Thomas Braham
April 27th- It’s been a few days since the Strohde case, and I was worried about John’s mental state. It was understandable that the events were cerebral and morosely horrible, and I know how such things affected John. I paid him a visit at his apartment on Letitia. I was sure that he would be amid one of his static fits. My presence would serve him no help. His condition would not worsen nor better by me being there. I guess I had a selfish motive, my peace of mind. At the very least, I would tidy up his apartment, so that when he arose, he would do so in perfect order. Not that he would care.
As usual, I found his door unlocked, and I let myself inside. His apartment was as I had left it on that early morning of the 20th. John’s apartment did not appear ransacked by any means, but by my standards, it appeared cluttered. I’m sure that John would consider the state of his main room as spick-and-span. After picking up, I knew a duster and a mop would not be ill-advised. It put my mind at ease by committing myself to this necessary task. When I was finished, I stood back and looked at my handiwork. I was satisfied and was about to retreat to my own duties for the day when I couldn’t help but sidle myself outside of John’s bedroom door. I knew John was reclusive and was certain he never left since the 20th. The urge to enter his room never entered my thoughts. I would never submit John to a loss of dignity. Entering his room would serve no purpose other than my own. I realized I committed a similar fallible sin just cleaning up his apartment, but in doing so I was not harming his spirits. If I disrupted his seclusion, I fear that I would only damage my friend.
I put my ear to the door. The feeling of foolishness soon flooded my thoughts in response to my futile act. Still, I worried about my friend. Deep down I knew he was safe behind that door and he would once again emerge when he was ready just as he has done countless times. I did not smell the odor that a deceased person emits. I would be ashamed if he heard me being close enough trying to check up on him and being the annoying intruder, as I did not want to interfere with his recuperation. Early in our acquaintance, John once said, “When you sprain an ankle, you want to secure it in an environment in which to deter swelling so that it can heal.” John’s statement confused me. Neither of us was injured, and I never understood his context. I knew he needed to be insulated. My friend needed to heal. With my trust in John and my prayers to God, I exited the apartment and left him alone to his recovery. Godspeed.
From the Diary of John Doyle
April 27th- I can hear that fool cleaning my apartment. I feel myself waking from my gloomy stupor. That burning memory and that haunting thought isn't erased but repressed. At least, I feel I can move forward. I would love to peel off the covers and slither off of my bed, but my head is pounding. It is torture writing these few words, but I feel at first I need a spark to light the guiding fire. I can hear every stroke of his broom and every brush of his rag. All the sounds of the chores being accomplished twist the needles that are burrowing behind my eyeballs. The clang of the pots and pans as they are being stored away knocks me off of my bed.
I breathe a deep sigh and try to gather myself. Knowing that he means well and is only doing these menial tasks to comfort his worry abates any ill feelings. I would love to walk out this door and converse with my dear friend, but the best thing that he could do for me at this moment would be to rest a tall glass of water outside my door and leave me be. It’s hard to let a friend struggle with his demons. It’s difficult to let a loved one endure by pulling himself out of self-damnation. There are a variety of alternatives to dealing with stress. But if Thomas could stop brewing that goddamned pot of coffee, it would be lovely. I can feel the churn of the stomach and the saliva building up in my mouth, so I will trade the pen for the pillow. I will arise a new man.
From the Diary of Dr. Charles Thorton
April 29th - I don’t mind sea travel unlike most of my colleagues, but I am eager to return home to my Cordelia. The unknown fascinates my mind, but not when it comes to a loved one. The description of her symptoms from Mrs. Bethel’s letter is vague and I cannot construct a true understanding of what her ailment might derive from this little scrap of information. I have read the letter several times over and have even rewritten it for my friend John. This exercise has given me a deeper insight into a few details, and besides, I do not want to part with the original. I will send this letter to John as soon as I hit land. My profession steers me to observe and diagnose extreme physical abnormalities, and I approach each solution by a medical standard. John’s endeavors also pull him towards the abnormal, but his viewpoint is from a different perspective. His critics nicknamed him “Banshee” and it pains me when I hear them snicker. He works upon the fringes of normality, but there isn’t a more practical mind I trust more than John Doyle. It is for that reason that I may ask for his help in this matter.
I hope Cordelia is in good spirits and pray that her courage flourishes in this moment of strife. I admit with no sense of dishonor, that as children, she was considered brave and I the coward. This point was well understood by us both, and she often used this information in order to tease me. I remembered one time when Cordelia tried to scare me. She had a younger brother who died at an early age from tuberculosis, and she tried to convince me that his ghost lived atop the great pine tree that sat languidly on the front lawn.
