THE PSYCHICAL RESEARCHER'S TALE--THE SCEPTICAL POLTERGEIST

From "The New Decameron"--Volume III. 

By J. D. Beresford

There was once a time (he began) when I decided that I was a fraud; thatI could not be a psychical researcher any longer. I determined to giveit all up, to investigate no more phenomena nor attend another séance, nor read a word about psychical research for the remainder of my life. On the contrary, I planned an intensive study of the works of the laterVictorians, of that blissful period in the history of Europe whenwe could believe in the comforting doctrine of materialism. "Oh!" Ithought, "that one had a Haeckel or a Huxley living now to consoleus with their beautiful faith in the mortality of the soul!" TheNeo-Darwinians failed to convince me; the works of H. G. Wells left mecold. 

I will tell you the events that brought me to this evil pass. 

It is not likely that anyone here will remember the Slipperton case. Itattracted little attention at the time. In 1905 there was still a littlesanity left in the world. A few even of the London dailies were nearlysane then, and refused to report ghost stories unless they were known tobe untrue. And the Slipperton case had hardly any publicity--an inchin the _Daily Mail_, headed "Family Evicted by Ghosts, " was the onlynewspaper report that I saw; though there may have been others. In thesedays the story would be given a couple of columns opposite the leaderpage; and the Sunday papers. .. 

I was connected with the thing because Edgar Slipperton and his wifewere friends of mine; quiet, old-fashioned people who believed that whenyou were dead you _were_ dead, and that that was the end of it. 

The phenomena that drove them out of their house at last were of theordinary poltergeist type that date back to the days of John Wesley. TheSlippertons had a fat and very stupid cook, whom I suspected of being anunconscious medium; but they were so attached to her that they refusedto give her notice, as I strongly advised them to do. They told me thatalthough she was constitutionally unable to grasp a new idea, such asthe idea of a different pudding, she was entirely dependable, alwaysdoing the same things in the same way and with the same results. Andwhile this confirmed my suspicions that she was a spiritualistic medium, I recognised that she might have useful qualities as a cook. 

The Slippertons stood it pretty well for a time. At first they were onlymildly inconvenienced. Things used to disappear mysteriously, and turnup in unexpected places. Slipperton's pince-nez, for example, were lost, and found inside the piano. And Mrs. Slipperton's "false front" wouldbe moved in the night from the dressing-table to the brass knob of thebed-post, even after she took to pinning it to the toilet cover. Thingslike that; irritating, but not really serious. 

But the trouble increased, grew to be beyond endurance in the end. Thepoltergeists, with that lack of imagination which always characterisesthem, started to play the old trick of pulling off the Slippertons'bed-clothes in the middle of the night--one of the most annoying of thespirits' antics. And they followed that by experimenting with the heavyfurniture. 

I was out of England when the trouble came to a head, and I heardnothing of the later developments until after the Slippertons had leftthe house. I happened to meet Slipperton by accident in the Haymarket, and he took me into his club and gave me the whole story. Naturally, I was glad of the chance to investigate, although I thought it veryprobable that the phenomena would cease with the departure of the cook. I determined, however, to go down and spend a week in the house, alone. I was not dismayed by the fact that I should be unable to get any helpwith my domestic arrangements, owing to the superstitious fears of thevillagers. I rather enjoyed cooking my own meals in those days. 

It was fine weather in late May when I went down, and I regardedthe visit as a kind of holiday rather than as a serious investigation. Nevertheless, from force of habit I carried out my inquiry in thescientific spirit that is so absolutely essential in these matters. The Slippertons' house was on the outskirts of a small town inBuckinghamshire. The shell of the house dated from the early seventeenthcentury. (You will find it described in the _Inventory of theRoyal Commission on Historical Monuments_--the second volume of theBuckinghamshire survey. ) But the inside had been gutted and replanned tosuit our modern requirements, such as the need for making each bedroomaccessible without passing through other bedrooms, the necessity for afitted bathroom, and so on. 

