Episode 9. The Casebook of Dr Miller- Case 4, pt 2. Angels & Deamons.
After taking a short term rental on No50 Berkely Square, Dr Oliver Miller finds that the world he sees will never truly be the same again.
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Transcript
The visit to Newgate Prison and my meeting with Frank O’Brien had greatly affected me, and especially as I as the appointed court official had been instrumental in his conviction.
My plan was simple, if yet again a deception- an unfortunate reoccurring theme that was to become a part of my investigations. I would present myself as a party interested in renting No50 Berkeley Square on a short term let, my own apartment being in the process of some renovations. I felt that this being simple and would be believable.
I was aware that the owner of the property did not themselves live in the house, and that they, unable to sell it (due to its now undesirable reputation) had taken to renting it out. I did not believe that they would refuse even a short-term proposition of occupation.
Once I had secured short term ‘ownership’ of No50 Berkeley Square, I would then, taking as little with me as necessary, move in and…
I had to admit that I was not entirely sure what came after the and- The cellar and the experiences that had been related to me by Frank O’Brien did not give me any encouragement as to wanting to examine the cellar. However there had been a good number of other experiences reported in the house by previous occupants that spoke of ‘lesser terrors’ than this. I would not have imagined previous to my other investigations allowing that there could be such a thing as a ‘lesser terror’, however I can now say without any uncertainty that there are many kinds of terror.
Some of the previous occupants had reported voices emanating from empty rooms, footsteps with no visible cause, indistinct shapes that dissipated when one tried to gain better focus upon them. Non of these occupants had stayed long in the house and I would presume that they would not have agreed with my supposition that these might be deemed ‘lessor terrors. In comparison to the experience of Frank O’Brien and the death of his shipmate and friend- I certainly only hoped to witness such experiences as the previous occupiers of this ill-fated property. I had no intention of ending my life self-impaled on an Iron Railing. Of course, in reality we do not necessarily choose the method of our demise, my practice as coroner acting as proof of this to me daily, notwithstanding I saw no point in increasing the odds in favour of such an ending.
Through canvassing the neighbouring houses, I was easily able to obtain the address of the owner, and I found that securing the rental agreement was far easier then I had presumed that it would be. The solicitor acting on behalf of my future, if only temporary landlords, asked very few questions and upon my presenting the two weeks rent along with a security bond against any damage to the property, the paperwork was completed within a day.
I had allowed myself a couple of days grace before the commencement of the rental to allow time to prepare whatever items I thought may be required for my stay and also to provide a little time for further research into the past events in the house. My preparations allowed me to feel somewhat in control of the situation and any potential experiences that I may have, something that since I have discovered is no more than an illusion. It does however, even if only on the surface, give one a sense of purpose and knowledge and in doing so encourages one to proceed with ones chosen course of action. The human mind has an incredible capacity to learn while at the same time becoming no wiser.
As to the items that I would require, beyond that those which as a basic necessity go without saying, I had in truth no idea what I could take that could aid me in the kind of situations I may find myself entangled. The coin I knew through its etched design had some efficacy against- well, I knew not what. My pocket watch now also bore the same Apotropaic marks, meticulously copied from the coin by an eminent London engraver. I did have a Beaumont–Adams service revolver, my father's not mine own, having never served. I had little idea of what use this could be especially remembering the shot gun shell strewn house of John the farmer in Devon- his shotgun had seemingly done him little service, however I packed it anyway. The only other item that I thought could be of any benefit was a bullseye lamp of police issue, which I used on occasion when visiting murder scenes if so required and at an unsociable hour. Along with this I packed almost by instinct a short if dense service night stick- a gift for my protection from the London Constabulary.
Somehow it felt reassuring in my hand, although it’s potential efficacy against whatever I may face was untested to say the very least.
My plan was simple, not through any great insight that proved a simple methodology to be the right course of action but rather in that I had no great expertise in such matters and so had no learned wisdom of how to handle such a venture.
I would, I had deemed, set up in the house as comfortably as was possible under the circumstances for my stay and simply wait and note any occurrences that happened, their timings, their manifestation and any other pertinent facts that could be recorded. I could then at my leisure research into any such experienced phenomenon and perchance find similar records and maybe some suggested answers or potentially further leads. It was a thin veil for what was in truth my lack of knowledge and also the fear of actually coming face to face with any such manifestations. I certainly had no intention of entering into that cellar no matter what I heard.
