Capeworld Comics

In Blackwall, the city that was called the ghost of London, the three manesologists who composed Ernst, Morton, and Glass took their morning tea and coffee together in their office as they routinely did. It was part of the wheel of their lives–tea, ghosts, sleep, followed by tea, ghosts, sleep.

“Thank you, Nick.” Dr. Joseph Morton said as their employee, a young man who had died in the fireball that swallowed London, warmed his tea by placing a thin skin of green ectoplasm around the cup. The ectoplasm suffused the china cup and made it glow like an ember fresh from a fireplace.

Joseph was a man large in size and long in age. He had the largest cup at the table, and yet he could lift it with just a finger and did just that, pouring the cup’s warm contents past his bushy white beard and down his jowly throat.

“Ah, now I feel awake!” Joseph exclaimed.

Nick had died in incredible heat, and so his ghost was reborn as heat. He could not assume a human form, or anything even resembling a human form, but he could become fire and warmth, and did so, most often in the form of a green fireball or glow. He chose to be the color green because he thought it a spiritual color that would cause people to consider him a spirit first and living fireball second.

Because Ernst, Morton, and Glass did Nick a great kindness several years ago, Nick worked as their employee keeping their offices lit and heated with his power. Because of Nick’s work, Ernst, Morton, and Glass never had to worry about paying bills for heating or their early morning drinks getting cold.

Dr. Matthew Ernst took delicate sips of his tea as he made his way through his daily morning reading. Today he read a manesological paper fresh from Ireland by a manesologist named Harry Escott. The paper dealt with the phenomena of a lady in green clothes seen walking about the ruins of various medieval fortifications and castles. The contents of the paper were indecipherable for the ordinary man, loaded as they were with technical terms and the language of the prehuman Dyeus culture, but were gripping to Dr. Ernst.

Dr. Ernst was a quiet, reserved gentleman of unremarkable looks, but any manesologist would recognize his face. Years ago, he wrote an influential paper on the internal operations of a ghost’s composition. Such technical concepts were irrelevant to the lives of normal people, and so he was regarded as just another face in the crowd by most, but among manesologist, he was regarded as a pioneering scientist. They said he was to metaphysical anatomy what Vesalius was to physical anatomy.

Dr. Martin Glass did not take tea, he took coffee. He developed a taste for the drink years ago when he studied the works of Abdul Alhazred in the Bagdad as part of his thaumaturgical education. There was a time in his life when he aimed not to be a manesologist, but a thaumaturgist.

The thaumaturgists of the Ror Raas, who Major General George Colley of the British army, of the largest and strongest military on Earth, called “the uncrowned kings of the world,” were a group of men and women who achieved great knowledge and power through what they called the Abramelin Operation. This was a series of psychic meditations which, when carried to completion, allowed one to communicate with his or her own soul. These meditations were gleaned from the dreams of Abramelin, a gigantic being that slept beneath Luxor, Egypt, whom occultist Samuel Mathers made telepathic contact with in 1865.

The Ror Raas anticipated the worldwide increase in earthbound ghosts throughout the later half of the 19th century and believed that manesological activity would continue to increase into the 20th. To maintain peace between the earthbound dead and living humanity, the Ror Raas bestowed gaeite, the miracle of the Dyeus culture, upon a group of anthropologists, alienists, and occultists to form the first manesologists.

The Ror Raas, of course, had the power and knowledge necessary to mediate between ghost and man, what George Colley had said was in complete earnestness, but they feared that taking on such a responsibility would give them undue influence over the world. They were fearful of becoming a race of god–kings ever since they began intervening in armed conflicts around the world starting with the American Civil War in 1863 when they brought an end to hostilities by placing fires in the sky over the Battle of Shiloh. Thus they say it necessary to recruit men that had one foot in their world and one foot in the mundane world, men like Martin Glass.

Martin Glass wanted to be a thaumaturgist, not a manesologist. He wanted to talk to his own soul, not the souls of others. But something happened during his education that caused him to abruptly change paths. What this something was, he never told Joseph and Matthew, and he intended never to tell them as long as he could help it.

