Other Worlds, page 13
“She is in an extremely nervous state, Mrs. Phelps. I took the opportunity of giving her another treatment of Pathetism, and she is now resting. Pray do not disturb her.”
And, as it turned out, such a talk would have been unnecessary. That afternoon it was proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that neither Marian nor any other living creature was responsible for the terrors that afflicted us.
I did not see the first of the occurrences, but I heard the housemaid cry out. She was in the hall. Upon being questioned, she insisted that Mr. Phelps’s umbrella had hurtled past her, half the length of the hall. There was no one else in the room.
Scarcely had Mr. Phelps succeeded in calming the girl when the door knocker sounded, and so stretched were our nerves that even Mr. Phelps started visibly. But upon opening the door we beheld nothing more alarming than little Mrs. Platts, the music teacher, who had come to give Harry his lesson.
Naturally I tried to behave as if nothing were amiss. Mrs. Platts is the worst gossip in Stratford, and I did not want her telling tales all over town. I called up to Harry—a reluctant musician at best, he was skulking in his room—and showed Mrs. Platts into the music room. Eventually I had to call to Marian and ask her to fetch her brother, which she did. Mr. Phelps’s treatment appeared to have helped her. She looked more alert than she had done for some days.
It was necessary to spend some time chatting with Mrs. Platts, for Mr. Phelps insisted we treat her like the distressed gentlewoman she claimed to be. He made a point of coming in to greet her himself. We were talking idly when Mrs. Platts let out a cry and put her hand to her head. I had not been looking directly at her. Mr. Phelps had. With the agility of a man half his age he sprang to her side and picked up a hairbrush from the floor beside her.
“Are you hurt?” he inquired.
Mrs. Platts rubbed her head. “No, it was not a hard rap. I am sorry; I fear I must have knocked the brush from—er—its former place.”
This was patently impossible, the only piece of furniture within arm’s reach of Mrs. Platts being a low table. If the brush had been on it, it would simply have fallen to the floor instead of rising in the air and striking her on the head.
I saw at once where her suspicions lay. She could not keep her eyes from Harry, who was standing on the other side of the room as far from the piano as he could get.
Mrs. Platts rose and went to the fire, rubbing her hands together and remarking on the chill of the day. Scarcely had she left her chair when there was a loud, discordant crash from the piano. It sounded as if half a dozen of its strings had been violently snapped. Mrs. Platts squealed. Under other circumstances I might have been hard pressed not to laugh, she looked so comical, with her large mouth ajar and her eyes bulging.
The first thing was to open the piano. Mr. Phelps did so with Harry’s assistance. Reaching inside, he lifted out a large block of wood and stood weighing it in his hands.
“Has it damaged the strings?” Harry inquired hopefully.
“That is hardly the vital question,” Mr. Phelps replied.
“But if the piano is broken I cannot have my lesson,” Harry insisted.
Mrs. Platts was suddenly galvanized into action. “Quite right. The instrument should be tested before…This is not a proper time…You will excuse me, I hope, I have just remembered…No, no, you need not show me to the door, I will…” And she departed, uttering fragmentary sentences that sounded like sharp little shrieks of consternation.
I had been watching Harry. I had seen his hand move, just before Mrs. Platts cried out.
But if he had thrown the brush, who had moved the block of wood through a closed lid and dropped it violently onto the piano wires?
It was too much for me. I managed to retain control of myself until Mrs. Platts had gone. Then I slid to the floor in a dead faint.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I KEPT TO MY BED next morning. I suppose it was childish—like hiding one’s head under the covers—and if I had hoped thus to escape knowledge of new horrors, I was not allowed. Soon after breakfast Harry came running in to announce that further manifestations had occurred during prayers. He had been struck on the head by a key, and various objects, including a tin box, had been propelled across the room by invisible hands. When I demanded why he was not at school, he snuffled unconvincingly and said Papa had agreed he was coming down with a cold.
