Inexplicable
I hope that you had a wicked Hallowe'en. I apologise for this entry being a day late.
I do not believe in ghosts. I have no reason to - my work relies on science and logic and I prefer not to contemplate the possibility of there being things worse than the foulest human beings walking this planet. Had it even crossed my mind that this case could be a supernatural problem, I would have suggested that my client pay his local priest a visit and leave me with the criminals of the world to deal with.
A fanciful man I am not, but this house made me uneasy from the moment that Watson and I stepped inside. Before that, actually, if I am honest - the lack of birdsong, in the heart of the country, immediately put me on my guard with the feeling that all was not as it should be and that danger was lurking.
What I first put down to my being fagged after a long journey I now see differently, for the grounds are invariably silent - save the occasional cry of a crow - and the house is always dark and cold. I dislike being here - I dislike having Watson here with me even less. The lack of light, warmth and birdsong troubles me, plays on my mind with a sense of foreboding that even my Boswell's persistently - stubbornly - cheerful demeanour cannot displace.
The inexplicable laming of horses, apparently under the noses of the men and boys employed to watch over them, in the stables - how ridiculous it now seems that that is all that brought me here. Hum! Since then, further and equally inexplicable occurrences have taken place, which my client is beginning to put down to wicked spirits or goblins. Country folk often are simple folk, with ancient and superstitious beliefs - the workers on my family's land were prime examples of that - but on this occasion, I find it impossible to completely rule out the supernatural because my instinct tells me that there is something evil in evidence here.
"Would you mind if I retire, Holmes?" Watson asks of me, disrupting my troubled thoughts. He makes it sound as if he is apologising. "I am weary tonight."
I permit myself to appraise him as he stands. His movements are stiff, suggesting that he is cold and that his old wounds are becoming painful.
"Holmes? Do you have need of my assistance?"
I blink, realising that I have been staring at him in my assessment. "My dear fellow, I can see that you are weary. Go on up to bed - it would be a crime for me to keep you from it."
"Thank you," says he with a half-stifled yawn and quiet sniffle. "Do try not to stay up too late. Good night, old man."
"Good night," I respond quietly, without acknowledging his advice - I rarely permit myself much sleep, while I am working, lest I miss something of importance. Besides, he knows that I was planning to spend the night on watch in the stables.
My companion turns and walks away, clearly doing his utmost to keep himself from limping, and I watch him closely. If I dislike the thought of having a well companion in such a dreadful place, I dislike the thought of an ailing one being here even less and I shall have to keep a close eye on the dear chap. Tonight, however, I have work to do.
I make my way out to the stables, in my habitually noiseless fashion. Cruelty is a thing that I cannot abide and I intend to catch the culprit red handed. I already have my suspicions, but proof is what I need.
The yard is dark and quiet, with a chill wind rustling the trees. As I am about to slip in through the well-oiled stable door that was prepared earlier, the breeze succeeds in finding its way down the back of my neck, despite the long, thick muffler that I have wrapped about it. I shiver and turn to look over my shoulder, but there is nobody behind me and I am left wondering why I thought that there might be anything there.
I enter the stables to find it as dark and quiet as the yard. The horses sound nervous, however, and I settle myself hastily so as to avoid disturbing them further. Why are there no lamps lit and where is the boy that is supposedly staying up with his charges? Why is the dog pacing nervously in front of the stalls, when I was lead to believe that he was always kept tied up?
As I wait, huddled beneath a pile of straw in an effort to keep warm, I become aware of the falling temperature within this building. The breaths of the restless horses and panting dogs can just be made out in the darkness as little puffs of steam. I shiver and silently scratch my nose so as to control a sudden desire to sneeze in the frigid air. Bah! Why could we not have been asked to come here during a blazing hot July?
Sitting on a cold stable floor on so chill an Autumn night is tiring. Remaining warm in such conditions demands energy and I have scarcely had a bite of food or a wink of sleep since our arrival, two days ago. It should not be terribly demanding, yet my head and eyes are becoming heavier as the temperature falls further still. Is that frost forming, on the window above my head? Surely that must be my imagination - it cannot possibly have become freezing outside, just yet.