Though his tutelage under the Ror Raas ended before Martin could accomplish the Abramelin Operation, he picked up a few minor miracles from his lessons that came in handy in his new life as a manesologist. He could, for example, see and touch ghosts, no matter how immaterial they might be. Matthew and Joseph could only do the same with the aid of a gaeite candle.

Martin wore large, dark glasses which dulled the color of his piercingly blue eyes. Martin was young, relative to Matthew and certainly to Joseph, and his mustache, while as thick as Joseph’s, was a vibrant blond instead of a snowy white.

Martin sipped his coffee and gazed at the wall, or perhaps through it. He was given to go off into trances in which his mind would jerk at the chain of his body and take half-steps through the Astral universes his teachers mapped.

Matthew read, Joseph woke up, and Martin dreamed.

All three men were momentarily taken out of their morning habits by a blue face materializing through the door.

“I got today’s Blackwall Undertaking!” Esmee Walker announced. “And judging by the cover, its a really interesting issue!”

Esmee, like Nick, was a victim of the London fireball, but unlike Nick, she was able to assume a human form. She appeared in the beautiful, albeit simplified, form of a woman, like a statue of blue glass come to life. She was another employee of Ernst, Morton, and Glass and worked their electrograph, sending and receiving messages from all around the increasingly haunted Earth.

Esmee placed her copy of the Blackwall Undertaking on the table and left through the wall to check on the electrograph. She checked it night and day, for she never slept, and the electrograph had opened an entire world of nighttime activity and correspondence. Esmee considered some parts of her ghostly existence a curse, others a blessing, and she found her unending endurance to be among the blessings. She thought she was like the Earth. The Earth, like herself, never slept, not fully. While England slept, China was awake, and Chinese manesologists had wonderful stories to share with her over the electrograph about the legendary Zhong Kui, who they considered to be history’s first manesologist.

Joseph grabbed up the broadsheet and brought it close to his tired eyes. Then he groaned.

“Hmph. Hrumph!”

Esmee stuck her head back through the wall. ‘I heard that! I thought you’d have a strong reaction to that image, Dr. Morton!” She then pulled her head back through the wall and vanished, with her smile being the last part of her to go.

“”Hmph? Hrumph?” What’s that all supposed to mean?” Joseph asked.

“Hrumph rumph rumph.” Joseph bellowed.

“I’m having a hard time deciphering your ape language, old man.” Joseph said.

“What? Didn’t the magic men teach you how to talk to animals like how Elijah talked to the ravens?” Joseph always called the thaumaturgists “magic men,” because it always bothered Martin to hear the four syllable title reduced to two monosyllabic words.

“Elijah didn’t talk to the ravens, you big ape.” Martin said.

“He did too, and I’m surprised you don’t know that.” Joseph said. “The story of Elijah and the ravens is something taught in every Sunday school.”

Martin turned to Matthew. “Matthew? Please help me elucidate our simple friend here. Did Elijah talk to his ravens?”

“1st Kings doesn’t mention the ravens talking to Elijah.” Matthew answered, not bothering to look up from a captivating passage on the color green as used in medieval heraldry.

“Though it doesn’t mention them not talking, the implication seems to be that they were non-communicative ravens, completely normal and mundane save that they brought the prophet food under the command of God.”

Martin smirked. “Told you so, old man.”

“Now, now, boy. Remember what I said exactly.” Joseph said. I said that Elijah talked to the ravens. I said nothing about the ravens talking to him.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.

“And why would the great prophet bother to speak to animals incapable of talking back?”

“Because he’s polite, obviously. Those ravens brought him food in the morning and in the evening. They were very dutiful avians, so there’s no doubt that Elijah whispered “thank you” at least once or twice.”

“But the ravens had nothing to do with the food, not really. They acted as agents of God. Their work was God’s work, and so Elijah should have thanked God, not the birds.”

“Boy, when we’re eating at Bishop’s Restaurant on Curant Street, and the waiter brings you your sauti of rabbit, do you say “Thank you, garcon,” or do you say “Thank you, chef?””

“That is an entirely different circumstance. The waiter is not an extension of the chef’s will. The ravens were an extension of God’s will. They were like God’s puppets. They were like my dogs.”

Martin sloshed his coffee high into the air.

