"Undoubtedly, sir! Undoubtedly!",says Dr. Highsmith, gesturing with the stem of his pipe.
Keeper Screen:
Martin nods and smiles. I quite agree, Spencer."
He finishes his tea and lifts the cup in a salute to the doctor. "Well this is certainly an interesting case you've put before us. I appreciate you bringing me in on this, Dr. Highsmith. I look forward to speaking to Dr. Trollope and Mr. Roby, if they will agree to meet with us. And of course, I'll look forward to our visit to Hereford."
After you finish your late lunch and tea, Doctor Highsmith shakes your hands and thanks you both profusely for agreeing to help him. The good doctor reminds you that he departs on the 30th, likely a morning train, if you and any friends of yours would like to join him at the asylum to interview Alexander.
That Evening, 28th October 1928
Walter Paige reluctantly agrees to join the experiment with Lucian and Victor and at around 9:30 pm, you rendezvous at Mr. Snow's home on Liverpool street- in an old hotel known as the Swinbourne that rents out suites as apartments. The wallpaper is faded and browned from years of smoking and moisture. Some small attempts have been made to clean the place up- the couches and chairs in the lobby are patched and cleaned, recent newspapers and periodicals piled on the coffee table and all the ashtrays are empty- yet the place shows its age. An old Polish couple swathed in winter furs argues on one of the couches while the radio's tinny voice makes the duo into a small crowd in the largely empty lobby. The desk clerk is an old man with thinning hair and knobby joints. He rings up to Grayson's suite after you present yourselves.
Walter looks around the lobby with a very doubtful look on his face. He wears a heavy peacoat more suited to a sailor than an art student, but he pulls it off well- perhaps because of his acting background.
"Well, it must have been a fine place in its day. But I can't say I plan on looking for vacancies on my way out. Erm, how long have you known Mr. Snow, Mr. Poole? Does he have a medical background?"
Martin nods as he takes in the worn lobby. "Sadly, Snow's fortunes have not been great. I've long hoped that he might reach a better success than he's thus far found. Perhaps this play and his examinations will be the start to that, eh?"
"I've known Grayson for a few years now, since moving to London. He's a fine chap, enthusiastic about his work. His background is rather varied. He's done well in learning what he needs to know for his purposes. I assure you, Mr. Paige, that you're in good hands."
Lucian has begun wandering in circles about the group, taking one of the fancy pocket cameras out of his pocket and seeing whether he can find any interesting shots to take. "'Rather varied?' 'Needs to know for his purposes?' Martin, have you brought us to one of those men who does uncivilized things in shabby rooms off of alleys? I'm as for advancing science as the next man, but your choice of words, coupled with the... ambience of the place are hardly inspiring confidence."
Speak of the devil, Mr. Snow himself descends the central staircase to the lobby. Martin's ghost-hunter acquaintance is a man in his mid 30s. His hair has gone a premature snowy white and he's clean shaven, wearing an oxford shirt tucked into his pants, cuffs rolled up. He approaches, shaking hands with each of you.
"So glad you could make it, gentlemen! I'm Grayson Snow, the parapsychologist; Martin's told me so much about you all..."
He trails off a bit, distracted by Victor's burns. He recovers quickly, clearing his throat.
"... and I'm sure you're eager to get started. Please, follow me and we'll begin the experiment."
Grayson leads you up three flights of stairs through the dim hallways with peeling wallpaper and cheap framed paintings.
"My apologies: the elevator's been out for ages. I suppose these stairwells are what keep me in shape; besides chasing phantasms of course."
At suite 307, he fishes a key from his pants pocket and slides it into the brass knob. Within is a large suite that is nonetheless cramped with equipment and flotsam- a desk piled with papers and correspondence, newspaper articles and photographs tacked to the walls in various places. Stacks of library books sit on the tables and shelves around the room, along with dubious looking electric equipment. A sheet has been drawn across the back half of the room as a partition and two closed doors stand in the far wall.
"Back here..." he says, pulling aside the partition,"is where we'll hold the experiment."
In the back of the room, four chairs sit around a strange looking machine- the closest that you can imagine is some sort of stock ticker or adding machine. Wires and knobs are arrayed at its base, with earpieces resembling a doctor's stethoscope snaking out on long wires from the top of the machine. From an aperture at the base, a thin strip of paper drapes from the table to the floor- four parallel lines in different colored inks (red, yellow, blue, black) run flat and uninterrupted down its length. Each set of earpieces have a dot painted on them to match a particular color. Cotton swabs and rubbing alcohol sit on the table next to the machine; in the corner, Lucian can see some tubs, pans and solutions used in a darkroom stacked on a drop cloth.