Mr. Phelps did not visit me until later in the morning. I saw at once, by his face, that he had more news—bad news.
“I have just found a cloth spread on the floor, with a Bible and three candlesticks arranged—”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
“You must get up, however. I have asked the Reverend Dr. Mitchell to spend the day, in the hope of getting his advice.”
I protested. He was adamant.
“There is no chance of keeping these things secret any longer. I kept Henry at home to prevent him from gossiping to his friends, but he cannot remain secluded indefinitely. Besides, Mrs. Platts has undoubtedly told her tale to half the town. We owe it to ourselves to have the testimony of a man such as Reverend Mitchell.”
“His wife dislikes me. She will revel in—”
“In what, for heavens sake? Our misfortune? I cannot believe anyone would be so uncharitable. Now, Mrs. Phelps, you must calm yourself. Your present state alarms me. I have been thinking you might profit from the treatments I have been giving Marian and Henry.”
I was too weak and disheartened to protest.
It was the strangest experience. Apprehensive at first of I knew not what, I felt the most exquisite drowsiness gradually seize me as my eyes followed the slow swinging of his watch. After that it seemed but an instant before I was wide awake, with no recollection of any passage of time. Mr. Phelps sat on the side of the bed regarding me with a puzzled look, the same one I had often seen on his face when I tried to make a little joke.
“What is it?” I asked dazedly.
“Do you remember anything you said?”
“I don’t remember speaking at all. What did—”
“Do you feel better?”
“I do. I feel more at ease.”
“Good.” Mr. Phelps rose. “You will come down for dinner, I trust. Mr. Mitchell will join us at the meal and remain for the rest of the day.”
Without the treatment I am convinced I could never have endured the distress of Mr. Mitchell’s presence. A tall, severe-looking gentleman, he had always treated me with reserve, and as my husband narrated the strange events that had perplexed us, his cold gray eyes kept wandering in my direction as if to say, “There is the culprit.”
But I was vindicated. During dinner Mr. Mitchell was treated to the spectacle of knives and forks and other objects flying around the dining room. No sooner had his astonished eyes turned to follow one than another hurtled past him. One spoon struck him with a thump on top of his bald head; and I had to stifle a laugh.
Mr. Mitchell returned—for you can be sure he was there early the following morning—and by 4:00 P.M. we had counted over forty-five different objects that had been moved, some of them several times. On Thursday another clergyman, Mr. Weed, was asked to be present. This was the first time we heard noises like the rappings Mr. Phelps had mentioned to me. Some of them were produced by a brass candlestick, which beat itself against the floor until it finally broke.
It was also on this day that the mysterious writings first appeared. They were scratched onto a turnip, of all the unlikely things, which was thrown through the parlor window; and Mr. Weed’s bushy gray eyebrows rose clear up into his hair when this object was handed to him.
I could go on for many pages describing the other objects that moved, including the heavy mahogany dining room table. The writings continued to materialize, often on the most bizarre objects. Harry’s cap, pantaloons, and blue silk handkerchief were so adorned. I could only shake my head helplessly when they were shown to me. The characters were like none I had ever seen before, and the clergymen, familiar with such esoteric scripts as Greek and Hebrew, said the same.
By that time we suffered what I privately called a plague of pastors. Not only Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Weed, but several other gentlemen of the cloth, from Stratford and even nearby towns, had been summoned to assist us in our trouble. This was Mr. Mitchell’s idea. He even went so far as to remark, in his pompous manner, that if there were evil spirits in the house, the presence of so many servants of God ought to intimidate them.
Quite the contrary. The reverend gentlemen inspired more outrageous outbursts than before. Objects continued to whiz around the house and the large knocker of the outside door sounded constantly, without any human agency having touched it. The most annoying new trick was played in the pantry. One morning all its contents were tossed into the kitchen, bags of salt and sugar emptied onto the promiscuous heap of tinware and culinary instruments. Cook threatened again to leave and was persuaded to stay on only by promises of extravagant rises in salary.