Matthew saw the black liquid arc through the air out of the corner of his eye. “If you spill something, clean it up.” he muttered while reading a passage speculating on a possible connection between the green ladies of various castles and a mythological figure known as the Glaistig.

The coffee stopped in mid air as if suddenly frozen into a solid jet.

“Not a chance of that.” Martin said. “Remember when my dogs caught the bullets of those assassins? Some coffee is nothing to them.”

Martin’s two dogs were carryovers from his thaumaturgical education. They were thought-forms, mental energies shaped by his willpower, and were useful for many things, horseplay included

The dogs compressed the coffee back into a cup shape and slotted it down into Martin’s cup.

“Joseph, when my dogs save your life by blocking a bullet, or a knife, or a stone, do you say “Thank you, doggies?” No, of course you don’t! You say “Thank you, Martin,” though that’s assuming you even remember to say “thank you,” you rude gorilla! The point is, my dogs are extensions of my will, just as Elijah’s ravens were extensions of God’s will. Thanking the ravens would have been like thanking the hand of a person that pulled you out of danger instead of the person. You might do something like that, strange as you are, but the average person wouldn’t.”

“We never fail to find the most creative things to argue about over breakfast, don’t we?” Matthew said.

“Boy, you are assuming out-of-hand that the ravens were actually ravens.” Joseph said.

“Oh, this is an interesting pivot.” Martin said.

Would the almighty really mind-puppet a flock of corvus corax when he already has an entire celestial host of winged messengers?” Joseph asked. “ That would be like you going to the pound and picking out a flesh-and-blood dog to train to pick up rocks and block bullets. I think the implication in the scripture is clear: God sent his angels to Elijah in the form of ravens.”

“What sort of supreme being sends his angels to deliver food?” Martin asked.

“Well, what else would they be doing? Singing hymns and pondering the divine?”

“Traditionally, it was thought they did exactly that when not called into service.” Martin said. “But psychic exploration of the Astral has revealed that angels busy themselves with much more than worship and study of the Monad. When not called to action, angels attend to matters of cosmic importance, typically involving the manifestation and regulation of universes.”

“Sounds to me like God sent his best angels to be Elijah’s ravens, then.”

“How do you figure that? One would think that food delivery would be a considerable step down in prestige from spinning galaxies.”

“One would think that, because one is human, and to humans spinning galaxies around your finger is a dream and taking food to old Elijah east of the Jordan is a chore. But I think God’s angels would have enjoyed taking a break from cosmic business. I think they would have enjoyed stretching their wings in air rather than aether. I think they would have relished using wings that actually had to be moved like wings in order to work. Imagine how exhilarating it would be to use muscles after being nothing but light?”

Joseph spread his massive arms out and puffed up his chest. “To pull with their wings and chest against the current of the air?”

Martin chuckled. “Stop that, you old ape! You look ridiculous!”

Joseph held out his wrinkled hand. “Imagine what it would be like to learn frailty and comfort, to rest in the warm, wrinkled hand of Elijah and feel him pet your hollow bones?”

Martin touched his glasses. What was behind them wasn’t an angel, but it was like one.

Martin was more like the beings of the Astral than he let on to his friends.

“You might be right, old man.” Martin said. “You might actually be right.”

“What do you mean “might actually?”” Joseph thumped his chest. “I’m always right!”

Martin smirked. “Mad apes believe the strangest things.”

Martin sipped his coffee. It was chalky and hot, just the way he liked it.

He never spun a galaxy around his finger, but the things he did while training to be a thaumaturgist were comparable. It was a completely different life compared to the one he now led. The things he saw during his training, the beings he spoke to, the places he went…and none of it, absolutely none of it, was like Earth. There was no Blackwall, or Bishop’s Restaurant, or Ernst, Morton, and Glass in Heaven.

Martin would know.

“You alright, boy?” Joseph remarked on his expression, which had suddenly turned pensive. “Something wrong with your coffee?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Anyway, let’s see what’s got you so aggravated this morning.” Martin reached over the table for the broadsheet. “Come on! Show us!”

Joseph pulled the paper out of Martin’s reach. “No! I don’t think I will!

“Children, please.” Matthew said. “I don’t want to have to buy another table.”