I found the house as Slipperton had warned me that I should, in achaotic condition inside. Everything movable seemed to have beenmoved--without any definite intention, so far as I could see, but justfor the sake of upsetting the decent order of the household. I founda frying-pan, for instance, hung on the hook that was designed for thedinner-gong, and the gong inside one of the beds. A complete set ofbedroom ware had been arranged on the drawing-room table; and apparentlysome witticism had been contemplated with a chest of drawers, which hadbecome firmly wedged into the angle of the back staircase. In short, theusual strange feats that characterise poltergeist phenomena. 

I touched none of these misplaced things with the exception of thefrying-pan, which I needed to cook the sausages I had brought with me;but after I had had my meal, I went through all the rooms and enteredthe position of every article in a large note-book, making plans of eachroom, besides a full list of the furniture and ornaments it contained. Later, I went up into the roof and disconnected the water supply, afterwards emptying the cistern and all the pipes. And before I wentto bed I turned off the electric light at the main switch. All theseprecautions, as I need hardly tell you, were absolutely essential. Itmight appear difficult to explain the moving of a large chest of drawersby the sound of water-pipes or the fusing of an electric wire; but thecritics of psychical research have essayed far more difficult tasks thanthat, to their own entire satisfaction. 

I went up to the bedroom the Slippertons used to occupy, a little beforeeleven o'clock. I had with me a couple of spare candles, a new notebook, and a fountain pen. I was even at that time, I may add, a highlytrained researcher in every way, and was quite capable of taking a fullshorthand report of a séance. I tried my pulse and temperature beforegetting into bed and found them both normal. So far, there had been nosign of any phenomena; and I was not at all nervous. Indeed, I may saythat I have never been nervous with spirits. 

I had brought the _Pickwick Papers_ upstairs to read in bed--it isalways as well to choose some book that has no kind of bearing on thesubject of one's investigation--and I was in the middle of the TrialScene when my attention was caught by the sound of something moving inthe room. I had left both windows wide open and the curtains undrawn, and I thought at first that an unusually large moth had flown in and wasfluttering against the ceiling. I laid down my book, sat up and lookedround the room, but I could see nothing. The night was very still, andthe candle on the table by my bed burnt without a flicker. Nevertheless, the sound continued; a soft, irregular fluttering that suggested theintermittent struggle of some feeble winged creature. It occurred to methat a wounded bat or bird might have flown into the room and might bestruggling on the floor out of sight near the foot of the bed. And Iwas about to get up and investigate when the flame of the candle sanka little, and I became aware that the temperature of the room wasperceptibly colder. 

I picked up my note-book at once and made an entry of the circumstances, and the exact time. 

When I looked up again, the sound of fluttering had ceased and thecandle was once more burning brightly; but I now perceived a kind ofuncertain vagueness that was apparently trying to climb on to the railat the foot of the bed. When I first saw it, it could not be describedas a form. It had rather the effect of a patch of dark mist, with anirregular and changing outline, that obscured to a certain extent thefurnishings of the room immediately behind it. I must confess, however, that my observations at this point were not so accurate as they shouldhave been, owing to the sudden realisation of my stupidity in not havingbrought a camera and flashlight apparatus. The Slipper-tons had preparedme for poltergeists, and I was, at that moment, distinctly annoyed atbeing confronted with what I presumed to be an entirely different classof phenomenon. Indeed, I was so annoyed that I was half inclined to blowout the candle and go to sleep. I wish, now, that I had. .. . 

The Psychical Researcher paused and sighed deeply. Then producing alarge note-book from his pocket, he continued, despondently:

I have got it all down here, and when I come to material thatnecessitates verbal accuracy, I should prefer to read my notes aloudrather than give an indefinite summary. In the first place, however, Imust give you some idea of the form that gradually materialised; of theform, that is, as I originally saw it. 

