H. G. Wells | The Stolen Body Audiobook Short Story & PDF eBook

H. G. Wells | The Stolen Body Audiobook Short Story & PDF eBook

August 10, 2019 20 By William Hollis


The Stolen Body by H. G. Wells
Mr. Bessel was the senior partner in the firm of Bessel, Hart, and Brown, of St. Paul’s
Churchyard, and for many years he was well known among those interested in psychical
research as a liberal-minded and conscientious investigator. He was an unmarried man, and
instead of living in the suburbs, after the fashion of his class, he occupied rooms in
the Albany, near Piccadilly. He was particularly interested in the questions of thought transference
and of apparitions of the living, and in November, 1896, he commenced a series of experiments
in conjunction with Mr. Vincey, of Staple Inn, in order to test the alleged possibility
of projecting an apparition of one’s self by force of will through space. Their experiments were conducted in the following
manner: At a pre- arranged hour Mr. Bessel shut himself in one of his rooms in the Albany
and Mr. Vincey in his sitting-room in Staple Inn, and each then fixed his mind as resolutely
as possible on the other. Mr. Bessel had acquired the art of self-hypnotism, and, so far as
he could, he attempted first to hypnotise himself and then to project himself as a “phantom
of the living” across the intervening space of nearly two miles into Mr. Vincey’s apartment.
On several evenings this was tried without any satisfactory result, but on the fifth
or sixth occasion Mr. Vincey did actually see or imagine he saw an apparition of Mr.
Bessel standing in his room. He states that the appearance, although brief, was very vivid
and real. He noticed that Mr. Bessel’s face was white and his expression anxious, and,
moreover, that his hair was disordered. For a moment Mr. Vincey, in spite of his state
of expectation, was too surprised to speak or move, and in that moment it seemed to him
as though the figure glanced over its shoulder and incontinently vanished. It had been arranged that an attempt should
be made to photograph any phantasm seen, but Mr. Vincey had not the instant presence of
mind to snap the camera that lay ready on the table beside him, and when he did so he
was too late. Greatly elated, however, even by this partial success, he made a note of
the exact time, and at once took a cab to the Albany to inform Mr. Bessel of this result. He was surprised to find Mr. Bessel’s outer
door standing open to the night, and the inner apartments lit and in an extraordinary disorder.
An empty champagne magnum lay smashed upon the floor; its neck had been broken off against
the inkpot on the bureau and lay beside it. An octagonal occasional table, which carried
a bronze statuette and a number of choice books, had been rudely overturned, and down
the primrose paper of the wall inky fingers had been drawn, as it seemed for the mere
pleasure of defilement. One of the delicate chintz curtains had been violently torn from
its rings and thrust upon the fire, so that the smell of its smouldering filled the room.
Indeed the whole place was disarranged in the strangest fashion. For a few minutes Mr.
Vincey, who had entered sure of finding Mr. Bessel in his easy chair awaiting him, could
scarcely believe his eyes, and stood staring helplessly at these unanticipated things. Then, full of a vague sense of calamity, he
sought the porter at the entrance lodge. “Where is Mr. Bessel?” he asked. “Do you know that
all the furniture is broken in Mr. Bessel’s room?” The porter said nothing, but, obeying
his gestures, came at once to Mr. Bessel’s apartment to see the state of affairs. “This
settles it,” he said, surveying the lunatic confusion. “I didn’t know of this. Mr. Bessel’s
gone off. He’s mad!” He then proceeded to tell Mr. Vincey that
about half an hour previously, that is to say, at about the time of Mr. Bessel’s apparition
in Mr. Vincey’s rooms, the missing gentleman had rushed out of the gates of the Albany
into Vigo Street, hatless and with disordered hair, and had vanished into the direction
of Bond Street. “And as he went past me,” said the porter, “he laughed–a sort of gasping
laugh, with his mouth open and his eyes glaring–I tell you, sir, he fair scared me!–like this.” According to his imitation it was anything
but a pleasant laugh. “He waved his hand, with all his fingers crooked and clawing–like
that. And he said, in a sort of fierce whisper, ‘life!’ Just that one word, ‘life!'” “Dear me,” said Mr. Vincey. “Tut, tut,” and
“Dear me!” He could think of nothing else to say. He was naturally very much surprised.
He turned from the room to the porter and from the porter to the room in the gravest
perplexity. Beyond his suggestion that probably Mr. Bessel would come back presently and explain
what had happened, their conversation was unable to proceed. “It might be a sudden toothache,”
said the porter, “a very sudden and violent toothache, jumping on him suddenly-like and
driving him wild. I’ve broken things myself before now in such a case . . .” He thought.
“If it was, why should he say ‘life’ to me as he went past?” Mr. Vincey did not know. Mr. Bessel did not
return, and at last Mr. Vincey, having done some more helpless staring, and having addressed
a note of brief inquiry and left it in a conspicuous position on the bureau, returned in a very
perplexed frame of mind to his own premises in Staple Inn. This affair had given him a
shock. He was at a loss to account for Mr. Bessel’s conduct on any sane hypothesis. He
tried to read, but he could not do so; he went for a short walk, and was so preoccupied
that he narrowly escaped a cab at the top of Chancery Lane; and at last–a full hour
before his usual time–he went to bed. For a considerable time he could not sleep because
of his memory of the silent confusion of Mr. Bessel’s apartment, and when at length he
did attain an uneasy slumber it was at once disturbed by a very vivid and distressing
dream of Mr. Bessel. He saw Mr. Bessel gesticulating wildly, and