It is one thing to make plans in the comfort of the familiar surroundings of ones own study with the daylight streaming through the window and, as I was all too soon to find out, an altogether different matter being in unfamiliar surroundings in lamp light waiting for ‘something’ to occur.
No 50 Berkeley square was a mid-terrace four story Georgian grand town house situated in Mayfair in the West End of London. The houses in the square were all of a similar nature surrounding Berkeley Square itself which although rather plain and without ornamental planting is a well maintained and pleasant tree and path lined green space as one may imagine in this wealthy part of London. Many of the grand town houses in the square proved from a little research to be owned by the extremely wealthy as their London residences while residing for most of the year in their country estates. Such was the case with No50- the owners however having decided that they no longer wished to spend time in the Cities capital, much preferring the quiet of the country estate.
This however, even allowing for the pleasant aspect of the square did not encourage me, as could help be found if needed in the nearby residences, or would they prove to be empty if need drove me to seek assistance there?
Entering the property, although it had the aspect of being a house without regular occupancy, the day to day discarded items that give a house its homely feel being absent, it however seemed to be a spacious and pleasant enough dwelling adding to that it’s well-appointed location in this desirable part of London and it should have been a very desirable property indeed.
Leaving my Gladstone bag on the hall table, I made a tour of the building- avoiding the attic spaces and the cellar, both of which to my knowledge had unfortunate tales to tell. The windows in all of the rooms had been partially opened, presumably to let in the air after a long period lacking in occupancy, and between the sunlight shining through the windows, the view of the well-ordered square with London well-to-do taking a leisurely stroll under the avenues of London Plane trees, and the fresh smell of the early Spring air, one could easily imagine that this was the most pleasant of abodes. I, and most of London as it was knew far better than to be taken in by the superficial aspects that now presented themselves. However, for now my trepidation was somewhat allayed and after inspecting all of the rooms, I decided upon making my makeshift home on the first floor in the drawing room. The ground floor held the reception, library and the dining room, the second floor, and my chosen location, held the drawing room and parlour, the storey above held the bedrooms and dressing rooms, and the attic floor was the domain of the nursery and some further bedrooms. The basement was the preserve of the servants, with kitchen, pantries, scullery, wine cellar and staff quarters.
The same ill-fated cellar that had led Frank O’Brien to a life of imprisonment and his friend to his death. The first floor seemed to me to be a sensible location, putting me as it were in the centre of the house at least story wise.
I also felt more comfortable in a room that was not someone else's bedroom and in a room that sat on the front face of the house and spanned its entire width. There was a comfortable enough chaise-lounge that would serve as a bed and without being too comfortable as I did not wish to sleep too soundly. I moved a side table close enough to serve for easy access and laid out the lantern, night stick and revolver on the table.
I also relocated a decanter of brandy from the dining room to the same table. The brandy had been provided as part of the rental along with sufficient food for my stay. I had upon making the rental agreement informed the solicitor that a member of my own staff would be coming to take care of things, but it would help if the basic provisions could be provided for my arrival. Of course there was no staff, and I only required basic provisions as I would be ‘making do’, I also fully intended to visit my own home at times during the day.
The first two days (and nights) were entirely uneventful. There were no sounds other than those one would expect to hear in a house. Once the fire was lit in the Drawing room there was the occasional creak from expanding and contracting wood but nothing beyond that or the sounds I made myself- there was nothing.
I slept little and always kept the lamp in the drawing room burning. During the day I took to walking in the square and did not visit my own home, there being no particular need. I found myself when not taking the air, walking the rooms in the house, perusing the rather extensive and well-chosen books in the library
and when occasion demanded eating frugal meals in the Dining room. I had requested that the basic previsions be left in the dining room and that my staff would on arrival store them in the kitchen. I had no intention of going into the basement and so it was my intention that the food stay in the dining room which was cold enough as I had lit no fire in there. I would of course have to re-stock at some point, but I deemed my basic rations to be enough to last the first three or four days and I also trusted that they would not spoil in that time.