“Got it!” Martin exclaimed as the paper pulled itself loose out of Joseph’s hands.

‘No fair!” Joseph said. “You cheated! You used your dogs!”

“See what I mean? I cheated, not the dogs cheated.”

Martin looked at the broadsheet and smirked. “This is what’s got you grumpy? Hey, Matthew, take a look at this!”

Martin placed the paper atop Matthew’s academic journal.

“Hm.” Matthew raised an eyebrow at the broadsheet then placed it on the table.

The cover of the Blackwall Undertaking showed an enormous, scaly beast rising out of the ground and shrugging off a rural town like an ox a blanket. DR. ROBERT LUMEN DISCUSSES SUBTERRANEAN DRAGONS AT WILDE UNIVERSITY, the headline proclaimed.

“It’s an imaginative scene, if nothing else.” Matthew said.

Joseph tapped the cover with his finger. “Just look at this shameless sensationalism! Shoddy! I would have expected something like this from out of Illustrated Phantom Stories, but this is the Blackwall Undertaking! It’s an informative publication, or it’s supposed to be!”

Joseph turned to Martin. “You’ve seen what the Dyeus culture’s old sparring partners look like with your own eyes. Do they look anything like this?”

“This drawing resembles a real vovin in the same way a child’s stick figure drawing resembles a man. That is to say it portrays the general shape without capturing any of the detail.”

Joseph rolled his eyes. “You could have just said no.”

He tapped the cover again as if he could strike the dragon itself. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just an inaccurate depiction of a dragon, but they had to go and mix in some fear mongering. Look at our vovin gentleman here, tossing a whole town like he was an angry Atlas! You two remember what Bob’s presentation was like and how many people kept asking him “Will the dragons one day wake up and overturn our cities?” Poor Bob, I actually felt bad for him. They actually kept changing up how it was asked, but they kept asking the same thing. “What would happen if the dragons woke up? How much destruction could an awakened dragon cause? How much dirt would a dragon have to displace to create an earthquake?” You’d think they wanted the dragons to scrape away our civilization with the way they talked!”

“Fear naturally follows from feelings of powerlessness.” Matthew said. “Robert should have expected all those questions after he likened the powers of the vovin to the Greek gods. I don’t know why he grimaced when the inevitable happened.”

“No, I have to take Bob’s side here. The distance between our little crust of civilization and the dragons slumbering far below our feet is several thousand times that of the distance between…well, here and Japan, to give an example.”

‘Does Japan have giant dragons?” Matthew asked.

“Does it matter? Look, the world of Fairy has dragons, doesn’t it? And ogres, and nixies, and trolls, and all sorts of large, dangerous beasties, right? But no one cares about them, because Fairy is beyond the farthest star, as they say”

“Metaphysically speaking, Fairy is beyond the farthest star.” Martin said. “But also closer than your own shadow.”

Joseph rolled his eyes. “Oh, and here comes the magic man to give his take, eh?”

“I’m simply giving you the whole quote. “Fairy is beyond the farthest star, but closer than your own shadow,” that was Dr. Hado, remember? He lectured on the war between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts at Wilde University? Come on, surely you remember, we were in the audience!”

“Don’t blame me for daydreaming.” Joseph said. “That was an awfully dry presentation. My eyes were glazing over by the time Dr. Hado got to the reign of Lugh.”

Joseph picked up the broadsheet, crumpled it up in his hand, and tossed it in a bin.

“Poor old lizard tyrants,” he said. “I wonder what they would think about this?”

Martin chuckled.

Joseph and Matthew looked at him.

“Oh. Sorry. I just found it funny. I’ve actually been inside their thoughts, you see. I’ve been inside the dreams of a vovin.”

“You never told us that.” Matthew said.

“I haven’t?” Martin sometimes forgot what he had and hadn’t told his friends about his previous life.

“No.” Joseph answered.

“Sorry. I was once inside the dreams of a vovin named Fiadh.”

Martin sipped his coffee.

“So what are we going to do first today?” he asked. “Do we head to Furnivall Manor up in Cumberland and investigate reports of a manes girl in the moors or do we go to Harrogate to see into their doppleganger business?”