One of the horses snorts suddenly, creating a plume of steam as he stamps his hooves. Then the dog gives a low growl. I permit my eyes to sweep the stables without moving my head, but I can see nobody in evidence.
The dog growls again and approaches the stall before me with hackles raised, his white patches clear in the pale moonlight. And then I notice something else - a darker shadow moving in the stall belonging to the restless horse, amongst its legs, by all appearances. What the deuce is it? With my heart hammering within my breast, I slowly begin to stand. In that same instant, the horse gives a cry of pain and the shadow rushes towards me.
A menacing voice hisses in a language unlike any that I have ever heard before as the shadow changes shape and becomes a hundred or more vile and terrifying creatures while it sways menacingly before my eyes.
I must confess that I am somewhat unnerved - not frightened, per se, but most certainly not comfortable. What is this thing?
"What do you want?" I ask in my most authoritative tone.
The creature all at once becomes a shape that has always repelled me - a snake - and I jump back.
The voice becomes a wail and screams in my ear. I feel a sudden chill pain in my arm and then all is silent and still. Now I am scared and I remain crouched for some moments, panting and trembling as I attempt to calm my nerves. How glad I am that I did not bring Watson with me.
Watson! A new fear seizes me as I remember my companion. Could he be ailing due to the haunting of this house and its grounds? Has something been doing him harm, during the night? I have not seen anything amiss until this night, but I would not know what to watch for.
As I make my way back to the house, I become aware of the terrible, aching chill within my bones and particularly the injury to my arm. I need warmth and quickly!
Upon entering the hall, I find the curtains drawn and the lights out. Our client knows that I was going out, so why is the house in darkness? I gaze in the direction of the stairs, but I am chilled to the very marrow and must warm myself if I can.
I trip over the carpet in the middle of the floor as I enter the sitting room and almost fall on my face, only to right myself at the last moment. I am usually quite capable in darkness and cannot understand why I am so disorientated and clumsy! Yet the darkness is complete, without so much as a stray moonbeam to see by, and I cannot even make out my hand before my face - it is as if I am completely blind.
Upon finding the settee, I discover the rugs that I had expected to find there to be gone from it. I search the length of the seat, the back and both arms and cannot find them. Why have they been removed, when our client has himself admitted that the air in this room is almost invariably like that of an ice house? As I make one final blind search, something touches my hand and I jump. I have no doubt disturbed a spider, who in turn has startled me in my inability to see a damned thing. It is no good; I shall have to try to turn up the gas. But perhaps I should pull back those heavy curtains; there might well be moonlight to be had, behind them.
Carefully, awkwardly, I reach the window behind the settee and pull back the drapes. At once, the room is flooded with a pale silver light and I am at last able to see. I open the remaining curtains and shiver in the chill that penetrates the vast room in which I stand through the large windows.
As I step back into the middle of the room, I find that I did not almost fall over the carpet at all - the rugs that I was seeking have been strewn before the settee as if someone has tossed them about in a fit of temper. How very odd! I pick one up - once again disturbing a large spider (on this occasion, it does not bother me in the slightest) - and toss the heavy wool fabric about my shoulders. Now I feel a little better and can turn my attention to the unlit hearth.
To my annoyance, I discover the wood to be unusable - it simply will not stay lit. With a muttered curse, I pull myself to my feet and decide that perhaps I should satisfy my concern for my companion and then satisfy his for me by taking myself off to my bed, for I would at least be warmer. The hall is as dark now as it was when I first entered it and so I light a candle before stepping out into it. In the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight I fancy for a moment that I catch a glimpse of someone on the stairs, but the apparition vanishes before I can make it out clearly and I dismiss it as the product of weary eyes and an overactive imagination. Surely what I encountered in the stables must also have been some kind of a dream, as well - a reaction to fatigue and cold, perhaps? Yet I still feel dreadfully apprehensive as I climb the stairs.