It took the shape, I may say, of a smallish man, grotesquelypot-bellied, with very thin legs and arms. The eyes weredisproportionately large and quite circular, with an expression thatwas at once both impish and pathetic. The ears were immense, and set atright angles to the head; the rest of the features indefinite. He wasdressed rather in the fashion of a medieval page. 

(The professor was heard to murmur, "The typical goblin, " at this point, but made no further interruption. )

He sat with his feet crossed on the rail at the foot of the bed andappeared able to balance himself without difficulty. He had been sittingthere for perhaps a couple of minutes, while I made various entries inmy note-book before I tried the experiment of addressing him. 

"Have you a message?" I asked. "If you cannot answer directly, knockonce for 'No, ' and three times for 'Yes, ' and afterwards we can try thealphabet. "

To my great surprise, however, he was able to use the direct voice. Histone was a trifle wheezy and thin at first, but afterwards gained powerand clearness. 

"I can hear you fairly well, " he said. "Now do try to keep calm. Itisn't often that one gets such a chance as this. "

I will now read my notes. 

Myself. "I am perfectly calm. Go on. "

Spirit. "Will you try to answer my questions?"

The Researcher looked up from his note-book with a frown of impatienceafter reading these two entries, and said:

But perhaps I had better summarise our earlier conversation for you. There was, I may say, a somewhat long and distinctly complicatedmisunderstanding between myself and the spirit before the realinterest of the message begins; a misunderstanding due to my completemisapprehension of our respective parts. You see, it is unhappilytrue--however much we may deplore the fact and try to guard againstit--that even in psychical research we form habits of thought andmethod, but particularly of thought. And I had got into the habit ofregarding communications from spirits as referring to what we assumeto be the future life. Well, this communication didn't. The spirit withwhom I was talking had not, in short, ever been incarnated. He was whatthe Spiritualists and Theosophists, and so on, call an "Elemental. "And to him, I represented the future state. I was, so to speak, the communicating spirit and he the psychical researcher. He was, Iinferred, very far advanced on his own plane and expecting very shortlyto "pass over, " as he put it. Also, I gathered that he was in hisown world by way of being an intellectual; keenly interested in thefuture--that is, in our present state; and that the Slipperton phenomenawere entirely due to the experiments he had been carrying out ("onstrictly scientific lines, " he assured me) to try and ascertain theconditions of life on this plane. 

Perhaps I can, now, illustrate his attitude by a few quotations from ourconversation. For example:

Spirit. "Are you happy where you are?"

Myself. "Moderately. At times. Some of us are. "

Spirit. "Are you yourself happy?"

Myself. "I may say so. Yes. "

Spirit. "What do you do? Try and give me some idea of life on yourplane. "

Myself. "It varies so immensely with the individual and the set inwhich one lives. But we--oh! we have a great variety of what we call'interests' and occupations, and most of us, of course, have to work forour livings. "

Spirit. "I don't understand that. What are your livings, and how do youwork for them?"

Myself. "We can't live without food, you see. We have to eat and drinkand sleep; protect ourselves against heat and cold and the weathergenerally, which means clothes and shelter--garments to wear and housesto live in, that is. "

Spirit. "I have inferred something of this very vaguely from myexperiments. For instance, I gather that you put on hair in the daytime, and take it off when you are--where _you_ are at the present time. Also, I have noticed that when the coverings which at present conceal you arepulled away, you invariably replace them. Am I to deduce from that thatyou try to keep your bodies warm and your heads cool at night?"

Myself. "Well, that's a trifle complicated. About the hair, youunderstand, some of us lose our hair--it comes out, we don't knowwhy--in middle life, as mine has, and women and some men are ratherashamed of this and wear--er--other people's hair in the daytime to hidethe defect. "

Spirit. "Why?"

Myself. "Oh, vanity. We want to appear younger than we really are. "

Spirit. "Why?"

The Researcher bent a little lower over his notebook as he said:

I seem to have written "Damnation" at this point; but so far as I canremember I did not speak the word aloud. You will see, however, that Itried my best to be patient in what were really the most exasperatingcircumstances. But I will miss the next page or two, and come to moreinteresting material. Ah I here:

Spirit. "This thing you call death, or dying? Am I to understand that itcorresponds to what we call incarnation?"

