The Apparition Phase

by Will Maclean

  ‘And the chairs?’ I said, almost not wanting to know.

  Neil sighed, almost sadly. ‘Who came upstairs last?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘I did. It was Sally. She followed us up a little after everyone else. It would have been the work of seconds for her to tip all the chairs over, especially if she’d practised it. It was impressive, I’ll give her that. But it was all fake. The more I think about it, the more sure I am.’

  It all sounded more than plausible. Conflicting and contradictory thoughts struggled for the upper hand in my mind.

  ‘I can see you’re confused,’ said Neil. ‘And if I’m right, you’re confused about the same thing I am. Which brings us to Question Two.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Why would anybody do this?’ said Neil. ‘I mean, what’s the point? Graham’s clearly spending quite a bit of money on this whole ghost hunt – renting this place, keeping us, and so on. So my question is this – what kind of person fakes a ghost? And why?’

  I shrugged awkwardly. I had more experience in this field than I wished to divulge.

  ‘What do we do?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Neil. ‘Keep an eye on things. See how they progress. If we are being tricked, by either Graham or Sally, or both of them, they’ll no doubt try it again, and at some point they’ll slip up.’

  I thought for a moment. This was all very well, but Abi and I always liked to consider the unimaginable in any circumstance; ultimately, it was the only way one really learned anything.

  ‘You said earlier that this boils down to either accepting that the laws of physics are the same everywhere and at all times, or they’re not. But what if what we’re witnessing here just belongs to a realm we don’t currently understand, that contradicts everything we believe we know?’

  Neil screwed up his face in confusion. ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘I mean, what if it’s not Graham or Sally? What if it’s real?’

  Neil paused. ‘I suppose we’ll deal with that when it happens,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t really know. In the meantime, I think it’s best if we keep these suspicions among ourselves, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Absolutely.’

  I was the last to go to bed. I stood for a moment in the hallway, lit by a single bare bulb. For a few minutes, I tried to believe, to fully grasp, that I was standing in a haunted house, but the proposition now seemed so absurd I couldn’t make it real. I turned off the passageway light and fumbled my way up the staircase.

  Once upstairs, I half expected to see movement in every shadowy corner, but there was nothing. I expected to feel uneasy, but instead I simply undressed, climbed into bed and turned the light off.

  The blackness on the stairs and on the landing had been severe enough, but, in my room, the darkness was absolute, like the inside of a coffin.

  I expected to be unsettled after the day’s events, but the conversation with Neil had banished my earlier disquiet, and I lay in the empty darkness, arms by my sides, eyes open.

  Was this what it was like to be dead? I wondered. Not knowing where you began or ended, seeping out into the world like liquid? Was this now Abi’s world? If so, was she conscious of it? Again I remembered our notebook, where we had written the various fates we could expect in the afterlife; I hadn’t checked up on it in Abi’s room in weeks.

  Is it more terrifying to believe somewhere is haunted, or to believe that nowhere is? After a while, I crossed my arms across my chest like a knight on a tomb, and lay as still as I could, listening for something, anything, that would unambiguously solve the riddle, prove or disprove, one way or another. The darkness, empty of everything save itself, kept quiet.

  30

  The next morning, at breakfast, with the initial shock having subsided, it seemed everyone had a theory.

  Juliet and Seb were of the opinion that Tobias Salt had been contacted and was now making his presence known. I listened as Seb described the mischievous spirit of a dead man playing with us, moving objects and causing crashes, as we, the living, grew more and more scared. Juliet said we should be seeking a way to lay Salt to rest, once and for all, possibly by employing a priest. I listened to all this, nodding politely, inwardly deriding them for their lack of imagination.

  Neil asserted a revised version of the suspicions he’d shared with me last night – namely, that no ghost was involved at all. He ventured that either we were working ourselves up into a state of group delusion, or that we were subconsciously creating the phenomena because the tension of expectation had become too much. He carefully excised from this theory any of the more specific suspicions he had shared with me the night before. I found this cowardly.

  ‘What about you, Pols?’ said Juliet.