“Oh come now, boy.” Joseph said. “You can’t just bring up being inside the dreams of a dragon at breakfast and leave it at that! What was it like?”

“Indescribable.”

“You can describe it.”

“I just did. Indescribable is a description.”

“It is not!” Joseph turned to Matthew. “Is indescribable a description?”

“Perhaps.” Matthew answered. “But not a sufficient one. Martin, surely someone with your creativity can describe it more thoroughly than that?”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot. My physical senses were not utilized inside the dreams of Fiadh. I cannot relate what I saw, what I felt, what I touched.”

“Let’s start with something simple then.” Joseph said. “Is it bright inside a dragon’s mind or is it dark?”

“Neither.”

“So like a gray color?”

“No.”

“I’m starting to think you’re having a little fun here.”

“I’m not.”

“Boy, we’re not asking for you to draw us a painting, we just want to know what it’s like.”

“No, no, it’s no good. I can’t relate even the slightest detail without it being as grossly inaccurate as that drawing you wadded up and tossed.”

“Go ahead and be inaccurate, then.”

“No. I saw what you did to the last inaccurate image.”

“I promise I won’t wad you up and toss you in the bin.”

“No. I simply do not have the words to describe the dreams of a dragon, if there even are words.”

“Ah, you’re no fun.”

A look of realization flashed over Martin’s face. He snapped his fingers. “You know what this is? This is the sacrifice of Odin.”

“Come again?” Joseph asked.

“It’s a thaumaturgical saying. The Norse god Odin was a god of wisdom, among other things, but he wasn’t born that way. To achieve his knowledge, Odin plucked out his own eye and gave it to the god Mimir. He became partially blind to the physical world so he could see the world beyond. It’s a cautionary tale for thaumaturgists. The more we learn about the worlds beyond, the less attached we are to the world that birthed us. I gained eyes that could see the dreams of a dragon, but not the tongue to relate them. This is just one of those things I can’t share with you two, I’m sorry.”

Esmee suddenly appeared not through the wall, but through the open door. She frantically waved around the reason she came through the door: a freshly printed electrogram. The three men could smell the ink as Esee fanned the paper.

“We have an emergency!” Esmee exclaimed. “A young woman’s life is at stake! The three of you need to get to Margate as soon as possible!”

The three men placed down their drinks. There was no need for further explanation. It was not the first time that they were called to an early-morning emergency. It would not be the last.

They took their coats from the coat rack and headed for the door.

“Come with us, Esmee.” Joseph said. You can explain more on the way.”

“Excuse me Esmee, may I see?” Matthew asked as he reached for the electrogram.

“Oh, of course, Dr. Ernst.” Esmee handed Matthew the electrogram and Matthew instantly lost himself in its contents.

The physician that wrote the electrogram reported a frenzied list of symptoms–dyspnea, anemia, catatonia…

Matthew looked down at the feet of his friends and trusted them to lead him wherever he needed to go.

“Mind the office until we get back, Nick.” Martin said.

A blast of warm, comforting air conveyed Nick’s thoughts–“I will, and take care, my friends.”

The manesologists left the office and immediately encountered the small mob that loitered around their building every day. These were called the watchers, for they watched to see who came in and out of Ernst, Morton, and Glass so that they could report them to various insurance companies. Having a haunting, or simply associating with a ghost, was enough to cause one’s insurance premiums to spike, and thus Ernst, Morton, and Glass thought very little of the watchers, and Joseph in particular took pleasure in teasing them, but there was no time for that this morning.

“Excuse us, gents.” Joseph said as he produced his gaeite candle and activated it.

An electric current ran through the thick block of gaeite that made up the body of the gaeite candle. Silver-white light the color of the moon radiated from the amber colored block.

The watchers fled from the sudden light, because they knew from experience that many things could come out of olprt radiance, things that were most often large, fearsome, and ill-tempered when held in the grip of Joseph Morton.

Joseph cleared his mind and thought of the appropriate images.

The Dyeus prince spoke the name of his sire, and he appeared. It was not a pleasant reunion. The people demanded their king’s return. The prince begged for his father’s return. In the face of all this, the old man didn’t dare voice his need for rest.

