Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [110]
One luminous moment was our arrival at Dr. Kessel’s establishment. I can hardly tell you how we had travelled up until that point: presumably by steam locomotive from London to Edinburgh, and thence by horse and carriage. But I remember vividly the tall surrounding hedges and the sign on the gatepost:
EXPERIMENTAL INSTITUTE OF ELECTRO-MAGNETIC THERAPY
DR. J. S. KESSEL
BY APPOINTMENT ONLY
When we rolled in through the gate, a number of old brick buildings came into view, half hidden by evergreen yews and firs. Two incongruous chimneys rose up from among the trees, more suited to a factory than a research institute. It was late afternoon, and the sun slanting in low under the clouds threw splashes of honey-coloured light over chimneys and treetops.
Attendants came out to meet us. They wore tailcoats and high collars and seemed to comport themselves with more dignity and assurance than ordinary servants. I was aware of the incongruity, but assumed I had been given an explanation, which I had since forgotten. Perhaps that was indeed the case. At any event, they took care of our luggage like ordinary servants and escorted us to our appointment with Dr. Kessel.
Dr. Kessel’s study stands out as another vivid memory. We were led through a Gothic arched porch and down a flight of steps—for Dr. Kessel’s rooms were below ground level. Or mostly below ground level; a strip of horizontal windows just under the ceiling let in a little daylight. But my overpowering impression was neither the windows nor the leather armchairs nor the bookcases lining three of the walls—it was a singular smell, at once sweet and stale. I thought of it then—and think of it now—as Dr. Kessel’s own personal odour.
The man himself was not as I had prefigured him. I had heard the tone, rather than the words, when Mother and Father talked about him—a tone of awe and reverence. In my imagination, he had been tall, with burning eyes and a flowing beard; in reality, he was short and balding, with thick pebble glasses. He did have a beard, admittedly, but only a small, neatly trimmed goatee. Even the way he paced up and down on the carpet was fussy and precise.
“So this is the boy.” He spoke with a foreign accent, hard and clipped, as though cutting out every word like a piece of metal. “Suffers from nightmares.”
“We thought they were ordinary night terrors when he was a child,” Father explained. “We expected him to grow out of them. But they’ve continued and become worse over the last three years. Every second night he wakes up screaming.”
“He all but died three weeks ago,” said Mother. “His heart stopped in his sleep. If I hadn’t been by his bedside . . .”
“Yes, yes, these facts I know,” Dr. Kessel interrupted. “This was in your letter. What form of nightmares?”
Mother and Father exchanged glances.
“Shadowy things,” said Mother. “Recurring monsters.”
“Being trapped,” said Father.
“Something about a particular colour,” said Mother. “A particular shade of reddish brown.”
They looked towards me for assistance, but I had no wish to fill in the details. Even when prostrated by fear, sobbing for deliverance, with my head buried in Mother’s lap, still there were some horrors I would never reveal to anyone.
Dr. Kessel looked at me too, indifferently, impersonally. “No matter,” he said. “Bad thoughts. My mechanism will draw them off.”
“How does it work?” asked Father.
Although Father was a banker by profession, science was his hobby. He must have been reading up on the physics of electricity and the new field of research into the human brain. Dr. Kessel stopped pacing and began an explanation. I tried to pay attention as they discussed experiments with galvanic stimulation . . . individual neurological areas of the brain . . . electrical impulses and electro-magnetic waves . . . the application of Tesla’s alternating current . . . the different rhythms of wakefulness and sleep. Names were tossed about that I have since researched myself: Eduard Hitzig, Gustav Fritsch, Sir David Ferrier, Friedrich Goltz, and more. In effect,