What people get up to in the privacy of their own homes is their business. That is unless it spills out into the streets.
My experiences with the Professor have shown me much about the intricacies of Paranormology, yet nothing prepared me for what I would face in the basement of a house in Jolimont Street.
The evil that lurked their, conjured from some dark netherworld, threatened to take our lives and our souls.
This is the fourth book in the Paranormology series.
If the Professor were to realise that I have written these accounts, he might well release me from employment or worse, he would have grounds to enlist the services of a solicitor to sue me! He has reiterated to the point of distraction the importance of secrecy to the future of our field of research.
Still, I cannot leave these tales untold, especially since the latest encounter.
During our research, we have experienced many strange and unworldly phenomena, from rapping on walls to apparitions, from phantom smells to disembodied voices. None of these, I came to realise, were worthy of fear.
Noises cannot harm. Smells cannot harm. A disembodied, floating head is repulsive, to say the least, yet it can do no more injury to you or me than a fly.
My mother told me that there was nothing to fear in the dark, for, she said, there is nothing in the dark that is not there in the light. This was my creed and, coupled with my strange but benign experiences, I had lulled myself into feeling fearless, indomitable.
The entities we had so far pursued were so innocuous that I scoffed at those who feared them, I brashly strode into every darkened room with an air of cockiness. I approached, rather than shrank from, manifestations. At times I would even resort to provocation in order to get a reaction.
This boldness was almost my undoing.
Like a warrior who fights only straw-men, I was completely unprepared for what I was to face.
I am thus compelled once more to break my promise to the Professor and record the events in this journal. The scientific nature of our observations do not convey the full effect of what transpired in Jolimont Street and, I fear, they may never see the light of day.
We had been investigating the house as part of our usual routine to make scientific observations. It had been reported as 'creepy' by neighbours, past and present, although our findings had shown the house to be decidedly sterile in nature.
In fact, we had found so little in the way of activity, that the Professor had classified the building as a 'scientific control', a reference point for a house that is not haunted, a standard to which we might calibrate our equipment and compare environmental observations for similar locations and seasons.
I would not look forward to spending time in Jolimont Street. Not because of any particular feeling or unease, no, I despised our sessions there simply because they were boring. On more than one occasion, I have voiced my indignation, as on the afternoon my story begins.
“Professor, must we really spend tonight at Jolimont? In what way can one more set of observations be useful? We have a month of Sundays and more besides, and the deviation in results is nothing short of unremarkable!” I complained.
The Professor looked up from his bag, “Unremarkable? Lad, are you listening to what you are saying or are you making a habit of letting your mouth run wild? The magnetoscope needs calibration. The new vibrometer as well. Plus we've not performed observations for the start of autumn.”
“Wouldn't our time be better spent at Casings Place or North Avenue?”
“Laddie, we need to make observations whether we want to or not. It is not a decision we, as proper scientists, get to make. We must have a control. If we don't, we'll have nothing against which to compare, nothing to call standard.”