As I reach the first landing, I am stopped by a terrible cry from the room across from mine. Watson! Without even a pause to wonder what could be amiss, I dash into his room.
I know not precisely what I expected to find - my companion in the middle of a nightmare, perhaps? - but the sight that greets me is enough to stop me in my tracks for a moment. There, bending over my terrified Boswell, is a wraith - and it is clearly pinning the poor fellow to his bed.
When I rally my wits I find that I am almost as angry with myself for hesitating as I am with this spectre for daring to threaten my friend. With a snarl I approach the bed to wave the lit candle in its face.
There is an angry hiss and then the apparition has vanished like a wisp of smoke. Thank Heaven! I set aside the candle with shaking hands and then draw my companion close to me, for he is shivering with vigour and his breath is coming in sobs. And his skin is like ice! I can feel the lack of warmth to his arms and back through the cloth of his nightgown. With great haste I snatch the rug from my shoulders and swathe him in it before holding him close to me once more.
"Holmes?" he whispers at length. "Did I disturb you?"
Only Watson would worry about me after such a fright. I smile. "I was on my way up to bed when I thought that I heard you call. Are you all right? I perceive that you are shivering."
He sniffs and rubs a hand across his face. "I must have had a waking dream. I have seen them in fevered patients..."
Before he can utter another word, I have my hand pressed to his brow. It is, after all, a perfectly natural reaction to such words. But he is not fevered and I already know as much, for he is rather too cold.
"I am all right, Holmes. It was only a bad dream."
"Quite so."
And yet he is no more inclined to dismiss me than I am to leave his side.
I give a shiver and he gazes up at me. "Perhaps you should go to bed, old man."
I could not leave him alone in this room, having witnessed what I have. Every fibre of my being may be telling me that I imagined it, but I have nothing to support the argument - I am not a man prone to visions, even when seriously unwell, and I very much doubt that weariness would be enough to cause such a reaction in me.
"Permit me to light a fire, first," I request. If the light from a candle was enough to chase away that wraith, perhaps a lit fire would keep it from returning.
He shakes his head. "I am not unwell, Holmes."
"If our host can afford to keep more than a dozen fine horses, he can afford the luxury of a lit fire for his guests," I retort as I kneel beside the hearth. But the fire will not light, just as the one in the sitting room would not, and I am again beginning to feel quite scared. I should like nothing more than to take Watson and leave this dreadful place - or to at the very least send away my companion.
"What ever is the matter?" my Boswell asks of me when a curse escapes my lips.
"The wood will not light," I grumble, using all of my skill to sound only put out and tired.
There is a sigh from behind me. "You are becoming cold. Perhaps you should leave me now and go to bed. I am sorry that I disturbed you, but I am all right now."
I turn to study him. He does not seem the least bit inclined to return to slumbering any more than I feel inclined to leave so as to permit him to do so.
"You should try to sleep," the doctor insists. "You will work so very much better for the rest."
I give a shiver. "I am not tired, Watson. I was only going to get into my bed because I was feeling cold. But this bedroom is considerably warmer than the sitting room was and I do not mind staying here, in thought."
He snorts. "I can see that you are shivering, Holmes. Go on - I shall be all right."
No, I think not. I instead take a selection of rugs from the top shelf of his wardrobe and share them between us before setting myself down upon the bed at his side. I then light the lamp, for the candle is going to fail us before dawn.
"Holmes! I do not require a nightlight. Nor do I require a guard. Go to bed, for Heaven's sake!"
I apologise quietly. "I want company," I confess, using my saddest and most vulnerable of tones. He never could resist a plea for sympathy. "I find it easier to work when I am able to voice my theories out loud. Do you object?"
Of course he does not, now that I have made it clear to him that I am not remaining because I feel that he needs some form of care. The doctor has his deuced pride, after all.
Watson never will cease to amaze me. I have scarcely begun to discuss my theories - such as they were before our encounter with the supernatural - with him and already he has curled himself up at my side with a weary sigh. I suspect that he is either slumbering or at the very least preparing for it, because his breathing has become quiet and even. I take his hand - gently, so as not to wake him - and prepare myself for a long vigil. He shall not be disturbed again this night.