  Polly smiled. ‘I honestly don’t know. And I don’t think any of us can know, until we have more data. Sorry to be a bore, it’s just all so new to me.’

  Sally smiled at me. ‘All right. What about you, Tim?’

  ‘I don’t know either. It’s very hard to explain the crash upstairs, once you rule out … trickery of some kind.’ I glanced at Neil, who immediately looked down at his cornflakes.

  ‘Tim!’ Sally sounded almost offended. ‘Surely you don’t think this is a hoax?’

  I smiled a weak smile. ‘I just want to be certain, that’s all. We need to be as scientific as we can.’

  Sally sounded affronted now. ‘You don’t think we’re being scientific enough?’

  ‘No, of course I do!’ I felt my cheeks redden. ‘It’s just that – Neil’s right. The pressure to produce phenomena is huge, and we might be meeting that pressure – subconsciously.’

  Sally smiled a tight smile, nodded, and said nothing. Neil played with his spoon, turning it around in his cereal, like a child. Why wouldn’t he help me?

  Seb’s cutlery clattered loudly to his plate and he patted his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘What about you, Sally? We’ve all shared our theories with you. You must have heard one you agree with? One you think is correct?’

  Sally smiled again, an enigmatic smile. ‘Why can’t they all be correct?’

  Seb frowned at her for a split second, and then collapsed into a good-natured guffaw at her joke, which effectively ended any further discussion of what Sally had said. However, something about her demeanour suggested to me she was entirely serious. But then again, how could she be?

  As if on cue, Graham appeared, his unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, a bundle of books under his arm. He snatched two pieces of cold toast from the silver rack and proceeded to plaster them with half a pot of thick-cut marmalade.

  ‘Well, at least you’re in a good mood,’ said Polly.

  ‘Hmm?’ Graham looked up at her. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. Wouldn’t you be? We’ve spent many fruitless days in this house, at great expense, attempting to summon up some sort of poltergeist reaction, and yesterday – bang! – two for one!’ He crunched happily into his marmalade-slathered toast.

  ‘You’re not … afraid?’ said Juliet.

  Graham looked thoughtful. ‘Well, cautious, yes. Curious, absolutely. But not afraid. This isn’t the dark ages, Juliet. Whatever arranged those chairs – and caused that crash – can be explained by scientific method. It’s our duty to apply that method.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Seb, through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘Only, Tim thinks it’s all balls.’

  ‘That’s not what I said!’ I shot Seb a look of such ferocity that he actually looked chastened. Sally looked at me as if personally wounded.

  ‘Really, Tim?’ said Graham. ‘What makes you think that?’

  Enough was enough, I thought. ‘It was Neil’s theory. He shared it with me last night.’

  ‘Audle!’ said Seb. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘All I said was we don’t have concrete evidence yet,’ Neil said. ‘We only have a series of happenings which might – or might not – be connected to our current activities.’

 
; ‘Pfffff.’ Seb would never, I realised, miss an opportunity to belittle Neil. ‘It’s a bit of a bloody coincidence, though? We ask for a noise. A noise happens. In case we doubt the noise, the chairs are arranged deliberately. I’d say that was pretty conclusive.’

  Neil shrugged. ‘I’m just saying. I think Polly’s right. We need further data.’

  ‘Thank you, Neil.’ Polly nodded and smiled.

  ‘Well,’ said Graham, pointing at us with his second slice of toast. ‘You may get your evidence later today. I suggest we press our advantage and carry straight on. Let’s assemble in Tobias’s room after lunch, and see what he has for us today.’

  And so, that afternoon, we again gathered in the blue room. I drew the curtains, obscuring another glorious day, and Seb lit the candles. Graham was last to join us, setting the tape recorder to record, switching on the equipment and knocking his pipe out in the fireplace.

  ‘All right,’ said Sally. ‘We’re all present. Same personnel as yesterday’s session, and we’re trying again with the planchette. Only, this time, I want to try automatic writing.’

  ‘Right,’ said Graham. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Sals?’

  ‘I am,’ said Sally. ‘I think it will speed things up a bit. Does anyone mind?’

