Grosvenor Lane Ghost

by Jeremy Tyrrell

offering a bowl of charcoal.

  Very soon I had made an impression that very closely resembled my hand print in the dust.

  The Professor looked satisfied, “That will do. Thank you, lad. While it's not proof, it certainly locks in the evidence for scrutiny at a later date, you know, in case anything should happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don't know. Maybe if your hand grows bigger, or you lose a finger or an arm! Ha!” he laughed, then grew a little more sombre, “The second, more interesting facet, is that your hand has a definite form to it. See? It looks like a hand print. There are your fingers. This is your palm. In fact, if you look closely enough you can even make out features here and here, lines that exist on your hand that make you unique.”

  I looked at the print, then my own, blackened hand, “I see. Like this bit here.”

  “You might want to wash that off. But, yes, there are features and there is form. But this print here, this unknown hand, what can we say about it? I looks very much like your hand print, in the same attitude and finger spacing,” he said demonstrating in the air, “But it lacks the definition! It is, without question, a hand print, as you and I both agree, but it is obscure, almost like a memory of a hand print. I contend, therefore, that without anything definitive about it, with nothing to make it unique as a hand print, that no human hand made this mark.”

  My mouth dropped a little. His words rippled through the laboratory. I swallowed involuntarily.

  I clarified, “An animal, perhaps?”

  “What animal do you know of with a hand shaped like ours, with the same form of digits, with no prints or lines and that could have been in the house at the same time as yourself?”

  “But,” I began, “I don't understand, Professor! Something must have made that mark!”

  “Indeed. That is possibly the only conclusion we can draw, however weak it may seem, for anything further is speculation.”

  “So it's useless as evidence, then?” I asked, both dismayed and confused.

  “Not at all. Evidence is still evidence. It relies upon the nature of its derivation and its persistence. Its strength, however, comes from the context, the circumstances surrounding its discovery. Since we've ascertained that neither you, nor I, could have made the mark, that it was fresh, and that there was no one in the house besides ourselves, it holds more weight than if it had been taken under different circumstances,” he explained, “And this is why your credibility must be infrangible.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  He sealed the parchments in an envelope, wrote the date and time upon the outside, then returned to his seat.

  “Now all that's left to do is transcribe the notes from the journal, side by side, and compile a formal record of the night,” he said, sighing quietly, “Science is mostly administration, you know.”

  He indicated to his shelves on the wall opposite, each of them holding books upon books, each filled with meticulously recorded notes.

  “We'll start on Monday.”

  “Will that be all, Professor?” I asked.

  He looked up with annoyance, “What? No, lad, that will not be all!”

  I guess my tone must have sounded a little impudent. I had been fired for less. Familiarity was not something favoured by employers, it would seem.

  “I – I didn't mean...” I began.

  “For there was one more thing to come out of last night! One very, very important piece of evidence. My lad, I owe you an apology!”

  It was such a strange notion, that my employer might apologise to me, I was at a loss, “No, Professor, um...”

  “Don't argue! An apology you deserve and one you shall get! I am sorry. There. I admit that when you first came to my door, I thought you were just another light-headed whelp.”

  My face blushed. What sort of apology was this? I had nothing to say, so that was what I said.

  He went on, “I'm a proud man, too proud in many respects, but not so proud to know when I should be contrite. You, you see, have a special characteristic about you. You're a fast learner, this I can see already, and you have an attention to detail, despite your inattention to the obvious.”

  He swigged his beer, smacked his lips and looked up at me.

  I shook my head, “Um.”

  “I haven't finished. You see, while I thought you were fooling about when we were upstairs, for that is certainly what it seemed, you were obviously experiencing something altogether unworldly.”

  “Yes, Professor, I was,” I blurted, “It was like my head, um, and the air, it was, ah, thick, and then, and then...”

  “And then you were grasped by an icy hand?”

  “Yes! Yes, I noted it down!” I said, unsure whether I wanted to remember the experience.

  “And how would you describe it?” he asked, “I have your notes here, and these are fine, but do you think, while the memory is fresh in your mind, that you could put down in words the sensations you felt?”

  I put my beer down, picked up a pencil and started to jot down everything. I noted how the air was viscous, how it became almost laborious to breathe, how the temperature dropped palpably. I noted how the fingers felt upon my palms, the attitude of my hand in the air and the proximity to the electroscope. Then I wrote of the voice!

  “So, what's that then?” it had said, no, it had asked!

  My writing became shaky at this point.

  “I see that this has disturbed you somewhat?” the Professor asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes, Professor. Although, strangely enough, writing this down here has helped to, um, make things more clear.”

  He humphed, “Clarification. Always comes when you lay things out in front of you. Now, if you would, could you discern the nature of the voice? Male? Female? Old? Young? Foreigner? Native?”

  “Please, Professor, how can I if I didn't see the speaker?”

  “Every voice has traits, laddy, and as humans we are perfectly adept at picking these traits up. I'm not asking for your word, I only want your opinion.”