I pass the night in deep, feverish thought. Somehow, I must convince my companion to leave this dreadful place, even if I must remain. I should also consult a priest, for this case no longer remains within the bounds of my expertise.
It no longer comes as a surprise to me when it is announced at breakfast that yet another horse has become lame during the night, despite my presence, for I recall that cry of pain before the strange shadow decided to attempt to see me off. Watson feels it keenly, however, and our host wishes to know what I saw last night and just what I plan to do now. Aside from suggesting that he arrange an exorcism as soon as possible, what can I tell him?
My companion seems none the worse for his scare of last night and that comes as a profound relief to me. The last thing that I want is for him to become unwell or upset due to this wretched case. I wish to God that I had never taken it, that I had been too busy or had felt the work to be beneath me. I wish that the doctor had been busy with his practice.
"What a beautiful morning," my Boswell notes as we leave the breakfast room together. "It is a shame to remain indoors, do you not think? We could go for a stroll in the meadows, perhaps."
I should know by now that a bright, sunny morning will never fail to banish any apprehension that the doctor may feel during even the very darkest or coldest of nights. It is as if he is unable to feel fear when the sun shines. If only his optimism were contagious!
We venture out together, because he will not back down when he feels the fine weather calling to him and I dare not leave his side. He is indeed right, when he talks of mornings such as this - it is almost impossible for me to believe that my experiences of the night could be more than a dream, in the warmth of this morning. But there is still no birdsong to be heard, no insects chirping, fluttering or humming nearby and the shadows remain deep and cold. Still I feel that danger lurks, unseen but nearby.
Could it be possible that I am simply going mad? Could Watson be correct when he constantly warns me against the usage of cocaine - even in the minute dosages that I partake of?
For now, I must assume that I am still in possession of all of my faculties and thus assume that my senses are to be relied upon as always. However, perhaps I should put them to the test at the first opportunity.
I entertain my companion with some simple observations that I have made in regard to our host and his household. I would appear to be quite as well as always, with nothing lacking in my powers at all. My reasoning is sound, my observations perfect. Surely the doctor would notice a flaw if one existed, for he would undoubtedly realise should I cease to make sense to him - he has always been able to understand me once I explained my reasoning, after all - he can even apply my logic to explain my reasoning to clients. Yes, he would undoubtedly know, were I to cease to make sense.
"Watson, I must go into the village, this morning," I inform my friend as I grip his arm earnestly. "Would you care to accompany me?"
He gazes at me for a long moment. "You are feeling well, are you, Holmes? You have not seemed quite yourself all the morning."
I freeze in sudden terror. There is something amiss! "How so?"
"Well, you barely reacted when we were informed that yet another horse has mysteriously become lame, for one thing. It is unlike you to suddenly lose interest in a case - particularly a trying one."
I imagine that it is on the tip of his tongue to mention my inexplicable desire to remain close to his side, but he is no doubt afraid that he might offend me. He would of course be correct - it is almost unheard of for me to express a desire to remain ever at his side in this manner.
When we are alone in a carriage bound for the nearest village, I find the courage to ask my companion some of the questions that I would not dare to ask while we are in the grounds of our client's home.
"Tell me, Watson, what do you think of the house that we are staying in?"
He gazes at me for a long moment before giving an answer. "Well, it is very fine."
I snort impatiently. "Have you noticed the silence? It is set in the heart of the country! Where are the birds, the animals? I have not even seen a single butterfly or bumblebee!"
"Of course!" he gasps with a snap of his fingers. "I was unable to understand why I felt so uncomfortable there. It is the lack of life - as you say, there should at least be birds or insects in evidence."
I pat his shoulder and confess that I have also felt uncomfortable whilst carefully avoiding the subject of the supernatural.
"It would certainly explain your unusual behaviour," he notes as I conceal a yawn. "I must confess that you have had me quite worried, Holmes."
