Flora Matthews, ten years
Alice Matthews, eight years
Eliza had been wondering whether Mr and Mrs Hobbs thought often about their son, Benedict. Did they say a prayer for him every day? Would they hope to see him again, if not in this world, in the next? Did they visit an empty grave? She wished so much to have something to tell them, to reassure them; but the truth was, they had nothing.
Helena was fetching something from her bag, the pictures that Lady Matthews had given her in London, in what seemed like a lifetime ago: a cart, all blurry, the Tudor manor at the end, and, floating on top of it, three little lights.
What were they?
Will-o’-the-wisps, jack-o’-lanterns, corpse candles.
Those are normally on the ground, not over the roof of old ruins…
So not corpse candles, but three little figures, uncannily floating away, three children who would not come back home.
* * *
That same night, while Helena and Eliza pieced together the last pieces of the puzzle, Mr and Mrs Burroughs sat to an early supper in the kitchen of their cottage, happy to enjoy the peace and quiet at last. Soon, they would be leaving their duties behind, and keeping a place only for themselves for the first time in their lives.
Outside the sky looked ashen. A solitary nightjar flew over the house, the trees whispered to each other, the peat rustled, complaining of the late hour, the day quickened to an end.
In the distance, from the old factory beyond the marsh, a green mist softly lifted and swarmed up, covering the black waters. It moved like a pair of ghostly arms, caressing all within their reach, reaching the priory ruins, and moving forward along the coast, and reaching the tree trunks, the fields, the fens, the dykes, getting to the water mill two miles ahead, covering its willow, its eel traps, in its uncanny embrace. And the queer curls of mist lifted and fell, lifted and fell. It seemed to suck up the water as well; and the water lifted with it, and with it fell, starting to move like a shapeless shadow.
Mr and Mrs Burroughs had gone to bed by then, and did not see the water creeping in, animated by the mist, which secreted into it its obscure power. They had not been asleep for long when Mr Burroughs awoke to a distant sound, like someone sounding a metallic pipe amongst the thickets. Only then did he realise that the sound was a toll, a chime, a nonexistent bell, echoing through the night. And then he thought he heard a dog barking somewhere, although they had no dog, and no neighbour. He woke his wife up, and told her to listen—the last thing that Mr Burroughs ever said. For, at that exact moment, thousands of tons of water crashed violently against the cottage, washing it from the face of the earth and taking them both, and Dot as well, quiet in her sleep.
All the green-tainted water ran over the fields, and rushed into the fens, even though the banks of the dykes and the rivers remained intact, for this was no natural water pouring in. The flood washed away the houses and the animals.
The water moved around the Tudor ruins, as if trying to avoid its dark power. As if it was part of its secret plot. It almost reached the estate, but before doing so, it killed the beggar woman, the one whom Eliza and Helena feared to be Maud, her body prematurely aged after her journey to the other side. It dug up the bones of Benedict Hobbs, lost to his parents twenty years earlier, murdered and hidden in a ditch. And it carried on, the water, unburying the treasure left by the Danes hundreds of years before. On it surged, as though it knew where to go, animated all by itself, a creature resurrected in all its cruelty, as only the waters can be when they come, pouring their destruction over the world, covering all, and forcing the land to regurgitate all its secrets.
MAUD MATTHEWS’S DIARY 1881
Something very wonderful happened when I was little. I must have been very little, for this was before Alice, before Flora. My nurse put me down on an edge of the garden, next to a hedge. I understood later that she used to meet her beau in that hedge. Her beau was a stable boy, and they would laugh and smoke and kiss, all the while keeping an eye on me, lying on a blanket. It must have happened one of those days; she must have moved to the other side of the hedge to be sweet with him, and left me alone for a little time. My nurse wasn’t a nasty sort; she was young, I fancy, and she was fond of me. But she must have done so once, or else how did they know where to find me, all alone?
