Ghost in the Machine

by Patrick Carman

  One of Sir Isaac Newton’s most famous lines was actually in a letter he wrote to Robert Hooke:

  If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.

  So that’s what Sir Isaac Newton, the discoverer of gravity, thought of Hooke. Not bad.

  Sir Isaac Newton is even more important than I realized. Sure, I knew he was impressive, but I could have spent all day researching the things he invented and discovered and not even scratched the surface.

  From gravity to planetary movements, from calculus to how light works, Newton was at the forefront of so many groundbreaking discoveries it’s no wonder he is known as the father of science.

  And then there was the last of the three, Robert Boyle, who turns out to be the most interesting.

  Let’s start with his hair:

  The guy had guts to go out on the streets of London looking like that. Wow. Plenty of wigs to choose from at the wig shop and he chose the biggest of the bunch.

  Robert Boyle was a scientist with devout religious beliefs. After reading up on him, I think this was one of the key things that made Boyle unique. It’s not that other notable scientists of his time had no faith, it’s just that Boyle was a Christian first and a scientist second. The fact that he was highly successful at both made him a powerful figure of the times. He admired God’s workmanship and saw the study of natural science as a form of worship. The only way, in his view, to discover the world God made was to investigate it. This seems like a sound idea to me.

  As far as I can tell, he was a little bit of a nutty professor. Just about every thing Boyle ever wrote was short on organization and long on ideas. I imagine, if he’d had a car, the keys would have gone missing all the time. He was constantly refuting the ideas of other chemists and scientists, and although he was often right, this might have had the effect of making him seem like a know-it-all to some.

  He was outrageously wealthy, primarily because his father was one of the richest men in Ireland. His title (I’m not making this up) was the Great Earl of Cork, but I don’t think he made corks or pluggers or bottle caps. He lived in Cork, which I guess is a place in Ireland. Anyway, this meant Boyle could afford to hire assistants, including Robert Hooke — yes, that Robert Hooke — to work for him. It was Boyle’s idea to explore gases and pumps, but Hooke did many of the hands-on experiments.

  Many people regard Robert Boyle as the most important chemist of his time, which makes the fact that he was an alchemist all the more interesting. You heard me right — Robert Boyle, the Robert Boyle, was a closet alchemist! And not just a hobby alchemist — he was fairly obsessed with it. Apparently, Sir Isaac Newton also thought a lot about alchemy, but it was Boyle who appears to have been at the forefront of this very subjective science. And while it’s harder to find references to Robert Hooke and alchemy, something tells me all three of them were secretly working in this area together.

  Alchemy, I’m starting to learn, was then and continues to be today a controversial offshoot of “real chemistry.” During Boyle’s time, it was viewed as voodoo chemistry where chemicals and metals were brought together in strange ways to accomplish outlandish things. It was not “serious” science.

  And here we come to the most interesting thing of all, the thing that makes the appearance of their names in the Crossbones make all the sense in the world.

  Robert Boyle wrote a secret paper that didn’t surface until long after his death. It was never meant to be published, but it was.

  This is what the paper was called:

  An Historical Account of a Degradation of Gold Made by an Anti-Elixir.

  If you believe this secret paper by Boyle, he was very close to figuring something out — something remarkable and kind of scary for what it could mean. Robert Boyle was very close to finding a way to turn gold into something else.

  Imagine if you could change the properties of gold so it wasn’t gold anymore, and then change it back again. Imagine!

  What if you worked on a gold dredge and had a way to hide gold or change gold, then change it back?

  It can’t be possible, can it? Could Boyle and Hooke and Newton have secretly figured this out, but told no one? What if the secret is out there and someone from my little town figured it out? A process like that sure would come in handy on a gold dredge.

  It might start to answer why so many members of the Crossbones ended up dead and why at least one of the dead doesn’t want to leave the dredge.

  Wednesday, September 22, 9:05 P.M.

  I’m stuck in my room, where I just watched the last tiny speck of light from the sun disappear. Summer is fading fast. It used to stay light until almost ten out here.

  Not anymore.

  Mom came home at 6:00 and made me dinner. It wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be. But then again, it’s hard to mess up when you’re making spaghetti and the sauce is out of a jar.

  We sat together at the kitchen table and waited for Dad and Henry to come home.

  “They’re not coming back for dinner, are they?” Mom asked me. She was twirling a fork full of pasta.

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Without Henry around, it was quieter. I’m beginning to think I prefer quiet. It’s a lot of work, holding up my end of the conversation. Mom and I mostly sat in silence, which was okay. We talked about what I’d done all day and I told her I spent most of it at the café writing and drawing.

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It felt good to be out of the house,” I said. “I think I’m ready to get back to school. This town is awfully dull during the day with no one around.”

  Mom smiled. I was glad to make her think I wanted to go back to school like a normal kid, even if I wasn’t too sure about it myself. There’s going to be a lot of questions about the accident and what I’ve been doing. I could live without all the attention.