Naturally, I apologise. I do not enjoy causing the dear chap upset.
"I suppose it also explains my bad dreams," the fellow muses.
"You said dreams," I observe with growing apprehension. "For how long have you been having these nightmares?"
He shrugs. "Since the night of our arrival. But that is not uncommon - strange surroundings, eerie quiet..."
"What are the dreams about?" I ask of him. "Afghanistan?"
"That is the unusual thing about these dreams - they are unlike anything that I have ever experienced. I dream that I have awoke, due to a noise or something, and I have my eyes open. I can see the room in which I am lying. I try to move and then there is something pinning me to my bed."
My heart is hammering within my breast but I maintain my outward appearance of calm. "What sort of a thing?"
He looks away. "I don't know. It is always so very dark. But I do not believe that it is human - it is too strong; I can never move or get the creature off of me. I know that it is only a dream, but it terrifies me and it is always difficult to return to slumber, when it comes to an end at last."
"Why did you not tell me?" I demand to know.
Watson turns back to stare at me. "Tell you what? That I believed myself to be going mad?"
"You are not mad and I would have told you as much - you are as sane as I am." In fact, that could be an insult to him. He is possibly the saner of the two of us.
"Holmes, I have yet to hear of a well man having such dreams - I assure you that I have only ever witnessed them in fevered patients."
I shrug my shoulders. "Well, perhaps a well man would not consult a doctor on such a matter - if I believed such dreams to be a reality, I might consult a priest."
"But Holmes -"
"Consider," I interrupt with raised finger and shaking head. "Consider, Watson. I am not a man of science and reason and I am scared by these visions - which seem so very real?"
He nods miserably.
"Well, what can a doctor do to stop them? Medicine cannot keep ghosts or demons at bay. The answer is surely a simple one - and it is likely to work."
"My dear Holmes!"
I do wish that he would listen before raising his objections! "Consider, Watson. I believe my home to be haunted and I believe that an exorcism is the only solution - faith alone is likely to be enough. Do you not see?"
He nods slowly. "I believe I do. But how am I to put an end to my own bad dreams? Surely you do not believe that the house is truly haunted?"
I cannot answer that question. With a regretful shake of my head, I tell him as much.
"Then what am I to do?" he asks of me, with a frustrated groan. "I am becoming afraid to so much as close my eyes!"
Poor Watson! "I can stay with you, if you would like. Perhaps some company would help you to feel safer - safe enough for rest to come the easier."
"That is very kind of you, Holmes, but you do need to sleep, yourself."
"Pooh!" I retort. "You should know by now that I am unable to so much as think of sleep when I am faced with a problem such as this. Staying up with you, staying up alone - tell me, what is the difference?"
"Very well," he responds with quite obvious annoyance. "But I do wish that you would at the very least try to rest. You are going to work yourself into a fever, old man."
Pooh! What nonsense! "My constitution is a strong one; you need not fear on my account." How fortunate it is that I have never been inclined to sleep during cases and that this argument has been repeated so many times before.
"Did you see anything, when you concealed yourself in the stables, last night?" he asks suddenly.
I shake my head and suppress a chill shiver at the memory of all that transpired. "No."
My companion raises his eyebrows, but does not press the matter further. We spend the remainder of the journey in silence, however, which would suggest that he suspects that I am trying to deceive him. How I loathe deception!
Watson spends the day visiting bookshops and purchasing souvenirs while I seek out knowledge of ghosts and other such creatures. I must confess that I am quite at a loss.
Having learnt all that I can - which is not as much as I would like - I meet my companion in the local tearoom at half past four. He is quite clearly as cheerful as ever, but my stomach is churning horribly and I can barely look at the sandwiches and cakes that the doctor has ordered to accompany the tea.
"Holmes," he scolds, "surely you are hungry! You have scarcely had a bite all day - a piece of toast for breakfast is all, for we have both missed our lunch."
He is of course right, but I simply cannot find the appetite in my current nervous state. If only I could make him understand!
