“Little sound common sense,” Arthur said. “Got to go about these things in the right way. Never pays to aim too low. Tell my fellows that.”
“I think perhaps after dinner we will have a little session with planchette,” Mrs. Montague said. “Just Arthur and I, of course; the rest of you, I can see, are not ready yet; you would only drive away the spirits. We will need a quiet room—”
“The library,” Luke suggested politely.
“The library? I think it might do; books are frequently very good carriers, you know. Materializations are often best produced in rooms where there are books. I cannot think of any time when materialization was in any way hampered by the presence of books. I suppose the library has been dusted? Arthur sometimes sneezes.”
“Mrs. Dudley keeps the entire house in perfect order,” the doctor said.
“I really will speak to Mrs. Dudley in the morning. You will show us the library, then, John, and that young man will bring down my case; not the large suitcase, mind, but the small attaché case. Bring it to me in the library. We will join you later; after a session with planchette I require a glass of milk and perhaps a small cake; crackers will do if they are not too heavily salted. A few minutes of quiet conversation with congenial people is also very helpful, particularly if I am to be receptive during the night; the mind is a precise instrument and cannot be tended too carefully. Arthur?” She bowed distantly to Eleanor and Theodora and went out, escorted by Arthur, Luke, and her husband.
After a minute Theodora said, “I think I am going to be simply crazy about Mrs. Montague.”
“I don’t know,” Eleanor said. “Arthur is rather more to my taste. And Luke
is
a coward, I think.”
“Poor Luke,” Theodora said. “He never had a mother.” Looking up, Eleanor found that Theodora was regarding her with a curious smile, and she moved away from the table so quickly that a glass spilled.
“We shouldn’t be alone,” she said, oddly breathless. “We’ve got to find the others.” She left the table and almost ran from the room, and Theodora ran after her, laughing, down the corridor and into the little parlor, where Luke and the doctor stood before the fire.
“Please, sir,” Luke was saying meekly, “who is planchette?”
The doctor sighed irritably. “Imbeciles,” he said, and then, “Sorry. The whole idea annoys me, but if
she
likes it . . .” He turned and poked the fire furiously. “Planchette,” he went on after a moment, “is a device similar to the Ouija Board, or perhaps I might explain better by saying that it is a form of automatic writing; a method of communicating with—ah—intangible beings, although to
my
way of thinking the only intangible beings who ever get in touch through one of those things are the imaginations of the people running it. Yes. Well. Planchette is a little piece of light wood, usually heart-shaped or triangular. A pencil is set into the narrow end, and at the other end is a pair of wheels, or feet which will slip easily over paper. Two people place fingers on it, ask it questions, and the object moves, pushed by what force we will not here discuss, and writes answers. The Ouija Board, as I say, is very similar, except that the object moves on a board pointing to separate letters. An ordinary wineglass will do the same thing; I have seen it tried with a child’s wheeled toy, although I will admit that it looked silly. Each person uses the tips of the fingers of one hand, keeping the other hand free to note down questions and answers. The answers are invariably, I believe, meaningless, although of course my wife will tell you different. Balderdash.” And he went at the fire again. “Schoolgirls,” he said. “Superstition.”
3
“Planchette has been very kind tonight,” Mrs. Montague said. “John, there are definitely foreign elements present in this house.”
“Quite a splendid sitting, really,” Arthur said. He waved a sheaf of paper triumphantly.
“We’ve gotten a good deal of information for you,” Mrs. Montague said. “Now. Planchette was quite insistent about a nun. Have you learned anything about a nun, John?”
“In Hill House? Not likely.”
“Planchette felt very strongly about a nun, John. Perhaps something of the sort—a dark, vague figure, even—has been seen in the neighborhood? Villagers terrified when staggering home late at night?”
“The figure of a nun is a fairly common—”
“John,
if
you please. I assume you are suggesting that I am mistaken. Or perhaps it is your intention to point our that
planchette
may be mistaken? I assure you—and you must believe planchette, even if
my
word is not good enough for you—that a nun was most specifically suggested.”
