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 result of an external, environmental influence.”
“A sunrise can make me happy. Is that not an environmental influence?”
“Er, yes. Yes, but that's not the same thing. You can't measure a sunrise.”
“What if we could?”
“Huh? Measure a sunrise? Don't be silly, lad.”
“Perhaps we just have not put time to thinking about how to measure abstractions. A sunrise, I can agree, is a complex scenario.”
“It's just silly. And, what's more, um, the emotion a sunrise might evoke is still subjective and internal to the perceiver!” he argued.
I pondered, “Is that not the same with balance? Say, if I am inclined I can tell that I am not level. An incline can be measured externally with a protractor, and it will also have an effect internally, so even though the personal is subjective, the external is objective.”
“Er, yes.”
“In much the same way as I can feel if something is hot or cold, the sensation produced from an external source is palpable and detectable –”
“It's still relative to the observer.”
“Yes, yes it is, which is why we standardise and calibrate our measuring equipment, is it not?”
“Indeed.”
“Perhaps it is more than a single measurement, though. The overall comfort, if that can be a guide, of an environment relates not just to the temperature, but also the humidity.”
“And the pressure. And the quality of the air. Many factors,” the Professor rejoined.
“So could it be that that which evokes an emotional response is actually detectable in a mechanical way, such that one might be able to, scientifically, record the creepiness of an environment? Or the sadness?” I said. “And then, if standardised, we could use these recordings to determine trends, in exactly the same way as humidity or pressure.”
The Professor stroked his beard quietly until we reached the laboratory.
As the rattling of the wheels came to a stop, he shrugged, “That's an interesting proposition, it is. Not one for pondering over at midnight. You'll be here first thing tomorrow?”
I yawned, “Yes, Professor. Good night, Professor.”
My sleep was not at all restful that night. Every dream I had was plagued by an uneasy sense of something following me, stalking me. It did not have a form or a face, yet it felt intelligent, intellectual, a very real danger that wished to do me harm.
A few times I awoke. The room was dark and silent, warm to the point of being comfortable. There was no threat, no motion, no sound from within or without, nothing strange that should cause me to wake. Each time I fell asleep watching the shadows, fearing that at any moment an evil would come creeping upon me while I slept.
The darkness that followed me was latent when I was awake, manifesting only when my weary eyes could hold themselves open no longer.
It was a palpable malice that crept through my mind, leaving an odorous trail in my memory, and it stayed with me until the morning broke.
I was sweating, even though the morning was cool. In the sunlight coming through my window, the memory of the evil that plagued me the previous night seemed diminished, even silly. How much difference between night and day!
I rubbed my eyes, washed, dressed, brushed my hair and raced to the laboratory, keen to get to the bottom of the mystery.
I greeted the Professor, put on a pot of tea and sat quietly by, occupied with some administration, as he performed his morning routine. Eventually he took out the Jolimont file, signalling that it was time to discuss matters.
“I have been thinking,” he began. “That I made a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“A miscalculation, I guess. When I secured the right to investigate Jolimont from Mister French, it was after an initial investigation to determine the nature of reported strange goings-on. Things moving about. Indeterminate noises. Pungent odours. A sense of unease. I found nothing then and nothing on subsequent investigations. I declared that, based upon the lack of any evidence to the contrary, the reports relating to the house were most likely exaggerated as a result of local gossip.”
He sipped he tea, looking at the case notes.
“I told him I would keep an eye on the house, in return for the right to investigate. The arrangement worked out well. I secured a control house, he secured peace of mind.”
“How is that a mistake?”
“The mistake is that I made an assumption. A lack of evidence is not, in itself, enough upon which to base such a statement,” he said.
I said, “We've investigated more than a couple of times, Professor, and there has been nothing. Even with the new equipment.”
“And that brings me to my point. How can I know if my equipment is even capable of detecting the presence of a ghost if I have nothing against which to calibrate or show a relationship? If I measure the temperature of this tea with a compass, you would laugh.”
“I think I would! Oh. I see.”
He nodded, “Therein lies the conundrum. My assumption is that physical measurements must be able to demonstrate the presence of an entity.”
“But they do or, at least, our results indicate that they do,” I said. “We've found correlations between readings and activity.”
“But not consistently and not across different sites! Who is to say a correlation between environmental factors isn't specific to a particular kind of haunting?” he said, stroking his chin. “If there is interaction with the physical realm that produces different observable quantities, like making sound, or reflecting light, or smells, or motion. Emotions! I see. I see. If we ever get enough data, we should compare relationships based upon the type of manifestation. Maybe we might even include, as separate notes, our emotional state while observing.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Every bit of evidence is worthy of consideration. Who knows what will be the key to unlock the riddle?”
“Speaking of which, Professor, I have had a question on my mind since last night,” I said.
“Which is?”
“What is it?”
He scratched his head, “What is it?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes!”
“What?”
“Professor!”
