After another few minutes I made my readings and I was concerned that the electroscope had not relaxed to its normally flat position. Simply touching the top of the electroscope is generally enough to release the charge from its confines, and this is what I did, noting in my pad that I had interfered with the instrument as a form of calibration.
The gold leaves within the glass returned to rest and I performed another reading:
Time: 10:35
Temp Delta: -1.4
Baro: 29.89
Hygro: 28
Vibro: 0.05
Electro: Flat
I wrote the last bit without looking, for I made the natural assumption that the way I left it was the way it would be. I knew it was the wrong thing to do and, while the Professor would never know, I would know that, at one point in an investigation, I recorded without observation.
Frustrated at my nagging conscience, I yielded and inspected the electroscope, certain my recording would not need to change.
I was wrong.
I had not touched the cloth, for it was still where I had left it, and after I had discharged the electroscope the leaves were certainly fully flat.
Now they were separated.
Electro: (Flat) Correction – Parted by 1/8”
I stared for a while, watching in case they should part further or collapse, but they did not. Satisfied that this was some residual charge left from the previous episode, I discharged it once more, ensuring that it was flat, even going to the length of holding it against the light of the lantern.
As anyone knows, looking directly into the light of a lantern while sitting in a dark room ruins one's vision for a good minute. I put the electroscope down and sat there, blinking like an imbecile, thinking how best to formulate my words.
Manually discharged electroscope again. Reading is now flat. No possible cause for the charge is evident in the immediate area. I have not moved from my station, nor interfered with the environ.
That should satisfy the Professor.
Just then my nose picked up on a rather rancid odour, not unlike the pungent smell of eggs too far gone. I had not broken wind, for certain, so I assumed that the vermin I shared the room with had perhaps burrowed into a particularly nasty portion of their stash.
My keen ears picked up the rustling once more. It sounded very much like claws picking at a hessian bag, a staccato of tiny pins making their way through old, rough cloth.
“Aha! You have returned,” I whispered, slowly reaching to get the broom. “Show yourself, vermin!”
The scratching noise paused, almost as if that wretched creature was listening to me. For a minute I sat, broom in hand, poised to strike. I had visions of myself standing proudly over the limp carcass of a mouse, demonstrating to the Professor that I was not a coward.
Really, I should have listened to the Professor and recorded what I was observing.
I remember thinking, “I will get to that in a second.”
But that second never came.
The scratching noise began again in earnest.
“Come on, then, show yourself! Come out at once! Come out, I say!”
At that instant, the flame within the lantern crackled and leapt, then sputtered out as if a wild storm had suddenly formed inside the glass, plunging the basement into an unnerving darkness. I had checked the oil level of the lantern, I know it, and there was most certainly enough for another hour at least, so I was more than a little surprised – and frustrated.
“Blast it! Everything goes wrong all at once,” I muttered.
The Professor was sure to admonish me for failing to check my equipment and, on top of everything that had happened earlier, I was in no position to argue my innocence.
The wind dropped from my sails. My situation became apparent and a flood of shame swept over me. I let go of the broom, let go of my vengeful thoughts and assessed my options.
My best bet was to get back to the kitchen where the main lantern would be burning, check my own lantern and get back to observing before the next point of observation.
I groped above me, remembering the relative distance between myself and where I last saw the lantern, being careful not to burn myself on the hot glass.
Dust and a spider web were dislodged and fell across my face as my fingers fumbled, seeking the handle somewhere in the darkness above me. I cursed like a Jack, I am not at all proud to say, though I kept my profanities under my breath.
Eventually I found the wire and unhooked it from the nail, and brought the lantern down. With my hard-won prize in one hand, I spat and wiped my face on my sleeve in a bid to remove the web while I made my clumsy way back to the stairs.
It was as black as pitch in there. The light from the lantern in the kitchen was unable to reach under the door to the cellar, so my eyes, though wide as dishes, saw nothing. No outline, no faded silhouette, no contrast to aid my egress.
After three hesitant steps, I caught my shirt on a nail.
Vulgarity is the refuge of the ignorant. It did not aid my predicament, serving only to fill the darkness with uncouth utterances. As I left off cursing, the resulting silence let my mind catch up with the situation.
I wiped the grit from my mouth, closed my eyes and resolved to calmly and slowly get back to the kitchen.
The scratching noise began anew, only it sounded less like a mouse and more like a large rat or a cat.
Composed, I muttered, “And I will deal with you when I get back, vermin!”
I held my hand out in front of me as I shuffled closer to where I thought the steps were. My fingers found the wall, then the shelf of preserves, then the brickwork where the stairs were.
Probing with my foot, still holding onto the wall, I made the first step without incident. Then my blood froze.
My brain, having given up getting anything interesting from my eyes, had devoted its attention to the rest of my senses. As a consequence, my hearing, ordinarily keen, was even more acute, so much that I could hear the sound of Earth if I held my breath.
And what my ears heard was unmistakable; feet crunching over the broken glass on the cellar floor behind me in a rhythmic pace : crunch-scrape-crunch-scrape. In fact, I could hear the little shards of glass clinking against stones as they were knocked up from the dirt.
There was no other way in or out of that cellar, certainly no way anyone could have hidden in there. The walls were stacked with brick and mud, which ruled out the existence of a hidden door. None of the boxes and crates were big enough to hide a person.
My skin prickled as a rippling wave of cold swept over me. I suddenly felt naked. Naked and exposed. Anyone who has dealt with an intruder in their house knows the sensation. It arises from the knowledge that there is someone close by, someone who does not belong, someone who means to cause harm, someone who can see you even though you cannot see them.
“Hello?” I called, as bravely as I could, “Who is there?”
The pacing on the floor continued. It sounded as if the footsteps were moving in a small circle around the room. Crunch-scrape-crunch-scrape-crunch. The suffocating stench of sulphur and ammonia intensified. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
Funnily enough, my thoughts were not to run. Rather I was still smarting from the mouse incident and, despite all good sense to the contrary, I wanted to prove that I was 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 th – 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 before hand, 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.”