Weird West Tales No. 2: The Torment of Henry Hush

The Torment of Henry Hush
by Morgan James

Two AM. The Trinity bells sound distant and forlorn.

A thick fog rolls through the cobblestone streets, billowing and shadowed. In the distance, the lapping of water defines the edges of the river.

In the short months that I have been at Cambridge, following closely in the footsteps of my cousin and protector Montague, I have fallen in love with the old city. Unlike Windsor and the protective embrace of Eton – where I had been studying since I was thirteen, King’s College is freedom, adulthood and the tingling expectation of knowledge.

So I find myself outside of The Pickerel, a venerable pub, on Magdalene Street deciding, in an intellectual conversation that a young man of sixteen could only have with himself, whether to take the long way home through Trinity College to the King’s Parade or whether to cut along The Backs, a verdant path along the banks of the Cam, which would take me back to my room along a shorter, albeit lonelier path.

I must have looked the fool, swaggering from a pint too many and smiling, not only at my good fortune at cards – as I always have good fortune at cards – but at the coy looks of the Pickerel’s delectable barmaid, Mira.

“Master, Morgan!” At first I don’t respond.

“Mr. James, you left your pipe.” It is the gnarled claw of Mrs. Montaigne, wrapped hastily in her shawl, which lurches unbidden out of the fog.

“My apologies, and thank you, Mrs. Montaigne,” I mumble. “I wouldn’t want to lose my lucky pipe.”

“Be careful going home, sir. It’s a thief’s night tonight. That’s for sure, Mr. James.”

My lucky pipe? Maybe next time Mira will bring it out.

My heart is as warm as my belly as I cross the bridge and descend onto the worn footpath stretching into the overgrown reeds. I close my coat as I light the pipe that Montague had given me - a puff of pride and an exhalation of contentment.

A good night for a ghost story. Perhaps I will compose one on my way home – an offering to the Ole Wurm Society. I smile at memory of Montague’s excited face each time we descend the creaky staircase into the musty, forgotten library – a tiny room ringed with chairs and ancient tomes, his reverence for the books and his awe of the cabinet of curiosities.

Still, I must admit that our discovery and admittance into the secret cabal was swift and unexpected. My interview was odd, as Mr. Quickly obsessed on having me demonstrate simple card tricks repeatedly. When I told him that I was born on 3 July 1863, he nearly fell from his chair. A stick-like man, he moved with an unnatural gait – leaving the room to confer with others whose presence beyond the closed door left me feeling uneasy.

Returning, he shook my hand nervously and welcomed me and my cousin into the Society. Averting his gaze and shuffling from the room, I could only describe the fleeting look in his eyes as awe.

I bump into Mr. Hush with a solid thud. He has appears out of the fog and wisps of pipe smoke so quickly that I am startled from my reverie.

I jump back, my heart racing from the unexpected contact.

“Henry?” The figure in front of me doesn’t move, not even turning in my direction.

“Henry Hush? It’s me, Morgan James. Spook. Sorry to bump into you old man, just coming back from the pub.”

I move around to face him.

“Henry? Hell man, you look quite the sight. You okay?”

Without a response, Henry turns from me and continues down the path, shambling slowly with an unsteady gait. In moments, he melts into the dark, enveloping fog.

I stand a moment watching the swirling mist.

As I retrieve my pipe from the trampled grass, I notice a small stoppered red glass vial lying nearby. I would have missed it except for the strong smell of roses that fill the air around me – a stark contrast to the dank, mustiness of the river.

I don’t call for Henry, he is certainly in no mood for conversation tonight, and besides what would he be doing with a vial of woman’s perfume? Henry had declined, on several occasions, Montague’s ribald invitation to join us for a night out seeking the companionship of the eligible young ladies of Cambridge.

Without a thought, I put the vial into my pocket, relight my trusty pipe and climb the path to the Great Court. Already, I can make out the Gatehouse and impressive façade of the King’s College Chapel. As I cross the quadrangle – dreading the arduous climb to the freshmen rooms – I spot a lantern bobbing in the small window that sits above the impressive stained glass of the chapel. Moving closer, several figures huddle near the rear chapel entrance, directly below the window.

“You there. Get back to your dorm. There’s been an accident. Nothing to see.” The voice is a disembodied foghorn, gravelly and filled with authority.

