Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [114]
I had been aware of a few light taps on my shoulders, and a swishing, swooshing sound in the trees. I realised then that it had started to rain—and the drops were rapidly turning into a deluge. My relatively sheltered spot between building and trees was no protection.
I left the window and hastened back to my room in the guest wing.
I WAS PERPLEXED and fearful. The suggestion that the physical components of the mechanism might be unsafe disturbed me; even more so, the talk of ghosts and haunting. Exactly what I had to fear I did not know, but the impressions of my midnight adventure came back to me in a hundred shifting associations. I could hold no one thought still and steady in my mind. I write it out calmly now—you see how measured are my sentences—but all that night a whirlwind blew through my brain.
By morning, I was in an abnormal state even by my own standards. It was as though countless wheels spun at great speed inside me—yet ineffectually, disengaged. I couldn’t decide what to do for the best; indeed, I had lost all power of decision. I felt that a current was sweeping me along to some inevitable fate. I even felt I had a particular role to play, like an actor following a script.
Last night’s storm had passed, and the new day had a stark, scoured look. The grass and paths were still wet, and a detritus of leaves and twigs littered the lawns. Four attendants came to collect us, including Mr. Hungerford with the American accent. I think Mr. Hungerford explained that I should avoid food before my treatment, so Mother and Father also went without breakfast.
The next clear scene in my memory was when we trooped again into Dr. Kessel’s study. The room was as it had been on our previous visit and as I had seen it through the window—with a single significant addition. Against one wall—the wall not lined with bookshelves—there now stood a curious box, large and shallow and mounted on wheels. It was open at the top, low to the ground, and upholstered with plush white interior padding. I can’t say why, but as soon as I saw that box, I knew I was going to have to lie down in it.
Dr. Kessel was brisk and business-like this morning. He told Father that my treatment might require up to five sessions with the mechanism, but a single donation to the institute would cover all costs. The attendants brought in the contract for Father to sign, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw the size of the expected donation. Banker that he was, he read through all the details of the contract before signing.
Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to wander across to the box. A pair of leather straps lay loose across the padding, and, although I couldn’t tell their precise purpose, the sight of them made my heart beat faster. I saw also that the wheels of the box ran on two steel rails embedded in the carpet, as if half-buried in green grass. The rails continued as far as the wall behind, then appeared to vanish underneath it. In fact, this was the same wooden wall I had observed last night from the other side—and not truly a wall but a partition.
“Anthony!”
Mother called me back. The contract had been signed, and, as one of the attendants bore it away, another stepped forward with a beaker of cloudy, milky liquid.
“Dr. Kessel wants you to drink this,” she said.
I shook my head. My reluctance was growing stronger by the minute.
Mother’s mouth tightened. To my thirteen-year-old eyes, my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world; even now, when I consider her photographs, I can say without a doubt that she was unusually attractive. But her large grey eyes could flash with a steely determination, and I admit I was sometimes a little afraid of her.
“It is only a sleeping draught,” said Dr. Kessel, more to my parents than me. “He will sleep and dream, until the bad thoughts come to the surface. Then my mechanism draws them off.”
“Only a sleeping draught,” Mother repeated. “You want to be cured, don’t you, Anthony?”
I stared at the liquid. “I don’t like it,” I said—meaning the liquid, the box, the straps, everything.