In truth, I was a little bored and disappointed in the inactivity in the house, while also being rather relieved at the same time. I began to relax somewhat and at the end of the third day and I retired to my makeshift bed in the drawing room feeling rather less on alert and more comfortable and considering that a good night’s sleep was in order. The lantern, night-stick and revolver that sat on the side table seemed now to be somewhat of an over-reaction, their necessity being a product of stories and my own imagination. I must admit that I did start to doubt the word of Frank O’Brien, wondering if I had been the subject of a tall tale and that I had felt guilt where maybe the only guilt was that of the Irish American sailor in that he had carried out the crime he was accused and convicted of after all.
I, retiring early due to lack of sleep on the previous two nights found myself waking after some four hours sleep at around 11.30pm. The fire had gone out in the room and feeling somewhat of a chill in the air (I was sleeping clothed and with only a travel rug for bedding), I got up and sat at the small table upon which sat the brandy decanter and glass, pouring a small brandy to warm me.
I must have been slowly nodding off, sat with my elbows on the table when I hear it, the distant sound, almost imperceptible at first of……
…… I did not stay long enough to gather my small amount of possessions that night, rather fleeing the building into the street and hailing the first carriage that I could find. I do not remember the cab, or the journey to my own home. I spent the night pacing my study with all of the lamps lit to chase away the night’s shadows.
I had witness something that simply should not be, although of course this was not my first experience of such an event- I had experienced a glimpse through the fabric of reality and time on my visit to Borley rectory some short time earlier in the year. No50 Berkeley Square was unoccupied and had been for some time, it was nighttime- yet there before me, had been the dining room lit with summer sunshine, and yet more than this, the room had been a vivid scene of people enjoying an evening’s entertainment. The vision itself had lasted for a few seconds at most before the room returned to darkness, the entire experience maybe a couple of minutes from my first hearing the distant piano playing. It was more vivid than my experience at Borley rectory, the latter being somewhat of a distant dim shimmer. However, it was not this that sent me fleeing from that building, it was what came after.
My head, my very brain was filled with incessant sound driving all sense from me. There were other sounds in there, voices, chants, guttural sounds that promised to show me everything (although there were no discernable words, but I somehow understood the meaning). I cannot explain it, but there were shapes in those sounds, shapes moving all around me. To coin an interpretation Frank O’Brien had repeated- the words uttered by his friend John- “I have seen the face of a Daemon or maybe a vengeful Angel, I have seen the truth”. I understood now what John had meant, for I also had seen in my mind somehow the form of something awsome yet utterly terrible and it had promised to show me the truth.
I do not know how I kept the presence of mind to escape that house, however I do dimly remember the words of my saviour from Topsham entering my mind, ‘keep this’ and I had instinctively grasped at the coin in my pocket. I now firmly believe that whatever protection resides in the design etched into that coin had saved my life. I owe that brave and kindly soul more than I could ever replay in one or many lifetimes.
I returned to No50 Berkeley Square two days later with the solicitor to retrieve my abandoned possessions. I did not wish to visit the house unaccompanied and so contacting the solicitor informing him that the renovations to my own property had been completed well ahead of schedule and that I wished him to inspect the house to confirm that it was in good order and to collect the keys at the same time.
Once again in the daylight the house seemed ordinary, an elegant and well-appointed Georgian town house in a well-to-do location. There was however nothing ordinary about No50 Berkeley Square, there was something beyond comprehension and the moralities of man in the place, and although I have never returned there, I keep a look out for anything in the papers in relation to the property.
Frank O’Brien had wanted me to ‘burn that house down’, as he put it. I could not do that even though I did not wish any other unfortunate soul to find their destiny lead them to that house. As far as I am aware No50 Berkeley Square has remained vacant, and I can only hope that it’s reputation will keep it so. I fear for any soul that enters that house.
Once again, I found myself no closer to any kind of answers to the events that I had witnessed. It seemed that as my experiences increased, so did my frustration as- what was the point in seeing but not understanding. How I could come about any understanding was unknown to me, I surely would not find any book in the library that would explain my experiences, I certainly could not share them for other to provide opinion upon- or could I? Could I anonymously or under the pretence of being another gain an introduction to The Society for Physical Research?
I knew one thing for certain- I was not the same man that had entered No50 Berkeley Square. Whatever had invaded my mind had somehow changed me. The world looks the same, but it is somehow less real- as though it is a perfect painting of the world, tangible and real, and yet I feel as if I could push my finger against it and it would puncture the painting, the illusion, to reveal what really lies beneath. What was once so solid and scientifically explainable now feels paper thin and illusory.
