Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

“There were no noises when you peeped this afternoon. If the light from a keyhole is obstructed, it does not require Sherlock Holmes to determine what is happening. Fortunately for you the feed is not corrosive.”

“Feed?”

“The stinging will subside and your vision will return. Go to the bathroom and wash your face and after that open this door immediately.”

“Yes, of course.”

Afterwards I perched on the edge of my bed while she sat in a chair opposite. The eerie noises were more pronounced now that the door was open. “I really must apologise, Miss Appleby, but I was curious about that strongbox. In the carriage earlier I saw what looked like air holes.”

“I am not ashamed of what I do, Mr. Creswell. That’s why I said nothing when you spied this afternoon. But once is enough, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded, smiling weakly.

“The reason I have allowed you to observe my life is simply so that others may know and understand, without prejudice formed through ignorance. However, I must ask you to reserve judgement until you have seen the results, the good that the surrogate can achieve.”

“The surrogate?”

“My father acquired him from a shaman in Africa. Every so often, in that village, a mother gives birth to a babe that never grows, as its soul lies between two worlds. If anything, over time, it reduces and shrivels. He is very old now, nearing the end of his existence I fear. His tiny form is not appealing to the eye, quite hideous in fact, so I must ask you not to stare at him. It is he that unwittingly draws the night voices as he sleeps, which are projected through the apparatus’s brass vocal horn.”

“Night voices?”

“My father’s name for them. The native expression does not translate accurately into English. The closest we have is the withering.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The dead are speaking, Mr. Creswell. For me, a common enough occurrence at night, yet it never fails to unnerve. Doubtless they are trying to persuade the surrogate to usher them through. Though for what purpose I can only guess. Perhaps it is to do with reliving earthly memories, or the forlorn hope of meeting a loved one again. Usually the sounds are indistinct, soft like the wind, while at other times there’s a locution that seems to actually mean something.” She tilted her head. “Right now I hear extinct languages, a confusion of tongues, rather like the babble of an audience before curtain up, wouldn’t you say? My father, writing in his notes, emphasised the dangers of trying to determine what they are saying, Mr. Creswell, of listening too deeply. To do so can lead to madness. So take heed.”

“That isn’t very reassuring. In truth, I’d rather not listen to them at all. They frighten me.”

“Indeed. They frighten me too.”

“Then why …?”

She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I have taken the correct path in life, or whether I really had any choice in the matter. Did you hear what the doctor said earlier about seeing his wife suffer?”

“Yes.”

“It’s clear, with his ill health, that he carries those memories as a burden visible to all. Perhaps, in varying degrees, it is the same for each of us. Just the presence alone of the box is a reminder of my past. As a girl, although I was not directly involved in this work, it shaped my life without me realising.”

“In what sense?”

“Back then I did not know the details of my father’s occupation, only that he was a scientist and had an assistant he referred to as ‘the surrogate.’ My mother refused to talk about it, which only added to the mystery and allure. Sometimes I would sneak down to his laboratory in the cellar when he was away, an Aladdin’s cave of treasures, which inspired me to also become a scientist.

“I was fortunate to grow up in an age when the laws regarding education were changing. It was over ten years ago now, and women were able to take degrees at the University of London for the first time. I was so happy, studying the sciences in such a learned environment, engaged to be married to Edward whom I loved dearly. I considered myself blessed, believing that bad things happened only to other people. Somewhat conceitedly, I regarded my life almost as a public exhibit, like some beautiful tapestry to be admired by all, with each day weaving a perfect new scene.

“But then the scandal broke. The newspapers vilified my father, branding him a ‘necromancer,’ whilst his peers dismissed him as a crank dabbling in the black arts. Edward broke off our engagement as a result of such public slurs, fellow students shunned me, and tutors issued poor marks as though I were responsible for my father’s theories. The tapestry unravelled, and rewove into something grotesque, depicting images of horror. And, like the doctor, my pain was hung out for all to see.”

She stood, wandered over to the door, and looked back with an unbearably sad expression. “I hope the noises are not too disturbing for you. Please try and get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

After breakfast, she asked the doctor to accompany us to the town gaol. He was reluctant, saying that he felt unwell, but she reminded him of the agreement yesterday.

“Being both a stranger and a woman here,” she said, “I need you to gain access to places that might otherwise be barred to me.”

She looked beautiful and fresh despite the late night. I imagined she had selected her clothing for comfort and ease of movement: tweed Tartar-style cycling trousers and a matching jacket. A common enough lady’s sporting outfit in the London parks, but not, I reasoned, in an industrial backwater such as this. Still, probably better to be fashionably conspicuous than hampered by billowing skirts.

The gaol was within walking distance but the doctor’s pace was slow. It was positioned at the highest point in the town and, as I looked back, a view unfolded of bleak terraces, and farther off the grey scar of the quarry against otherwise unspoiled green hills. On arrival, the doctor spoke to the gaoler, a muscular fellow called Pugh.

“Mr. Crane said I’m not supposed to let no one in there, see,” said Pugh. His bewildered manner and thick-boned jaw suggested a person of limited intelligence.

“Come on, man!” barked the doctor. “We’re here on official medical business.”

This seemed to do the trick. Pugh collected his keys and beckoned us to follow. The gaol was a typical provincial establishment; damp stone walls, a single passage leading to just four tiny cells, smelling of mould and faintly of human waste. Pugh showed us the boy’s cell then left us to it, slamming the iron door behind.

Tobias Jones lay on a bunk with his knees tucked in his chest. His pale blue eyes were open but did not follow our progress into the cramped space. I saw that he and the striking young man in the photograph on the doctor’s mantelpiece were one and the same. With those blond curls, pale clear skin, and melancholic blue eyes, I imagined he had broken the hearts of more than a few local girls. Some faint bruising showed on the side of his face, and there was a partially healed cut above his eyebrow. Miss Appleby began with several straightforward questions. The boy, however, was unresponsive.

“What happened to Charlotte?” she asked. At the mention of the girl, his eyes looked into hers yet still he said nothing. “Do you want to hang?” She thrust a pad and pencil at him. “If you cannot speak then write the answers down.” The boy ignored this and buried his head in his arms. From beneath his pillow he had taken a red woollen hat and grasped it close. “We’re wasting our time here,” she said.