with the darkness once more, I found the Professor staring over at me impatiently. With nimble fingers I unloaded the plate and stored it securely before adding in another one.
I was about to charge the flash again, when he stopped me.
I was doubtful, but, given such a direct order, I let it be. The Professor adjusted the camera once more and held up his finger. Instinctively, I put my hand over my eyes, even though I knew the flash could not fire without a fresh charge of magnesium powder.
All I heard was the click of the shutter.
I noted the times in my diary, and what I had seen and heard.
11:20 Up Bedroom. Photograph taken with flash. Thermo -0.7
11:23 Up Bedroom. Photograph taken. No flash. Thermo -0.7
We repeated the same routine, taking photographs with and without a flash, for a few instances, before the Professor took out a new box which held his infra-red sensitive plates.
“No flash,” he mouthed, waving his hand to speed me along.
I nodded my acquiescence, turned back to the machine and loaded the plate. A few more photographs later and I was certainly in a rhythm, loading and noting and loading again, so much so that I neglected my other tasks.
11:38 Up Loading IR plate. No flash.
11:40 Up Loading IR plate. No flash.
11:42 Up Loading IR plate. No flash.
It was close to midnight when, upon returning with a fresh plate, I paused in my stride. My mind indicated to me that something needed my attention, but what that was, I could not say for sure. The air felt thick and icy and sticky all at once, and I had that sensation of being watched, scrutinised, once more.
My mind shuffled and rearranged itself, tackling the problem from different angles before pointing out wildly a discover. The room was familiar, or, rather, something within the room was.
I looked up at the subject matter.
Realisation dawned upon me as the Professor adjusted his camera. With my mouth limp, I pointed to the bedroom door.
It was the very same door that was in the photograph the Professor had shown me in his study. I could see, now, the paint flecks, the slight embossing, the formless features upon the other side.
My heart thumped a little harder. Certainly this was not a house for the Professor's calibration. A shudder sprang out from my chest and wiggled its way across my body.
The Professor looked up at me, then to my finger, then back to me again. He nodded, pointing stiffly back to the camera, clearly impatient to get ready.
With trembling hands I retrieved a plate from the kit and loaded the camera. Breathing carefully, so as not to slip with the plate or expose it prematurely, I secured the latch and nodded to the Professor, stealing a look back to the door.
The Professor's eyes rolled with impatience. He waved me out of the way and pointed me over to the equipment.
A chill swept over me, not from anything external this time but because I feared a rebuke from the Professor. I had not taken readings for a bit, I noticed. Not wishing to offend any further, or provide a reason for a lecture, I took the time used by the Professor to adjust the camera to note the readings on the other pieces of equipment.
11:54 Thermo -6.5.
So, the temperature had certainly dropped. It did feel chilly. Oddly so. And the thermometer agreed.
Vibro 9.7.
Nothing unusual there. The clicks from the shutter seemed to be loud enough to make the reading.
E-Scope...
I stared at it. The filaments seemed to have spread apart some. I looked a little closer, holding my lantern to it. My breathing got a little heavier.
Spread.
And they were. Not a lot, but for the whole night up to now the fine fingers had been pointing straight down, happily positioned together without any deviation. Now, as I watched, they were apart.
With my heart thudding lightly in my throat I looked closer. As I continued to stare, they continued to steadily separate.
Spreading! Half an inch apart.
The hairs upon my arm bristled. I could feel them, underneath my shirt, pushing their way up against the material as a wave of expectancy swept over me.
The motion inside the bell jar was distinct. The Professor was still by the door with his camera, I was not touching the electroscope in any way, yet something was manipulating the fronds within. An eerie feeling walked from my eyes, down my spine and spread out slowly to my extremities. An overwhelming notion that there was someone by my side, looking to the jar as intently as I was, filled my thoughts.
I froze. There was someone next to me. It was a sensation that I have only experienced a handful of times since. When someone stands next to you, often their presence is betrayed by body heat, or odour, or their breathing. But there was none of these.
