Phantasm
Now that he has passed from this life, I can reveal the remarkable tale he entrusted to me.
With respect to this narrative, my name is unimportant. Know only that I was a close friend of Ian Bellairs for many years. Moreover, I was an admirer of his work as a crusading journalist of long standing for the Pall Mall Gazette, one of London’s premier evening newspapers, where he had earned a substantial reputation for uncovering such injustices as the exploitation of children on the Thames docks and the mistreatment of horses by the city’s draymen. Above all, he was a sober-minded man of utmost perspicacity.
Two years past, in the year of Our Lord 1890, Bellairs confided in me that he had had his curiosity piqued by the sometimes fantastical claims made on behalf of a number of spiritualists who had been enthralling members of society’s upper crust at soirees in some of the city’s finest salons. In no small measure, he told me, this curiosity had been fueled by Arthur Conan Doyle, an acquaintance of his who had begun making a name for himself with his stories featuring the sleuth Sherlock Holmes. At the same time, Doyle had become an avid proponent of spiritualism. And though my friend found him to be an affable enough companion and his writing entertaining, he was quite skeptical of what he regarded as Doyle’s infatuation.
Nevertheless, at his urging, Bellairs accompanied him to one of the seances conducted in the home of a prominent London barrister whose name, as a matter of discretion, I shan’t reveal. At the time, Ian told me that while the evening had proven to be diverting, it was, in his considered opinion, an event dependent wholly upon stagecraft rather than authentic psychic phenomena.
“Designed,” he averred with no little sarcasm, “to separate the gullible among the elite from their money.” And, in fact, he said, several of those in attendance made not insubstantial contributions at evening’s end.
Doyle was disappointed in his reaction to the seance, my friend said, yet encouraged him to keep an open mind.
During the succeeding months, other stories of more pragmatic urgency commanded Bellairs’ reportorial efforts. It wasn’t until an invitation from Doyle rekindled his interest in the supernatural.
Over whiskies at the writer’s club one evening, he, with great animation, described an older woman from Russia—one Madame Krishnikovna—who along with her male assistant had been astonishing small groups at seances on the continent.
“Most remarkable, Bellairs,” as my friend related the conversation to me, “it is said that she is able to command extrusions of ectoplasm from her own body to materialize and communicate with those around them. The authenticity of these reports I have on good authority.”
My friend was reluctant to disparage Doyle’s enthusiasm to his face but vowed within himself to get to the bottom of such outlandish claims. As fate would have it, Madame Krishnikovna was to be in London a fortnight hence. And though pressing business required Doyle to be abroad on the night of her invitation-only seance, it was agreed with the host that Bellairs would attend in his stead.
The setting was Wickensham Place, the estate of Sir Trevor Price, located on the outskirts of Epsom. Its fate you will learn in due course. As Bellairs related to me before the seance, the very select guest list included the viscount of Astonbury and his wife; the banking magnate Sir Charles Pepperdine; Lady Tilden, the esteemed arts patron, and the noted solicitor Thomas Roundtree, accompanied by his new fiancée.
These are the particulars I felt compelled to lay before you to help in understanding what is to follow. I now put you in the hands of my departed friend and the account of that evening he left for me with the assurance that I would disseminate its contents only in the event of his death. As you read, I implore you to do so with a mind open to the unperceived realms of this world . . . and those beyond.
“The summer’s evening was mild and cloudless, gently stirred by a breeze as the hansom Sir Trevor had dispatched for me drew up to his imposing hall, bathed from parapet to footpath in the diaphanous ivory of the full moon.
“Inside, I was immediately shown to the library, an intimate yet comfortable space, where the other guests had gathered. There were introductions all around. I was flattered that Sir Charles knew of my work, commenting favorably upon one of my more recent stories.
“It was after these preliminaries that our host set the tone for the evening, ordering his servants to see that the draperies were drawn tight, lest no moonlight enter, and to put tapers to an array of beeswax candles. We were told they had been brought from Russia, crafted by peasants in a small village exclusively for Madame Krishnikovna. Presently, they infused the air with a pleasant, soothing aroma of wood and spice, akin to that produced by frankincense.
“Sir Trevor was at pains to instruct us, per his special guest, that during the seance we were not to move or speak—indeed, we were forbidden from making any utterance whatsoever, no matter what we beheld. Only then did he introduce Madame Krishnikovna, who emerged from the shadows of a doorway to our left and made her way silently to the unlit fireplace that occupied the center space of the wall before her audience. She appeared to glide as much as walk, clad from chin to floor in a voluminous dress of black crinoline. Imposing of stature and mien, her face was that of a woman in her seventies, if I am a judge, well-creased by time. Its most striking feature were two dark, deep-set eyes below severe brows and a thick iron-grey coif.
“She was accompanied by an angular fellow, whose dark hair and close-cropped beard gave the appearance of a man many years her junior. He was unnaturally pale of complexion, made ever the more stark by his black suiting. Once in place, they bowed stiffly, and the man introduced himself as Pavel Sapotkin, Madame Krasnikovna’s assistant and translator, necessary since she spoke no English. He, however, was quite articulate, assuring us that what we were about to witness was authentic in every particular, fantastical though it might appear. And, as had Sir Trevor, Sapotkin reminded us sternly to remain still, refraining from movement or utterance.
“Then, with a few words he delivered to Madame Krasnikovna sotto voce, the seance commenced.
“Immediately, the old woman closed her eyes, dropped her head and began muttering in a steady monotone.
