soot over everything.
Suffice to say, I was sent packing before the morning was out. I remember the heat in my ashen cheeks as I sadly returned to my house, unemployed and forlorn.
My subsequent vocations ended in similar tragedies, though none so horrible as that day with the Baker. For the glazier, I managed to break a series of window panes. With the courier, I lost too many packages (which were stolen from under my nose, might I add). With the painter, well, let us just say that my fear of heights did nothing to aid my balance upon the scaffolding.
Pretty soon, every master in town knew of my reputation, and none would have me. Moving Heaven and Earth, my parents pleaded and persuaded anyone who would lend an ear, until we were out of options.
The Professor came as a blessing from the great blue.
Whether he was simply not up with current events, or if he did not care, I shall never know. Quite frankly I shudder to think what would have happened should we not have called upon his favour to give me employment.
I remember, quite distinctly, him rubbing his goatee beard, adjusting his hat a little, thinking hard. I feared his dark eyes and his thin mouth, and I trembled at his direct manner of speech but, to this day, I am grateful for the opportunity he afforded me.
So, determined to please, determined to be more than a bumbling fool, I had listened and learned as much as I could from the Professor, taking mental notes of everything. So concerned was I to keep me in his favour, that I took extra care when handling anything in his lab, lest I should drop it, and listened so intently that he never needed to repeat himself.
Still, this errand he had me on, it rattled me somewhat. Cleaning up a laboratory or preparing samples or taking notes, these were things I could do easily. Exploring the possibility of a haunted house, well, that simply is not something that I would consider normal.
As the hour drew near, I found that my stomach was all butterflies, my palms were a little sweaty, and my head had that giddy feeling. I practised my breathing, as best I could, and tried to stay focussed as I prepared myself for the night ahead.
That evening I met up with the Professor once more. It was drizzling out, and the cloud cover made the shadows a shade or two darker than usual, denying the light from the gas lamps dotting the street any penetration into their corners.
“It's a fine night you've chosen,” I grumbled, pulling my moth-holed coat around me a bit tighter, “Could you not have waited until spring?”
The Professor, dressed in suitable cold-weather attire, complete with his worn bowler, thick scarf and woollen waistcoat, seemed unperturbed by the chill and damp. In fact, he was positively glowing.
“It's the perfect weather for it, lad. I'll explain on the way. Here is our carriage, late as expected,” he announced, pointing to the growling carriage that heaved up alongside, “Help me load these bags up there, will you? Careful with that one, there are the plates in there.”
Between myself and the driver we managed to stow the bags of equipment safely, and I got into the cabin with the Professor. It was not much warmer than the outside, but at least the drizzle, which had mustered enough strength to turn into rain, was not upon us.
“South Entrance, my good man,” the Professor called from the window.
The cabby, his oils slicked down against the miserable precipitation, called out the side of his mouth, “An' where'bouts 'n the Sou' Entrance you be wantin', sir?”
“Grosvenor Lane, off Turner and Cummins. Do you know it?”
“I know it well 'nough, sir.”
“If you need directions, I can happily guide you. I've been there once or twice.”
“Won't be nec'rry, sir.”
“Jolly good. Number forty two, then, my good man.”
The cabby's call sounded definitive, “Right y'are, sir.”
And with that, a click of his tongue and flick of the reigns, the carriage grumbled its way about the streets. There were a few pedestrians still about. Some were shop owners closing up for the night. Others were certainly of a more nefarious breed, skulking out of sight as the carriage approached, only to leer in from the shadows as we passed.
“South Entrance?” I enquired, hoping to know a little more about what lay before me.
“Yes, there's a house there.”
He paused, looked out the window as if he were gathering his thoughts, but then fell silent.
I joked, “I should think there are many there.”
“But not like this one.”
After a few moments silence, I prodded, “And what would make this house so special?”