  “Well, in that case, I should say it sounded young and feminine. Perhaps that's not quite right. It sounded like young boy.”

  “A boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you write that down in your statement?”

  I did so. He looked pleased with himself as he read over what I had written.

  “Huh. A boy. How about that, eh? Thank you, lad. You given me much today, so I shall give you something. Here.”

  He carefully finished his beer and put the glass to one side. I tried to do the same, but could finish but a mouthful. From his satchel he produced a series of photographs.

  “I had these developed this morning. These you can see are with flash. These dark one here are no flash. These ones are the infra red ones.”

  He put them onto the desk, adjusted his spectacles and fiddled with his goatee and flipped through a few of them with me.

  “The problem with science, you see, is that if something is not repeatable, then it cannot be admitted. I was looking for that little orb, and I spent all morning, all damn morning looking for it. As soon as they were developed I was stooped over these pictures, magnifying glass in hand, poring over every minute detail. I was convinced, you see, that there was nothing of merit in the photographs,” he lamented, “I was this close to throwing them in the rubbish! Only the requisite rigours of my scientific training stopped me.”

  He shuddered lightly.

  “I was so sure, so sure! So much so that I fell victim to the very same problem I accused you of.”

  I ventured, “Which is?”

  “I didn't look for the bloody obvious, lad!” he hissed, removing the top photographs from the pile.

  I looked down, letting my half empty beer glass slip from my fingers to fall messily on the floor. On any other day I would have apologised profusely to make up for it, but my eyes had arrested my full attention. There was no orb, or flecks of dust in this image instead, there, on the pho
tograph, was me, my back turned to the camera, stooping low over the equipment.

  Next to me was the unmistakeable impression of a small boy, squatting down next to me, appearing to be looking inquisitively at the equipment upon the floor. His arm was outstretched, and his hand, the image shows quite clearly, was resting upon mine.

  “It seems you've made a friend,” the Professor giggled, “I can only assume he is attracted to your youth. What possible interest could an aged, doddering coot be to a young boy?”

  I nodded, being the best movement I could muster. I traced the outline of the boy with my finger lightly, remembering the sensation of his touch. I shuddered at the memory.

  “Again, I was blinded by my surety. For so long I had probed and prodded at that old house, convinced that the haunting there was nothing more than what we might call a residual haunting.”

  I looked up, confused, “Residual?”

  “It's a classification that I've noted from my studies. Things happen at the same time around the same place, the same number of bangs upon a wall, the same creak of a floorboard. This is the reason I chose to study this house. As a scientist, there can be nothing better than repeatable data!” he said, thrusting his finger into the air, “And so I diligently treated the house as such, expecting the same thing to happen each night and, sure enough, it did not.”

  “It didn't?”

  “No. For some nights there was nothing at all, other nights were full. I analysed my records and compiled some numbers. From this, I noted the relationship between activity and water, running water, and storms especially.”

  “Hence the need for inclement weather.”

  “Precisely. I rushed you, which was a mistake really, so that I wouldn't lose the fantastic rain last night! Oh, what a happy mistake!”

  He stopped, walked to the window then back again. He sat down in his chair, fidgeted for a bit then got up. His beard was wiggling about furiously. I thought it was his excitement but I was wrong.

  “Is everything alright Professor?” I asked.

  “Fine!” he snapped, then lessened his rattled face a little, “I'm fine, thank you. I'm just...”

  He made a few little notes on a pad, doodles I noticed, nothing useful. He nibbled a bit at his nails. Something was eating at him. Eventually he gave in.

  “I can't help but feel a little annoyed, though, for all that time I spent in there, taking notes, night after night. I guess I can see the trend, now that I look back upon it.”

  He nibbled at his nail a bit more before slamming his fist on the desk. I jumped at the sudden outburst.

  “I was proud! Too damn stubborn and too damn proud to admit that my original classification was wrong,” he grumbled, turning slightly red in the cheeks, “Even now I am ashamed at myself. A re-evaluation after the second or third or fifth investigation would have changed the outcome.”

  He nibbled too hard at his nail and winced in pain.

  “Perhaps it changed. My initial classification was based on solid, repetitive evidence, and so it was valid at the time – see! There I go again, trying to validate my errors! I'm too proud, lad, and if there's any advice I can give you before you go thundering your way into this realm of science, it's this: Get rid of your pride, hmm, you don't sodding well need it!”

  He breathed slowly to calm himself. He took out his marble-balls and swirled them in his hand, muttering to himself. He looked suddenly dismayed. His face could simply not drop any further.

  We sat in silence in the laboratory, only the swirl of his marble-balls could be heard. The echo of his thumping outburst had diminished from the room but was still reverberating through my ears.

  “Professor?” I asked after a period.

  He looked up sullenly.

  “Huh? Oh. You're still here.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “You, ah. Ahem. You see the problem now, don't you?”

  “Um. I'm afraid I don't.”

  “Good. Good. No point lying if there's nothing in it for you. But there is a problem. I just don't want to face it. There is a problem with all of this. Oh, I'm cursed!” he cried, dragging his hands down his face.

