Looking out the window into the humming street, the Sun was shining over the roads, reflecting a brilliant orange upon the surfaces, still dark with water. The breeze was calm, barely moving the leaves, and the sky was making up its mind between amber and azure.
The memory of the pain I endured the night before was still upon me, so I barely grunted as I changed my bandages and inspected my bruises – such superficial issues were pale in comparison!
The looking-glass had never seen such a wretch. I scrubbed up, dressed and made my self as presentable as I could, wearing a low hat to cover the larger contusions on my head, and soft gloves for the pin-pricks on my fingers.
I walked slowly to the laboratory, sorting out the jumble of events from the night before. The whole matter seemed so unreal that it might as well have been a dream, and I would have entertained this were it not for the painful physical reminders that adorned my head, torso and limbs.
The door of the laboratory was locked when I arrived. There was no response to the bell, which meant that neither the Professor nor Miss Fitzgerald were in.
I had not brought the spare key, so I sat on a box out the front, content to rest and watch the people go by. The faces that looked over did not have the same countenance of suspicion and scorn as the day before, instead they wore a mask of awe mixed with intrigue.
Indeed, it was a step up from ridicule, although my preference would be to receive no celebrity altogether. I learned to deal with how others feel toward my line of work, considering the general attitude Paranormology attracts, still my face flushed with every sideways glance.
The box was comfortable, the morning Sun was warm, yet I wished nothing more than to be inside the laboratory, away from the eyes, away from the opinions.
“Going to sit there all day, laddie?”
Jolting upright, I looked left and right, then up to see the Professor leaning out from the window upstairs.
“Hello, Professor. The door is locked. I thought you were not in.”
“What have I told you about assumptions?”
“I, er...”
“Did you ring the bell?”
“Yes, Professor. It was not working,” I said.
“That's because I unhooked the clapper. Oh. That might explain why Miss Fitzgerald is not here – Dear me. I hope she hasn't taken that the wrong way. Well, come in, come in, hurry up! Actually, before you do, hurry to the baker and get something for breakfast. I'm famished!”
I returned promptly with a few buns. Upstairs, the Professor was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards.
“Where do you keep the blessed tea, laddie? I've spent all morning without a cup.”
I reached in front and drew out the tin. “Right here, Professor, where it as always been. Say, why is the clapper off the bell?”
He explained, “What with all the sticky-beaks, I had every Tom, Dick and Harry ringing and knocking and poking their noses in and asking the same old questions. Not that they got anything for their troubles, mind, although they've given me a frightful headache. I got sick of the bell ringing – ooh, I'd better put it back in now that you're here.”
“Me?”
“Yes. If the bell rings, just tell them that there is nothing further to add and, er, have a nice day or something, and nothing more and no further correspondence will be entertained and, you know, words to that effect.”
“Yes, Professor,” I said and, unsure about what else to do, I set about making the tea.
The silence in the laboratory was broken only by the whistling of the kettle. When I came back from the kitchenette, the Professor was at his desk, reading the newspaper.
The Professor accepted the cup. “How's that leg?”
“It is fine, thank you, Professor, mending nicely. My back is still sore. And my head. And I've done something to my ribs, maybe when I fell.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Do you want some time off?”
“Yes, Professor, but, at the same time, no.”
“You're still concussed, it would seem. Indecision and vagueness is a symptom. Have some tea. Tea is good for concussion.”
“What I mean is that I will heal just as fast here as at home.”
“You didn't really recuperate, did you? You were at the library the very next day. And you got knocked about a fair bit last night.”
I said, “I am fine, Professor, really, and thank you all the same. How is your head?”
“Better than Sergeant Hart's, for sure! He was in quite a tizz when we left Doctor Halfpenny. My, it was quite an experience, wasn't it?”
“That was something I would rather not come across again,” I said.
“Nor I,” he rejoined, adding, “Even though it would have been an incredible topic for research.”
I put my cup down, “Professor! You cannot possibly –”
“No, no, no. Far from it. That was too volatile a situation.”
“Volatile? Professor, that – that thing hurt us!”
“Yes, I suppose it did. But, oh! did you witness how it manifested itself? A form! An actual form created from shadows! Oh, forgive me, laddie, I know you were affected by this the most.”
“Yes, Professor,” I said, taking up my cup.
I nearly dropped it.
“Professor!”
“What? What is it?” he asked, looking about.
“The cloth! Where is the cloth?”
“Ah. You needn't be so dramatic. It is safe.”
“And where is that?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Professor...”
“It is best that you do not know, for your own safety,” he said, checking his watch. “Just know that it will soon be in the hands of one who is knowledgeable about such things. One who understands the dangers, and can safeguard future accidents.”
“But who?”
“An old colleague of mine. Another Paranormologist, you could say,” he said with a chuckle. “We're a breed, you know.”
“Will I meet him?”
“Her. Perhaps one day I shall introduce you. If she decides that it is safe to do so, that is.”
“Safe?”
“That curse was tied to you, you know. You tore the cloth. Your blood is on it. If you read the rest of that book, you'll find that you were unwittingly binding that beast with yourself, feeding its energy with your own life,” he said. “That's dangerous on an unfathomable level.”
“It was an accident! How was I supposed to know?”
“Accidental or not, rituals, incantations and the like are not to be taken lightly. Your actions, though unintentional, brought an ancient beast forward. Why, any more contact with – no. No. I shall say no more. It's for the best.”
I pressed him but he would not say anything further about it. I sat back, rubbing my head, staring at my tea, feeling foolish and deflated.
“Anyway, all's well that ends well, right?” the Professor pushed the newspaper at me. “Here, read this while you drink your tea.”