The Zacare Operation

Whistle, named so for the sound he made as he galloped through the air, appeared. He was an old and valuable ally of Ernst, Morton, and Glass. He was a ghost horse, the first to be recorded in the modern era. The wind blew through the translucent beast just as easily as the light did. Whistle shook his chestnut colored neck and flared his nostrils without a sound. He only made his namesake sound when he was tearing through the air.

Attached to him was a carriage, hollow as a Jack-o-lantern pumpkin. Ernst, Morton, and Glass boarded it along with Esmee. Martin activated his gaeite candle and filled the inside with silvery-white light. He would have to perform the Perkunos Operation as long as Whistle was in flight. It was a safety precaution to ensure the horse and his carriage remained solid during the trip.

Joseph produced a metal square covered in dials and switches from his pocket. This was a tool Ernst, Morton, and Glass called the noise box, and though it was made to communicate with a ghost that only manifested as and responded to sound, it proved to be a tool with other uses such as directing Whistle through the sound of whip cracks.

Joseph turned a dial and the sharp sound of a whip caused Whistle to take to the air. Two more whip cracks caused Whistle to turn in the direction of Margate.

“Tell us what’s happening, Esmee.”Joseph said.

In normal light, Esmee appeared a light blue, a blue like that of a forget-me-not or a morning glory, but in olprt radiance, she appeared as black as the cover of a Bible, as did all ghosts and spiritual manifestations. Gaeite candles revealed the supernatural, no matter how invisible their manifestations might be.

So completely was she rendered as a black silhouette that her mouth could not be seen. Her face was like a blot of ink.

“There’s a girl named Audrey Lewis in Margate. Her parents found her early this morning, collapsed in the bathroom with a horrible fever. She was unresponsive. Her breathing was shallow. Her color was pale. She was…is…dying. Her parents called a physician, but, well…Dr. Ernst can see just from the electrogram…”

“Yes.” Matthew said without glancing up from what he was reading. “Yes I can see. The poor physician seems beside himself. He makes it very clear in his writing that he has no idea what is wrong with Audrey Lewis, no idea what he can do to stop the symptoms, and no idea whether she’ll live to sundown.”

“She’s fading that fast?” Joseph asked.

Matthew nodded.

“Audrey doesn’t have a history of illness. She’s never had anything more serious than a cold.” Esmee said. “So it has to be a ghost doing this to her, a ghost or something like a ghost.”

Matthew handed the electrogram back to Esmee.

“It’s hard to say at the moment, but my current hypothesis is that this is a malady possessor.” Matthew said.

“Oh!” Esmee’s hands shot to her face. “Another one of those?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Matthew answered.

“Damn it.” Joseph muttered. “If it’s a malady possessor, then she may have already passed.”

“Don’t say that, Dr. Morton!” Esmee exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, dear, but it’s the truth of the matter. They’re one of the most murderous types of ghosts.”

“Even if we don’t get there in time, we can still prevent the malady possessor from spreading.” Martin said. ‘One life dies, but several more are spared. Let’s look to that, if we can’t look to anything else.”

Malady possessors were a virulent kind of ghost. They were the ghosts of those that died to slow, lingering disease. The spiritual component that stores the memories and behaviors of a ghost’s physical life was very strong within them while the spiritual component that creates a ghost’s novel behaviors was very weak. This caused them to experience, vividly, what it was like on their deathbed while being unable to move beyond that suffering. This imbalance of spiritual components made them miserable beings, but it was another weakness in the spiritual component that controls the imprinting and expression of a ghost’s physical body that made their misery contagious.

Malady possessors did not have ectoplasmic bodies, like Esmee. Instead, they were bodiless and manifested, as Nick did, as flashes of light or wisps of color. Malady possessors remembered the suffering of their bodies but lacked a body to contain that suffering. Thus, seeking to complete themselves, they sought out the bodies of others to pour their misery into.

Not being biological beings, malady possessors could not spread the disease that killed them, but they could force the bodies of those they possessed to respond as if they had the disease. This resulted in what was essentially an extremely strong allergic response. The body’s own immune system killed it from within.