“I am only trying to say, my dear, that the wraith of a nun is far and away the most common form of appearance. There has never been such a thing connected with Hill House, but in almost every—”
“John,
if
you
please
. I assume I may continue? Or is planchette to be dismissed without a hearing? Thank you.” Mrs. Montague composed herself. “Now, then. There is also a name, spelled variously as Helen, or Helene, or Elena. Who might that be?”
“My dear, many people have lived—”
“Helen brought us a warning against a mysterious monk. Now when a monk and a nun
both
turn up in one house—”
“Expect the place was built on an older site,” Arthur said. “Influences prevailing, you know. Older influences hanging around,” he explained more fully.
“It sounds very much like broken vows, does it not? Very much.”
“Had a lot of that back then, you know. Temptation, probably.”
“I hardly think—” the doctor began.
“I daresay she was walled up alive,” Mrs. Montague said. “The nun, I mean. They always did that, you know. You’ve no idea the messages I’ve gotten from nuns walled up alive.”
“There is
no
case on record of
any
nun
ever
being—”
“John. May I point out to you once more that I
myself
have had messages from nuns walled up alive? Do you think I am telling you a fib, John? Or do you suppose that a nun would deliberately
pretend
to have been walled up alive when she was not? Is it possible that I am mistaken once more, John?”
“Certainly not, my dear.” Dr. Montague sighed wearily.
“With one candle and a crust of bread,” Arthur told Theodora. “Horrible thing to do, when you think about it.”
“No nun was ever walled up alive,” the doctor said sullenly. He raised his voice slightly. “It is a legend. A story. A libel circulated—”
“All right, John. We won’t quarrel over it. You may believe whatever you choose. Just understand, however, that sometimes purely materialistic views must give way before
facts
. Now it is a proven fact that among the visitations troubling this house are a nun and a—”
“What else was there?” Luke asked hastily. “I am
so
interested in hearing what—ah—planchette had to say.”
Mrs. Montague waggled a finger roguishly. “Nothing about
you,
young man. Although one of the ladies present may hear something of interest.”
Impossible woman, Eleanor thought; impossible, vulgar, possessive woman. “Now, Helen,” Mrs. Montague went on, “wants us to search the cellar for an old well.”
“Don’t tell me
Helen
was
buried
alive,” the doctor said.
“I hardly think so, John. I am sure that she would have mentioned it. As a matter of fact, Helen was most unclear about just what we
were
to find in the well. I doubt, however, that it will be treasure. One so rarely meets with
real
treasure in a case of this kind. More likely evidence of the missing nun.”
“More likely eighty years of rubbish.”
“John, I can
not
understand this skepticism in you, of all people. After all, you did come to this house to collect evidence of supernatural activity, and now, when I bring you a full account of the
causes,
and an indication of where to start looking, you are positively scornful.”
“We have no authority to dig up the cellar.”
“Arthur could—” Mrs. Montague began hopefully, but the doctor said with firmness, “No. My lease of the house specifically forbids me to tamper with the house itself. There will be no digging of cellars, no tearing out of woodwork, no ripping up of floors. Hill House is still a valuable property, and we are students, not vandals.”
“I should think you’d want to know the
truth,
John.”
“There is nothing I should like to know more.” Dr. Montague stamped across the room to the chessboard and took up a knight and regarded it furiously. He looked as though he were doggedly counting to a hundred.
“Dear me, how patient one must be sometimes.” Mrs. Montague sighed. “But I do want to read you the little passage we received toward the end. Arthur, do you have it?”
Arthur shuffled through his sheaf of papers. “It was just after the message about the flowers you are to send to your aunt,” Mrs. Montague said. “Planchette has a control named Merrigot,” she explained, “and Merrigot takes a genuine personal interest in Arthur; brings him word from relatives, and so on.”
“Not a fatal illness, you understand,” Arthur said gravely. “Have to send flowers, of course, but Merrigot is most reassuring.”
