The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle
Authors: Vaughn Entwistle
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figures peering out from the vines as they crawled, clambered, or slithered through them. They were not human, although several had quasi-human features. Conan Doyle felt a moment of heart-stopping déjà vu when he realized he had seen something very similar before. His father had been a painter by profession and a drinker by predilection. During his brief periods of sobriety, before the drink irrevocably robbed him of his mind, Charles Altamont Doyle had made an income as an illustrator. He had continued to paint as part of his therapy in a mental institution. When these paintings were mailed to the family upon his death, Conan Doyle found them deeply disturbing and burned them in the fireplace. The paintings were filled with weird, elfish creatures; part-animal, part-human, as if his father’s madness had been a lens that allowed his vision to pierce the veil of normal existence and glimpse a strange and unsettling world that lurked unseen around us.
Conan Doyle pulled his eyes away from the wall paneling with some difficulty. He was still clutching the rubber grip of Thunderer, his favorite cricket bat, and now he set it down beside the bed. He went to his suitcase and unfastened the leather straps. Upon release, the tightly compressed contents sprang up several inches. As Wilde had predicted, the suitcase contained three tweed suits; however, they were not precisely identical: one was oatmeal, one was beige, and one was muffin-colored. Conan Doyle lifted them out and set them aside. His hand rummaged beneath layers of socks and cotton drawers until it closed upon a small leather bag: a miniature version of his full-sized Gladstone; it contained a stethoscope, a suture kit, and a few vials of drugs. He set aside his sharply pressed suits and rummaged once again. This time he pulled out a bulky object trussed in a black cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal his trusty service revolver. He had hesitated about bringing it. But the medium’s description of her murder—two bullets in the chest, fired at close range—meant that he was facing an armed adversary. Conan Doyle did not intend to enter the fray at a disadvantage. He regarded the Webley .455 for a moment, slipped his hand onto the grip, and hefted its weight. Then he rewrapped the pistol in its black cloth. He peered around the room, searching for potential hiding places, then stepped to the bed and slipped it beneath the mattress. It was perhaps an obvious place, but he suspected that the domestic staff of Thraxton Hall would not be changing the linens for a few days.
Finished with his unpacking for now, he dropped into a chair, kicked off his shoes, and peeled the wet socks from his feet. He got up wearily, crossed to the bed, swept aside the bed curtains, and lay down. The pillows were hard and lumpy. The sheets felt damp. He looked up at the once-white four-poster canopy, which was sagging, yellowed with age, and holed in places—a dozen small shadows marked the corpses of moths that had eaten their final meal and died there. Then his eyes traced down the nearest of the four bedposts. It, too, was made of the same dark walnut as the wall paneling and was carved in the same gothic style: a menagerie of ghastly leering faces and hideous chimeras ripped from a nightmare. Nothing about the bed or the room was comfortable or seemed conducive to rest, but it had been a long day and he was exhausted. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a sense of vertigo as if he were sinking into the mattress. There was a clock somewhere in the room; he could hear its tick, tick, tick.
The metallic heartbeat of Time.
He thought to look for it, to see what the hour was, but could not bring himself to open his eyes or lift his head from the pillow. And then he heard the sound of weeping, as if from a long way away, and felt the heart-clutching sensation of being utterly suffused with despair. It was his last conscious thought before he slipped into a sleep so horribly deep it felt
Conan Doyle pulled his eyes away from the wall paneling with some difficulty. He was still clutching the rubber grip of Thunderer, his favorite cricket bat, and now he set it down beside the bed. He went to his suitcase and unfastened the leather straps. Upon release, the tightly compressed contents sprang up several inches. As Wilde had predicted, the suitcase contained three tweed suits; however, they were not precisely identical: one was oatmeal, one was beige, and one was muffin-colored. Conan Doyle lifted them out and set them aside. His hand rummaged beneath layers of socks and cotton drawers until it closed upon a small leather bag: a miniature version of his full-sized Gladstone; it contained a stethoscope, a suture kit, and a few vials of drugs. He set aside his sharply pressed suits and rummaged once again. This time he pulled out a bulky object trussed in a black cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal his trusty service revolver. He had hesitated about bringing it. But the medium’s description of her murder—two bullets in the chest, fired at close range—meant that he was facing an armed adversary. Conan Doyle did not intend to enter the fray at a disadvantage. He regarded the Webley .455 for a moment, slipped his hand onto the grip, and hefted its weight. Then he rewrapped the pistol in its black cloth. He peered around the room, searching for potential hiding places, then stepped to the bed and slipped it beneath the mattress. It was perhaps an obvious place, but he suspected that the domestic staff of Thraxton Hall would not be changing the linens for a few days.
Finished with his unpacking for now, he dropped into a chair, kicked off his shoes, and peeled the wet socks from his feet. He got up wearily, crossed to the bed, swept aside the bed curtains, and lay down. The pillows were hard and lumpy. The sheets felt damp. He looked up at the once-white four-poster canopy, which was sagging, yellowed with age, and holed in places—a dozen small shadows marked the corpses of moths that had eaten their final meal and died there. Then his eyes traced down the nearest of the four bedposts. It, too, was made of the same dark walnut as the wall paneling and was carved in the same gothic style: a menagerie of ghastly leering faces and hideous chimeras ripped from a nightmare. Nothing about the bed or the room was comfortable or seemed conducive to rest, but it had been a long day and he was exhausted. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a sense of vertigo as if he were sinking into the mattress. There was a clock somewhere in the room; he could hear its tick, tick, tick.
The metallic heartbeat of Time.
He thought to look for it, to see what the hour was, but could not bring himself to open his eyes or lift his head from the pillow. And then he heard the sound of weeping, as if from a long way away, and felt the heart-clutching sensation of being utterly suffused with despair. It was his last conscious thought before he slipped into a sleep so horribly deep it felt
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