"My plan was to have each of you: Mr. Sixsmith, Mr. Page and Mr. McAllistair sit in a chair connected to the psychic seizmograph along with either you, Mr. Reeves, or Martin as a control. We'll take a conscious reading of your brain patterns and I will then administer a small sleeping draught to each of you- enough to sleep, but not enough to prevent dreaming. From there, we'll see what activity occurs. Oh! Yes! Please observe, I'm going to sterilize the equipment."
Mr. Snow proceeds to swab each earpiece with rubbing alcohol.
"Well.... what do you say?" he asks, eagerly.
"Well if it is in the advances of science then consider me your man..." then he adds with a grin "although I didn't realise that this was to involve refreshments as well as learning today!"
[b]"Although I must confess Doctor that I have been a bit of a wet blanket of late, woman trouble plagues me currently, they do present somewhat of a conundrum at such inopportune times. I let you know now so you may make any allowances."
Mr. Snow chuckles while he swabs an earpiece.
"Good man! Truth be told, I'm not a doctor. But before you run for the door, I do have a few years of medical school under my belt. Your love-life won't throw off the test, sir: we're looking very broadly at your functions both conscious and unconscious. I won't try to influence the tests by telling you what I'm looking for; we can talk about it afterward."
At Spencer's mention of woman trouble, Walter seems to grow a bit more tense. He pulls off his heavy peacoat and puts it up on the coat rack. His hesitation in the lobby seems to have disappeared entirely.
"Right. Let's get to the bottom of this; I'm ready and willing, Mr. Snow." he says as he takes a seat near the machine.
Psychology Success:
Psychology -
Spencer passes a noting look to Martin, as though to say 'did you see that too'?
"Not so much trouble Mr Snow, more a case of conflicted notions. I have been a man set on his own activities for some time, and now I wrestle with the planning of what parts would have to go if one were to accommodate a Mrs Reeves"
Spencer is now watching Mr Page a bit more carefully, would hate for there to have to be any ugliness.
Lucian sets himself down into the chair, though clearly has something on his mind. "A few years of medical school, you say? What happened to the rest of them?" he asks in a light tone, but the purpose of the many wires and knobs seems to baffle and unsettle him. He settles for looking at the familiar photography supplies and begins taking deep calming breaths.
Walter's sudden shift in attitude confirm Victor's suspicions regarding his feeling for Jean. I'll have to keep an eye on those two. Victor notes mentally.
"This device, Dr. Snow, it only records brain activity correct? It doesn't alter or interfere with it in anyway?"
And Lucian is characteristically oblivious.
Lucian sets himself down into the chair, though clearly has something on his mind. "A few years of medical school, you say? What happened to the rest of them?" he asks in a light tone, but the purpose of the many wires and knobs seems to baffle and unsettle him. He settles for looking at the familiar photography supplies and begins taking deep calming breaths.
"I left when I decided that conventional medicine wasn't my passion. Psychic and paranormal research are far more compelling to me, Mr. McAllistair, though my medical background does have a few benefits. I think having that solid grounding in science has affected my work for the better- not all of us are like Martin's acquaintance Ms. Winthrop with her personal relationship to the spirits."
Psychology:
Grayson nods to Victor's question as he opens a small tin with pills inside.
"The psychic seizmograph only takes readings, much like a device used in earthquake research. I'm merely looking to map the tremors of your conscious and unconscious minds. Now, gentlemen, if you please: put on your earpieces... like so, yes. I want to make sure we have a reading of your conscious minds first while we continue discussing the experiment."
Walter pulls on the set with the blue wire and as he reclines once more, you hear a faint scratching like someone scribbling with a pencil. Sure enough, the blue line on the "stock ticker" is wavering back and forth.
"Excellent!", says Mr. Snow as he cuts a white pill in fourths with a pen knife,"It's important that the machine gets a dose of your brain's pattern before we commence. What I have here is a mild barbiturate- I've reduced the dose, since we want brain activity. And there are instances of abuse among some patients. Just enough to make you drowsy, gentlemen. Are there any further concerns before we continue?"
Mr. Page's hands are folded in his lap, the seizmograph charting an erratic pattern on the tape.
"I'm ready to proceed, sir.", he says.
