Grosvenor Lane Ghost

by Jeremy Tyrrell

gramophone?” he enquired.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So your house is very much alive! It's as alive as you are! It's filled with warmth and colour and movement! I dare say you've spent many nights awake in bed, next to your lamp, reading a solid book? Well, that's just fine, that is, but it won't help you tonight,” he said, poking about inside a gladstone bag, “Because tonight you'll be entering a house with no presence of humanity left. There are no lamps, no candles, no lanterns, no artificial sources of light. No carpets are upon the floorboards, no pictures upon the wall. The walls have been stripped bare. No water flows within the pipes, neither from a tap nor a pump, nor down a drain.”

  “No gramophone either, I suppose?”

  “None. So any noises you will find will be that of the house, and the house only, that one may assume occur every night of the year, whether anyone is about to hear them or not,” he said, bringing up a glass jar from his bag, “Here, hold this, will you? By the base! By the base! Any lights you may see belong to the house. Any smells you may smell, any sensations you may feel, all of it is uncontaminated by human presence.”

  “What is this?”

  “A piece of equipment that I've had crafted, an electroscope, that we will use upon this visit, you know, get some base readings.”

  I felt a little deflated, “This is how we'll get our calibration, then? By visiting a house with no, um, interest? Nothing going on?”

  “Precisely. From my previous exploits, I have found this house to be reliably uneventful.”

  “Uneventful?” I asked again, hoping that my ears had deceived me.

  “Decidedly. Unfortunately, for your expectations at least, this may well prove to be a very tedious night.”

  He was right. I was quietly hoping to be surprised tonight, to exact a find that the Professor might consider worthy to present before his peers. Admittedly, I had butterflies in my stomach up to that point but upon his admission that there was nothing of interest to be expected, they quickly dispersed into the blackness of the night.

  He leaned in, “Your face speaks volumes, lad. You do know that science is not all about amazing discoveries and fantastic notions?”

  I openly admitted, “Of course, of course. But I cannot help but feel a little disappointed. I can understand completely, however, the need for some sort of calibration. If not only for the instruments but for myself.”

  “Well said!”

  “So the house in question would necessarily need to be void of activity.”

  He took the electroscope from me and stowed it into his bag, looking distractedly out the window.

  “Still, I've a lingering question. The rain, you see...”

  “Ah! Just a second,” he piped up, leaning out from the window, ignoring the rain that was collecting in his beard and on his spectacles, “Just off Turner now, my good man!”

  “Right y'are, sir,” the cabby replied gruffly, adding, “Nummer for'y two, if my mem'ry ain't as bad as ye thinkin'.”

  The rebuke flew past the Professor, “Quite right, number forty two. And we'll not be needing a ride back tonight, so I'll thank you to help with the luggage when we stop.”

  The driver's reply was as wet as his slicks, “Very good, sir.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop. The horses, although thoroughly sodden, were content to droop their heads and examine the reflections off the cobbles while the rain trickled over their muscles in great drops. One let out a whinny, but was admonished promptly by the cabby.

  “Easy, there, Bessy! Easy on, girl!” the cabby soothed, getting down from his seat, and helping unload the gear and port it to the door.

  I looked about carefully, conscious that South Entrance was not the most cosmopolitan of areas, and that its shadows were rumoured to hide all sorts of creatures of the night. On such a dreary evening, however, I settled myself by considering that anyone up to no good would be more likely within a tavern or holed up in a hovel. The cabby seemed unperturbed, likewise the Professor.

  “Don't just stand there gaping, lad, help with that bag there!” he barked.

  It could have been the Professor's outburst, but something got into Bessy. She was no longer content to stand in the rain, rather she was tapping the ground anxiously with her feet, clearly keen to keep moving.

  The cabby, setting a bag down, clicked his tongue and called out softly to his horses.

  I picked up a solid, leather satchel and slung my own knapsack over my shoulder and ported them to the waiting house. It was a derelict hulk, for sure, with dirt covered windows, hazy and discoloured from lack of attention, curtainless and boarded up from within.