If I seem to speak lightly of these matters, it is because I realize that in retrospect some of them seem frivolous, almost amusing—tricks played by a naughty child, annoying but basically harmless. The most curious thing of all was that in a surprisingly short time we became almost accustomed to them. I am told that this is not, in fact, surprising; that the human constitution can adjust to an astonishing variety of experiences, and that an act repeated often enough becomes a custom, and thereby endurable. Mr. Phelps’s calm was assisted by what I was forced to regard as morbid, unhealthy curiosity. He was visibly affected by the strange phenomena; they troubled him greatly, yet under his serious looks and frowning brow I often saw his eyes gleam as he ran from room to room, notebook in hand, jotting down memoranda of what was transpiring.
Needless to say, I had no such aid. Mr. Phelps’s treatments may have helped me to remain calm—I do not claim they did not—-but I believe the only reason I was not in a constant state of hysteria was that my nerves had become numbed, as after a mortal shock.
Even now, my memory misbehaves, in the most inconsistent fashion. Some of the events of those terrible months are already blurred and indistinct, like recollections of the distant past. Others stand out in shocking clarity, the colors as bright, the sounds as distinct, as when I experienced the event. One of the latter is particularly vivid in my mind. It was, if not the most frightening, the most awesome and bizarre of all our experiences.
It occurred during the period when the inquisitive clergymen were with us. Mr. Mitchell had decided that they must keep a constant watch on all parts of the house. So they rushed from room to room, up and down the stairs and along the passageways, looking for all the world like a swarm of very large somber beetles in their dark suits and spectacles. It was unnerving in the extreme. I would be sitting with my embroidery in the morning room, trying to snatch a few moments of peace, when a clerical head would appear around the door frame and a pair of glittering eyeglasses would stare at me. I daresay it sounds very amusing. The culmination of the experiment was anything but that.
The gentlemen had determined one day to subject the house to a rigorous search, from cellar to attic. Heaven knows what they hoped to find—an infernal machine of some kind, perhaps, or confederates of ours, hiding in dark corners and waiting for an opportunity to play another trick. While they were busy with this I decided to retire to my room, hoping that this sanctum at least would be free from their investigations.
Marian’s room, as I believe I have indicated, was down the hall from the room of myself and Mr. Phelps. As I entered the corridor I saw her standing by her open door.
She turned very slowly to look at me. I scarcely recognized her. Though her body was quite still, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her entire countenance quivered and twitched, as if every muscle in it had been subjected to a violent shock.
“Mama,” she said quietly. “Come and see this.”
My involuntary cry of surprise brought my husband running. He summoned the others. Before long there was a sizable audience. The word is appropriate; the scene before us resembled nothing so much as a tableau, or a setting for a theatrical performance, complete with actors.
Most of the furniture had been pushed aside—a task requiring no small strength in itself. In the space thus cleared a number of figures had been arranged, in the most graceful and lifelike attitudes. They were formed from articles of clothing, padded out to resemble human forms. Most were female figures—the garments were both mine and Marian’s—in attitudes of devotion. Some knelt before open Bibles. Others were crouched, their “faces” bent to the floor in poses of extreme humility.
In the center of the floor squatted a strange, dwarfish figure whose basic constituent was poor little Willy’s best Sunday suit; but this had been so grotesquely adorned with artificial flowers and ribbons and other feminine articles that it resembled something out of a madman’s nightmare. This was, however, the only ugly or repulsive figure; it almost seemed as though the lovely women’s shapes guarded it, turning to devout prayer as a means of shielding the dwellers in the house from the malice such misshapen creatures are known to feel. This impression was strengthened by the last figure, which was suspended from the ceiling as if flying through the air, or hovering in benediction above the worshippers.