“Now.” Mrs. Montague selected several pages, and turned them over quickly; they were covered with loose, sprawling penciled words, and Mrs. Montague frowned, running down the pages with her finger. “Here,” she said. “Arthur, you read the questions and I’ll read the answers; that way, it will sound more natural.”
“Off we go,” Arthur said brightly, and leaned over Mrs. Montague’s shoulder. “Now—let me see—start right about here?”
“With ‘Who are you?’ ”
“Righto. Who are you?”
“Nell,” Mrs. Montague read in her sharp voice, and Eleanor and Theodora and Luke and the doctor turned, listening.
“Nell who?”
“Eleanor Nellie Nell Nell. They sometimes do that,” Mrs. Montague broke off to explain. “They repeat a word over and over to make sure it comes across all right.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “What do you want?” he read.
“Home.”
“Do you want to go home?” And Theodora shrugged comically at Eleanor.
“Want to be home.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Home.” Arthur stopped, and nodded profoundly. “There it is again,” he said. “Like a word, and use it over and over, just for the sound of it.”
“Ordinarily we never ask
why,
” Mrs. Montague said, “because it tends to confuse planchette. However, this time we were bold, and came right out and asked. Arthur?”
“Why?” Arthur read.
“Mother,” Mrs. Montague read. “So you see, this time we were right to ask, because planchette was perfectly free with the answer.”
“Is Hill House your home?” Arthur read levelly.
“Home,” Mrs. Montague responded, and the doctor sighed.
“Are you suffering?” Arthur read.
“No answer here.” Mrs. Montague nodded reassuringly. “Sometimes they dislike admitting to pain; it tends to discourage those of us left behind, you know. Just like Arthur’s aunt, for instance, will
never
let on that she is sick, but Merrigot always lets us know, and it’s even worse when they’ve passed over.”
“Stoical,” Arthur confirmed, and read, “Can we help you?”
“No,” Mrs. Montague read.
“Can we do anything at all for you?”
“No. Lost. Lost. Lost.” Mrs. Montague looked up. “You see?” she asked. “One word, over and over again. They
love
to repeat themselves. I’ve had one word go on to cover a whole page sometimes.”
“What do you want?” Arthur read.
“Mother,” Mrs. Montague read back.
“Why?”
“Child.”
“Where is your mother?”
“Home.”
“Where is your home?”
“Lost. Lost. Lost. And after that,” Mrs. Montague said, folding the paper briskly, “there was nothing but gibberish.”
“
Never
known planchette so cooperative,” Arthur said confidingly to Theodora. “Quite an experience, really.”
“But why pick on Nell?” Theodora asked with annoyance. “Your fool planchette has no right to send messages to people without permission or—”
“You’ll never get results by abusing planchette,” Arthur began, but Mrs. Montague interrupted him, swinging to stare at Eleanor. “
You
’re Nell?” she demanded, and turned on Theodora. “We thought
you
were Nell,” she said.
“So?” said Theodora impudently.
“It doesn’t affect the messages, of course,” Mrs. Montague said, tapping her paper irritably, “although I
do
think we might have been correctly introduced. I am sure that
planchette
knew the difference between you, but I certainly do not care to be misled.”
“Don’t feel neglected,” Luke said to Theodora. “We will bury you alive.”
“When I get a message from that thing,” Theodora said, “I expect it to be about hidden treasure. None of this nonsense about sending flowers to my aunt.”
They are all carefully avoiding looking at me, Eleanor thought; I have been singled out again, and they are kind enough to pretend it is nothing; “Why do you think all that was sent to me?” she asked, helpless.
“Really, child,” Mrs. Montague said, dropping the papers on the low table, “I couldn’t
begin
to say. Although you
are
rather more than a child, aren’t you? Perhaps you are more receptive psychically than you realize, although”—and she turned away indifferently—“how you
could
be, a week in this house and not picking up the simplest message from beyond . . . That fire wants stirring.”
“Nell doesn’t want messages from beyond,” Theodora said comfortingly, moving to take Eleanor’s cold hand in hers. “Nell wants her warm bed and a little sleep.”