not afraid. Besides, as I have explained, my experiences with the Professor had shown me that spirits, although bizarre and scary, have little power in the physical realm.
“Who is there? Answer me!” I said.
The pacing stopped. The forcefulness of words seemed to have an effect. The hairs on my arms shot up. The air in the room felt thick and icy, as much a physical change as a perceived one. If only I had my thermometer visible, for certain I could have recorded the temperature drop!
Just then a low, guttural growl, like a dog articulating, rumbled through the cellar, uttering two long syllables. I forgot all notion of bravery and scrambled up the rest of the steps, nearly dropping the lantern in my haste. I spilled out of the cellar door.
The gloom of the house was like daylight in comparison to the thick ink of the cellar. My happy eyes revelled in shapes and contrasts as I stumbled around the hall and into the kitchen.
“Professor!” I gasped, finding my voice, “Professor!”
A few seconds later a quiet grumbling accompanied with muffled steps descended the stairs.
The Professor's brows were knitted. He had his notepad in one hand his lantern in the other.
“I was half-way through a recording, lad! What is it this time?”
Lost for words, I only stood there, gasping, pointing to the cellar.
“Yes? Yes? Boy, what is it?”
“Professor!”
“I'm here! What's gotten into you? Good Lord, you're shaking like a leaf!”
“The lantern blew out - a noise - there was -” the words simply wouldn't come.
“Laddie!”
“There's something down there!” I blurted.
“Down there – what, another mouse? Really laddie, this behaviour cannot go on!” he sighed, setting his lantern on the table, “I would have thought you'd be past all of this nonsense by now.”
“It was not a mouse. It growled!”
“Growled? A dog, then?”
“No, Professor. You see, the lantern - blew out.”
“Running out of oil barely constitutes -”
“It was blown out!” I said, finding my grasp of language once more, “My lantern was hanging. From the roof. I was performing my recordings. There was this noise, a scratching noise, and a bad smell, and the lantern was blown out. Then there were footsteps on the ground, I heard them, Professor, and as I was going up the stairs, I called out and – and it growled at me!”
“Growled you say?” the Professor said, suddenly very interested.
“In response. I asked who was there, and something answered!”
I could tell he was interested because he was stroking his beard, a habit I have picked up.
“I don't suppose you recorded all of this?”
“I did as much as I could before the lantern went out.”
“Yes. I am curious as to how that happened. And how much can be explained.”
“Professor!”
“Calm, laddie, calm down. Let's take this rationally, yes? Breathe. As scientists, we must address each issue in turn. I guess the easiest to analyse is your lantern.”
I took his advice, took a breath, settling my nerves. I put my scientific hat back on and inspected my lantern before lighting it.
“Look, Professor, there is still plenty of oil in my lantern. The wick is fine. The glass isn't broken.”
“I can see that, lad. That doesn't mean that it was snuffed out by unnatural means. The cellar, you see, is a closed environment. Air is very still and gases have a tendency to pool in lower areas, such as cellars,” he said, still stroking his beard, “And there you go, introducing a flame source into the middle of it all.”
“I do not understand.”
“A fire needs three things in order to burn. Fuel, fresh air and heat. The flint provides the initial heat and the oil acts as fuel, but starve a fire of a source of air and it will dwindle out. If you say there was a bad smell, that might indicate a foreign, suffocating gas that could snuff it out.”
I protested, “It didn't dwindle out, Professor, it was blown out.”
“I see, I see. You'll want to record that in your notes. Where are they?”
“I'm afraid I left them in the basement, Professor.”
“So? Go and get them! Bring your lantern and, on the way, observe if the flame grows brighter or duller or flickers as you enter and exit.”
The last thing I wanted to do right then was enter the basement once more. I had visions of some terrible, growling beast waiting down there for me. The Professor had given me a direct command so down I had to go.
I held my lantern aloft, doing my best to steady my shaking arm, stepping gingerly toward the gaping black maw of the cellar. I listened, but I could only hear my heart beating. I smelled, but I could only smell a waft of vinegar.