For it was then that they came, that first time. There would be many other visits, throughout the years. I never knew whether I had imagined them or not. They had luminous faces, sickly white, and shiny, but they were not beautiful. Their smiles were all wrong; they did not go with their weary, ancient eyes. I do not know what they wanted from me. But they were always there. What was it that they taught me, what was it that I learnt from them? A secret language, I guess, like an incantation. New names for the trees and the birds and the sky, words that ought not to be spoken. These were the most secret of all secrets, and I used to write them down, and hide them very far away, in the most secret of all secret places, some places in the woods, the old house. I would find crevices there very easily, and there I put my things. They left little gifts for me in these secret places: strange sweets, colourful feathers. Once, a green stone. I was their special friend, even after Alice, after sweet little Flora. I was not to tell the secret of their coming, or his coming, for they were hailing the advent of someone else, someone all-powerful.
I am sitting in this room. I decide that what I really need, what I really really need, is to lie back. So I do that. I find a way of being comfortable, and lie back on the floor. I am now seeing the ceiling. I am now seeing through the ceiling. I am now seeing all the little doves that are sleeping on the ceiling. And I am now seeing the sky. The sky is my friend, I know it. I decide I am not scared of the sky. So I go up, willingly, like falling but the other way around. So I go flying, up and up I go. And I fly directly into the void, directly into the dark. And I come out the other side of the dark, and I am now over this round planet; I pass the moon in a second, and I carry on going. And there are galaxies all around me, and stars, constellations, many little shining dots that grow big as I pass them by.
I am one and only with the Universe. I know and understand it all. I know and understand the meaning of everything. How awfully clever of me! He has taught me how to do this.
I wasn’t meant to come here. I must go back, to the meadow, and the house, no craggy hills, no snow-bound peaks. Openness, whiteness, vastness, conspiring to make me dizzy.
I go back, past the constellations, past the moon, past the sky and the stars and fall deeper and deeper into the darkness below… I am in a meadow. I don’t know if it’s the right meadow. But it is a meadow. I am tired and I sense a warning, a danger the colour of blood; and then, I see the birds scattering themselves all over the sky, painting them in so many colours… I can feel them, fleeing in a panic at the advancing beaters, and I smell the gunpowder.
Dread. Confusion. Someone is holding my hand, or my paw. Who is it? But then he lets go, and I find myself completely alone, with no clear idea if I am hunter or prey.
Thick fog.
I cannot remember how I got here.
There is a man on the grounds; he has come for me at last.
He looks at me, and looking into his eyes I’m reminded of it all: of fathers, of uncles, of guardians; of wolves, the moment they jump over their prey, that second before they spring.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Open Door, Journal of The New Occultist Defence League April 1901
MADAME FLORENCE WAYFARER UNMASKED!
~Trapdoors, sliding panels, concealed by darkness, assistants wearing costumes, make-up and even wigs!
~Items concealed on the false back of chairs found in her Gower Street house.
~Small balloons used to convey the impression of spirits floating around the room, manoeuvred with fishing rods.
~Full report of the fraud inside!
~Extra pamphlet available in interior pages: ‘Tricks of Mediums’.
* * *
Report on Madame Florence Wayfarer’s two last séances in New York City in the autumn of 1900. Printed in London, The Little Haunted Press, April 1901.
* * *
This report covers Madame Florence Wayfarer’s two last séances in New York under Miss Clare Collins’s management, in which they charged the fee of fifty dollars per séance.
The investigation was brought over by a Mr Kantaris, honorary secretary and psychical researcher. It is suspected that Madame Florence fakes at times, whereas at other times she manages to produce genuine telekinetic manifestations. It is also noted that more than one individual seemed to perform under the name ‘Madame Florence’, and that the person who performed under that name is not the same that did so five years ago, as explained by many witnesses.
