If the Professor were to realise that I have written these accounts, he might well release me from employment or worse, he would have grounds to enlist the services of a solicitor to sue me! He has reiterated to the point of distraction the importance of secrecy to the future of our field of research.
Still, I cannot leave these tales untold, especially since the latest encounter.
During our research, we have experienced many strange and unworldly phenomena, from rapping on walls to apparitions, from phantom smells to disembodied voices. None of these, I came to realise, were worthy of fear.
Noises cannot harm. Smells cannot harm. A disembodied, floating head is repulsive, to say the least, yet it can do no more injury to you or I than a fly.
My mother told me that there was nothing to fear in the dark, for, she said, there is nothing in the dark that is not there in the light. This was my creed and, coupled with my strange but benign experiences, I had lulled myself into feeling fearless, indomitable.
The entities we had so far pursued were so innocuous that I scoffed at those who feared them, I brashly strode into every darkened room with an air of cockiness. I approached, rather than shrank from, manifestations. At times I would even resort to provocation in order to get a reaction.
This boldness was almost my undoing.
Like a warrior who fights only straw-men, I was completely unprepared for what I was to face.
I am thus compelled once more to break my promise to the Professor and record the events in this journal. The scientific nature of our observations do not convey the full effect of what transpired in Jolimont Street and, I fear, they may never see the light of day.
We had been investigating the house as part of our usual routine to make scientific observations. It had been reported as 'creepy' by neighbours, past and present, although our findings had shown the house to be decidedly sterile in nature.
In fact, we had found so little in the way of activity, that the Professor had classified the building as a 'scientific control', a reference point for a house that is not haunted, a standard to which we might calibrate our equipment and compare environmental observations for similar locations and seasons.
I would not look forward to spending time in Jolimont Street. Not because of any particular feeling or unease, no, I despised our sessions there simply because they were boring. On more than one occasion, I had voiced my indignation, as on the afternoon my story begins.
“Professor, must we really spend tonight at Jolimont? In what way can one more set of observations be useful? We have a month of Sundays and more besides, and the deviation in results is nothing short of unremarkable!” I complained.
The Professor looked up from his bag. “Unremarkable? Lad, are you listening to what you are saying or are you making a habit of letting your mouth run wild? The magnetoscope needs calibration. The new vibrometer as well. Plus we've not performed observations for the start of Autumn.”
“Wouldn't our time be better spent at Casings Place or North Avenue?”
“Laddie, we need to make observations whether we want to or not. It is not a decision we, as proper scientists, get to make. We must have a control. If we don't, we'll have nothing against which to compare, nothing to call standard.”
“I am thinking that the Board will not see this as useful.”
“You let me worry about the Board!” he said, eyes flashing. “Those dry-headed chin-waggers are not your concern. We've a secure funding, now, so the finances are not under threat. Don't let all that nonsense enter your head.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“You are here to perform a duty. That duty requires that you treat each investigation as seriously as the last, that you maintain a scientific attitude at all times, that you do not question my decisions!”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Will that be all?”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Good, good. The air is humid tonight, and at this eleva – which reminds me, take the hygrometer. Oh, and pack up those photographic plates. And wipe that look off your face! We will be taking photographs tonight,” he said, “Keep them well sealed, the humidity might spoil them. Now, if you'd be so kind?”
I did my best to hide my disappointment. Not at taking the photographs, for that was second nature to me. Examining photograph after photograph from such inactive places as Jolimont was a thankless, mindless drudge of a chore. In a whole slab of plates, I would be lucky to find even one thing that I might classify as abnormal.
Abnormal in the usual sense, not paranormal, mind. In such photographs there might be a fleck of dust floating near the lens, or a gnat flying by just as the aperture was opened. In older, dustier, infested houses, these were more common.
In such well kept houses such as the one on Jolimont, the most I could hope for was a corruption of the photographic plates: sometimes the salts had not been applied properly, or they were scratched or exposed prior to use.
The Professor's concern about humidity was valid. It was possible, though rare, to discover that the ambient water vapour had condensed onto the plates or the lens as the night cooled, causing curious yet annoying artefacts to appear.
All of these abnormalities had to be documented, if only as a reference for what does not constitute a haunting, and in order to find them I would spend the better part of the next day hunched over a pile of prints, magnifying glass in hand, scouring every corner of the image.