“‘Madame is now making contact with the other side,’ Sapotkin said, ‘conjuring spirits to cross over, manifest themselves and join the living in this room.’ My initial reaction was one of amusement, but I did my utmost to refrain from prejudgment.
“The incantations continued thus, her voice gradually rising in tone and intensity. Within what I judged to be two or three minutes, the old woman fell silent as a shudder rippled through her body followed by a series of mild convulsions. At her sides she raised her arms to their farthest extremity while lifting her head. At the same instant her eyes flew wide open—preternaturally so—and a harsh, rasping hiss issued from deep within her throat as her dark lips twitched spasmodically and her mouth gaped. Around the room the candles began flickering as if perturbed by a zephyr. This was accompanied by a distinct mouldering odor that caused the breath to catch in my throat momentarily.
“At that instant, I beheld a most remarkable and arresting sight, for there emerged from the mouth of Madame Krasnikovna the beginning of a pair of translucent sinuous ropes, dull ivory in hue, that snaked outward. At their first appearance, one of the women present uttered a muffled cry, which was met by a sharp retort from Sapotkin.
“He hissed in his native tongue, then: ‘Silence!’
“Again, quiet descended, save for the guttural emanations from the old woman’s throat that accompanied the steady oozing of the ectoplasm, now also manifesting in twin ribbons from each of her outstretched hands. It was quite astonishing, and my initial impression of a very clever bit of stagecraft was swiftly dispelled.
“As I watched further, the ectoplasmic shapes thickened, taking on the aspect of deathly pale, armless torsos, presently surmounted by the excrescence of human faces, each hideously distorted and ghastly to behold—sockets devoid of eyes and circular mouths ringed by thick, fleshy lips, enclosing rows of needle-like teeth, bared, slavering and gnashing with terrible mechanical regularity.
“These spectral forms did not remain static but slowly undulating, made their serpentine way ever closer to us. I perceived that the countenances of the other guests were riven with abject terror, yet their bodies were frozen into immobility. I, myself, felt in the grip of profound ennui that seemed to seep into my very pores, yet I remained transfixed by the unfolding horror before me fearing that there was greater to come.
“It commenced forthwith.
“The first of the ectoplasmic entities, which now appeared to take on a supernatural luminescence such as I have heard mariners describe as St. Elmo’s fire, snaked its way several feet to my right where sat Lady Tilden. As her eyes widened to their extreme at the phantasm’s approach, it hovered above her head for a long moment before its hideous mouth gaped wide, whetted fangs drooling, and descended upon the poor woman, exhaling the foulest stench and, amid her soul-rending shrieks, began to devour her head! And as an accompaniment to this horrible sight, there was the almost unbearable sound of the mastication of the skull and its contents.
“As the grotesque being went about its abominable work, the other phantasms set upon the remaining members of our small group. I tore my gaze away to focus on Madame Krasnikovna and Sapotkin. She remained in her state of suspended animation, continuing to extrude the hellish ectoplasm while her assistant stood beside her, a look of the utmost evil placidity upon his face. The cries of the victims rose in intensity until overwhelmed by the horrid sounds of their grisly fates. At that moment, a fresh moan arose from Madame Krasnikovna, and a torrent of searing air swept the room causing several of the candles to topple. I turned with alarm to see the flames ignite draperies behind me.
“At this I struggled against the malevolent force gripping me. I cannot say why; but its hold was not as pronounced as that which immobilized my companions, and I was able to tear myself free as the fire spread, quickly threatening to become a conflagration. Then with some effort—for my strength had indeed been sapped—I staggered toward the doorway by which we had entered the room. As I reached it, I turned for a final look at the scene that has been seared onto my soul.
“Even as the flames leapt higher, the ectoplasmic beasts continued their unholy work, feasting ghoulishly upon the flesh of those present. And the while, Madame Krasnikovna remained as she had been standing throughout. At her side, Sapotkin had thrown his head back and was convulsed with the laughter of a mad fiend.
“It was a living nightmare. I wrenched my gaze away and fled with all the speed at my command.
“To this day, I have no explanation for why I was able to escape the awful fate of the others, and it will haunt me until I draw my final breath.
“I do not consider myself a devout man, but upon whatever God may exist, what I have related is a truthful accounting of what transpired. To this I attest.”
The date of Bellairs’ account was two days after the event. By that time, the blaze that engulfed Wickensham Place had caused a sensation, not only for its destruction of the building but the mystery of the missing persons who were known to have been there. None was heard from again, and no remains were discovered among the ashes.
As to my friend, he was a changed man in the aftermath. He steadfastly refused to speak of the events of that evening in any way—not to Conan Doyle who pressed him, nor to me. Moreover, as the months passed, he manifested a growing distractedness in his dealings as if his attention was occupied elsewhere—in some other realm, dare I say? He took on a haggard look, began drinking strong spirits in excess and permitted his journalistic skills to wither, finally resulting in the newspaper dismissing him. His social intercourse became increasingly sporadic until it ceased entirely. Try as I might, there seemed nothing I could do to stem this downward spiral.
When last I saw him a fortnight ago, he handed to me the sealed envelope containing the tale you have read for yourself, scrawled in a barely recognizable cursive that appeared to have been set down by a man pursued by devils.
“I have seen what the eye cannot unsee, what the mind cannot erase.” Those were his final, haunted words to me.
A day later his body was found dangling from a length of hemp beneath Haversmoor Bridge not far from the ruins of Wickensham Place.
About the Author
Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent. His story “Night Howl” appeared in Dark Harbor. In addition, his writing has been published in dozens of periodicals.