The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories

by Fitz-James O'Brien

  “Do you see that? It is a bloodstain, and, I give you my word, it grows larger and larger every year!” He finished the sentence in a low voice, and shuddered.

  “Ah, so I should have expected,” observed Flaxman Low, who was looking at the stained ceiling with much interest. “That, of course, explains everything.”

  “Low, tell me what you mean? A bloodstain that grows year by year explains everything?” Naripse broke off and pointed to the couch. “Look there! a cat’s been walking over that sofa.”

  Mr. Low put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and smiled.

  “My dear fellow! That stain on the ceiling is simply a patch of mould and fungi, Now come in carefully without raising the dust, and let us examine the cat’s footsteps, as you call them.”

  Naripse advanced to the couch and considered the marks gravely.

  “They are not the footmarks of any animal, they are something much more unaccountable. They are raindrops. And why should raindrops be here in this perfectly watertight room, and even then only in one small part of it? You can’t very well explain that, and you certainly can’t have expected it?”

  “Look round and follow my points,” replied Mr. Low. “When we came to fetch Sullivan, I noticed the dust which far exceeds the ordinary accumulation even in the most neglected places. You may also notice that it is of a greenish colour and of extreme fineness. This dust is of the same nature as the powder you find in a puff-ball, and is composed of minute sporuloid bodies. I found that Sullivan’s coat was covered with this fine dust, and also about the collar and upper portion of the sleeve I found one or two gummy drops which correspond to these raindrops, as you call them. I naturally concluded from their position that they had fallen from above. From the dust, or rather spores, which I found on Sullivan’s coat, I have since cultivated no fewer than four specimens of fungi, of which three belong to known African species; but the fourth, so far as I know, has never been described, but it approximates most closely to one of the phalliodei.”

  “But how about the raindrops, or whatever they are? I believe they drop from that horrible stain.”

  “They are drops from the stain, and are caused by the unnamed fungus I have just alluded to. It matures very rapidly, and absolutely decays as it matures, liquefying into a sort of dark mucilage, full of spores, which drips down, and diffuses a most repulsive odour. In time the mucilage dries, leaving the dust of the spores.”

  “I don’t know much about these things myself,” replied Naripse dubiously, “and it strikes me you know more than enough. But look here; how about the light? You saw it last night yourself.”

  “It happens that the three species of African fungi possess well known phosphorescent properties, which are manifested not only during decomposition, but also during the period of growth. The light is only visible from time to time; probably climatic and atmospheric conditions only admit of occasional efflorescence.”

  “But,” object Naripse, “supposing it to be a case of poisoning by fungi as you say, how is it that Sullivan, though exposed to precisely the same sources of danger as the others who have passed a night here, has escaped? He has been very ill, but his mind has already regained its balance, whereas, in the three other cases, the mind was wholly destroyed.”

  Mr. Low looked very grave.

  “My dear fellow, you are such an excitable and superstitious person that I hesitate to put your nerves to any further test.”

  “Oh, go on!”

  “I hesitate for two reasons. The one I have mentioned, and also because in my answer I must speak of curious and unpleasant things, some of which are proved facts, others only more or less well-founded assumptions. It is acknowledged that fungi exert an important influence in certain diseases, a few being directly attributable to fungi as a primary cause. Also it is an historical fact that poisonous fungi have more than once been used to alter the fate of nations. From the evidence before us and the condition of Bowie’s body, I can but conclude that the unknown fungus I have alluded to is of a singularly malignant nature, and acts through the skin upon the brain with terrible rapidity afterwards gradually inter-penetrating all the tissues of the body, and eventually causing death. In Sullivan’s case, luckily, the falling drops only touched his clothing, not his skin.”

  “But wait a minute, Low, how did these fungi come here? And how can we rid the house of them? Upon my word, it is enough to make a man go off his head to hear about it. What are you going to do now?”

  “In the first place we will go upstairs and examine the flooring just above that stained patch of ceiling.”

  “You can’t do that I’m afraid. The room above this happens to be divided into two portions by a hollow partition between 2ft. and 3ft. thick,” said Naripse, “the interior of which may originally have been meant for a cupboard, but I don’t think it has ever been used.”

  “Then let us examine the cupboard; there must be some way of getting into it.”

  Upon this Naripse led the way upstairs, but, as he gained the top, he leant back, and grasping Mr. Low by the arm thrust him violently forward.

  “Look! the light—did you see the light?” he said.

  For a second or two it seemed as if a light, like the elusive light thrown by a rotating reflector, quivered on the four walls of the landing, then disappeared almost before one could he certain of having seen it.

  “Can you point me out the precise spot where you saw the shining figure you told us of?” asked Low.

  Naripse pointed to a dark corner of the landing.

  “Just there in front of that panel between the two doors. Now that I come to think of it, I fancy there is some means of opening the upper part of that panel. The idea was to ventilate the cupboard-like space I mentioned just now.”

  Naripse walked across the landing and felt round the panel, till he found a small metal knob. On turning this, the upper part of the panel fell back like a shutter, disclosing a narrow space of darkness beyond. Naripse thrust his head into the opening and peered into the gloom, but immediately started back with a gasp.