  This strange turn of his emotion, from excitement and elation to this morose, twisted face I saw now was utterly perplexing.

  “The photographs. My evidence. Isn't this good news? What could possibly be a problem?”

  He breathed carefully. I saw he was steadying his nerves so that he would be able to talk without emotion. I did not press him, but waited until he was composed enough.

  “The problem now is that the Grosvenor house is no longer suitable for my studies!”

  I started, “What? Why?”

  “Because it has broken its classification! First the orb, now the voice and manifestation into a full bodied apparition! It's an intelligent haunting! It's obvious! There can be no doubt about it, no matter how I play it over in my mind! It asked you a direct question!”

  The Professor was yanking so hard on his beard I thought it might fall out.

  “If it is the ghost of a child, then that would explain the repetition I first experienced. Children love repetition!”

  “Wouldn't that be a positive thing? Isn't this something ground-breaking?”

  “Hardly. That there is just another photograph. And that's just another hand print. And this,” he said, pointing to the envelope that held my notes, “Is yet another unverifiable testimony. None of it can ever be reproduced reliably.”

  “But there is a ghost in there! You saw it, I felt it and heard it! Can't we try to talk to him?”

  “Pah!” he spat, “Pah! And reduce the science to mere clairvoyance? Mediums and psychics and quacks and all of that? Let's bring in an Fakir and a Shaman while we're at it. Pah!”

  “I still don't see why...”

  He plonked his marble-balls on the desk and cried, “The repeatability is no longer there! All the notes and photographs in the world would do no good if the events are not repeatably demonstrable! What's the point of bringing along the electroscope and vibrometer and thermometer if we cannot show a direct relationship between readings and phenomena? Intelligent hauntings are like that! They are only as active as the sodding spirits want to be. Bring in a crew, set up experiments, get everything ready to go, and...”

  He held up his fists and opened them as if he were releasing a dove.

  “...nothing! You get labelled a fool. You lose any credibility you might have garnered over the years. The only following you get is the money hungry shysters, those hyenas, or the journalists looking for a scandal. You lose any backing. You lose any standing you might have had, even in your own institute!”

  I could see that he was talking from some hard experience, the details of which I only learnt about later. His eyelids drooped.

  “The problem is that those spirits just don't want to come out on cue. You can't make them dance if they don't want to dance. There is no incantation.”

  “But it came out yesterday. Can't you wait for the next storm?”

  He leant forward and hissed, “It's not worth the risk! We could have every condition perfect and if the spirit decided not to appear, it would not appear.”

  “But...”

  “Trust me, lad, trust me on this.”

  I was dumbstruck. From being on such a high, I came, wobbling, back down to earth. When I regained my grip on reality, I was sitting down in a chair, opposite the Professor who was tapping nervously on the desk with his pencil.

  “We need another house,” he said eventually, “Grosvenor Lane is no longer suitable for my studies. I need repeatable, precise data. You will learn, should you continue in this field, lad, that for every great man of science who comes upon a discovery, there are a hundred others who must suffer the pain of data retrieval, compilation and a fixed field of study. It's a thankless task, one that receives no further recognition than a footnote at the end of a calculation.”

  I rubbed my nose and examined the Professor's face
. He appeared tired, worn out.

  “It's too late in the game to change. No, we have to find another house,” he said, rising from is chair and putting the photograph away solemnly, “Perhaps, if I can find the evidence I'm after, if I can convince my peers that there is something of merit to all of this, then maybe on that day these photographs and your testimony will make their way under other learned noses.”

  He shut his drawer and locked it with a key. He shook himself and straightened his back, as I would see him do time and time again after a setback. His face was flushed with renewed vigour and he looked at me steadfast.

  “So?” he asked directly.

  “So, um, what Professor?”

  “Will you stay on as my assistant?”

  With the answer to that question I committed myself to a life of science, working on the borders of what was deemed acceptable study. Years later, as I write these memoirs, we are still compiling the evidence required to bring the field forth into the light of common practice.

  That was my first real experience with such encounters and, let me tell you, it has not been my last. Alas, amazing as they might seem, I can share them with no one, for the moment at least.

  I still have the envelope with me. I have my notes, the imprint of my hand next to that of the hidden stranger. I still have the photograph showing me, a young man, accompanied by the shade of a young boy. Every so often, when an investigation fails to yield fruit, I take the picture out and look at it, trace my finger upon the boy and reaffirm my conviction.

  But then it all gets put away once more.

  The world is not ready for such evidence just yet, this I have come to learn from the Professor's experience. There is still a long way to go before even a hint at the possibilities comes to light.

  The Professor and I will only get one chance to convince our peers, and failure can only result in mockery, contempt, belittling. We are stronger than that, of course, for we have more than enough for our own convictions to stand against the wages of their abuse, but time is not on our side.

  One day, however, I hope to show to you, with pride, with conviction, all that we have found.

  Thank you for reading Grosvenor Lane Ghost. You can find more in the Paranormology series, or other great works by visiting

  www.jeztyr.com