“I'd rather not,” I said glumly.
“I'd rather you did. Go on, laddie. Have a read.”
Reluctantly, I turned the paper around and read the headline:
Local Journalist Caught Up In Curse
Chester Perry, well respected journalist here at the Herald, was at the centre of a violent, supernatural attack, reportedly perpetrated by an angry spectre. This comes after the journalist uncovered an investigation concerning one Gordon French, now under suspicion of practising witchcraft, conducted by a local Professor.
“Rubbish, of course,” the Professor muttered, taking out a bottle of beer. “It's not witchcraft. Not in the real sense. And it wasn't a mere spectre. It was a demon. Oh, don't listen to me. Read on!”
Chester's office was destroyed last night in a violent rampage. Credible witnesses, including the Herald's own Nathan Blight and Sergeant Hart of Collins Street Constabulary, state that a creature of incredible might assaulted Chester and demolished furniture and fittings to the value of several hundred pounds.
“It always comes down to a money figure, doesn't it?” the Professor quipped, setting up the glasses. “That's the press for you!”
The Professor in charge of the investigation into Mister French's nefarious activities attended the office and, with the help of Sergeant Hart, aided Chester in fighting off the phantom.
No activity or sighting has been seen since last night. As a precaution, Vicar Marsh will conduct an exorcism on the office.
Sergeant Hart suggests that the culprit is actually a gorilla that escaped from a travelling circus four years ago, and encourages citizens to report any strange activities to the local police without delay.
“Have you got to the bit about how brave Chester valiantly defeated the beast? Ha! He's practically a knight in armour!”
Below was an artist's impression of the beast in question. In truth, it looked nothing like what I saw. I dropped the paper.
“There is no mention of me,” I mumbled.
“A good thing, too. You don't need the attention. Or the questions. Huh. I didn't think you were the conceited type.”
“It's not that. I was hoping they might have recounted their previous story. You know, about the opium den. And that photograph of me in my, um, underwear.”
The Professor laughed, “It will be a cold day in Hell when that happens. The Press is never wrong, laddie, so the most you will get, as in this case, is a correction, no, a redefinition of their reporting as new evidence comes to light. The public's eye is no longer out for you, it's after some elusive, crazy gorilla-cum-ghost.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“If you're holding your breath for an apology, you'll sooner pass out.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Count your blessings.”
I sighed, “Yes, Professor.”
“And instead of sighing and worrying about getting your name in the paper, you can start thinking about where we might set up our next control. We have lost Jolimont Street. We still need somewhere that's normal.”
“Normal. Of course. Yes, Professor.”
He added, “And if I might suggest, the first thing we will do when ascertaining suitability, is check the damned cellar!”
“Yes, Professor. While we are on the topic, where did that cloth come from?”
“Again with the cloth!”
“I want to know why Mister French had it?”
“We shall have to ask him when he comes back,” the Professor said. “Such artefacts, from what I have learnt, are exceedingly uncommon. Perhaps he found it in his travels. More likely he is a practising Necromancer.”
“Surely not Mister French?”
He shrugged. “It would explain how such an evil thing came into his possession. You would be surprised by the quality of people who dabble in this stuff. Governors, scientists, policemen, teachers, lawyers.”
I sat and wondered about all the people in the town, in the city, across the country and beyond, who would gather in dark corners and experiment with forbidden rituals, bringing curses down upon others, binding themselves to evil entities.
“He has to be stopped!” I said.
“Tut, tut! If we speculate without knowing the details then we are no better than Chester. No, laddie. It's not up to us. We are scientists, first and foremost.”
“I cannot believe that all we can do is investigate, Professor.”
“The best we can do is investigate. There are things that do not belong in our world. How they come into being, whether they grow old and die as we do, I shall never know. No one, I am sure, will ever know. For while science has a lot to say about a lot of things, there are many, many more things for which science will never be mature enough to handle,” he said. “The work we do is on the very edge of what is considered science. Paranormology keeps probing at the boundaries, testing the arbitrary rules established from experimentation and deduction. We may find, one day, that there is nothing more to find. Though...”
He looked out the window. The Sun had pushed the clouds out of the way and was burning brightly against a rich, blue sky.
“We are, all of us, small fish swimming in a lake. Born in that lake, we die in that lake. We can study the plants and rocks, we can analyse the water, or speculate on how the air must feel above the surface, about how lovely it would be to fly like the birds that prey on us. We can develop complicated mathematics, predict the future based on statistics, bend machinery to our whim. We can map the world from one side to the other,” the Professor said. “Yet when the Sun goes down and the Moon comes out, we are still small fish, swimming around in a lake.”
He poured a sad, bubbling brew, dribbling a bit on the side, then poured one for me, too. I looked at my glass.
The Professor noted my hesitation, “Is anything wrong?”
Something was missing. “We should make a toast. It would be a waste of a brew, otherwise.”
“Hardly feels like a cheerful celebration.”
“A toast doesn't need to be cheerful.”
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, conscious that the head was diminishing, “we are both in health and our reputations are intact, though both are battered. Our prior observations can be restored, given time to find another control. All in all, while the past few days have been trying – ”
“That's putting it mildly.”
“– they have taught us valuable lessons. For instance, that not all paranormal activity is benign. And that we must be cautious, even in places we have deemed to be safe. So you see, while we may not have progressed, in the grand scheme of things, not going backwards is still worth something.”
“Very well,” he said, pausing to think. “A toast.”
He tugged at his beard while I watched the head on my beer flatten further. A smirk grew on his face.
“Professor?”
He raised his glass. “To symmetry!”
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