  Dad and Henry finally stumbled in around 8:00, arguing about who caught the bigger fish and smelling like two guys who hadn’t taken a shower in about a month.

  “We’re starved. What’s cooking?” asked Henry.

  “Whatever was cooking is gone,” Mom replied. “You’re on your own.”

  Henry and my dad looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and went straight for the Bisquick.

  “What is it with you two and pancakes?” asked my mom.

  They didn’t answer. Two old friends in the kitchen making the easiest of all foods. I envied them their time together like never before.

  “I was out a lot today, and I’m tired,” I said.

  I didn’t mean for it to sound like I was irritated, especially with Henry leaving and all, but I think it was obvious I saw them as a little club no one else was invited into.

  “You sure you don’t want a cake or two?” Henry said. “I could tell you about how I caught ten times more fish than your dad did.”

  “I thought you had to go visit Gerald down the road,” Dad said.

  Henry nodded, but then said, “Gerald can wait awhile. He’ll be up late. Always is.”

  Gerald is another old friend of Henry’s. He lives in the next town over — a town that has the distinction of having been the very last place in America to get phone ser vice. It’s even more of a dead end than Skeleton Creek. Gerald is quite a bit older and can’t go fishing anymore, but Henry always visits him at least once on every trip out from New York. The fishing had been so good for two weeks he’d put it off until the last minute.

  Henry did a little more begging and Dad nodded like he wanted to spend some time with me. So I sat with them on the porch for almost an hour, acting more and more tired as the minutes passed, until Henry jumped out of his chair so he could drive the ten miles down to Gerald’s place. I was sure my mom used the time I was on the porch to check my computer and my phone. At least I could turn in early and they wouldn’t have any reason to bother me.

  I came up here a little while ago, right before the sun started setting, and right at 9:00 I checked my email. Nothing
. I checked again at 9:01 and there it was, a note from Sarah. It was cool to think she was sitting at her computer and me at mine, and somehow in those sixty seconds we’d made a connection. She clicked send, I refreshed my screen, and there was the note. It was sort of like magic, and I missed her more than ever.

  I’m scared for her.

  I mean really scared.

  I’m not sure we should do this.

  Wednesday, September 22, 11:10 P.M.

  I’m really close to bailing out. This is starting to remind me of the night I left for the dredge and ended up trapped inside the secret room.

  I hate the way this feels, like I have no control over things.

  All I can do is watch while my best friend breaks into two places in one night.

  And what if she gets caught? It’s not hard to imagine an alarm on Dr. Watts’s door going off, or her getting trapped in the basement at Longhorn’s Grange. One of those things could easily happen.

  I won’t be able to do anything but sit here and watch it happen.

  I picked up my copy of Frankenstein and started reading it to pass the time.

  I’m amazed at how much I underlined and took notes in this old paperback. The margins are filled with little questions and comments. I’ve dog-eared about thirty of the pages. I went back through, page by page, and read some of what I’d underlined and noted.

  None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. This struck me as very interesting, having just spent all day reading about Newton, Hooke, and Boyle.

  I shunned my fellow creatures as if I were guilty of a crime.

  I can relate, Dr. Frankenstein.

  Two years after making the monster, Frankenstein discovers it has killed his brother. This is when the doctor starts to really go nuts. In the margin I wrote: Had he never considered what the creature might do?

  A darn good question, if I do say so myself.

  Later, referring to Dr. Frankenstein’s character, I scribbled in the margin: It sounds as though he is convinced justice will prevail.

  It’s questionable whether or not Dr. Frankenstein was right about that.

  I wrote all over this book in hundreds of different places, like the story and the questions it raised in my mind were too big for the pages to hold. These are just a few of my scribbles in the margins: What did he tell them? He has set his course on doom and power. The dead and the innocent, these are his obsession now. Was he never afraid? I am constantly afraid. Pastoral. This is the devil, I’m sure of it. He would commit another to the same misery. He has killed accidentally. The monster is innocent, because he has no remorse. The apple and the angel. Abandoned. Alone. Immortal. What’s that noise?

  When I look at the margin notes, I can see why some people might wonder about me. Maybe my parents are worried I’ll grow up to be a reclusive weirdo who can’t be in a room full of people without having his nose in a book or a journal to write things down in. And the strangest thing? I have no memory of writing these things. Maybe I did it at night, asleep, instead of trashing the walls in my room.

  It’s 11:30 P.M. Time to go online.

  SARAHFINCHER.COM

  PASSWORD:

  MARYSHELLEY

  Wednesday, September 22, 11:30 P.M.

  Nothing. The screen is dead.

  She’s not there.

  I wonder when my dad is going to sneak out and if my mom knows he’s leaving.

  He’s going to leave soon.

  He might already be gone.

  Wednesday, September 22, 11:32 P.M.

  Nothing’s there.

  This is starting to worry me.