“Climb up there. James is up there. I hear him calling at night,” she teased.
I was young, but not naïve. “You’re just trying to scare me. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
She looked serious and answered with an air of certainty, “There is no doubt ghosts exist in this world.” Her tone then turned more playful. “Look. It’ll prove to you that ghosts are real.”
I grew tired of the joke and became angry. “They’re not real!”
“Then prove me wrong.”
I wasn’t anxious about seeing a ghost and I was old enough to know that she was playing a prank, but I was scared to climb that tree. I was frightened of heights, and that tree was almost thirty feet tall. Answering her shyly, I stated, “No, I won’t climb that tree.”
Her prank ended the same way as it always had. She said, “Poor Charlie, always so frightened.” She always said that to me but wasn’t mean or scornful. It was almost protective. She then climbed that tree and went straight to the top. And as my brave Cordelia triumphed, she shouted down, “You’re right! There aren’t any ghosts up here!”
Cordelia was always so fearless.
I don’t think that the motivation for her constant teasing was to display her dominance. I think that her playfulness and confidence were just a part of her personality. This quality was an innate, natural, and animalistic element that hid just beneath the surface, which was ready to leap out when tempted. It was when she took it too far that she would realize my hurt pride, and her humanism would then take over.
I would not characterize myself as some timid pushover that hides within my shadow, but when standing next to the sun, the firefly doesn’t shine so bright. When one is a child or even an adolescent, one cannot organize these feelings and bring them into the context of what they mean. Even now I feel like a fool. I fear I might be too late.
I try to remain focused on the task at hand. I don’t want my mind to wander down a dark path. Unlike my friend John, I can dissociate myself when my cases are complete, no matter how horrid or devastating they may become, but this is different. This isn’t a unique patient in a distant village in the Guineas. This is my Cordelia. Although her letter lacked the details that I need, the urgency and the desperation in Mrs. Bethel’s words shook my calm demeanor into an inferno. I want to descend into a rage, but I must keep my senses so that I may help her. It is hard to keep busy, to remain focused when I am stuck on this ship. The waves roll and I’m aching to get started. I just want to hit land. And when I find a way to cure my love, I vow to never leave her again.
From the Diary of John Doyle
May 13th - I have been free from my condition of malaise for quite some time. Earlier today we sat around the charming kitchen table in Munson, New York as Thomas and I were entrenched in another case. Munson is a poor farming community with muddied land and little vegetation. Its chief crop is moss. Most residences resemble shacks rather than homes. Much to my delight, the house that we were observing differed from the ones we passed on our voyage over.
We arrived in Munson the night before. We had a restful night and a slow morning. It wasn’t until noon until we had our little meeting. I must admit that the kitchen had a musty smell, but I couldn’t say that it was unpleasant. The room carried an abundance of natural light, as I often had to shade my eyes from the glare. The table was thin but well cared for, with no hint of scratches or blemishes. Every place setting had a full teacup all except for the empty chair. The house was small and bare, but it was nicely kept.
Our hosts were quaint as well but were not the country bumpkins that I half-expected. Mrs. Thompkins’ wrinkles were more due to age than stress. Her gray hair was tied in a bun and her round spectacles guarded her eyes. The Mister was thin like his wife. He had large lips that he hydrated with his tongue often. Mr. Thompkins had crystal blue eyes that lost a shade or two with passaging time. I would say that they were polite people that would have smiles pasted on their faces instead of the look of worry that they wore. I supposed this apparent anxiousness was the purpose for our presence.
I asked, “When did you first notice these abnormalities?”
Mrs. Thompkins answered, “It was a couple of months ago. I noticed a trembling in the house. I heard the plates rattle, the floor creak, and sometimes I lost my balance. At first, I thought it was the house settling. Maybe we felt a minor quake? In time, these happenings progressed.”
I turned the cup within its saucer.
Mr. Thompkins asked, “More tea, Mr. Doyle?”
Thomas asked, “Do you perhaps have any coffee?”
I cut my friend off with a wave of my hand and interjected, “Please explain further, Mrs. Thompkins.”
Before Mrs. Thompkins could continue, Thomas pushed his cup away. As he moved the saucer, it scraped the table and made a sharp screech. The Thompkins’ didn’t flinch, and I tried not to let my annoyance show.
It was Mr. Thompkins that answered my questions. “We weren’t worried until the levitations happened. A spoon would just float across the room, or my bed covers were jerked off of me in my sleep.”
“I thought I saw a white flash the other night, but it could be just my nerves,” added Mrs. Thompkins. There weren’t any tears. They were strong and proud people and they didn’t want their fear showing, but there comes a point when one is out of their realm and helpless by their situation.