The whole ensemble was so strange and yet so picturesque that we were struck dumb. I cannot emphasize too strongly the lifelike appearance of the attitudes. The unknown arranger had been fiendishly clever in setting them up in such a way that the blank stuffed faces were turned away or hidden. One figure, fashioned from a gown of my own, knelt gracefully by the bed. I did not recognize the gown at first, it was an old one I had not worn for some time, and my first impression was only one of vague familiarity: “Where have I seen that woman before?” Then, behind me, I heard my little Willy whisper to his sister, “Ma is saying her prayers.” And I knew the gown and the figure were my own.
Until that moment I had not been conscious of fear. Awe and amazement were the predominant emotions in every breast, for the tableau was as beautiful and impressive as it was strange. But when I recognized the kneeling woman’s form, an icy chill pervaded my limbs. I remembered the old legend of the doppelgänger, or double. To recognize such a figure, the precise replica of oneself, is an omen of sudden death.
One of the clergymen was the first to break the awed silence.
“We ought to take a copy of this. A sketch.”
It was a sensible suggestion, but no one moved to follow it. Mr. Weed murmured, “No need; I doubt that any of us will forget it.”
He, I might add, was later to say the most insulting things about us, claiming he had seen nothing a three-year-old child could not have done and implying that we ourselves had played tricks on him and the other clergymen. He referred, disparagingly, to the scene I have just described as “images or dolls dressed up the size of life.” All I can say is that at the time he was as dumbfounded as the rest of us.
Everyone in the house, including the unfortunate servants, was subjected to a cross-examination. It was impossible to prove that each and every person had been under observation the entire day, but even Mr. Weed admitted that he could not see how the ensemble had been created. Not a sound had been heard, not a person had been seen running to and fro with armfuls of clothing; and since the garments, the Bibles, and other objects had been gathered from all over the house, the construction of the chapel scene, as my husband termed it, must have taken long hours of labor. As Mr. Webster said, “No three women could have done it in as many hours, much less without attracting attention and eliciting suspicion by their rapid movements.”
“And,” Mr. Mitchell added, rubbing his bald head in perplexity, “we were all on the qui vive the entire day, looking for evidence of trickery. I can swear, gentlemen, that I saw nothing the whole time.”
TWENTY-NINE
I HAD NOT VENTURED from the house since that awful Sunday. By the end of the week the weather cleared and Mr. Phelps insisted I do the marketing, as much for the exercise as the duty itself. I was not reluctant to leave the house. Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Webster were still prowling about getting in everyone’s way. Mr. Weed had, quite suddenly, taken his departure, with unconvincing excuses of pressing business which he had not seen fit to mention earlier. It was obvious that the situation had gotten beyond him. A man of limited imagination and narrow mind, unable to believe what he had seen yet unable to deny the evidence of his own senses, he sought refuge in flight. Later, as I have said, he denied that there was anything extraordinary in the case. Perhaps by that time he had managed to convince himself that he spoke the truth.
Even after my morning treatment from Mr. Phelps, on which I had come to rely, I contemplated the trip into town with some apprehension. Men do not understand. They cannot realize the cruelties women inflict on their fellow women. The sidelong glance, the sly little smile, the seemingly harmless comments that raise smarting welts…
I knew what the good ladies of the church thought of me; I had overheard a few remarks others had made—kindly passed on to me by “friends.” “Too young,” “too frivolous,” “he was mad to take on the responsibility of a family at his age…,” “and such a family…the boy, they say, is quite wild.”
The road was muddy from the recent rains. I had to keep to the grass verge. The walk itself was pleasant enough. The trees had fat, promising buds all along their limbs and some of the lawns boasted brave displays of crocuses and an occasional courageous daffodil.
My rising spirits received a rude check when I reached the shops and saw that the ladies of the town were out in full force. It was the first fine day for almost a week, and they were starved for gossip. Even Mrs. Mitchell was there, the center of an avidly listening group. She usually left the shopping to her servants—and was roundly cheated in consequence. This morning some stronger impulse had conquered her laziness; and I doubted that it was the spring sunshine.
