Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

by Pip Ballantine

  Bettina drank in the atmosphere of this lush building, a sharp contrast she had seen in the run-down condition outside; a fine reception room, velvet-flocked wallpaper, and fine curios boasted crystal, china or rare old books. All of the office’s grandeur was effortlessly coupled with the forefront of technology. Where the magic stopped and the science began eluded her, but she was captivated. She turned to Mrs Marsh eagerly but was stilled by the woman’s next grave words.

  “Think very hard about what will and what will not scare you, Miss Spinnett.”

  Bettina blinked at the rather unexpected question.

  Marsh continued, pausing before the parade of file cabinets. “Anyone who is in any way involved with the O.S.M must face their fears and overcome them. This work will try the limits of your sanity.”

  Bettina took in her words. Could anything be more thrilling? One day she’d been a bored and boring orphan sewing clothes for orphanage coffers and escaping in the occasional hard-to-find book. Now she was faced with adventure none would believe.

  “I appreciate that you’re wonderstruck, child, but choose. Pick a creature. A monster. A puzzle. A mystery. Go after something that interests you and bring us back something useful you discovered. Bring us numbers. Bring us details.”

  “A creature?”

  “Think of all the mythical beasts of legend and fable. Among our many duties and our wide-ranging purview, we try to ascertain what all truly exists, for most of them do. Research and Development has been refining equipment to track their details. Should you choose the thrill of danger, of course, there are always the more deadly monsters we would like reports about—”

  “What about ghosts?”

  “Ghosts?” She considered this a moment. “Indeed. Very useful. Can never have enough data regarding ghosts. In fact, that’s an area where we happen to be lacking on account of so many false sightings and fraudsters.”

  Mrs Marsh went to the middle cabinet, middle drawer, and rather than pulling out the handle, she pressed upon it. A strange clunking noise and a hiss of steam sounded from within, like a deep metal lever were pulled, such a hollow and reverberate tone when the cabinets themselves appeared mere wood and only the dimensions visible.

  As if on its own accord, the drawer lengthened before Mrs Marsh and she reached in, a tendril of what Bettina assumed was steam wafted up from the interior. The woman’s sturdy hand plucked up a white linen bundle and her elbow pressed upon the outside handle again, the drawer sliding back once more.

  Mrs Marsh approached and instinctively Bettina held out her hands. Marsh placed something lightweight and cool into Bettina’s hand and she whipped off the white linen covering that Bettina could see now was a monogramed embroidered ladies’ handkerchief. Thoughts of whom the handkerchief may have belonged to were lost in the wonder of what was now in her hands.

  A dragonfly. A large brass dragonfly the size of her whole palm, with tiny buttons and screws and wires, iridescent and incredible. She peered at the curious device with great joy, looking at all its special knobs and fine wire mesh. It must be priceless. This stranger must place a great deal of trust in her with something so precious. Bettina’s heart swelled with excitement and purpose.

  “You will use this to record and bring significant data as soon as you are able. Two days at the most, we don’t loan equipment for long. And don’t even think about selling it. We’ve ways to track you down.”

  Bettina nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of it!”

  “Good.”

  Bettina bit her lip. This was as good a time to ask as any, though she didn’t want to press Mrs Marsh’s amazing welcome. “Tonight, though, Mrs Marsh, could you be so kind as to advise me where should I... stay?”

  “Ah yes, that. Well it’s probably best for the safety of the device for you to return it here. I’ll leave the back door open for you and you alone. And here’s how.”

  Mrs Marsh moved to one of the writing desks and picked up a handheld implement that appeared to be a cross between a stamping press and a pair of pliers and returned to Bettina. In the instant, the woman had Bettina’s index finger in her hand. The vice clamped down upon the finger and Bettina loosed a resounding: “Ow!”

  “There now, all done,” Mrs Marsh said. “Touch that finger to the small metal oval on the back door, the one in the alley beyond, and it will unlock for you and only you.”

  Bettina stared at her reddened finger, then back at Mrs Marsh. “This place does try one’s belief.”