Malady possessors were a physician’s nightmare. They were quick to infect, quick to kill, and quick to move on to other hosts. They had wiped out entire communities while leaving bodies that showed absolutely no signs of infection or disease. Their blood, now still and cold, showed no bacterial or viral infection under the latest microscopes.

“Would you like for us to summon someone to escort you back to Blackwall, Esmee?” Matthew asked. “The Sky Witch, perhaps?”

“No.” Esmee replied. “I could use a good flight. It’s been awhile since I’ve had one.”

“Are you sure?” Matthew asked. “We’re a long way from Blackwall now, you know how fast Whistle travels.”

“The longer the flight, the better. Besides, there’s the Thames right there.” Esmee pointed out the carriage window at a blue ribbon winding its way across the ground. “I just have to follow it to find Blackwall. But could Martin poke a little hole? The last time I tried passing through Whistle’s ectoplasm while he was in motion the speed caused me to fan out like a rag in a gust of wind.”

“I certainly can do that.” Martin said.

He touched a finger to the side of the carriage. A small hole appeared where his fingertip touched. Air whistled through the opening.

“Ha.” Joseph smirked. “A whistle inside Whistle!”

“You’re making jokes now?” Martin asked. “Now?”

“Yes I make jokes now.” Joseph answered. “While jokes can be made.”

“Good luck.” Esmee said. “I hope it isn’t a malady possessor, but if it is, good luck anyway!”

She scrunched herself down until she was a thin, blue rod, then she shot out of the small opening like a blue lightning bolt.

When she was gone, Martin touched the hole with his finger and sealed it.

A few moments later, Whistle arrived in Margate. The manesologists followed the directions in the electrogram and steered Whisper toward the Lewis household. They found Mr. Lewis waiting outside his mansion. He had been waiting for Ernst, Morton, and Glass ever since the family physician declared himself powerless to help his daughter.

Mr. Lewis flinched back as Whistle drew up by the porch. “Good God! It’s like Satan’s own horse!” he exclaimed.

“No sir. Old Whistle isn’t Satan’s horse, he’s ours.” Joseph said as he stepped down from the carriage. “We’re Ernst, Morton, and Glass. Show us where Audrey is.”

Mr. Lewis led the three manesologists inside. “She’s in her bedroom.” he said. “I carried her there after my wife found her passed out on the bathroom floor.”

“We know.” Matthew said. “Dr. Johns’ notes were very comprehensive.”

“What is it? Do you know? Mr. Lewis asked. “What’s happened to my daughter? Has she been possessed?”

“We have to see and examine her before we make that determination.” Matthew said. “It may take some time.”

“Of course. I understand that. But do you have any idea what could be wrong with her? Any idea at all?”

“We don’t like to discuss possibilities, only certainties.” Matthew said.

He thought it would be best not to mention their malady possessor theory. Matthew could see that Mr. Lewis was trying his best to appear calm and collected as he led the manesoloigsts through his home, but the sweat on his brow and his quick breaths revealed that was struggling through the most terrifying night of his life.

“Yes. That makes sense.” Mr. Lewis said. “You want to be certain. That makes perfect sense. There’s a lot of things that could be wrong. It’s just like a normal fever. A lot of things can cause a normal fever, but you have to do an examination to find the specific thing. It’s just like a normal fever…”

Mr. Lewis muttered something that Joseph couldn’t hear with his old ears, but Matthew and Martin heard it clearly: “Please don’t take long. She doesn’t have long, I think…”

Martin looked around. Family portraits and paintings of flowers hung on the walls. A Margate newspaper was pinned under a cooling cup of morning tea. This was not a cemetery, or an old castle, or an ancient ring of ruined stones. This was a home for the living. Somehow, the dead had been brought to this place.

Mr. Lewis led the manesologists to the door of Audrey’s bedroom. Through the opened door, the manesologists could see Mrs. Lewis sniffling at her daughter’s bedside while the family physician stood in the corner like a cringing scarecrow, stiff in the knowledge of how useless he was.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, please wait outside.” Matthew said.

Mrs. Lewis slowly, quietly, stood up, gave her daughter’s hand a tight squeeze, then shuffled pitifully to her husband’s embrace beyond the threshold. As she cried into his chest, Joseph shut the door, leaving the manesologists with a helpless physician and a dying girl.