“What is what?”
“What are we dealing with? What happened at Jolimont? Something is in there, in the cellar, I know it! It is haunted. We thought it was not but it is, I can get over that but, what is it?”
“Oh. To be truthful, I – I don't know.”
“Professor, if you don't know...”
“Confound it! I don't know because that was the first time I have ever seen something so aggressive. Considering we don't have any observational data for the cellar, what with your notepad in ribbons, and only your testimony to go off, I simply cannot say – right now.”
He looked at his empty tea cup longingly. Taking the hint, I fixed another pot.
The Professor does not like to admit that he does not know something, a trait common across many scientists I have met, and worse than not knowing something is being asked a question about which he has not pondered.
At such times, I would busy myself, giving him the opportunity to ruminate and form an opinion.
I spent a little time getting some biscuits, just to be sure.
He called out, while I was wrestling with the tin, “Considering Jolimont hasn't shown a lick of activity since we've been there, and considering that this looks nothing like any other case in my experience, I am inclined to think that there is something else at play.”
“Something else?”
“Yes. Something decidedly not paranormal.”
“I must protest! There were no animals, apart from mice, in that basement, and certainly no other humans. What happened was other-worldly...”
“Have you forgotten Hampton Court already, Laddie?”
“That's not the same thing!”
There was no need to rebuke. He let my own nonsensical words echo in my ears.
I sighed, for he was right, “No, Professor. I have not forgotten.”
“Bully for you! We should first and foremost, in all circumstances, look for causes natural and mundane to anything that might present itself as paranormal, for the chances are greater that they will turn out to be quite normal indeed.”
“Natural causes? Professor, what sort of natural cause can tear up a notepad? What sort of natural cause can blow out a lantern? What sort of natural cause can leave footprints?”
“I don't know! That's what science is about. We make no assumptions, we make no conclusions until everything has been examined and tested,” he said, his face going red. “No matter how tempting it may be to state as fact an explanation to a mysterious phenomenon, we must stand firm, be objective, look at all the evidence gathered.”
“It is just that – ”
“What's more, it's at times when something appears to be obvious that we must be extra vigilant in our observation and our analysis.”
“I am sorry Professor...”
“And I am not! It is a long time between such challenges, laddie, and when they arrive one must be ready!”
I understood then that he was not angry, he was excited. Excited at the possibility of hard evidence. Excited that Jolimont may well have proven to be the undeniable point of evidence he was after. Excited that he had found a new kind of haunting.
Anything new promises new opportunities.
“I see, Professor. So where shall we begin?”
“What? Why, we shall approach this methodically. We shall go back to the start. Revisit our notes. The time of day, the places, the observations, the recordings. See if there is anything anomalous in there, anything that doesn't match between yours and mine, anything that might point to a third party being present,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Well, was there anyone outside the house?”
“Yes, Missus Butterfield.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Yes, I did.”
“While you were speaking to her, was there anyone else about?”
I sat and thought. “No. I mean, I remember seeing the coalman come by. And Mister Floren with his potatoes was visiting a few doors down.”
“Any wildlife? Dogs, cats, rats, anything like that?”
“No, Professor. Apart from the horses in the street,” I said, thinking, “And there are always birds in the trees on the other side. They were settling down to roost.”
He cracked his knuckles, “Well, make a note of all you can remember, any detail whether it is necessary or not, there's a good lad, then compare our notes well. I shall ponder the harder evidences.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“And see if you cannot reassemble your old notes. We'll need your observations if we can.”
“Yes, Professor,” I said, looking glumly at the pile of shredded paper.
“Oh, and laddie?”
“Yes, Professor?”
“Brew a stronger pot of tea, would you? This might take a while.”
I sighed, “Yes, Professor.”
After the intense experience in the cellar of Jolimont and the long, fearful night I had suffered, sitting down to line up and glue torn pieces of paper was anticlimactic.
By lunch time, I had arranged all of the pieces and copied the notes meticulously onto a fresh notepad. Miss Fitzgerald came in with lunch, a more than welcome distraction. After we ate, the Professor called me over to discuss matters.
“I shall start with the footprints, since they represent the most physical and testable evidence we have, for both you and I witnessed them, and I have a sketch and measurements upon which to base any analysis. Now, from these measurements, and of the features of the print, I can demonstrate that they appear to be human in nature.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Once I get the photographs developed, that will sure up any doubt, but even from the sketch you can see a heel here, here is the ball of the foot. These are toes.”
“Yes, Professor. It certainly is not that of a dog or mouse. A person must have made those footprints.”
“Disregarding any bizarre, convoluted way of creating such a pattern from another source, I agree. Hmm, still... Anyway, running with the assumption that these prints were made by a person, I can say with confidence that they are not from anyone around here, and they are singular in nature,” he said, holding up a book and flipping to a marked page. “For, as you can see here, the length from the heel to the first toe is extraordinarily long, a good thirteen inches, whereas the width of the foot is closer to six inches. The separation of the toes, if toes you can call them, is in a fan shape, reminiscent of a more deformed foot, like one who puts more pressure on his toes than his heel.”
