rain from either of us, there is nothing to suggest that any kind of external - and by external I am talking about weather – element of interference,” he said, “Still, when we return, we will test that assumption. Should that prove unworthy of consideration, we can return to the idea that the consistent trends show that what happened was not a house-wide phenomenon. Rather, it is local to the cellar, isolated even.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“You were the only one in the cellar, so your observations are the most important.”
“Yes, Professor.”
He paused and sighed, scratching the back of his head in irritation. For a couple of minutes he just stood there, tugging at his beard, flipping through his notes. I was coming back from making yet another pot of tea, always good for thinking, even if it does increase the frequency with which one needs to excuse oneself, when he slapped the desk.
“That does it! I've had it up to here with the whole sodding business. Why? Why am I cursed?”
“Cursed? Professor, this kind of activity, so apparent, is exactly what we are hunting!”
“Jolimont is our control! If we lose the control, we have nothing against which to compare other investigations! If we lose the control, all of our previous comparisons are invalidated!” he said, “Do you see? I chose Jolimont because it was the most boring, most annoyingly standard, common, uninteresting house I could find. Up to now, any reading, any trend, any derivation from Jolimont could be seen as normal.”
I nodded in comprehension, “Now it's not normal.”
“May! Now it may not be normal,” he said, lifting his eyes to me, “Until proven otherwise, we must run under the assumption that there is nothing paranormal about this house. If there is – why, I don't know what will happen. We need to be absolutely sure about this, 1one way or the other, before we do anything else, and you must be thorough about everything that you're doing.”
“I always –”
“Now more than ever! This is a critical – look at it this way. If we cannot explain the goings on, and there is a truly repeatable, paranormal phenomenon occurring, then this would be a boon for our research moving forward, but it would destroy our research retrospectively. If there is nothing abnormal, and everything can be explained with a plausible solution, then we are safe,” he said, closing his eyes, “Even though I would dearly love the former.”
I offered, “Professor, could we not find another house against which to compare base recordings?”
“I suppose. I suppose. However the validity of what constitutes normal will be under question.”
“Is it not already?”
“Eh? Well, I – er – why, yes. I suppose it is.”
I shrugged, “So that means that, come what may, we will need to work extra-hard to find and record another control, and revisit old cases to compare the evidences, but isn't that what we would need to do, anyway?”
The Professor appeared less despondent, “By golly, you're right. Yes. Look at me. Disheartened about a little set-back. It is a hard price to pay, truly, but it may be worth it in the end, for a find such as this – no! I am getting ahead of myself. We just need to double our efforts, is all!”
He grabbed a fist full of papers from his desk and flipped through them, muttering and nodding, sorting them into piles.
“Professor?”
“Let us be rigorous, then.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“While you were repairing your notes, I have done my best to think of all possible causes, some of which your calculations and comparisons have already eliminated, this pile, and some of which can only be tested in situ, this pile.”
“I'm sorry?”
“We need to go back, now, during the day, where we can examine the evidence without the need for lanterns and the like, and when the likelihood of any paranormal interference is lowest. Get your pad and paper, and bring your equipment. We shall make recordings as we normally would,” he said, “I know, it's unconventional, but if we do not attempt to decipher the cause of these anomalies within an appropriate time, we leave ourselves open to accusations of ignoring evidence.”
The kettle protested with a shrill whistle.
“Well, I suppose it can wait a few minutes. Finish the brew, laddie. I'll sort through these some more.”
We had a one last cup, packed, then headed back to the old house.
Unwelcome
It is uncanny. Houses do have a different feel during the day than at night. Corners are illuminated. Shadows define rather than engulf. The everyday noises of humanity provides a constant reassurance that the world is tangible and rational.
At night, the dark, coupled with silence, amplifies sounds so that the real becomes surreal, the ordinary uncommon, the obvious unexplainable. At night, our minds are inclined to misinterpret events and create wild explanations so as to reconcile the irreconcilable.
I am used to investigating in the dark. My time with the Professor taught me to be comfortable sitting in the shadows. Now, poking about the house during the day time felt almost like a betrayal, like we were looking behind the magician's curtain, like we were not playing by the rules.
Our first stop was the kitchen, where we set our equipment down and took a base reading together. For five minutes we sat at the table and listened to the house, the day-time noises coming from outside, the birds chirping in the trees, the leaves rustling in response to a breeze.
My notepad filled quickly as I jotted down the flood of observations.
Satisfied that our readings were steady, we quietly ascended and examined the top rooms. I was surprised, as I thought the Professor would be inclined to look at the basement as a matter of priority.
“I'm not scared, if that is what you are implying,” he said.
I was not, even though the thought did cross my mind.
“It's just that if we spend our energies in the basement, as I suspect we will, then we will be less inclined to perform a proper analysis upstairs afterwards. Hence, we must test our assumptions and perform a base reading before all else.”
“Yes, Professor.”
Upstairs did not take very long. After fifteen minutes, we had performed three observations, examined the window frames, the plasterwork, the curtains, the ceiling, the floorboards, the skirting and the internal doors, and found that nothing was out of the ordinary.
We did find a spider or two tucked into the corners, remnants of what could have been the beginnings of a rat's nest under the stairs, and there was a patch of damp in the ceiling of the last bedroom.
“Make good note of the position and size in case it's an ongoing problem,” he said, taking his own notes relating to the plaster around the window frame, “If there is water coming in, Mister French will want to know about it.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“And I don't know about you, but I am detecting some kind of smell. An acrid smell.”
I sniffed, “I can too, Professor. I already noted it here, but I could not find the source.”
“The same with me. It was stronger, I think, near the stairs but I cannot be certain. Apart from that, did you note the stain on the carpet in the second bedroom? Well, that covers upstairs. I think it is time we headed to the cellar once more.”
My stomach bounced. I was not afraid, not in the truest sense, yet I definitely felt a level of consternation at the thought of revisiting that dark room.
I put on my bravest face, “Yes, Professor.”
“Are you feeling up to it?” he asked, pointedly.
I picked up my notepad and strode from the room, “Absolutely, Professor. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
“As do I, Laddie, as do I. Let us tread carefully, then. I'll remind you once again how important it is to be thorough and methodical.”
Armed with my pencil for a sword and my notepad as a shield, I reached the bottom of the stairs, ready to face whatever was in there. Instead of pushing the door open and going in, however, I froze.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Not another mouse, I hope!”
“Professor,” I said, peering carefully at the door, “When we passed the cellar, on our way upstairs, the door was closed. Latched.”
“And?”
I pointed, “It's now open!”
“So it is! Did you, perhaps, fail to close it before we left last night?”
“No, Professor. If you remember, we did our final check before we left. It was latched, I am sure.”
“I see. And I certainly did not touch it. Hmm. Note that as an observation. It could be that someone has been in here without our knowing, although why they would want to go to the cellar, I don't know,” he said, “Blow me! Is the smell coming from here?”
The odour was certainly stronger as we approached the cellar.
I peered even closer at the door, noting the scuffed paintwork where it had been repeatedly kicked closed, the buffing on the brass knob, the slight angle of depression owing to a faulty hinge. About the latch were a collection of parallel grooves, cutting all the way down into the wood beneath the paint.
“Look at these. Do they not appear as scratch marks?”
“They certainly do. And they seem fresh. See, here is a curl, and the wood is not discoloured with age like those here and here. My, your eye is keen today. Perhaps the owner had a dog at one stage? You make a note. I shall make a rubbing. A rubbing is better than a sketch, because the measurements are more exact, you know.”
“Yes, Professor.”
He pressed a leaf of his paper against the door, marked where the handle and latch was in relation, and