I permit myself to drink some tea and nibble a biscuit in the hope of finding a compromise between my nerves and hunger (I cannot hope to put an end to Watson's constant nagging with a biscuit). I then excuse myself to the washroom, so as to find a moment to calm myself and to think away from his watchful gaze. What I need is some form of a plan.
I am still deep in thought when we return to the house.
"I think I shall go and lie down, before dinner," my Boswell announces. "I am somewhat tired from the travelling. You don't mind, do you?"
Truth be told, I would much prefer that he had tried to sleep while we were travelling, but at least it is still daylight. I agree but advise him to have a fire lit, telling him that I may have need of him later and that I would feel much happier if his leg was not paining him. It is at least a half truth.
With Watson gone and - I hope - resting, I decide to visit the stables again. Nervous I may be, but I am as well informed as I can be and I must try something. I enter and have to suppress a shiver, for these outbuildings are terribly cold and have a strange - and unpleasant - smell, rather like damp or decay.
I feel a sudden and pressing sense of dread, unlike anything that I have experienced before. The spirit is here and means to frighten me, but I am not going to permit that. I am Sherlock Holmes - I am not easily scared. Last night, I was weary, cold and vulnerable; today I am wakeful and empowered.
"You are trespassing," the voice that I heard last night hisses, close to my ear. "This is not your home."
"It is not yours, either. You are nothing more than an unwelcome guest - I have at least been invited to stay."
"This is my home. I was born here and I died here. I lived here for more years than you have seen, Mortal, and I have remained here for centuries."
I can see the shadow swaying close to my face, as a snake might sway before it strikes. I believe it knows of my dislike for the creatures and is deliberately trying to imitate one. This is an old fear that I have not even admitted to my dear Boswell and I wish that I had not recoiled, last night as I had, but I shall not react to it now. Not today. It means to frighten me and undermine me, for how else could a spirit gain the upper hand?
"You fear for your friend," the voice notes. "Not for yourself do you want me gone, but for him."
It can read my mind!
"Thoughts are bursts of energy and we are made from energy. I have seen your heart - your fears and your passions. I can crush you."
I know a moment of terror, but I am determined. Desperately, I begin to search for something - anything - that I can use to defend myself. I cannot tell why I think of it, but I recall a hymn that my grandmother was fond of. I cannot remember the words as she was in the habit of humming it or else playing it on the piano, but I do know the tune by heart. I can almost hear her singing it as I concentrate upon the memory - it is pure and the most soothing memory that I have.
"What are you doing? Stop it!"
Now it is a gigantic serpent, with long teeth and glowing eyes. It is trying its utmost to frighten me.
I close my eyes and continue to hum. I then add the words of the only prayer that I am capable of reciting - the Lord's Prayer. There is an angry hiss and then all is still and somehow very different - the air feels warmer, healthier, than it has since I arrived. However, I suspect that the spirit is not truly gone for good and that our client may have to take action himself.
I return to the house, wondering just what it is that I should say to him, only to be met by the fellow in the hall.
"What have you done, Holmes?" he demands to know. "Something has just entered this house - it screamed at me and flew straight through me!"
"I drove it from the stables," I confess.
He seems somewhat impressed. "How did you manage that?"
"With the Lord's Prayer." I go on to explain that I had simply been trying to calm my mind and think about something other than the ghost and its attempts to frighten me.
He gazes at me with admiration. "Do you think you could drive it from the house, as well?"
"Temporarily, perhaps, but I have no authority here - I am your guest. Once I am gone..." I shake my head. "I cannot imagine that it would not return."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"That you call in a priest to help you - this is outside of my field of expertise and any assistance or advice that I give to you could be incorrect. The spirit told me that this has been its home for an age and that it feels that we are trespassing - it would never do to insult it."
He nods slowly. "Then there is nothing more that you can do?"
"Not without running the risk of making things worse."
"What about your fee?"
I shrug my shoulders. "I consider this to have been a new experience, but certainly not a success - under the circumstances, I would not accept payment."