  Where is she?

  Wednesday, September 22, 11:35 P.M.

  Still no Sarah. Should I call someone?

  Maybe her camera’s not working. I don’t know what to do!

  I’m checking my email.

  Wednesday, September 22, 11:37 P.M.

  She sent an email!

  I’ve got three minutes.

  The Ancient Mariner. I was wondering when this was going to come up.

  Sarah and I took the same Eng lish class together last year, and for some reason I obsessed over this poem. She hated it because it was so wordy and hard to understand.

  But I loved it.

  I think because it was so sad and lonely.

  It’s about how bad choices led someone astray. How he can’t find home.

  It’s the story of a wanderer who lost his way and never came back.

  I hear my dad sneaking down the stairs.

  It’s a ten-minute walk to Longhorn’s Grange.

  Sarah better hurry.

  SARAHFINCHER.COM

  PASSWORD:

  THEANCIENTMARINER

  Thursday, September 23, 12:42 A.M.

  That’s it. I’m calling the police.

  Thursday, September 23, 12:43 A.M.

  I can’t do it.

  I don’t know why I can’t call the police.

  I just can’t.

  Who else can I ask for help?

  I couldn’t trust my dad even if he was here. And my mom? Either she’s in on all this or she’s totally oblivious. I can’t bring her in. She’d go ballistic two seconds after I mention Sarah’s name.

  Henry. Henry can help me. He’ll understand.

  I’m going downstairs.

  Thursday, September 23, 1:12 A.M.

  Thirty minutes ago I crept down the stairs and stood in front of Henry’s door. I stood there with my hand ready to knock and then the strangest thing happened. I heard the knock, but I hadn’t moved my hand. This, I felt for a moment, was the final sign that I’d gone over the edge. Scrawling on my walls, seeing ghosts, and now I’m hearing myself knock without actually knocking.

  The tap-tap-tapping wasn’t coming from the door in front of me. It was coming from the door behind me.

  The screen door that leads outside.

  Something about that tapping made me want to run back upstairs and lock myself in my room. I couldn’t turn around. Cold sweat started forming on my forehead. I could feel it, like blood about to drip from a dozen small cuts on top of my head.

  It was either a big, black crow tapping its beak on my front door, or it was Old Joe Bush. He’d finished off my best friend and now he was coming for me.

  “Ryan. Is that you?”

  I glanced around and saw a shadow in the doorway. Luckily, I knew the voice.

  Sarah.

  I have never traveled so quickly and quietly at the same time. Before I even knew I’d moved from Henry’s door, I was outside on the porch, holding Sarah. She was shaking like she’d just fallen through ice into a frozen lake.

  We whispered in the dark on the porch and I kept thinking my mom was going to walk up any second and catch us.

  “I couldn’t stand it in there anymore with dead Dr. Watts,” she said. “Whatever was outside went left, away from the back door. So I went out into the night the same way I came in. I ran as fast as I could.”

  “My dad could be here any minute.”

  “I kept looking back, but there was nothing there. No ghost, just darkness.”

  Sarah was in shock. She wasn’t herself. She was like a robot, repeating what she’d seen with this choppy voice full of air. She didn’t understand we couldn’t be there on the porch, holding each other.

  “Sarah, my dad — or my mom, for that matter — we can’t get caught.”

  “I’ll make an anonymous phone call tomorrow from the school about Dr. Watts so someone finds his dead body.”

  “You’re okay. That’s the important thing. Can you make it home without me?”

  I couldn’t imagine getting caught. My parents had threatened over and over again to move away and leave Sarah behind if we didn’t steer clear of each other. She had to go.

  Sarah reached into the back pocket of her jeans.

  “I think Dr. Watts was planning to bring this with him to the Crossbones meeting. Hold on to it, will you? I think it�
�s important.”

  I didn’t want the envelope, but I had to get Sarah moving. My dad was going to appear out of the dark any second. I could feel him coming up Main Street. I just knew.

  “Sarah, you have to go,” I said, taking the envelope out of her hand and guiding her toward the porch steps. For some reason I felt like I was pushing her toward the edge of a cliff. I hadn’t even noticed she had her camera with her. It was like an appendage, this metal whirring thing stuck to her hand. She carried it around so much I hardly paid any attention.

  “I’ll get my other camera from Longhorn’s later, like around four, before it gets light outside.”

  I was concerned about her, after what she’d seen. “You should get some sleep,” I told her. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  She looked back at me all glassy-eyed, and I thought she might tumble down the steps.

  “Gladys, your dad, and Daryl Bonner. Those three are all that’s left. I wonder what they’re going to say to each other?”

  “You don’t need to go back there tonight,” I told her. “Promise me you’ll get some sleep.”

  Sarah didn’t answer me. She moved off and got swallowed by the darkness.

  “Be quiet out there,” I warned, maybe too late. “You might run into my dad.”

  Thursday, September 23, 1:31 A.M.