Other Worlds (16 page)

He had to raise his voice to be heard over Marians sobs.

"Those are the garments that were used last night to create the form on our bed," he cried. "How did they come here?"

The uncouth gulping sounds coming from Marian scratched at my nerves, which, needless to say, were in a dreadful state. Turning, I slapped her sharply on the cheek. This is, of course, the best cure for hysteria, and it had the desired effect. Marian's sobbing ended. Her hand at her burning cheek, she looked at me in shocked surprise. I had never struck her before. I do not believe in striking children.

"It was necessary," I said, in answer to her wordless reproach. "Are you better now? Sit down—breathe deeply—and tell me what has happened."

Marian obeyed, jerkily, like a puppet. Still holding her cheek, she shook her head. "I found it... like this."

"These garments." Mr. Phelps held them out.

"They are yours, are they not, Papa?" Marian looked bewildered. "I don't know how they came here."

Mr. Phelps tossed them back into the trunk. "This is beyond words."

"You cannot accuse Harry," I cried. "He—"

"He could have done this before he left for school. Marian is always early to breakfast and he is invariably late." Hands clasped behind his back, Mr. Phelps walked around the room, peering closely at the disarranged furniture. I found myself doing the same, as if hoping some solution would suddenly leap out at me—a solution that would clear my boy, once and forever.

Suddenly there was another shriek from Marian. So overwrought was I that I echoed it. Whirling around, I saw her bolt upright in her chair, her arm outstretched, her finger pointing.

"The clothing," she gasped. "It is gone."

Sure enough, the suit of gentleman's clothes was no longer in the trunk. Marian began babbling. "I had covered my face with my hands—when I took them away, the things were gone—"

"Hush," I exclaimed. "Be still or I will slap you again. Dear Heaven, I cannot endure any more of this."

Again Mr. Phelps searched the room, this time to more purpose. The missing garments were found under the bed.

At this discovery Marian began weeping noisily. I jumped at her and shook her by the shoulders. It was not such a terrible thing to do, and I do not remember crying out; but Mr. Phelps said I was losing control of myself.

"I will put the clothes away," he said sternly. "Be assured this time they will stay there!"

Flinging the garments into the trunk, he carried it into the closet, which he locked. He ushered us from the room, then turned the key in the lock and did the same for the communicating door to the next room.

"There," he said, putting the keys in his pocket. "Now we will see."

Marian crept away, looking like a red-nosed, frightened mouse. I felt I must lie down. I ought to have been relieved. Harry could hardly be accused of hiding the garments under the bed. But I was shaking uncontrollably. How had the suit of clothing— which I devoutly hoped Mr. Phelps would never wear again— how had it moved from the trunk to the floor, and under the bed? Marian might have moved it, while Mr. Phelps and I were looking elsewhere. But why should she do such a mad thing? And she had certainly appeared to be as alarmed as we ...

Had Mr. Phelps really been alarmed? Men must conceal their fears, if they feel them; but the more I thought about it, the more I suspected that his eyes had held a strange glint, a look, almost, of pleasurable excitement.

I decided that I must have been mistaken. That was the last emotion one would expect to see in a man so tormented.

Shortly I heard his footsteps approach the door, which had been left ajar. To my surprise—for I had expected he would come to inquire how I felt—the steps did not pause, but went on past. They were very quiet, as if he were tiptoeing.

The most incredible surmises troubled my mind. Rising, I went to the door and peered out.

Mr. Phelps stood by Marians door. As I watched, unobserved, he took a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. I heard the sharp click as it turned. Gingerly he opened the door.

The sound he made was not a gasp of surprise, but a long, drawn-out "ah!" He smiled. It was a dreadful smile, a sinister smile. I could bear the suspense no longer. I ran to his side.

On the floor of Marian's room, just inside the door, lay the suit of clothes which, scarcely fifteen minutes before, he had locked in the closet of that locked room.

I
was pitiably shaken.
Indeed, I remember very little of what transpired thereafter until I found myself entering the library, leaning on Mr. Phelps's arm. After he had placed me in a chair he insisted I take a small glass of port, which was kept on hand for medicinal purposes. He was kind in his way, but when I asked that the maid be sent for a cup of tea, he refused.

"I don't want servants brought into this until it is unavoidable. They are a superstitious, ignorant lot and will take fright."

I did not reply in words; but my glance, I believe, was eloquent. Mr. Phelps shook his head, almost playfully. I could not understand his mood.

"My dear Mrs. Phelps, I assure you there is nothing to fear. I may be excused in the beginning for failing to understand the truth; but the events of this morning puts the question beyond doubt. To think that I have seen with my own eyes phenomena I have often read about and often doubted!"

He went on in this dreadful vein of self-congratulation until I interrupted with a demand for an explanation. If my tone was somewhat shrill, I think that is excusable.

"I was reading just last night of a similar case," Mr. Phelps said.

"Have you not heard of the Rochester rappings? The newspapers have been full of them for months."

He then went on to explain, in his most tedious and pedantic manner. It seems that for some time two young women (they were of an inferior social class, so one can hardly call them young ladies) named Fox, in a small town in New York, had been producing raps and scratching sounds out of thin air. Some invisible intelligence was obviously responsible for the sounds, since it responded to questions, rapping for "yes," remaining silent for "no," and spelling out more complete answers by rapping when the correct letter of the alphabet was reached by a person reciting it. That the phenomenon was connected with the Fox sisters, and not with the house in which they lived, was proved by the fact that when the girls went elsewhere, the rapping broke out in those places also. Other persons had taken up the sport of calling on these invisible "spirits"—the word is that of Mr. Phelps—and had received answers to the most compelling theological questions.

Mr. Phelps would have gone on and on about the wretched girls and their raps if I had not interrupted.

"What has this to do with us? We have heard no—"

"Do you remember last Tuesday, when the door knocker sounded and the housemaid reported no one was there?"

"Some mischievous child. You said so yourself."

"I was mistaken. Phenomena such as we observed this morning, and also yesterday, are well known. Ignorant persons attribute them to ghosts, or 'haunts'; until recently educated persons dismissed them as pure imagination. We now have reason to suspect they are demonstrations of some unknown force."

"A diabolical force," I cried.

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.