Myself. "We are not sure. Some of us believe that our actual bodies willrise again in the flesh; others that the body perishes and the spiritsurvives in an uncertain state of which we have very little knowledge;others, again, that death is the end of everything. "

Spirit. "In brief, you know nothing whatever about it?"

Myself. "Uncommonly little. "

Spirit. "Do you remember your lives as elementals?"

Myself (definitely). "No!"

Spirit. "Then where do you suppose yourselves to begin?"

Myself. "We don't know. There are various guesses. None of themparticularly likely. "

Spirit. "Such as?"

Myself. "Oh, some of us believe that the soul or spirit is a specialcreation made by a higher power we call God, and breathed into the bodyat birth. And some that the soul or spirit, itself eternal, finds atemporary house in the body, and progresses from one to another withintervals between each incarnation. "

Spirit. "Then this being born is what we should call dying?"

Myself. "Quite. It makes no difference. And, as a matter of fact, theoverwhelming majority of us--that is to say, all but about one in everymillion--never bother our heads where we came from, or what's likely tohappen to us when we die, or are born, as you would call it. "

I have a note here that after this we were both silent for about tenminutes. 

Spirit (despondently). "I wish I could get some sort of idea what you doall the time and what you think about. I thought, when I so unexpectedlygot into touch with someone in the future state, that I should be ableto learn everything. And I have, so far, learnt nothing--absolutelynothing. In fact, except that I have been able to correct my inferenceswith regard to one or two purely material experiments, I may say thatI know less now than I did before. And, by the way, those things overthere--he pointed to the washstand--I noticed that at certain times yougo through some ceremony with them upstairs, and as I wished to discoverif there was any reason why you should not perform the same ceremonydownstairs, I moved the things. Well, I noticed that the spirit whowas here before you was apparently very annoyed. Can you give me anyexplanation of that?"

Myself. "Our bodies become soiled by contact with matter, and we washourselves in water. We prefer to do it in our bedrooms. "

Spirit. "Why?"

Myself. "We use a certain set of rooms for one purpose and another setfor other purposes. "

Spirit. "Why?"

Myself. "I don't know why. We do. "

Spirit. "But you are sure of the fact, even if you can give no reason?"

Myself. "Absolutely. "

Spirit. "I wish I could prove that. One of my fellow-scientists, who hasrecently been able to press his investigations even further than I haveup to the present time, has recently brought forward good evidence toprove that spirits are all black, wear no coverings on their bodies, live in the simplest of dwellings, and, although they have a fewceremonies, certainly have none which in any way corresponds to that youhave just described. "

Myself. "He has probably been investigating the habits of the Australianaborigines. "

Spirit. "What are they?"

Myself. "Men, or, as you would say, spirits, like us in a few respects, but utterly different in most. "

Spirit. "Have you ever seen them?"

Myself. "No. "

Spirit. "Or met anyone who has?"

Myself. "No. "

Spirit. "Then this account of them tallies with nothing in yourexperience. "

Myself. "No, but they exist all right. There's no doubt of that. "

Spirit. "I question it. In any case, I could not accept your word asevidence, seeing that you have neither seen them yourself nor met withanyone who has. "

And so on, you know (the Researcher muttered, flicking over the pages ofhis note-book). 

He was infernally sceptical about those aborigines. It seems that hehad had a tremendous argument with the other investigator about thepossibility of "spirits" being black and naked, and he was dead set onproving that he had been right. I think, as a matter of fact, that whatI said tended to confirm him in his theory. He put it that if there weresuch spirits on this plane, I must have seen them or have had some quitefirst-hand evidence of their existence; and when I said that I hadseen black people, Indians, and so on, he cross-examined me until Igot confused. You see, I had to confess that they weren't, strictlyspeaking, black, that they wore clothes, and washed, and lived inhouses; and he got me involved in apparent contradictions--you have noidea how easy it is, when you are trying to be very lucid--and then hechanged the subject with the remark that I was a very poor witness. 