Psychology -
Spencer notes the subtle shift; he knows that look...
"Ready when you are, old chap," Lucian says as he lies back, apparently satisfied with the answers he's received.
Victor nods. "Ready."
Mr. Snow hands out the quarters of barbiturate along with some mismatched glasses of water. Each of you downs it and begins feeling a faint fuzziness seeping into your heads. It's not overpowering; more like having a strong drink. You start feeling drowsy (though those of you more prone to experimentation are less effected than your companions, but nonetheless you're ready to sleep), the irregular scratch and scribble of Grayson's machine lulling you to slumber.
Martin stands a short distance away from the chairs, watching with interest, his arms folded at his chest. He resists the urge to reach for a cigar, not wanting to disrupt the examination in any way.
Lucian dreams:
You’re exultant. You work furiously, crouched forward, balanced on the edge of your chair, and as you do you glimpse the other members of the orchestra around you and they’re no longer human. Creatures — still black — thin and strong with wings and long heads, rows of long teeth. Your fingers touch your palms and your instrument is gone. You’re sitting on the edge of a round hole — you can’t see the bottom — and there are things falling down into it. One by one the creatures, your neighbors are diving in — they spread their wings out, they grow, and glide down. There’s the conductor, his tattered white robes drifting in a wind that isn’t there. He turns and points to you and without thought you jump — down, down. You count the seconds you have left, and you’re aware that this is the only act that mattered in your life.
Victor dreams:
Falling. Eyes closed.
The water becomes a mist. It clears and a landscape stretches out around you, stone and heathland and then a walled cemetery in the Napoleonic fashion. Stepping through the gates the mossy graves fan out all around you. You walk on and on, plain markers are everywhere, tens of thousands — there are no crosses, or angels or other superstitions. Finally you come to a corner that you seem to know. You read some of the names here and they’re all familiar to you, your family and friends, everyone living and dead is here. And the dates on the graves are all within a few years of today. Your father's grave is smeared with ash. There is Lucian's. There is Martin's. Spencer's grave sits beside his pretty Jean's and it's sad to see that Walter's is all alone, further behind. Your own grave is cracked. It’s a plain tablet without even your name but you know it well. You feel a half-memory of how it was before you were in that boat, before the King in Yellow came. But everyone’s here now. For this is Carcosa and this is the cemetery for all of dead Earth.
Spencer dreams:
Talbot Estus is dressed as the King in Yellow, holding aloft his guttering torch as it spews smoke to the rafters. All of the other players from the Scala are there as well and you spot Jean acting her part as Camilla the queen's daughter. But she holds the King's sword for some reason.
The backdrops seem more vivid than ever before, that Mr. Sixsmith is truly a master. You could almost lose yourself in the hypnotic movement of the lake in the background. Thinking of it, you realize that your feet are cold and wet. A tide is sweeping out from the stage, soaking your shoes and the cuffs of your dress pants. On stage you spot the stranger, but one half of his mask is burned. He sinks to his knees, robes sodden with moisture.
"Nine teeth jut from the maw of the living earth!", Jean shouts, her sword arcing with agonizing slowness for Estus' side. She strikes him with it, drawing a gout of crimson blood to soak his robes. The author remains standing; he beams, exultant.
"Return Hastur! Heed us!"
"You bastard! That's my seat!", someone shouts near you. Slowly you realize they're shouting at you! As they grab your lapel and turn you to face them, you see that it's Walter Paige, his face distorted with fury. "It's not enough to take her from me, you have to steal my seat as well?! Thief! Pretender! Go back to the gutter where you belong!" You grit your teeth, enraged. Without thinking, you've lashed out and pushed him onto the backs of the audience members before you. They've all turned from the show to watch you pummel Mr. Paige's smug face into pulp. Your fist smashes into his teeth and blood smears your knuckles and his mouth.
"I was right!", he gurgles from his ruined mouth,"You're nothing but a thug!"
Before things escalate further, the opera house is shaken with a tremor. It crumbles, the pieces falling upward into the sky. Piece by piece, you see foreign constellations filling the gaps in the opera house roof. Two gaping holes, like horrible eyes. Now the audience is being pulled upward and they make not a sound. And you follow suit, watching helplessly as you are drawn through the gap into blackness.
Martin watches while the four men dream, Grayson hovering around and checking his device. He watches their eyelids flicker back and forth. As the minutes pass, he stares at the ticker, picking up the strip of paper at intervals.