I nodded at the various figures he was showing me, hoping not to appear like an idiot, while at the same time feeling very much out of my depth.
“Um. You said, 'he'.”
“Good observation! Shows you're listening.”
“Is that intentional?”
“Yes. No woman has a foot this large. Why, if we use the lateral measurement as a basis, we can estimate that our mysterious person is well over eight feet tall!”
“Could it not be an anomalous woman?”
“Perhaps. I'd argue against that, though. The tallest woman in the local area according to this source, which is only five years old mind, is six foot two inches. Well short of the seven and ten my calculations come out at. Whereas the tallest man is six nine, which is closer, but still off by a good foot. Besides, does gender make a difference?”
“Well, um, I only brought it up because I thought you may have a conclusion.”
“No conclusion yet, I'm afraid, only assumptions based upon the available evidence, but that's all we need so far.”
“Need?”
The Professor straightened himself up, “We need to make an educated guess as to what we're up against. If it is a case of natural disturbances, we need to figure out a way to detect or eliminate each one. If we find that the phenomena are unexplainable from a reasonable standpoint, then we must look to alternate solutions.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Now, if the owner of the feet was indeed eight feet tall, then standing up inside the cellar would prove difficult. So either your observational skills are extremely wanting, or there is some kind of hiding place inside the cellar that is not apparent, or,” he said. “The beast is invisible. I would not say ethereal, since that would be in direct opposition to the corporeal nature of these prints. Did you hear, at any stage, the sound of a head hitting the top of the cellar?”
“No, Professor. Just the growling.”
The Professor leaned in, “And from where did the growling come in relation to you?”
I closed my eyes, not wanting to remember, but trying all the same. “To be perfectly frank, it sounded like it came from behind me, as I was at the stairs, so from within the room.”
“I see. Too much speculation in analysis is fraught with danger, for building the fundamentals of a case on assumptions magnifies the inherent errors of those assumptions. Let us leave that alone for a minute. What did you find with the observations?”
My mathematical skills have improved since I joined with the Professor. I am able to plot charts, derive boundaries of certainty, calculate averages and trends and even perform some rudimentary correlation analysis.
Still, each time I had to show my workings to the Professor, I would bite my lip and stumble over my sentences. It was fear of being criticised, certainly. I have come to accept that the Professor's criticism was derived from experience and wisdom, yet the sting of rebuke bites like no other.
“This, ah, this is the chart of temperatures, I mean deltas, because that's the chart axis there...”
“I can see that.”
“Yes, um. I have marked your readings in red, mine in blue. You can see that at the start they trend similarly, with the cellar remaining more constant throughout, while upstairs, ah, where you were -”
“I know where I was.”
“Well, they all fluctuated within half a degree of each other, which is what we've come to expect from Jolimont -”
I knew I should not have said it, but I said it anyway, as my mind was too busy worrying about being mathematically incorrect rather than scientifically.
“Laddie! Are you performing an analysis based on a single investigation, or a series of investigations?”
“Um, single.”
“Right, so you can make no references to other investigations in this analysis. We've been over this before.”
“Yes, Professor. It just slipped out. Sorry, Professor.”
He waved his hand, “Never mind, lad. Just bear in mind that my peers are more critical than I am. Continue.”
“Right. Um.”
“And try not to say um.”
“U- Yes. Yes, Professor,” I took a breath and continued slowly. “The fluctuations of temperature and pressure between rooms upstairs were, were consistent with each other. The cellar, by reference, maintained a constant temperature, until this point here where it drops significantly.”
“It?”
“The temperature delta, Professor. The pressure and humidity remain largely unaffected...”
“Largely unaffected? Lad, do I need to...”
I quickly rectified, “A four percent difference in pressure and a one percent in humidity, consistent with the readings of the rest of the night.”
“So what you are saying is that only the temperature was affected?”
“Yes, Professor. And the electroscope as well.”
“Why didn't you mention this?”
I held my palms out. “I was going to, just before you asked about them, Professor.”
“Humph. Well, let that be a lesson to you: If you're performing a presentation, you own the presentation. Don't allow for interruptions.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Unless it's me.”
“Really, I – Yes, Professor.”
“Carry on.”
I looked back at my notes, “The, ah, electroscope. Yes. It, ah, they, that is to say, the electroscopes upstairs, showed no deflection all night, whereas mine, I mean, the one downstairs in the cellar, was shown to have a significant deflection at several recordings. The electroscope was discharged after each reading, yet continued to deflect.”
“Interesting...”
“Indeed. Without any apparent direct cause. The level of deflection ranged in each observation, from one eighth of an inch up to five eighths, implying that whatever caused the deflection was not constant as we might find with, say, a mechanical device.”