What was the yield? What did we have to show for our efforts? In what way did all of the hard labour, the calculations, the hours bent over photographs and observations manifest? The same way it had for every other visit to Jolimont Street, as a single line at the bottom of the Professor's report:
No paranormal activity observed. Refer to appendices for further information.
After this the report, the photographs and all supporting documentation would be placed inside an envelope and sealed, preserved and waiting to be opened after eternity has been and gone.
I guess that is partly the reason I am writing these cases. It is a selfish thing I am doing, unburdening myself by sharing my experiences, I acknowledge this, though I do claim that it is also in the Professor's interest to show that there is more to his investigations than statistics and tendencies.
The Professor's peers mock him for his efforts. No others follow in his footsteps, none of influence consider Paranormology a valid science. The University Board barely tolerates his presence, let alone his choice of academia.
Still, he insists on keeping to his rigid methodology, despite how fruitless it appears, and it was his dogmatic enthusiasm that led me, once more, to the overly familiar door of the house in Jolimont Street.
Unassuming, it belonged to a rank of similar houses, each doing its best to remain as nondescript as the next. In fact, if it were not for the fences that separated the front yard of each property, one might think that the length of Jolimont Street was a giant wing of some obscure palace.
The population was higher, here, being so close to the heart of the city, and as a consequence the houses tended to be more vertical than horizontal.
Number thirteen had a token garden out the front, an effort to provide some vegetation to offset the solid wall of brown and cream brick, wrought iron bars and black doors. There was a little patch of ground out the back, untended and overgrown, since the owner had been overseas, and an alley to provide access for the coaler.
As one might imagine in such a closely arranged environment, with each neighbour able to hear the goings on of the other, and see, from their top floor, the movements in both the street and the backyards and alleys, gossip was rife.
The Professor avoided conversation with the folk around there. He cited that the reason was to save time; less gabbing meant more investigating. The real reason, I am sure, was to avoid the drama, scandal and speculation altogether.
I was of a different mind. I considered that by denying them the truth they would cling to any titbit of tantalising scuttlebutt and these were apt to grow into speculation and rumour if not set right.
Missus Butterfield, neighbour and infamous fat-chewer, was at the gate when we approached, holding her bonnet onto her head even though the wind was not blowing.
“Hello, Ma'am,” I called, jumping off the hansom. “How are you and how is Mister Butterfield?”
“We're both of us well, thank you for asking, young Master,” she replied. “You'll be hunting about for spooks again tonight, yes?”
“Spooks, yes,” I said, completing the ritual. “Although we would be lucky to spot but a mouse. Tell me, any news of Mister French? Has he sent any word from overseas?”
“No, young Master. I've not seen nor heard anyone around that house for a while now. Well, there have been a couple of salesmen, and the man from the census was tapping without answer. I've got some more of his mail all tied up. Here,” she said. “There's one in there from the bank, so I put that on the top of the pile so he can see it first thing. I think he will appreciate that I prioritise his mail.”
I smiled and took the bundle, “I am sure he will.”
It has always astonished me how such people are able to justify their snooping, disguising it, perhaps even fooling themselves into believing that it is an act of goodwill.
“Thank you, Missus Butterfield. I had better get these inside,” I said, holding up the cases. “The Professor, you know.”
I hoped that I did not sound impolite, ending the conversation so abruptly, only Missus Butterfield was the kind of woman who could easily talk your ear off, then get busy on the other one.
“I understand, young Master, I understand. Get along with you and don't you keep that Professor of yours waiting. Say, before you go, I've often wondered if there was any person that he is interested in?”
“Well, that usually depends on the location we are investigating. The activity can sometimes be traced back to a former tenant,” I offered.
“Ah, no. What I mean to ask is if he is currently engaged.”
I looked over at the Professor, wagging his head, hauling in the magnetoscope box that I was supposed to be carrying.
“He's currently engaged getting the boxes inside the house.”
“You misunderstand. Has your employer a particular interest outside of his work, then?”
I shrugged, “Astronomy. Biology. Most of the physical sciences.”
“A romantic interest?”
“I am sorry?”
“Does he have a lady friend?”
“Oh. Oh, um, no. He might, I guess, but not that I know of,” I said, “We don't really talk about such matters. I think that he has, in the past.”