  “The shining man!” he cried. “He’s there!”

  Mr. Flaxman Low, hardly knowing what to expect, looked over his shoulder; then, exerting his strength, pulled away some of the lower boarding. For within, at arm’s length, stood a dimly shining figure! A tall man, with his back towards them, leaning against the left of the partition, and shrouded from head to foot in faintly luminous white mould.

  The figure remained quite motionless while they stared at it in surprise; then Mr. Flaxman Low pulled on his glove, and, leaning forward, touched the man’s head. A portion of the white mass came away in his fingers, the lower surface of which showed a bunch of frizzled negroid hair.

  “Good Heavens, Low, what do you make of this?” asked Naripse. “It must be the body of Jake. But what is this shining stuff?”

  Low stood under the wide skylight and examined what he held in his fingers.

  “Fungus,” he said at last. “And it appears to have some property allied to the mouldy fungus which attacks the common house-fly. Have you not seen them dead upon window-panes, stiffly fixed upon their legs, and covered with a white mould? Something of the same kind has taken place here.”

  “But what had Jake to do with the fungus? And how did he come here?”

  “All that, of course, we can only surmise,” replied Mr. Low. “There is little doubt that secrets of nature hidden from us are well known to the various African tribes. It is possible that the negro possessed some of these deadly spores, but how or why he made use of them are questions that can never be cleared up now.”

  “But what was he doing here?” asked Naripse.

  “As I said before we can only guess the answer to that question, but I should suppose that the negro made use of this cupboard as a place where he could be free from interruption; that he here cultivated the spores is proved by the condition of his body and of the ceiling immediately below. Such an occupation is by no means free f
rom danger, especially in an airless and inclosed space such as this. It is evident that either by design or accident he became infected by the fungus poison, which in time covered his whole body as you now see. The subject of obeah,” Flaxman Low went on reflectively, “is one to the study of which I intend to devote myself at some future period. I have, indeed, already made some arrangements for an expedition in connection with the subject into the interior of Africa.”

  “And how is the horrible thing to be got rid of? Nothing short of burning the place down would be of any radical use,” remarked Naripse.

  Low, who by this time was deeply engrossed in considering the strange facts with which he had just become acquainted, answered abstractedly: “I suppose not.”

  Naripse said no more, and the words were only recalled to Mr. Low’s mind a day or two later, when he received by post a copy of the West Coast Advertiser. It was addressed in the handwriting of Naripse, and the following extract was lightly scored:

  “Konnor Old House, the property of Thomas Naripse, Esquire, of Konnor Lodge, was, we regret to say, destroyed by fire last night. We are sorry to add that the loss to the owner will be considerable, as no insurance policy had been effected with regard to the property.”

  Flaxman Low in “THE STORY OF THE SPANIARDS, HAMMERSMITH,” by E. and H. Heron

  Have ghosts any existence outside our own fancy and emotions? This is the question with which the end of the century concerns itself more and more, for, though a vast amount of evidence with regard to occult phenomena already exists, the ultimate answer has yet to be supplied. In this connection it may not generally be known that, as one of the first steps towards reducing Psychology to the lines of an exact science, an attempt has been made to classify spirits and ghosts, with the result that some very bizarre and terrible theories have been put forward—things undreamt of outside the circle of the select few.

  With a view to meeting the widespread interest in these matters, the following series of ghost stories is laid before the public. They have been gathered out of a large number of supernatural experiences with which Mr. Flaxman Low—under the thin disguise of which name many are sure to recognise one of the leading scientists of the day, with whose works on Psychology and kindred subjects they are familiar—has been more or less connected. He is, moreover, the first student in this field of inquiry who has had the boldness and originality to break free from old and conventional methods, and to approach the elucidation of so-called supernatural problems on the lines of natural law.

  The details of these stories have been supplied by the narratives of those most concerned, supplemented by the clear and ample notes which Mr. Flaxman Low has had the courtesy to place in our hands.

  For obvious reasons, the exact localities where these events are said to have happened are in every case merely indicated.

  No. I.—THE STORY OF THE SPANIARDS, HAMMERSMITH.

  Lieutenant Roderick Houston, of H.M.S. Sphinx, had practically nothing beyond his pay, and he was beginning to be very tired of the West African station, when he received the pleasant intelligence that a relative had left him a legacy. This consisted of a satisfactory sum in ready money and a house in Hammersmith, which was rated at over £200 a year, and was said in addition to be comfortably furnished. Houston, therefore, counted on its rental to bring his income up to a fairly desirable figure. Further information from home, however, showed him that he had been rather premature in his expectations, whereupon, being a man of action, he applied for two months’ leave, and came home to look after his affairs himself.

  When he had been a week in London he arrived at the conclusion that he could not possibly hope single-handed to tackle the difficulties which presented themselves. He accordingly wrote the following letter to his friend, Flaxman Low:

  “The Spaniards, Hammersmith, 23-3-1892.