“Aha! I know what you want me to say, and I won't say it! No! You want me to say it's haunted, that it's filled to the brim with spirits of the dead, that it's crawling with unspeakables and unmentionables and unholies, oh!” he laughed mightily before settling down to his usual rhythm, “You want me to bring out a pentagram? A cross? Sprinkle some salt across the path and brush it with a widow's broom?”
“No, Professor.”
“But you want me to say that it is haunted. No. That is something that I simply will not declare. For to do so would bias your opinion. For this is a training exercise, and as such I cannot allow my words to pollute your experience.”
“But I will need some guidance, surely!” I implored, “Otherwise what is the point?”
“Guidance you will get. But we have an array of tools here, implements of measure, and these need to be calibrated.”
“Calibrated?”
“Yes, measured against a base sample so that we can see what is, shall we say, normal, and what is abnormal.”
“Abnormal or paranormal?”
“Abnormal, laddy, is the word I choose to use, and deliberately so. For it implies that a measurement was something that was merely out-of-place, you see, that it was unexpected. Whether or not it relates to something being paranormal, well, that comes with the analysis that follows, whether it can be explained through natural phenomena or not.”
“And if it cannot?” I asked, eagerly.
The Professor chuckled a little.
“You're eager, I know. But I must impress this upon you: In the limited experience that I have had so far, most anomalies can be attributed to very reasonable happenings. If I were to label every noise, every flash, every whisper as a spirit, well, I might just as well slap a fools cap on my nonce and spend the rest of my days ranting to the wall. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
I nodded, “I do, Professor. In essence, I should look for the obvious before turning to the not-so obvious.”
“Precisely. More than that, you need to be attentive to your record taking. Record everything and filter nothing. Do not suppose during an investigation, for there will be plenty of time afterwards, when we collate notes, for sifting through the evidence.”
“I see.”
“Think of it as gold mining. You need to churn through rocks and dirt and mud and muck! You need to sift and poke and prod! It's tiresome, laborious and thankless,” he went on, “And people will call you a fool! They'll say that you're wasting your time and talents! At times like that you need to persevere, persist until you find that fleck of gold, that nugget that makes it all worthwhile!”
We rolled past Callington station, smoke and steam still issuing from the coach that had rolled in that evening. Excited chatter from the remnants that were still rolling out from the doors disturbed the noise within the cabin, then, a few seconds later as the cabby took a sharp right, the noises from the street settled down once more and the rain resumed its thrumming upon the cabin.
His words had inspired me inside the cabin but, looking out, I could not help but feel a sense of the morose creeping in from the windows.
“So why tonight, Professor?”
He looked back from the windows, “Hmm?”
“Why this weather? Why tonight? Of all the miserable times of the year to spend a night at a house in South Entrance...”
“I hear your concerns, but tonight is ideal f
or calibration, believe it or not.”
“I'll believe it more if you would explain your reasoning behind it.”
“How familiar are you with the sounds and smells and sights of an abandoned house, my lad, hmm? One that has not had a person living inside it for a year or more?”
“I, er, cannot say for certain. I can imagine...”
“Do not imagine. How much experience have you had?”
“Um.”
I did not wish to sound stupid, however that was exactly how my monosyllabic response came out. I wanted to say that, although I could not reasonably be expected to have such knowledge, I was more than capable of learning. The silence of the cabin only made my tongue lazier.
I hastily followed it up with what I thought would come out more eloquently than it did.
“Er?”
The Professor cleared his throat. That was an ominous sign, for it meant that he was getting ready to settle in for a long lecture.
“You have spent a lot of your life inside your house, I might assume, and your house is young and fresh and well established. You light a fire during the colder months? There is food that isn't rotten in your pantry? You have plumbing?”
I nodded, “Yes.”
“Fresh water? Drainage?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the luxury of piped gas?”
“No.”
“Not to worry. What's on your roof? Thatch or wooden slats or tiles?”
“Tiles, sir.”
“And I assume that you have neighbours upon either side of you? It's a busy neighbourhood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you would have carpets and alcohol lamps, candles and perhaps even a