"This is... maybe my machine is broken.", he says,"There's a dip here, that's where they went unconscious... but then it picks up again. It says they're still conscious. And then... there, you can see it for Mr. Paige and then for Mr. Mcallistair... spikes of activity. Even for Mr. Reeves.... perhaps its premature, but I'm not sure this will be usable data."
Martin frowns. "That's odd. They do look like they're dreaming. Could their brain's be so active even while unconscious that they'd be registering as conscious? Perhaps their dreams are more, I don't know, vivid? I would have expected it of the others, but Spencer? He's shown no evidence of being affected by the play we saw performed."
He puts his hands behind his back and paces back and forth a moment.
"Say, Snow, have you ever investigated astral projection? Is it possible that their souls, spirits, what have you, are elsewhere?"
Lucian:
Victor:
Martin frowns. "That's odd. They do look like they're dreaming. Could their brain's be so active even while unconscious that they'd be registering as conscious? Perhaps their dreams are more, I don't know, vivid? I would have expected it of the others, but Spencer? He's shown no evidence of being affected by the play we saw performed."
He puts his hands behind his back and paces back and forth a moment.
"Say, Snow, have you ever investigated astral projection? Is it possible that their souls, spirits, what have you, are elsewhere?"
Mr. Snow crosses his arms, rubbing his chin with his right hand.
"Why... that is an excellent theory, Martin. I suppose we will only know when they wake. And, unfortunately, it's not something I believe I can prove one way or the other with an instrument or data that can be reproduced. All we will have is what my psychic seizmograph can tell us and the recollections of your companions. And I fear no recognized authority outside of other psychical researchers will find it credible."
The ghost-hunter sighs.
"I suppose that's all we can expect, really. Such is the cost of pushing the boundaries, isn't it?"
** spoiler omitted **
Spencer:
One by one the test subjects abruptly awaken as if from a bad dream. Walter Paige looks paler and more nervous than usual, beads of sweat on his forehead. He pulls the earpiece from his head and sits up, catching his breath.
Mr. Snow hovers about.
"Well... how was it? Did you notice any change?" he asks.
Spencer eyes off Walter in a subtle yet calculating manner. A bit like a rattlesnake taking stock of a rabbit.
"That was rather unusual, I don't think it is the sort of thing I'd repeat in a hurry, but for feeding my interest in psychology it was certainly an interesting experience"
Martin frowns, studying his companions with concern. "What happened? Did you dream?"
Lucian splutters awake. "Dream? I don't know if I would call it that - perhaps a vision would be a more fitting term. What in God's name was in that concoction you gave us, man?" Lucian is pale and sweating, but his eyes are alert and eager.
"Half a dose of barbital and common tap water. It's commonly used as a sedative to treat insomnia. Your experience was more vivid than usual?", asks Mr. Snow, his pen scribbling notes on a ruled legal pad.
"Very lucid dreams, or were they just insights, I cannot tell where one ended and the other begins. Either way not a pleasant experience. What did your machine say?"
The parapsychologist pulls out the stock ticker tape to show you all. Pointing to the wavering lines of the earliest points, he notes,"This is where we were talking, before the sedative was portioned out...". He traces a finger along the length as the lines take a more regular waver with fewer and less pronounced valleys and hills. "It is here that the barbitol took effect and you dozed, but shortly thereafter..." he pulls more tape through the machine to the final sections- activity grows steadily sharper, practically on par to your measurements while conscious. "This is where my expectations were quite confounded, gentlemen. Each of you dreamed vividly, as if you were awake. Even you, Mr. Reeves, when I fully expected that you would have minimal brain activity- like a normal sleeper."
Mr. Snow rubs his chin.
"What could have happened?"
Walter Paige rises from his chair.
"We all experienced a vivid hallucination or something. I'm not entirely sure I believe that what you've given us is only barbital. Let me see that bottle, Mr. Snow!"
"Gladly, Mr. Paige. You will see from the prescription itself that it is exactly as I claim!", replies Grayson. He sounds rather annoyed with the accusation.
Walter pours out the pills into his palms and looks at them.
"Indeed, that's what the bottle says. What about the pills themselves..."
"If I didn't know better, MISTER Paige, I would imagine you were accusing me of some malicious intent!", counters Mr. Snow.
Walter nods. He's gone from nervous to almost aggressive.
"Perhaps I am, Mister Snow. Would you not say that this conclusive proof would suit you well in your "field"? Just what exactly are you planning to DO with this information? A book, perhaps? At the very least a curious news story! Perhaps some publicity after the riot at the Scala, then?!"