  No one did. We all sat around the table, in our usual places. I noted with a thrill that Sally’s thigh again touched mine, and she didn’t move it away. The planchette was duly produced, and we placed our fingertips on the pointer. However, this time, Graham fixed a freshly sharpened pencil into a hole at the front of the planchette, the point of the lead touching a large sheet of blank paper, like the needle in a seismograph.

  We waited nervously in the darkened room, sunlight glowing at the edges of the drawn curtains.

  ‘Tobias,’ said Sally. ‘Tobias Salt.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Tobias Salt.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Are you there?’

  The table lurched. Again – as we had done last time – we all gasped. Sally gasped too. I looked at her closely; she certainly didn’t look as if she was faking anything. Graham, too, looked alarmed, taken aback by what was happening. I glanced over at Neil, and saw his eyes dart back and forth, perhaps looking for the reassurance of blatant trickery, so he would know precisely where he stood.

  ‘And just to be sure,’ said Sally, almost fearfully. ‘No one else is doing that?’

  We all turned to Seb. He looked genuinely hurt.

  ‘I’m not doing anything!’

  Sally looked around at the rest of us. ‘And no one else is doing that?’

  Neil’s voice sounded embarrassed. ‘You don’t have to go out of your way to—’

  Beneath the planchette, the table lurched again, as if reminding us to include it in the conversation.

  ‘Good God,’ said Sally. ‘Wow. OK. It seems that – yes. Tobias Salt, is that you? Can you hear us?’

  The rapping again; once for yes.

  ‘Good God,’ repeated Sally. ‘What should we call you? Tobias?’

  A knock, and then, after a short pause, another knock.

  ‘No? Too informal, I imagine. In that case, how about Mr Salt?’

  I thought of the newspapers, telling of Abi’s disappearance. Of the portrait of Mister S that accompanied them. Of Janice’s voice as she hissed the single syllable, ESSS, out from clenched teeth.

  ‘I don’t—’ I began.

  A definite knock this time.

  ‘Ah! Mr Salt it shall be. Are you willing to talk to us today, Mr Salt?’

  A pause, then a vague knock.

  ‘We have something different for you today, Mr Salt,’ said Sally. ‘Do you see the pencil?’

  Knock.

  ‘We have paper, too, and we’re willing to be a conduit for you. Do you know what I mean by conduit?’

  A single, loud knock, almost angry.

  ‘Of course. My apologies. Well then, in that case, guide our hands. Let’s see what you can tell us about yourself.’

  Graham turned to Sally. ‘Are you sure?’ Sally nodded, biting her lip.

  There was another knock at the table, catching us all off guard, and everyone laughed nervously.

  ‘OK. In that case, Mr Salt, please make yourself known.’

  We all watched the pointer on the white expanse of paper, but it did not move. Everyone exchanged glances, but no one spoke.

  ‘Mr Salt,’ said Graham, after a minute or so. ‘Can you move the pencil?’

  An indeterminate scratching sound, like the burrowing of rodents. I wondered if anyone could produce a noise like that on purpose. The pencil did not move.

  ‘Maybe he’s thinking,’ said Neil.

  ‘Don’t be shy, Mr Salt,’ said Sally, looking upwards. ‘You’re among friends. You can tell us anything.’

  Knock.

  ‘Are you ready, Mr Salt?’

  Knock.

  Five seconds went by, then the planchette jerked violently forward, as if pulled by a rope. We all gasped, or swore. Beneath my fingertip, I felt the pencil scratch feverishly across the paper. I looked down. Words, cut into the page in a jagged, slanting hand, like a length of barbed wire:

  tht voys why wont it be quite

  ‘Tell us more,’ said Sally. ‘We don’t understand. You can hear a voice?’

  The pencil slashed across the page, awful to watch, awful to feel. Something like nausea crackled across my cheeks as it wrote.

  plantic voys of subtil madders

  ‘I’m sorry, I still don’t understand. Could you tell us more?’

  I an the remiannder when all is subreacted

  I am th daxzzling brite

  ‘You are bright? Shining?’