He smiles. "You are a remarkable man - never before have I encountered such integrity. Permit me to at least pay for your expences."
I thank him and then go to wake Watson - I want him gone from here at once - and to hurriedly pack and leave. I tell my Boswell that our work is done and that the culprit was a local that wished to ruin our client - it is as near to the truth as I can manage, for I fear that his world would be turned upside down, were I to confess that I had seen a ghost.
"Then why are we leaving in such a hurry?"
"Our client has a race to prepare for and would prefer it if we were not present."
"Humph!"
"He is accustomed to working in privacy, Watson; as am I. I am not offended."
He smiles and takes his bags from me. "Well, if you are not upset, it would be ridiculous for me to take offence on your behalf."
"Come then."
We leave the house without incident and are driven to the local train station. With a relieved sigh, I settle down on one of the benches provided and rest my weary brow upon the uninjured shoulder of my Boswell when he takes to my side.
"You work yourself too hard," he scolds quietly.
I merely groan in response. This is not a reaction to fatigue - this is relief to finally be leaving this place.
Watson is writing something in his journal and I am drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. I would probably be sleeping by now, but I am becoming cold and my arm is hurting me. Up until now, I had forgotten about the pain that I felt last night, for it had ceased to bother me.
"Are you all right, old fellow?" my friend asks when I attempt to find a better position.
I nod. "Only tired."
He snorts. "Yes, I should think that you are. I cannot advise you to sleep here, though; you would more than likely catch a dreadful chill."
He is right, of course. "When is the train due to arrive?"
"In five minutes. Once we are in the carriage, you can have a nice, long rest."
I am only listening with half an ear, but the thought of warmth and rest sounds wonderful - I cannot remember ever feeling so very worn.
When our train finally arrives, the doctor is forced to assist me in boarding It, which is unheard of. I cannot lift my bags with my paining arm and my hand is barely functioning either. What the deuce is happening to me?
As the train begins to move, there is a sharp rap upon the window beside me, causing Watson and I both to turn our attention to it. There at the window facing onto the platform - and moving at precisely the same speed as our carriage - is a horrible face. The doctor recoils in fear and I instantly draw him close to me.
The spirit would appear to take our reactions as a victory and glides through the door and into the carriage. I recognise it instantly - as does my terrified companion.
"It is the wraith from my dream," he whispers. "But I am most certainly not sleeping now!"
Perhaps I shall be able to convince him that he is in actual fact in the throes of another nightmare, later. However, I must first see this fiendish creature off before I can attempt to calm my poor friend.
The spirit Is pointing at me with a long, bony finger. I shiver as what feels like an icy hand clutches at my heart and squeezes it. The pain is terrible - I can barely breathe!
"Holmes!"
The squeezing sensation is worsening and my arm is cold and numb at my side. Through the gloom that is closing in upon me, I am vaguely aware of my companion getting to his feet in the swaying carriage.
"Begone!" he orders. "Sherlock Holmes is my friend - he is the best and wisest man that I have ever had the good fortune to know."
I know not what happens next. My world fades into black and I hear no more.
"Holmes? Holmes! Can you hear me?"
I force open my heavy eyes and gaze up into his concerned, pale face.
"Thank the Lord!" he gasps. "I was beginning to fear the worst! Are you all right?"
I nod and again rub at my painful arm to discover that it now has a bandage at the crook of the elbow.
"Did you see the... that thing that attacked you?"
"What thing?" I ask of him while I attempt to keep my eyes in focus. "I fainted due to fatigue, did I not?"
"I believe that you had a heart attack," he responds. "I shall have to keep you under strict observation, when we return to London. Do you know how you came to be injured?"
Oh. "I believe that I caught it on something in the barn, last night."
He tuts. "You should have told me! It has become infected. Were I not in the habit of always bringing my bag along on these adventures..."
But he is and I know that I am safe with him beside me, as always. I only hope that he shall be safe with me - my skin is crawling and I cannot help but fear that the spirit whom I have angered might follow us to our very door, in its search for vengeance.