“Did you ever think of leaving?”
Mr. Thompkins answered with a quick no.
Mrs. Thompkins answered, “We have nowhere else to go.”
“Are you the original owners of this residence?”
“My dad built this house almost 50 years ago. It was the house that I grew up in.” Mr. Thompkins took a sip of his tea.
I tried to sound sympathetic. “Forgive me for asking, but where did your parents pass away?”
It was then that it happened. The entire room shook. It wasn’t violent, and I was not in any danger of losing my balance, but it was more than a simple vibration. The cups in front of us rattled. The Thompkins’ didn’t carry the look of shock or fright but one of acceptance. It did not arouse Thomas in any way but he just stared ahead. I’d say that he looked angry more than anything else. The lone empty chair slid a few feet away from the table and then as quickly as this all occurred, this phenomenon simply stopped.
“Is this … .?” I began.
Mrs. Thompkins nodded.
Mr. Thompkins said, “This is our life now.”
“How often do events like this occur?”
“From time to time.” After a slight pause, Mr. Thompkins concluded, “Daily.”
I sighed, not trying to hide the expression. “I’d like to take a quick break. If you don’t mind, I’d like to consult with my partner.”
Mr. Thompkins rose. “We’ll wait outside.”
“I won’t hear of it. Mr. Braham and I will converse outdoors, and besides, some fresh air might do us some good.”
Mrs. Thompkins’ head snapped up with a smile. “I’ll make more tea!”
“Very well, very well.”
Not a word was spoken between us until we were outside and we shut the front door.
Thomas said dryly, “A half-hearted sham.”
“Whereas I agree with you, I wouldn’t say that their efforts were amateurish. I must say that I am quite impressed.”
Thomas squatted at the front of the house, examining the foundation and knocking on the base of the ground. He said, “I’m never impressed when my time is wasted.”
“Remember, dear Thomas, even when we are hoaxed, there is always something to be learned.” I then stared at him as he held his head parallel to the ground, just peering at the house. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Whatever trickery they have performed is coming from below the house.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but we have already performed a perimeter and we have toured the whole interior. I’m confident there isn’t a basement, although I agree with your logic.”
Thomas stood. “I will call them liars to their faces, but it would give me greater satisfaction to have proof.”
“You’re much angrier than usual,” I noticed.
“I am,” Thomas huffed.
“Let’s take a walk. It will prove productive in more ways than one.” After a slight pause, I added, “Pay close attention to the ground, if there are any inconsistencies.”
We walked for almost an hour without talking much. Thomas and I did not proceed in a straight line but circled around the house, and with each lap, we expanded our circumference. We did not cast ahead our eyes, but downwards. The land was flat and sparse. I could tell the soil was embedded with rock and stone and could offer little in growing vegetation. Most of the harvests from the surrounding farms comprised some kind of moss. This contributed to the poverty of the area. It surprised me that the Thompkins’ could live as comfortably as they had.
It was Thomas that spotted the abnormality on the ground. “Look over there!” he pointed. I saw a fresh mound of soil. It looked newly turned. It was anything but well hidden. If we weren’t looking for anything in particular, one would figure that the fresh pile may have been an unmarked grave for a deceased pet or even a planted garden, but we knew better.
“And this is where we may find our answer,” I said.
Thomas alluded to my bag. “Do you have supplies?”
“Some, but nothing to dig with.”
“We’ll use our hands then.”
“Yes, Thomas. No worries, this won’t take long.”
Unlike all the ground surrounding the pile, the soil was smooth and even. We dug with our fingers for only about ten minutes until we struck wood.
“Aha! Pay dirt!” I exclaimed. “But it isn’t gold that we’ll find. This isn’t a wooden box, but as I expected, it is a door.”
Thomas helped me brush off the rest of the dirt and clear the door. He went for the handle and pulled it open. What we found was a constructed set of wooden stairs that led beneath what seemed to be a dark cavern.
Thomas smiled, “Our basement I presume.”
“I may not have brought a shovel, but I thought we might have needed this.” From my pack, I brought out supplies for a makeshift torch. With quick assembly and twitch of the flint, we had our light. With a wave of my hand, I said, “Shall we?”
The stairs descended steeply, but they were well built. We climbed down only about ten feet until we hit the cavern floor. It was narrow and very dark, but they planned the underground corridor with supports much as I imagined in the coalmines. It was a good thing that I came equipped with my torch, otherwise, we would have been feeling around with our hands like the blind.