  No answer.

  ‘Do you mean your soul? Your soul is bright?’

  No answer.

  Sally took a deep breath. ‘Are you dead?’

  NEVER

  ‘That word again,’ I said.

  ‘You aren’t dead?’

  thou arts in one regeim onlie

  I am in them

  all I am the

  sickell the promis

  ‘We can’t understand you.’ Somewhere behind Sally’s voice, I heard Juliet whimper involuntarily.

  ‘Tell us more. You are Tobias Salt?’

  Was

  ‘You were? When you were alive?’

  Am

  ‘You are now?’

  Will be

  ‘What does that—’

  I can straedge and

  see beyonf all I

  can see all

  ‘What does that mean?’ implored Graham. The pencil didn’t move. ‘Do you mean you are in a place beyond time now? In the realm of the dead?’

  A collective gasp as Sally’s hand jerked violently, dislodging all of our fingers. Sally gave a distressed moan as, under her hand, a slashing storm of cancelling lines grew, like thick black rain. Graham grabbed Sally’s arm and shushed and soothed her, and the slashing motions subsided.

  ‘Christ,’ said Sally. ‘Jesus Christ.’ The pencil began to write again – only this time, not the urgent, frantic printing of the earlier messages, but a faint, controlled rhythm; a different hand, grey in contrast to the sharp black barbs of the previous messages.

  Egow Sum Non Sum Egoe Sum Non sum

  ‘What does that mean?’ said Seb.

  ‘Sally? Are you alright?’ I asked. Sally didn’t answer. She stared down at her hands on the planchette, in terror.

  ‘We need to stop this,’ I said.

  ‘No!’ said Graham. ‘We need to see where it goes.’ Sally lurched forward again.

  Ego Sum Non sum

  ‘What’s he saying?’ shouted Seb.

  ‘It means—’ began Juliet. But the planchette, under Sally’s painted fingernails, answered for her.

  I am I am not I am I am not

  ‘What?’ said Graham. ‘What does that mean? We can’t understand you!’

  a meting place a meting place I will mete you th
er

  ‘You will meet us? You want to meet with us?’

  ‘Please!’ Sally’s voice was barely a sob. Her face contorted with distress.

  ‘Graham!’ I shouted. The pencil jumped into savage life once more, scoring the page with dark black strokes.

  Reuntied with wat is gon

  You Wil See

  I am thruogh now

  YU WILL SEE

  SILT STREAM

  ‘You’re …’ Graham didn’t get any further. The planchette danced madly across the paper, trailing words.

  I bring the liek of witch I bring skalld and renned raw you of living lives

  Sally was sobbing uncontrollably now. The pencil slashed through the paper and through the pages below as she wrote the same meaningless pattern over and over, a looping shape like a sound wave folded in on itself, again and again, until the pencil lead broke and she was just writing with a blunt stump of wood.

  Under the pointer, the pencil snapped in two. Sally screamed and threw her arms up in an unnatural, mechanical movement, overturning the table as she stood. The table crashed onto its side, almost hitting Juliet, who shrieked. Sally clasped her hands to her face and howled, whilst Graham, Seb and I manoeuvred her into a chair.

  She didn’t stop crying for fifteen minutes.

  Graham was elated.

  ‘This,’ said Graham, reading from the scrawled notes laid out on the kitchen table, ‘this is amazing!’

  ‘I’m not sure Sally would agree with you,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Polly drily. ‘We had to give her a sedative.’

  Graham ignored us. ‘Listen to these sentences. “I am the sickle, the promise.” The broken syntax is entirely consistent throughout. It sounds convincingly like the thoughts of an external entity, rather than even the deep subconscious.’

  Neil shook his head. ‘I think the subconscious may be a lot deeper than you think.’

  ‘You’re not still doubting all this, Neil? After what we just witnessed?’ Graham’s voice was almost annoyed.

  ‘No, I just – it’s a lot to think about, that’s all.’ Again, Neil looked embarrassed.

  ‘What about you, Tim?’ said Graham, folding his arms. ‘Are you still on the fence about all of this?’