I wanted to turn back to the Professor, to ensure that he was not the one whose presence I could feel just beside me and, it seemed, getting closer. The electroscope held my attention, it being the sanest, most tangible thing in the room.
Silly though it sounds, it was almost as if I feared that should I take my gaze away then I should be faced with something unspeakable, something that should challenge my grip on reality.
I wanted to stand up and take a few steps backward away from the instruments. I, I will admit it, I wanted to run!
My mind was torn between taking further notes, alerting the Professor, and bolting downstairs. As it was, I stayed there, as still as stone, squatting stupidly and staring at the electroscope.
It was then that icy tendrils suddenly grabbed my hand!
That is the best way that I can describe it. It was not nerves or a shudder, for these sensations are quite familiar to me, and I have been in a few scary situations in my time. No, it felt more like I had opened an ice-box and a plume of cold fingers had wafted up and wrapped themselves over the skin of my hand.
As I think back upon it, I can still remember the distinct impression of four cold spots on top, and one on the bottom, just as if a child wanted to take my palm to get my attention.
And my attention it had! Had I been carrying anything fragile I fear I should have broken it, so sudden and frightful was the sensation. As it was, I only just succeeded in keeping my journal from falling.
Then, just as suddenly, an inquisitive, breathy voice whispered:
“So what's that, then?”
My arm jerked backward, I stifled a yelp, and I tumbled back onto my bottom.
The Professor stopped fiddling with the camera and looked over, clearly annoyed. I held my palms out, desiring nothing more than to explain to him what had just happened. He frowned and pointed angrily to my journal.
With a shaking hand I managed to scrawl out a few words:
Cold hand.
Then, thinking a little more clearly upon what had just happened, I added:
Something held me. P on other side of room. Not P. Words spoken: So what's that then? Four syllables. Not me. Not P. Something grabbed my hand.
I breathed a little, regaining my composure. It would not do to dwell too much on what was rapidly becoming a memory of my nerves. To indicate to the prying eyes of the Professor that I within my faculties, I returned my attentions to electroscope. The filaments had returned to their flaccid position. I looked to the thermometer. It had risen some.
The air felt, if I may say, normal in every respect. The creepy, thickened sensation had disappeared. I looked down at my palm. The coldness was gone. My hairs had settled back down upon my arm.
11:48 E-Scope normal. Thermo -1.2. Hand no longer cold. No voices heard.
I put my journal away, doing my best to hide my shaking hand, and returned to the Professor to help unload the camera, not daring to look into his eyes.
He was simmering, I could tell, the way he sucked the air through his teeth. Clearly he did not understand what I had just experienced; he thought I was playing the fool.
He broke the silence with a harsh whisper, “I think that's about all the tomfoolery I can ha
ndle! Come on, lad, we'd best call it a night.”
The End
The rain was easing up outside, and the noise of the water on the window panes and down the drain-pipes became less pronounced. The Professor nodded to himself and began to pack everything away. There was nothing else for it. He was too annoyed, I could tell, and it was getting late.
My failure dogged me all the way out from the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen.
We packed the bags, secured the boxes of photographic plates, stowed the vibrometer and thermometer and electroscope, and got ourselves ready to leave.
It was half past twelve when we finally closed the front door behind us and locked it securely. My heart sank a little. With the closing of the door went any chance that I might salvage my employment. More than that, though, I noticed that he did not even bother to instruct me to lock up as he suggested that he might.
History is a brutal teacher. One of the lessons I learnt early on is that responsibility is a measure of performance. The fact that the Professor did not see that I was fit even to turn a key in the lock meant that my days as a scientist were all but over.
With nothing left to lose, I ventured, “So that's my first investigation, then.”
He said nothing for a bit. Instead he checked and double checked his equipment, the keys, his hat, then the equipment again. I could tell he was not used to firing his apprentices.
Eventually he muttered, “Perhaps I was wrong about you. I thought that your skull might have housed a scientific mind, yes, one that is mature in thought and analytical in its approach.”
“No, I -”
“We won't get a cab here. We'll need to