Walter Paige throws the flask of pills to the floor, the white capsules scattering left and right.
"The only madness here is allowing myself to be duped into this fiasco! You're nothing but a... a... a cheap con-man looking for some easy marks, just like all the other men of your "profession"!", says the young art student.
Mr. Snow is turning red.
"You don't have to believe a damn thing, Walter, but this is my home- even if it's not up to your impeccable standards of taste and decorum- and I'll not be called a liar or a con-man in my own home! I think it would do us all a service if you would take your accusations and leave!"
They stare at each other over the table of curious equipment, the floor covered with scattered Barbitol. A thumping from the floor indicates that at least some of the neighbors have heard.
"Easy now gentlemen, no need for all this carry on. Perhaps we have all been missing our usual sleep of late, what with all the hard work on these artistic endeavours, and maybe that caused a bit of a reaction to the relaxant, cold weather too you know, unseasonally so, can affect us more than we think"
Spencer does his best to calm things and de-escalate the situation...
[edit per request]
Fast Talk V 45%
"Easy now gentlemen, no need for all this carry on. Perhaps we have all been missing our usual sleep of late, what with all the hard work on these artistic endeavours, and maybe that caused a bit of a reaction to the relaxant, cold weather too you know, unseasonally so, can affect us more than we think"
Spencer does his best to calm things and de-escalate the situation...
Martin raises his hand in a calming gesture. "Now Walter, let's not speak too hastily. What Mr. Snow's experiment has demonstrated is more mystery than anything else. There's nothing here to publish a book on. We all know that some strange things have been happening since we saw the play. There's no denying that. Grayson is acting on my behest to learn more. Now whether you agree with the results of this examination or not, you cannot deny that things have changed."
Martin turns his attention to the others. "I'd like to hear more of what you witnessed. I'm also curious if I have been affected in the same manner that Spencer has been. Perhaps I should go under next, just to see if I experience the same. At the same time, I think it might be wise to put another person under who has not been a witness to the performance. What do you think, Grayson?"
"Visions inspired by that damnable play, it was as though I was sitting through some strange and unsavoury sequel, and not one I'd be keen to sit through any time soon"
"And I as well - more of the same. It was a dream I'd had before... but it continued past where waking left me the first time. I wasn't in the play, I was a part of the orchestra." He looks askance at the two men standing glaring at each other, not willing to confront them directly.
Victor places a scarred hand on Walter's shoulder. "Walter, did you experience something so different then your previous dreams? Mine were very similar as Lucian says. I just think that the pills Mr Snow gave us, forced our minds to see the dreams through to the end, where normally we would have been startled awake. I must say though, I would rather not allow those.. visions to reach their conclusion again.."
The gentlemen seen to calm at your calls for peace.
"No... I experienced something similar to you and Lucian, Victor. I apologize, Mr. Snow. I've just been bent out of shape by the experience.", Walter replies.
Grayson nods.
"Understood, sir. And to prove my good intentions, I am willing to submit myself for testing- I am the only man here that hasn't seen the play after all. What about you, Martin? Are you willing to act as a control against my results?"
"I caution you against being rash and doing something potentially dangerous in order to 'prove' good intent, please do not act on our behalf but only on yours, in the name of Science. Should something untoward happen I would be mortified that it happened for my sake"
Martin nods and claps Grayson on the shoulder. "I'd be happy to."
To Spencer he says, "Mr. Snow ought to be perfectly safe since he has not been a witness to the play. If he has no such dreams and I do then we'll know for certain that it isn't the barbituates that are the source of your experiences but something that only we are connected to."
He removes his coat and loosens his tie. "Shall we be on with this, then?"
"Science is always the foremost concern, sir. Ultimately, I am the man on hand to test this theory- I believe it's far too late to go looking for other test subjects regardless." replies Mr. Snow as he swabs the earpieces to sterilize them and begins cutting up another pill.
He and Martin recline in the available chairs and pull on their ear pieces.
"Check the ticker, please, while we're conscious? Thank you. Just let it run and let us sleep about an hour and we'll have a comparable collection of data."
With that, Martin and Grayson down their barbitol and grow drowsy, the faint scratch of the "psychic seismograph" lulling them to sleep.
Martin dreams:
As Grayson and Martin slumber, the ticker on the machine slows to a crawl across the paper. It leaves two wavering lines with few peaks and valleys.