  “DEAR LOW,—

  Since we parted some three years ago, I have heard very little of you. It was only yesterday that I met our mutual friend, Sammy Smith (‘Silkworm’ of our schooldays) who told me that your studies have developed in a new direction, and that you are now a good deal interested in psychical subjects. If this be so, I hope to induce you to come and stay with me here for a few days by promising to introduce you to a problem in your own line. I am just now living at ‘The Spaniards,’ a house that has lately been left to me, and which in the first instance was built by an old fellow named Van Nuysen, who married a great-aunt of mine. It is a good house, but there is said to be ‘something wrong’ with it. It lets easily, but unluckily the tenants cannot be persuaded to remain above a week or two. They complain that the place is haunted by something—presumably a ghost—because its vagaries bear just that brand of inconsequence which stamps the common run of manifestations.

  “It occurs to me that you may care to investigate the matter with me. If so, send me a wire when to expect you.

  “Yours ever.

  “RODERICK HOUSTON.”

  Houston waited in some anxiety for an answer. Low was the sort of man one could rely on in almost any emergency. Sammy Smith had told him a characteristic anecdote of Low’s career at Oxford, where, although his intellectual triumphs may be forgotten, he will always be remembered by the story that when Sands, of Queen’s, fell ill on the day before the ’Varsity sports, a telegram was sent to Low’s rooms: “Sands ill. You must do the hammer for us.” Low’s reply was pithy: “I’ll be there.” Thereupon he finished the treatise upon which he was engaged, and next day his strong, lean figure was to be seen swinging the hammer amidst vociferous cheering, for that was the occasion on which he not only won the event, but beat the record.

  On the fifth day Low’s answer came from Vienna. As he read it, Houston recalled the high forehead, long neck—with its accompanying low collar—and thin moustache of his scholarly, athletic friend, and smiled. There was so much more in Flaxman Low than anyone gave him credit for.

  “MY DEAR HOUSTON,—

  Very glad to hear of you again. In response to your kind invitation, I thank you for the opportunity of meeting the ghost, and still more for the pleasure of your companionship. I came here to inquire into a somewhat similar affair. I hope, however, to be able to leave tomorrow, and will be with you some time on Friday evening.

  “Very sincerely yours.

  “FLAXMAN LOW.”

  “P.S.—By the way, will it be convenient to give your servants a holiday during the term of my visit, as, if my investigations are to be of any value, not a grain of dust must be disturbed in your house, excepting by ourselves?—F.L.”

  “The Spaniards” was within some fifteen minutes’ walk of Hammersmith Bridge. Set in the midst of a fairly respectable neighbourhood, it presented an odd contrast to the commonplace dullness of the narrow streets crowded about it. As Flaxman Low drove up in the evening light, he reflected that the house might have come from the back of beyond—it gave an impression of something old-world and something exotic.

  It was surrounded by a ten-foot wall, above which the upper storey was visible, and Low decided that this intensely English house still gave some curious suggestion of the tropics. The interior of the house carried out the same idea, with its sense of space and air, cool tints and wide, matted passages.

  “So you have seen something yourself since you came?” Low said, as they sat at dinner, for Houston had arranged that meals should be sent in for them from an hotel.

  “I’ve heard tapping up and down the passage upstairs. It is an uncarpeted landing which runs the whole length of the house. One night, when I was quicker than usual, I saw what looked like a bladder disappear into one of the bedrooms—your room it is to be, by the way—and the door closed behind it,” replied Houston discontentedly. “The usual meaningless antics of a ghost.”

  “What had the tenants who lived here to say about it?” went on Low.

  “Most of the people saw and heard just what I have told you, and promptly went away. The only one who stood out for a little while was old Fi
lderg—you know the man? Twenty years ago he made an effort to cross the Australian deserts—he stopped for eight weeks. When he left he saw the house-agent, and said he was afraid he had done a little shooting practice in the upper passage, and he hoped it wouldn’t count against him in the bill, as it was done in defence of his life. He said something had jumped on to the bed and tried to strangle him. He described it as cold and glutinous, and he pursued it down the passage, firing at it. He advised the owner to have the house pulled down; but, of course, my cousin did nothing of the kind. It’s a very good house, and he did not see the sense of spoiling his property.”

  “That’s very true,” replied Flaxman Low, looking round. “Mr. Van Nuysen had been in the West Indies, and kept his liking for spacious rooms.”

  “Where did you hear anything about him?” asked Houston in surprise.

  “I have heard nothing beyond what you told me in your letter; but I see a couple of bottles of Gulf weed and a lace-plant ornament, such as people used to bring from the West Indies in former days.”

  “Perhaps I should tell you the history of the old man,” said Houston doubtfully; “but we aren’t proud of it!”

  Flaxman Low considered a moment.

  “When was the ghost seen for the first time?”

  “When the first tenant took the house. It was let after old Van Nuysen’s time.”

  “Then it may clear the way if you will tell me something of him.”

  “He owned sugar plantations in Trinidad, where he passed the greater part of his life, while his wife mostly remained in England—incompatibility of temper it was said. When he came home for good and built this house they still lived apart, my aunt declaring that nothing on earth would persuade her to return to him. In course of time he became a confirmed invalid, and he then insisted on my aunt joining him. She lived here for perhaps a year, when she was found dead in bed one morning—in your room.”