I said in a hush because I suspected we had company that wasn’t far off, “This must have taken years to construct. It wasn’t rushed but was done with care.”
“How far do you think it leads?” Thomas asked.
“How far are we away from the house?”
Thomas thought for a bit. “About 30 to 40 yards.”
“There’s your answer.”
A thought crossed my mind, and I concluded that a quick demonstration was in order. I put the torch behind my back in order to quell as much light as I could without setting myself on fire. “Look, Thomas, do you see that?”
“Yes.”
The flicker danced off ahead. I would guess that the source is about 30 to 40 yards away. I brought the torch back around and saw Thomas reaching for his revolver.
“You can put that away. Our companions up ahead pose no danger to us.”
Thomas trusted me as he put the weapon away. It only took us minutes to reach our destination. One can make much quicker time when walking the straight path rather than traveling in an expanding circle.
The corridor ended in a small irregularly shaped semi-circle room. There were two lanterns secured to the wall, which was the light that we saw some 40 yards back. When Thomas and I entered we startled the inhabitants. One of them cried when they noticed our entry. There was an adolescent boy who held a ten-foot pole with a large mallet shaped on the end. There was a little girl who sat on a wooden chair and stared at us. The other boy was a mere child, maybe eight, and he held a pole as well, and this one had a piece of metal fashioned on the end. The boy quietly sobbed.
I stated in dramatic fashion, “The ghosts of Thompkins manor.”
***
Later,- The case had drawn an early conclusion, and it was still early enough that we made the long journey home. The cabriolet wouldn’t arrive at my apartment until early the next morning, but I knew Thomas couldn’t stand another minute in Munson, and besides, I was eager to get home myself as I wanted to see if a letter from my good friend Dr. Thorton had arrived. It was our usual routine to travel back with as little communication between us as possible. I must admit that this accommodation was for my fancy. After a settled case, I liked to gather my thoughts in a swirling meditation. All the details of the day’s events had to be sorted, inspected, justified, explained, and/or rationalized, but today was different. A mere glance at Thomas, and I knew I had to intervene. His hands were clenched, his breathing was more rapid than normal, and a small vein pulsated at the side of his temple. It surprised me that the capillaries in his eyes hadn’t exploded. I began, “It was a hoax indeed, but the day wasn’t wasted.” I knew this statement may have irritated him, but I had to start somewhere.
“We wasted our time. That is how I would define this day.”
“I quite liked the Thompkins. All in all, I thought they were quite charming.”
Thomas turned and faced me, then said in a huff, “Are you mad? They were petty cheats.”
I knew my stance would lead to a disagreement as was a normal course of our conversations. Sometimes you need to let a little steam escape. “You could call them cheats, but let me ask you this, what harm did they do?”
“They were selling a lie. I did some digging around and I found out that they charged people a dime a visit. They were cheating people out of their money. It was all just a ruse for profit, and what makes it worse is that they used us to earn credibility. It doesn’t matter that we debunked them. Our mere presence will give them some notoriety. May I add I am quite concerned that you are so lax in your judgment of these charlatans.”
Maybe a change in perspective would influence Thomas. “What did you think of the town of Munson?”
Thomas shook his head, looking exasperated. “Poor, depressing, a mix of dead leaves and garbage. Why?”
“What about the residences in the area? What did you make of them?”
“John, what does this matter?”
I pleaded, “Just answer, will you?”
“You have solved the riddle if you own a pair of eyes or a nose with the ability to smell. It would be kind to call them shacks. I didn’t see any houses that I’d feel safe entering for over five minutes.”
I interjected, “All except for the Thompkins.’”
“And why is that?” Thomas sought to make his point.
“In a town of the decrepit and the poor, where the leading commerce is the sale of some kind of moss, they built something in order to better themselves. And they did it with ingenuity.”
“They built it off a lie.”
“They were selling a story; they were offering a thrill. It doesn’t matter if there were no true ghosts in their story. It didn’t matter if an apparition moved the empty chair or if there was a piece of metal embedded in one leg that was maneuvered by a magnet below the subfloor. It would frighten the customer either way. The Thompkins’ didn’t achieve their tale with luck or laziness. They must have spent years of effort in this endeavor. And I’m sure they all pitched in to help. They completed the job with thought, hard work, and care. I’m not angry over today’s events, but uplifted.”
Thomas crossed his arms and turned away to stare out the window of the cabriolet.
With an urge to know, I couldn’t help but ask, “You knew it was a ruse from the beginning. How did you know?”
Thomas never turned when he answered. “They served tea.”
“What?”
“I trust no one who would serve tea without offering an honest cup of coffee.”