“You should know these things.”
“It's not really my business. Anyway, I had better – ”
“You should make it you business! Only it's not good for any man to be without a woman, especially at his age. Why, who would take care of him? You?”
“No, not me. I only assist in the investigations.”
“Then who? That's what has me worried.”
“I cannot say for certain, Missus – ”
“Ah, don't you see? That's the problem with the world today, it is. Men get all wrapped up in their careers and don't consider that what they really need is a good woman. Now, a few friends of mine...”
I listened to her ramble and nodded patiently, waiting for her to take a breath before I took my leave, “Yes, Missus Butterfield. I must get to work. Good evening.”
The Professor was still taking stock of his equipment as I brought the remaining cases in and set them down on the table. We had made a map of the place some time back, and I took this out and lay it on the table, ready for the Professor to show me where he wanted me to set up.
“I want to try something a little different today,” he mused, looking over the map. “I am going to set up equipment in various rooms and go from room to room to observe their readings.”
“Forgive me, Professor. Is it not prudent to remain as still as possible during an investigation?”
“Normally, I would advocate that, yes, and I will require you to continue to observe as you have been trained. The way I figure it, if I wear these socks,” he began, taking his shoes off and putting on a pair of thick, woollen socks. “I'll not make any noise, so won't affect your readings.”
“Woollen socks? Professor, that could affect your electroscopes.”
“Hmm. Indeed they could. Thank you for bringing that up, I'll be sure to discharge myself regularly. Any further objections?”
“My ears are very sensitive, Professor,” I said. “Plus, the floorboards will shift as you tread. That will interfere with my readings.”
“Hmm. Again, you're right. In that case, you will need to observe as far away from my route as possible.”
We both looked at the map. The Professor's route took him from the upstairs bedrooms, past the study and back to the kitchen.
“Apart from the garden out the back, I cannot see anywhere that might...”
“The cellar, I should think.”
I had not even included that on the map.
“Really? Um. Really?”
He looked up at me slowly. I knew what those eyes meant.
“I mean, yes, Professor.”
We had not visited the cellar before, primarily because there were plenty of other, more comfortable rooms in the house to investigate. Cellars are cramped, smelly places that no one wants to visit, let alone sit in to observe for hours.
And there was always the possibility of rats, a concern that I vocalised.
“Vermin are the very thing we should be looking for! Do they make noise? Do they move? Can they interact with their environment? Of course, laddie! Their actions are commonly mistaken for things unworldly and, this being a control, we can document the sounds and behaviours of these creatures, so rather than shunning them and lamenting your lot, you'll make observational notes of any creatures you come across, no matter how unsavoury!”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Now stop whining and start acting like a scientist!”
That was all there was to the discussion.
Anything further I might add or ask would only ignite his temper, “Yes, Professor.”
The sun had disappeared, the night was still. Jolimont Street was noisy during the day, what with the printing works only a few streets away. Early in the morning, even as the Professor and I would be finishing up our investigation, the boys would stream in from all around to fetch their piles of papers to sell on the city corners.
Throughout the rest of the day the constant stream of traffic, of horses and gigs and passers-by, sounded like the city was chatting to itself in some archaic, lost language.
At night, however, the patrons went home, the journalists parked their notepads and packed their cameras, and a welcome quiet replaced the buzz. The occasional chatter of a hansom passing barely penetrated the walls of Mister French's house, and unless one was in the front room, one might consider the world outside to have disappeared.
I have a hunch that the quietude was a result of the neighbours' proximity, that the threat of being the subject of Missus Butterfield's razor tongue meant windows were shuttered, conversations held at respectable levels.
That was one of the Professor's primary reasons to investigate. The level of external contamination, for any investigation, is ideally zero. Being a young, well-maintained house, it did not groan and creak as much as others, there were no gaps in the plaster to let in the wind, the heavy curtains were not moth-ridden and were more than adequate for blocking the light from the street-lamps.
“An ideal control,” the Professor had said. “Any successful experimental campaign, be it for equipment or for observation, will require a control for calibration. One cannot make a comparison without something against which to compare, hmm?”
It was from one of his old lectures, for sure, and he never grew tired of relating it to me, and it was with this thought in my mind that I descended the stairs, arms full of equipment, into the cellar.