  Mrs Marsh laughed. “This is just the beginning, child. When you come in for the night, keep to that back room. I’ll set up a palette by the coal furnace. It isn’t much for accommodations, but it’ll be warm and dry. I dare not move you upstairs, not while Mr Books is here.”

  “Is he really so terrible?” Bettina asked.

  “A monster,” Mrs Marsh grinned, evincing Bettina’s smile in turn. “A tedious, meticulous, librarian. Utterly unbearable.” The women chuckled a moment before Mrs Marsh recovered herself as if she ought not be seen smiling. “I just don’t want His Eminence’s lip, as I’m straying far from protocol. We don’t... take folks in.” Mrs Marsh smoothed her jacket with a slightly nervous gesture, her fingers fussing about the hem.

  “And I promise I’ll find a way to repay your generosity,” Bettina promised. Mrs Marsh gave her a fond smile before shooing her towards the door.

  “Now off with you.”

  Bettina looked at the device in her hand, then at the door, then back to the woman. “But…how do I use this...?”

  “Why, you press the button and hold it towards the phenomena you wish to record, of course,” Marsh said, moving forward to press the thorax of the dragonfly on a little iridescent panel. In response, the delicate filigree metal wings flapped and a whisper-soft whine came from the device that was as much mechanical creature as property. The little antennae of the device shifted from side to side and one small, bluish light the size of a pinhead lit up upon its middle and then went out again.

  Mrs Marsh’s eyes went wide a moment before her expression again regained stoic neutrality.

  “How do I know how to interpret what its doing?” Bettina asked, entranced by the movement of the device.

  “However many lights will determine, give or take one, the amount of presences near you. We’ve made all our various recording devices look more like fine toys than equipment so as not to disturb or make the subjects suspect. Once the whole of its panels have lit with as many lights as it has in its system, then it will go back to one and begin counting again. When you return we’ll attach the dragonfly to one of our readers and the little beauty will tell us the other factors; temperature, humidity, atmospheric conditions, et cetera.”

  “Do I have to rely on the lights?” Bettina asked. “Couldn’t I just count the numbers of spirits I see? That seems more elementary.”

  Marsh’s subtle reaction gave Bettina a slight chill. Had she been impertinent?

  Instead, the woman asked with great interest, “Have you always been able to see spirits, child?” Mrs Marsh smiled softly. “That’s new to our department if you can.”

  “Is that useful?” she asked with hope.

  Mrs Marsh nodded, prompting Bettina’s eager nod in turn.

  “Well, yes, but sometimes we can’t rely solely on our eyes alone, can we?” Mrs Marsh asked with her eyebrow raised. Bettina shook her head. “Good girl.”

  Suddenly Bettina wanted nothing more than to make Mrs Marsh and this office proud.

  “Do note the phase of the moon and the addresses and intersections of the phenomena. In that case, you’d best take these.” Mrs Marsh lifted a pencil and notebook from the writing desk. “And this, for the safety of the device.” She then plucked a wooden box with a handle from atop one of the file cabinets and handed them over. Bettina fumbled with them a moment before grasping them tight. Mrs Marsh continued with a motherly tone. “And I’m sure I needn’t tell you, an innocent young lady like yourself shouldn’t be out past
dusk. Gramercy may be safer than the territories of the Hudson Dusters and the Bowery Boys, but there is still darkness in wealthy circles. Best not get caught up with the likes of them, however haunted those poor creatures may be.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ll return by nightfall. I can’t thank you enou—”

  “Go be useful, child,” Mrs Marsh gestured her out.

  Bettina nodded and nearly ran through the door.

  With a thrill, she was off into the city. The bustling, ever-so-haunted New York City. She followed her instincts about where the most haunted places might be. Further downtown. The eldest parts of the city, the places of fires and shipwrecks and disasters of all kinds, where native populations were driven from their island home and where thousands of immigrants toiled in squalor and harrowing conditions while the successful were moving ever upward upon the vast Manhattan grid.