My lantern, burning happily, stretched its influence into gloom, showing the familiar bricks and dirt, the jars and cans lining the shelves, the equipment sitting waiting to be observed.
I descended the steps, keeping a close eye on the lantern's flame. It remained steady, burning without so much as a flicker, painting its bright, yellow light on the walls. My heart skipped a beat.
“Professor?” I called, “Can I trouble you to come here, please?”
“What is it? What is it?”
“Look!” I said, pointing to the ground.
Scattered about on the floor, mixed up with the dirt and glass shards, was my notebook, shredded into long strips.
“Remarkable!” he said, “I take it you didn't do this as a prank?”
“Professor!”
“Easy, laddie, easy.”
I must have looked hurt, for I was, because the Professor quickly added, “I have to ask. It's unscientific not to.”
He pushed past me, looking about, holding his lantern low to the ground, “The paper has been torn, not cut or pressed. We'll need to gather these up.”
“What good are they now?”
“They are evidence! And you can reassemble them if you have all the pieces. And these footprints.”
“Footprints?”
Indeed there were impressions in the ground, the embossing revealed as the Professor moved his lantern about.
“Yes, look, they are unmistakable. You did not make them?”
“No, Professor.”
“I can see. Look, see this one here. It appears to be a naked foot, only the toes are clawed – see those divots? – and they are elongated and warped. Perhaps the owner has an instep?”
“Owner? Professor, there was just me down here, no one else.”
“Something made this print. And it was not a mouse and, considering your testimony and the fact that you're wearing soled shoes, it was not you. There is the possibility that Mister French had made these prints beforehand, perhaps, but we cannot speculate, especially during an investigation,” he said, taking out his own notepad, “To make an impression may destroy the evidence. I shall have to sketch it, to get measurements, then we can photograph it. Hold my lantern, will you?”
I took his lantern and put it on the nail in the roof as I had done before, and held mine low to the ground to give him a better view.
“I must say, that helps a bit. Hold it to the left a bit more – a bit more – there. Hold it steady, I'm just working on the heel. Say have you got a rule? Never mind, we will mark the dimensions on this piece of string and measure it when we get back to the laboratory.”
Having the Professor with me there in the cellar made me feel more at ease, yet I could not help the feeling that we were being watched, scrutinised. Every little noise made me jump and look over my shoulder, and the Professor admonished me on more than one occasion.
His sketches and measurements took longer than I would like, mostly because he was being thorough, but also, I suspect, because he wanted to hear the noises and witness the lantern being blown out for himself.
“It all happened, Professor, I will swear to it,” I urged.
“You
do not need to convince me, Laddie, I know when I'm being lied to and I have no doubt that you witnessed something extraordinary. My concern now is what this means to our research,” he said dejectedly, “Come on. Let us call it a night. I think whatever happened here has run its course.”
Losing Control
We packed and left at just past eleven. It felt strange leaving Jolimont while the night was still young. Even Missus Butterfield was still awake. I know this because I saw the curtains jerk sharply as she gleaned a peek at us. No doubt we were to be part of her speculations tomorrow morning.
Who needs a newspaper when you have Missus Butterfield?
During the trip home I was in an excited state. What I had seen and heard was like nothing I had experienced before. Certainly it was similar to many of the ghostly happenings I had witnessed in that it was not immediately explainable, it was ethereal in nature, but there was more to it.
The sensation I felt was not so much that it was creepy, more that it was, if I can say, evil.
The stench that accompanied the presence, the clawed footprints, the growling, unearthly voice! The syllables resounding in that foreign tongue. Oh, it was nothing like the benign hauntings I was used to. Even as I write this, I am unsteady revisiting the memory.
The Professor did not seem to understand my point when I brought this up, “What you feel is not scientific. Can you measure fear? Can you use a ruler against anger? Can you hold a pint of happiness in a jar? No! These abstractions are internal and personal. Are not emotions merely manifestations of the mind?”
“I cannot say, Professor. Might I argue that sight, sound, taste, are these not manifestations of the mind, also?”
“Well, yes, perhaps, but they arrive as a