Turning, I decide that my insatiable curiosity will have to wait. No point in have the master questioning a freshman about being out so late with classes in the morning.

My head pounds as I sit in the lecture hall – the early sunlight spreading in hazy sheets from the narrow windows. My usual place near the front of the small amphitheatre provides little shelter from the disapproving stares that Professor Hightower will undoubtedly give me during his lecture on the alchemical properties of mercury. To retreat further up the classroom requires climbing – an effort I’m scarcely enthusiastic to embrace – and my change of venue would be suspicious. So I sit. Miserable, drifting into my private thoughts.

“Given the events of last night,” the words come almost like a whisper. Queer for the usually sharp-edged voice of Dr. Hightower. “I have been asked to cancel class until tomorrow.”

Lucky again.

“What happened last night?” a small voice queries from the back of the room.

“Why, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but is seems that Mr. Hush jumped from the Chapel last night. He was found dead on the steps by two students just after midnight.”

A gasp, followed by the expected sound of girls fainting somewhere behind me.

I swallow, stand, and, head bent, head for the door and the safety of my room.

I have seen a dead man. No, I have touched a dead man and looked into his eyes.

“You must come tonight,” Montague begs. The cabal has stolen an artifact from the Hush suicide. We are going to attempt a séance.” My cousin fairly danced about the room.

“You must be curious.” It was the line that always works with me.

“We can talk with Henry’s spirit. It’ll be fun. Get your mind off of things.”

Wearily, I pull on my coat – still damp from my previous nights wanderings. I quickly light my pipe and fall into place behind Montague’s long strides.

I can’t get the flaccid stare of those dead eyes out of my mind.

“We call tonight upon the spirit of Henry Hush – who left this world in tragedy last night.”

A handkerchief sits in the center of the table covering a small item – a focus for our mystical energy.

“Henry Hush. Can you hear us?” an Irish brogue – pulled deep for the occasion – intones.

Nothing.

Some candles are lit, and the call is made again.

Nothing.

A sudden gust of air lifts the handkerchief off its precious secret. There, sits a small red glass perfume bottle stopper.

I stare. My eyes are not closed in reverent prayer. They are open in disbelief.

“Henry Hush. Can you hear us?” the chanting continues.

Nothing.

Trembling, my hand drops from the table into my pocket – closing around the small glass vial that I knew was still there.

“Speak to us Henry – tell us what happened last night. We are your friends.”

Nothing.

As I move my hand across the table and open it to reveal the stopper’s mate, the room suddenly fills with the scent of roses.

A scream rents the air.

Whether it was one of the cabal or the spirit of Henry Hush, released from his torment, I will never know.

According to Montague, I was pushed away from the table that night – as if bumped by some strange force.

But for me it was a familiar collision – the touch of a dead man as he lumbered through the fog towards his inevitable destination.

The members of the Ole Wurm Society told me that I collapsed on the floor. They had heard no sound, but the darkness had not come soon enough for me. I can still see his face – the stare of the dead man’s eyes and the fear they held.

In the days that follow, I find myself first telling the cabal that I had stumbled across the vial in the college courtyard coming home from The Pickerel. A simple lie – and one meant to preserve my sanity and keep the truth from creating an unending stream of questions.

But Montague knows me too well and eventually works the story from me.

In recounting the tale at a cabal meeting some weeks later, Montague tells the story while I sit back in a dusty alcove of the forgotten library – cloaked in darkness.

I can hear whispering which I hope comes from those gathered in the circle of light at the center of the room.

Gettysburg. I nod at the reference to my birth date.

Raven.

I must be dozing in the warm corner of the room – the musk of the books filling my mind with cobwebs.

Harrowed.

A young woman is shaking my shoulder - her black hair and green eyes, fresh and eager are beguiling and yet hauntingly familiar. She is dressed oddly, more in keeping with my home in Colorado than the fashions of Victorian England.

“Wake up, Morgan. It’s time to come home.”

As I reach over for my cape and hat, discarded on the table next to my chair, the smell of roses fills the air.

Looking back, I see that now-familiar dead stare – the bright green spark of life gone – filled with despair.

Startled, my head snaps up. I am back in the library sitting in the corner – the mysterious woman gone – and Montague standing nearby.

“Its time to go, old chap. It looks like you were having one hell of a bad dream.”

Hell, yes. A bad dream – I can only hope.