  The first thing that captured her fancy was the harbour, heading directly due west across the Avenues as they increased in number towards the Hudson. And oh, did it yield. Perhaps the device brought out the spirits more by its presence, for they positively thronged around the waterfront. But with so many of them in tattered Union blue, haunting the harbour they departed from, it occurred to Bettina that the Civil War scars would take a very long time to heal, if they ever could. But somehow counting their numbers felt good, as if she were acknowledging their sacrifices.

  Just her and a mechanical dragonfly, looking up and meeting swaying gazes as the spirits floated about, tied to the earth by some unfinished business or worldly woe. The fact that they could see her too somehow made her feel even more driven to her purpose of making them count. Her leaving the orphanage opened up whole new worlds, these spirits showing her the way.

  Down blocks marred by fires and accidents, the industrial district had their own fair share of ghosts for all the limbs and many lives taken by terrifying machines. The spirits led on, showcasing where their numbers swelled and where they thinned. As Bettina made an eastward sweep along the tip of Manhattan Island, the centuries of spirits sometimes choked the air with transparent, shimmering colour, she had to keep count ten times over at least, marking in her notebook when the dragonfly whirled its completed tally and the numbers of light would begin again. The proximity beacon was flickering nearly the whole time. She was surrounded.

  As the behemoth gothic arches of New York’s recent addition, the Brooklyn Bridge, began to loom before her, Bettina gasped at the flock of spirits hanging about its grand bricks and spectacular wire ropes. It was an unparalleled suspension bridge, a monument to human ingenuity, architecture, and design, its two towering arches having gained the crowning title of the tallest manmade structure in this part of the world.

  At the amount of spectres hovering around the incredible achievement, she was reminded at what cost such wonder was gained.

  So many spirits of men floated there, the bridge unable to ferry its dead across to Heaven, keeping them there where they died, countless from caisson disease alone, their forms bent over in pain, as man should perhaps not be so deep underwater, others from any number of perilous conditions. The awe-inspiring spectacle of engineering was haunted down to its watery foundations.

  The day flew by in mere moments, and Bettina did not even notice that dusk had fallen. Spirits cast a fine light and she was more taken up in counting them than in the tracking of the sun or the darkening of the sky. Once she noticed she was taking down her notes by downtown gas-lamp, with the harrowing Lower East Side ahead of her, she doubled back and returned up to the square of fine buildings facing the gated Gramercy Park.

  Tucking the whirring dragonfly that had seen such lively use into its wooden box, along with her notebook for safekeeping, she raced back to the nondescript façade of O.S.M., then around the corner and down the alley behind it.

  She tried the back door and found it locked, but then remembered to lift her finger. Instinct guided her (still) sore fingertip to a small metal oval where a peephole should have been. After a quiet tense moment of pressing the cool metal plate, she finally heard a clunking sound in response, a sequence of latches undoing themselves, and then the creak of an open door, as nondescript as the rest of the building.

  Slipping in as silently as she could, Bettina found the rear kitchen to be a small, brick space with a coal burning stove with a long cooking plate, a fireplace with a spit and hooks for kettles and cauldrons, the sorts of things you’d expect in the most basic of kitchens though none of it looked very used. This was a place of business, not a residence. Through the soft gaslight haze, she could see that Mrs Marsh had laid out a palette with a blanket for her as promised, along with a little glass of milk and a hunk of bread upon the pillow. Bettina welled up with tears, feeling suddenly woozy, overwhelmed by her good fortune at having truly stumbled upon her safe haven in a big city that liked to swallow helpless young women whole.

  She curled up, her palette close to the big black belly of the coal furnace, and took eagerly to the bread and the milk. On the third bite of the threadbare dinner, Bettina took a moment to consider all the walking she’d done in shoes that weren’t without their wear—she’d not noticed all her blisters until now. No wonder she was so hungry.

  Bettina also did not realise how exhausted she was until she rested her head against the pillow and soon collapsed into a dreamless, dark sleep.