Madame Florence, or the individual calling herself Madame Florence, had initially agreed to perform with two hands holding her down, one visibly on her knee, a hand on her shoulder, and a stuffed handkerchief in her mouth. However, once she arrived at the séance, she claimed to have no recollection of having agreed to such a course of action, and refused to follow these instructions. Eventually, she agreed to comply.
* * *
Declaration by first witness – Against
I feel absolutely convinced she is a trickster from beginning to end. While her right foot remained on the foot of her right neighbour, and her left shoe remained on my foot, she obviously deploys marvellous skill in removing her foot from the shoe without giving me the slightest suspicion.
Before the séance started Madame Florence was stripped to her underclothes in the presence of women, but nothing was found upon her person that could in any way be used to help her in her séance. She was then reclothed and escorted into the front room. I feel compelled to inform the committee that a number of suspicious objects were nonetheless found in Madame Florence’s proximity after the events.
The light when the séance began consisted of six eight-candle power lamps, which gave the room what might be called an almost brilliant illumination. This light remained until after one or two of the complete levitations, at which time the medium called for less light. I am sure that this is in order to hide her features, for by now it is clear that some of the sitters do not recognise her as MF.
* * *
Declaration by second witness – In Favour
MF had no knowledge, nor had her managers, of the room in which the séance was to be held, a square parlour. A corner of the room was chosen. Across this corner a piece of clothesline was divided in the middle. Behind this curtain were placed a small stool and a small four-legged table. On the table were placed a tambourine, a flute and a music sheet. Neither the medium nor her managers brought any paraphernalia with them. The table and the stool were both built especially for this occasion, and also the curtains. The medium had not seen any of these until she was led to her seat.
* * *
Séance Diary: Séance starts at 9:17p.m. At 9:27p.m., the table starts to come up on two legs. Those near MF look carefully to see if there is any connection between her and the table, but find none. It is now 9:35p.m. The table rises on two legs. Mr Curtis and Mr Kantaris both say that they are in control of her. The first complete levitation of the table takes place at 9:45p.m.; that is, the table rises clear off the floor about twelve inches. It is now 10:08p.m. At this time MF complains of the light and asks that all lights be extinguished but one. The room is quite dark now. At this time, another complete levitation of the table takes place. Mr Kantaris explains that he can feel her left leg pressed tightly against his, her hand is clasped in his and she is clear of the table by at least three inches. Mr Blanchard, who has taken Mr Curtis’s place, also states that he has complete control of MF’s leg and hand. It is now 10:11p.m. MF now seems to direct her powers towards the curtain. She begins to appeal to the mysterious being whom she calls Kitty. Three or four complete levitations of the table occur. Kantaris is now behind the curtain and he says the small table there shot directly towards him and struck him in the elbow. He says he can see this clearly and at the same time the things on the table fell to the floor with a crash. The table rises on one leg. Then comes a complete levitation, the best of the evening; everybody stands up and the table raises fully three feet from the floor. The table stayed up for a few seconds and then dropped with a crash and one of the legs of the table broke off. A few of the complete levitations occurred when there was no contact with the table on the part of the medium.
Preliminary conclusions: The result may seem inconclusive in Madame Florence’s case; however, it is difficult to justify the conditions that she imposes upon sitters. All we can do is guess at her methods. The blowing out of the curtains may be explained by the use of a very thin rubber hose about the thickness of a lead pencil, and painted black so as to be invisible, which is attached to a bulb, or possibly a small steel flask containing compressed air, under considerable pressure. The curtains are very thin and it wouldn’t take much air in motion to move them. I have talked with some of the men who attended the first séance here and find that most of the newspaper accounts were inaccurate. As near as I can learn, Madame Florence and her sitters took usual positions about the table. After some contortions, she lunged forward and there was a violent tremor of the table. I suggested the use of a black cord dangling from Madame Florence’s neck, with a small blunt hook fastened to the lower end of the cord, and thought that when she pitched forward that the hook swung under the edge of the table, which gave her a connection to it. Now it was after this preliminary movement of the table that complete levitation took place, and the lights were lowered after the first tremor of the table, and before the complete levitation occurred. Moreover, before the complete levitation, Madame Florence had the free use of her hands and held them out of sight part of the time, between her abdomen and the edge of the table. There is also the matter of Madame Florence’s appearance. Many witnesses that attended her séances even two decades ago claim that MF was blonde—she is now dark-haired—and that she now looks younger than then, which is surely impossible. This hints at the possibility that MF may be a role played by different people at different times; this suggestion came as a genuine surprise to Miss Collins, newly employed by MF, presumably, after her last ‘change’ into a new appearance. Miss Collins claims not to know anything about the tricks, etc., etc.