It was about this time that I began to lose my temper. It was afterthree o'clock when we got to that point, and I was getting verytired, and, strange as it may appear, curiously doubtful about my ownexistence. I had for some time been coming to the conclusion that he didnot quite believe in my reality; and after he had dismissed my accountof the black races as being untrustworthy, he said, half to himself, that quite probably I was nothing more than an hallucination, athought projection of his own mind. And after that I got more and moreannoyed--partly, I think, because I had a kind of haunting fear thatwhat he had said might be true. When you have been talking to a spiritfor over three hours in the middle of the night, you are liable to doubtanything. 

But it was foolish of me to try and prove to him that I had a realobjective existence, because obviously it wasn't possible. I tried totouch him, and my hand went through him as if he were nothing more thana patch of mist. Then I got right out of bed and moved various articlesabout the room, but, as he said, that proved nothing, for if he had anhallucination about me, he might equally well have one about the thingsI appeared to move. And then we drifted into a futile argument as towhat I looked like. 

It began as a sort of test, to try if my own conception of myselftallied with his; and it didn't--not in the very least. In fact, thedescription he gave of me would have done very well for the typicalgoblin of fairy-tale, which, as I told him, was precisely how _I_ saw_him_. He laughed at that, and told me that, as a matter of fact, he hadno shape at all, and that my conception of him proved his description ofme was the correct one, because I had visualised myself. He said that hewould appear to me in any shape that I happened to be thinking of, andnaturally I should be thinking of my own. And I could not disprove athing he said; and when I looked at myself in the cheval glass, I wasnot at all sure that I did not look like the traditional goblin. 

Well, I assure you that I felt just then as if the one possible way leftto demonstrate my sanity, my very existence, was to lose my temper;and I did it very thoroughly. I raved up and down the room, knocked thefurniture about, chucked my boots through him, and called him a damnedelemental. And although it had no more effect upon him than if I hadbeen in another world--as I suppose in a sense I actually was--thatoutbreak did help to restore my sanity. 

Perhaps you may have noticed that if a man is worsted in an argumenthe invariably loses his temper? It is the only means he has left toconvince himself that he is right. Well, my temper did that for me onthis occasion. I could not prove my existence to that confounded spiritby any logic or demonstration, but I could prove it to myself by gettingangry. And I did. 

The Researcher glared round the circle as if challenging anyone there todeny the validity of his existence, then slapped his note-book togetherand sat upon it. 

I do not expect you to believe my story (he concluded, with a touch ofvehemence). Indeed, I would much sooner that you did not believe it. I have been trying to doubt it myself for the past eleven years, and Istill hope to succeed in that endeavour, aided by my intensive study ofthe comforting theories of the later Victorian scientists. But I mustwarn you that there was just one touch of what one might call evidence, beyond my own impressions of that night--which may have been, andprobably were, a mixture of telepathy, hallucination, expectancy, andauto-suggestion, that found expression in automatic writing. 

This rather flimsy piece of evidence rests upon a conclusion drawn fromthe end of my conversation with the spirit. I was still banging aboutthe room, then, and I said that I had finished with psychical research, that never again would I make the least inquiry with regard to apossible future life, or any kind of spiritualistic phenomenon. And, curiously enough, the poltergeist precisely echoed my resolve. He saidthat that night's experience had clearly shown him that the research wasuseless, that it could never prove anything, and that, even if it did, no one would believe it. _For if_, as he pointed out, _we who were in amanner of speaking face to face, were unable to prove our own existenceto each other, how could we expect to prove the other's existence toanyone else?_

It was getting light then, and he faded out almost immediatelyafterwards. 

But it is a fact that there were no more poltergeist phenomena in thathouse, although the Slippertons went back to it a month or two later andstill have the same cook.