  It was a clank of metal upon metal in the morning that woke Bettina and she shot up upon the straw-filled palette, nearly hitting her head upon a pipe above her.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, child,” Mrs Marsh chuckled. “I forgot you were there, you were as quiet as the dead. Usually I’m the one that gets startled. Tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Did you have luck yesterday?”

  “Oh, yes ma’am. New York City is very haunted.”

  “Ah, so you’ve something to show. The last person we sent out didn’t come up with much of anything. Mr Books was apparently sceptical at the notion of confirmed hauntings, so he may be intrigued by your findings.”

  Bettina took the small china teacup and saucer Mrs Marsh handed her. It jostled a little in her hands. Funny, she didn’t think she shook as much as she’d been lately. Out and about in Manhattan she hadn’t noticed, so maybe it was just nerves as her life had been so unexpectedly swept up into this odd new adventure.

  Mrs Marsh took her own teacup and moved to the door. “Come show me your findings once you’ve drunk your tea, and then, perhaps, we’ll even get you an egg to eat.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The idea of an egg made her stomach growl. She heard the sound, though she didn’t feel the ache. (She did however feel the tingle of an embarrassed blush rise in her cheeks.) Bettina didn’t think herself terribly hungry, anyway. Last night’s bread and milk must have done her a world of good, far better tasting than orphanage gruel.

  She sipped her tea quickly, scalding her tongue a bit, nearly dropping the saucer, but she got to her feet when finished, wincing as she slipped back on her boots again—so as not to appear rude being seen in torn stockings with toes hanging out in her workplace—and carefully set the teacup in a basin with others that needed washing.

  She imagined Books, being British, went through more tea than the average New Yorker. Perhaps she’d meet him and he’d warm to her if she brought him tea.

  Bringing in the wooden box to Mrs Marsh’s hefty desk and handing over the ghostly tally, Mrs Marsh took up the dragonfly device in her hands, narrowed her eyes on its thorax, and then turned its antennae towards Bettina for a moment. Something passed over her expression, but she quickly masked it, turning away to rise up to the ledge of fantastical equipment, strange devices Bettina had never seen, all stretched out on a long shelf above a series of encyclopaedias.

  Placing the dragonfly atop what looked like a metal scale, an instant symphony of whirs and whistles and clicks resulted. The dragonfly sprang to life, stirring all the items around it. There was a device to the si
de of the scale that bore long wire needles, little graphite tips on their ends, which made marks upon a thin paper that spooled out on a brass spindle. The ticker continued to run down to Mrs Marsh’s hands as would thread winding off its spool to a seamstress’ latest work.

  Mrs Marsh stared at what was before her, looked back at Bettina with her mouth agape. Something was…wrong?

  Bettina felt a cry lock in her throat as Marsh scrambled up to her feet and then darted up the stairs. Something had to be wrong, surely...

  Her instincts, however, kept her rooted. Bettina knew she had done nothing more than what she was told. The young girl sunk into the seat by Mrs Marsh’s reception desk and tried to stay calm.

  She heard Mrs Marsh’s voice, then a gruff British one, a bit of arguing, a cry of “Well why didn’t you tell me she was special?” and then a pair of strong tromping tread down the stairs.

  A fastidiously dapper, brown-haired man in a fine dark suit paused at the foot of the landing, Mrs Marsh trailing behind him with an expression of nervous excitement that suddenly made Bettina feel self-conscious. She rose to her feet once more.

  “Good morning,” he said with an awkward nod.

  The man, Bettina assumed, was Wellington Books. His accented tone was surprisingly warmer with her than Mrs Marsh’s. For someone so abysmal, his bark was louder than his bite, clearly. A handsome fellow, a sparkle of tireless curiosity lit his eyes and gave him a charming air. Everything about him made Bettina wish to seem the consummate lady. She dipped into a pronounced curtsey.

  “You must be Miss Bettina Spinnett,” Books said with a small smile.

  “Yes, sir. Mister Books from the Ministry?” Bettina blurted, straightening back to standing with the sort of perfect posture Sister Anne had always encouraged out of her.