The Revenant of Thraxton Hall

CHAPTER 10 THE LEVITATION

It was several hours later when the members of the Society for Psychical Research reassembled in the second floor music room: a generous space with a high ceiling of ornate plasterwork, a grand piano, and a fire roaring in the large stone hearth. By now it was fully dark outside the windows and the hammering rains had finally abated.

Most of the men smoked — Wilde seldom did not have a Turkish cigarette dangling between his thick fingers. The Count, enigmatic behind his mask, sat enthroned in a winged armchair, a large cigar clamped in his jaws. Even Conan Doyle puffed away at an after-dinner pipe. Several of the windows had been opened at the top and cracked at the bottom to allow smoke to escape and cool night air to enter. Daniel Dunglas Hume, one of the few nonsmokers, had chosen a seat near the open window, so as he said, “to taste the sweetness of the fresh air.” Lady Thraxton, veiled as before, had chosen a seat beside him.

Conan Doyle sat in a cane chair, while Oscar Wilde lounged next to him on a divan and, with his red fez, somehow managed to resemble a wealthy camel trader idling in a Moroccan hashish bar. The gaslight in the room had been dimmed at the request of Lady Thraxton to “entice the spirits to draw near.”

Sidgwick addressed the group with his back to the firelight, which kindled his wispy white hair and beard into a fiery corona. “At my special request, Mister Hume has agreed to attempt the levitation.” He beckoned the American forward with a wave. “Mister Hume, if you would please join me.”

Daniel Dunglas Hume rose from his window chair, strolled to the center of the room, and stood beside Sidgwick. “I shall endeavor to do my best,” he said, tossing out a theatrical bow and a wave of his handkerchief. “Hopefully, my powers shall prove equal to the task this evenin’.”

The sitting members clapped appreciatively. Conan Doyle noticed that Frank Podmore, lurking behind his sneer at the back of the room, did not. Lady Thraxton perched in a seat in the shifting light and shadow next to the fire. Though she never turned to look his way, a smile lingered on her lips and Conan Doyle sensed her attention constantly upon him. Then he felt the gaze of another — the Count. Though most of his face was hidden behind the mask, Conan Doyle caught the liquid gleam of one eye, and knew that the Count was staring straight at him.

Sidgwick clapped his hands together, beaming with enthusiasm. “And as we are here to perform a scientific study of paranormal phenomena, could I have two volunteers come forward to observe the levitation at close quarters?”

Conan Doyle was about to rise from his cane chair, but the Count was already on his feet, and then Sir William Crookes, who was sitting closer, juddered up from his armchair and shambled forward, together with Sidgwick forming an equilateral triangle about Hume.

“I shall now attempt the levitation,” Hume boomed in a theatrical voice. “Ya’ll should know, it is the most physically taxing of all my abilities. I believe it relies upon the alignment of the celestial spheres. Some evenings, it comes real easy. But on some occasions, I cannot manifest it.”

A short, barked laugh made heads turn. Feigning innocence, Frank Podmore sat casually adjusting his cuffs, a sardonic smile smeared across his face.

Hume pressed the handkerchief to his mouth and cleared his throat, then dropped his head dramatically. “Please allow me a moment to prepare myself.”

Conan Doyle heard Frank Podmore, sitting somewhere behind him, give a derisive snort and mutter a single word beneath his breath: “Charlatan.”

Wilde also heard it, and flung Conan Doyle a disbelieving look. Dunglas Hume, standing another fifteen feet away, should not have been able to make it out, but he raised his head, opened his eyes, and stared straight at Podmore. For once the American’s good humor deserted him, and he scorched the younger man with a look of pure hatred. But then he recomposed himself, closed his eyes, and dropped his head once more. Hume fell into a pattern of deep respiration, so that his sonorous breathing filled the room. He raised his arms like a pagan worshiping before an idol, his brows knitted in intense concentration.

The room held its breath. Members watched, rapt. A minute passed, but nothing happened. And then another. And another. After a full five minutes had elapsed, Sidgwick raised a hand to halt the proceeding. But then a tremor passed through Hume’s body, his face convulsing with effort. A vein pulsed in his forehead.

He seemed to straighten his posture further, but then Conan Doyle noticed that his shoes no longer touched the carpet. A collective gasp rippled through the room as he ascended, slowly at first, and then faster, until he hovered fifteen feet above the floor, the crown of his head bobbing within inches of the plaster ceiling.

It was a miraculous sight. SPR members looked from one to the other, mouths agape.

But it was just the beginning. Hume lowered his arms until they were against his sides. His body began a slow backward rotation until he lay supine. Then he floated silently over Conan Doyle’s and Wilde’s heads until he reached the open window — the gap was barely two feet — and glided straight out into the night.

Cries of surprise and alarm filled the room as members leapt from their seats and rushed to the windows. Dimly illuminated by the light spilling from the music room windows, Hume floated twenty feet from the building, stopped, and rotated back into the vertical. His eyes remained shut the whole time. The music room was on the second floor and Hume hung suspended motionless forty feet above the stone flags of the courtyard. Then, after perhaps a minute, he rotated to a supine position and drifted back toward the house. He floated in through the far window and reached the middle of the room, where he revolved into the vertical, arms raised above his head, and floated gently to the floor. His feet touched down and he stood, once again, between the three observers.

No one spoke or made any sound. Finally, Hume lowered his arms, raised his head, and opened his eyes.

The members of the SPR burst into wild applause. Sidgwick leapt forward and seized Hume’s hand, pumping it wildly and slapping him on the back. “Astounding, old chap,” he said. “That was simply astounding.”

Conan Doyle threw a look of amazement at Wilde, who returned it and applauded loudly, a cigarette drooping between his lips.

Sir William Crookes was shaking Hume’s hand and rabbiting on about “the most amazing spectacle he had ever witnessed.” None of the men congratulating the American psychic seemed to notice the man’s demeanor. He was deathly pale and sweating profusely. The audience cried out as the American’s knees buckled, and he would have fallen if Sidgwick and the other men had not held him up.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” Hume rasped. “The levitation is very draining.” With their help he wobbled to his feet. “I’m afraid I must retire for the evening.”

Frank Podmore jumped up from his chair and stalked from the room without a backward glance. On his way out, he brushed shoulders with Mrs. Kragan, the Irish housekeeper. She had been standing at the open door, silently watching throughout. Her eyes were wide and crazed, both hands covering her mouth. Conan Doyle noticed the rosary clutched in her hands and heard her mutter, “Tis the work of the devil. We shall all be damned for it!” Then the housekeeper turned and fled, as if fearing contamination by such ungodly doings.

The guests applauded as Daniel Dunglas Hume left the room moments later, assisted — virtually dragged out — by Mister Greaves and two of the other servants.

“Well, well,” Wilde observed drily. “I should hate to be following that act!”