  The front garden, the little of which could be called such, was overgrown with weeds and grass and a nasty bush that seemed resentful at having had the bad fortune to be grown in such a rude patch. One side of it had been crushed and broken, no doubt the result of children larking about.

  The door was plain but solid. It appeared that there would have been, at some stage, a knocker or a bell attached, along with perhaps some ornate trimmings, but these had all been removed. Even the post-hole's brass edging was no longer present, having been replaced with a hastily applied plank of wood secured with a few nails.

  I went back to grab the last bag from the cab.

  Bessy whinnied again and paced a little, upsetting the other horse and jiggling the carriage behind her. The cabby, having taken his payment, raced back to his seat to settle his horses. Bessy, however, was having none of it, and used her insistence to take off. The driver called and clicked his tongue, but Bessy refused to listen, taking him and his carriage off down the street.

  “Fair ye well, thanky for ye custom,” he called, doing his best to save face, “Come on, girl! Slow up! Eas' now!”

  I was left by the side of the road looking after the driver. It was odd, but, then again, what cabby is without his quirks?

  I turned back to the house and stopped, with a queer sensation that I was being watched. I stole a glance left and right, then behind me, before raising my eyes some.

  Looking up to the first floor, guarding my eyes from the stinging rain, I was surprised to see a face peeking over the sill, looking down upon me from an upstairs window. It was only the top of a head, beginning with a nose and ending in a sad, floppy cap.

  Evidently the Professor had another underling to aid him tonight. It was strange that he did not mention it. Still, mine was not to question.

  I waved courteously.

  “What are you doing standing out there, lad?” the Professor called out from the shelter of the porch, “You'll catch your death! Come over here at once!”

  I hurried over to the doorway and hurriedly put the bag down.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, “I was only waving to the chap upstairs. Is he to accompany us also?”

  “What are you on about? Come on, it's dry enough on the porch, but it's drier still inside. Well, mostly. The back area has a spot that leaks a bit, but it's easy enough to spot. Do try and stay warm.”

  He took out a keyring and flipped through the various shapes and sizes.

  “But, Professor, the gentleman upstairs...”

  He looked up from the keys, “God? What about him?”

  “No, no, no. Upstairs, in this house. Just before, I saw...”

  “Aha!” he sniffed, presenting an ordinary key, “It's the one with the point at the end, see? We'll have to lock up when we're done, so take note. I do tend to be a little tired by the end of these exercises, so I'll be getting you to make the place secure when we leave.”

  “Yes, Professor. About the...”

  “And one last thing,” he said, standing to his full height and looking me square in the eyes, “No more talking until I say. Understood?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Not a peep.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Any noise you make may contaminate what I am noting. And, by the same token, no smoking, no matches. We have lanterns, and we sh
all use these after we have set up. Keep your auditory contamination to a minimum.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “And this is very sensitive equipment. The auditory sensor you are holding is especially fragile, and even a loud bang can set it wrong in such a way as that it cannot be set right without sending it back to the manufacturer.”

  “And where's that?”

  “Dublin. And you've already gone and forgotten what I've just instructed you!” he grumbled, “No more sound, no more chit-chat, and if you really, really must relieve yourself of the noises within you, be a good chap and come out here in the rain!”

  “But that's...”

  His eyes were very sharp. There was no nonsense in them, and I understood this as his final word. I gave in, made a motion with my fingers next to my lips to indicate that they were locked tight, and picked up the bag.

  He relented a little, leaned in and whispered in a voice barely audible above the chatter of the rain on the portico, “I understand that at times it is necessary to communicate in the most punctual way possible. This house is quite old and may be rotting in a few spots, so keep your eyes and ears open and if you have such a need, try first whispering, like this.”

  I nodded, lips tight, not daring to open my mouth. He smiled a satisfied smile and patted me lightly on the cheek.

  “Good lad,” he whispered.

  For such an old door, the key turned easily, with the faintest of clicks to betray its complete revolution and the hinges swung with just as much noise. I suspected that, since the Professor had been here before, and that he was so sensitive to