The Open Door, Journal of The New Occultist Defence League April 1901
STRANGE FLOODING EVENT IN EAST ANGLIA!
~Read everything about the Green Water’s Flood.
~Graves upturned, buildings collapsed, treasures unburied.
~Strange Hybrid Seen, Half Whale, Half Seal, the Huge White Creature now roams East Anglia.
~Strange shiny city seen in the horizon, where the North Sea and the Land touch.
~Read it all here!
The Society for Psychical Research was located in an imposing building in the Marylebone district, a dark and huge residential block which was not in fact occupied by any tenants but by different offices and departments of the Society, which attested to one thing: vast amounts of money at its disposal. Helena was surprised to see she was expected. She was escorted up a set of badly lit staircases and asked to step into what was referred to as the small library. The clerk shut the door behind her and momentarily left her there. The small library turned out to be a high-ceilinged room with a gigantic mahogany table in the centre, surrounded by locked glass cases and cabinets, containing books, memorabilia and several objects. She was admiring the ectoplasm, and deciding it looked like a cheese cloth, when the same clerk reappeared and asked her to follow him through a further set of doors, leading into an unexpected narrow and heavily decorated corridor, until a further door was opened, and Helena was ushered inside.
She found herself in the middle of an office, where John Woodbury, celebrated vegetarian, bookseller and chairman of the SPR, was waiting for her, not sitting behind the desk, but on one of a set of black leather sofas in front o
f the fire, to which he motioned she should join him. There was a tea set and some cups and saucers on a little table, as if Mr Woodbury had just entertained someone.
‘My dear Helena. How good it is of you to come and pay us a visit.’
‘Mr Woodbury.’
Someone moved in the corner of her eye, and Helena saw that Charles Bale was standing at the other end of the room, looking out to the park below.
‘Mr Bale.’ The older man did not move. ‘How kind of you to be here. You have saved me the walk to Holborn.’
‘Miss Walton.’ The older man acknowledged her with a curt nod.
‘I hope you will call me John from now on,’ indicated Mr Woodbury. ‘It is time that we dispense with the formalities, don’t you think? After all, much has happened in this strange affair.’
‘I know that you know that Sam’s being here is intimately connected with the girls’ going there.’
‘Why, Miss Walton, could you not leave him in peace!’ Charles blurted. ‘He was only a baby, when—’
‘Mr Bale, please, if I may. If this business is true; if we are prepared to accept that theory—’ Charles did not reply. Helena continued, ‘If we accept that theory, Maud, the elder, possibly managed to come back.’ This caught Woodbury’s attention. ‘I will get to it in a moment. But first, Sam.’
Mr Woodbury smiled manically.
‘If we accept that theory… it would seem that Samuel Moncrieff is a sort of… changeling.’
Bale’s face went yellow; he looked about to vomit. Woodbury said nothing; then, half-smiling, ‘A changeling? But, my dear, that is a term borrowed from literature, no doubt. A rather romantic way of putting it, if you ask me. What Samuel is or isn’t is far more complicated than that.’
‘I am aware of that. But you have to allow me some… shortcuts. I do not possess an idiom to speak about these portents, I’m afraid. Until now my only language has been the language of rational thought.’
The Golden Key Page 19
