took my leave, went downstairs, tossed that damned chess set into its chest, and took it with me as I headed out into the night.

  ***

  I only had the vaguest of notions as to what I was doing—I only knew that I had to get the damnable thing away from my friend before his mind was completely corrupted by it. My own head was full of bits of the song; full of the heave and roll of the floor and the maw of the white whale above; full of the ramblings of a fevered mind. Yet it all seemed to lift way from me completely when I got to the docks and tossed the whole thing—the chest, the board, and the pieces, into the black water of the harbor. It sunk quickly, scarcely putting up a single bubble, going down into darkness almost immediately. I felt quite pleased with myself and I was more than a little relieved as I took a carriage back to Upper Street.