with his face white and contorted. And, inexplicably mingled with his appearance, suggested perhaps
by his gestures, was an intense fear, an urgency to act. He even believes that he heard the
voice of his fellow experimenter calling distressfully to him, though at the time he considered this
to be an illusion. The vivid impression remained though Mr. Vincey awoke. For a space he lay
awake and trembling in the darkness, possessed with that vague, unaccountable terror of unknown
possibilities that comes out of dreams upon even the bravest men. But at last he roused
himself, and turned over and went to sleep again, only for the dream to return with enhanced
vividness. He awoke with such a strong conviction that
Mr. Bessel was in overwhelming distress and need of help that sleep was no longer possible.
He was persuaded that his friend had rushed out to some dire calamity. For a time he lay
reasoning vainly against this belief, but at last he gave way to it. He arose, against
all reason, lit his gas, and dressed, and set out through the deserted streets–deserted,
save for a noiseless policeman or so and the early news carts–towards Vigo Street to inquire
if Mr. Bessel had returned. But he never got there. As he was going down
Long Acre some unaccountable impulse turned him aside out of that street towards Covent
Garden, which was just waking to its nocturnal activities. He saw the market in front of
him–a queer effect of glowing yellow lights and busy black figures. He became aware of
a shouting, and perceived a figure turn the corner by the hotel and run swiftly towards
him. He knew at once that it was Mr. Bessel. But it was Mr. Bessel transfigured. He was
hatless and dishevelled, his collar was torn open, he grasped a bone-handled walking-cane
near the ferrule end, and his mouth was pulled awry. And he ran, with agile strides, very
rapidly. Their encounter was the affair of an instant. “Bessel!” cried Vincey. The running man gave no sign of recognition
either of Mr. Vincey or of his own name. Instead, he cut at his friend savagely with the stick,
hitting him in the face within an inch of the eye. Mr. Vincey, stunned and astonished,
staggered back, lost his footing, and fell heavily on the pavement. It seemed to him
that Mr. Bessel leapt over him as he fell. When he looked again Mr. Bessel had vanished,
and a policeman and a number of garden porters and salesmen were rushing past towards Long
Acre in hot pursuit. With the assistance of several passers-by–for
the whole street was speedily alive with running people–Mr. Vincey struggled to his feet.
He at once became the centre of a crowd greedy to see his injury. A multitude of voices competed
to reassure him of his safety, and then to tell him of the behaviour of the madman, as
they regarded Mr. Bessel. He had suddenly appeared in the middle of the market screaming
“Life! Life!” striking left and right with a blood-stained walking-stick, and dancing
and shouting with laughter at each successful blow. A lad and two women had broken heads,
and he had smashed a man’s wrist; a little child had been knocked insensible, and for
a time he had driven every one before him, so furious and resolute had his behaviour
been. Then he made a raid upon a coffee stall, hurled its paraffin flare through the window
of the post office, and fled laughing, after stunning the foremost of the two policemen
who had the pluck to charge him. Mr. Vincey’s first impulse was naturally to
join in the pursuit of his friend, in order if possible to save him from the violence
of the indignant people. But his action was slow, the blow had half stunned him, and while
this was still no more than a resolution came the news, shouted through the crowd, that
Mr. Bessel had eluded his pursuers. At first Mr. Vincey could scarcely credit this, but
the universality of the report, and presently the dignified return of two futile policemen,
convinced him. After some aimless inquiries he returned towards Staple Inn, padding a
handkerchief to a now very painful nose. He was angry and astonished and perplexed.
It appeared to him indisputable that Mr. Bessel must have gone violently mad in the midst
of his experiment in thought transference, but why that should make him appear with a
sad white face in Mr. Vincey’s dreams seemed a problem beyond solution. He racked his brains
in vain to explain this. It seemed to him at last that not simply Mr. Bessel, but the
order of things must be insane. But he could think of nothing to do. He shut himself carefully
into his room, lit his fire–it was a gas fire with asbestos bricks–and, fearing fresh
dreams if he went to bed, remained bathing his injured face, or holding up books in a
vain attempt to read, until dawn. Throughout that vigil he had a curious persuasion that
Mr. Bessel was endeavouring to speak to him, but he would not let himself attend to any
such belief. About dawn, his physical fatigue asserted
itself, and he went to bed and slept at last in spite of dreaming. He rose late, unrested
and anxious, and in considerable facial pain. The morning papers had no news of Mr. Bessel’s
aberration–it had come too late for them. Mr. Vincey’s perplexities, to which the fever
of his bruise added fresh irritation, became at last intolerable, and, after a fruitless
visit to the Albany, he went down to St. Paul’s Churchyard to Mr. Hart, Mr. Bessel’s partner,
and, so far as Mr. Vincey knew, his nearest friend. He was surprised to learn that Mr. Hart, although
he knew nothing of the outbreak, had also been disturbed by a vision, the very vision
that Mr. Vincey had seen–Mr. Bessel, white and dishevelled, pleading earnestly by his
gestures for help. That was his impression of the import of his signs. “I was just going
to look him up in the Albany when you arrived,” said Mr. Hart. “I was so sure of something
being wrong with him.” As the outcome of their consultation the two
gentlemen decided to inquire at Scotland Yard for news of their missing friend. “He is bound
to be laid by the heels,” said Mr. Hart. “He can’t go on at that pace for long.” But the
police authorities had not laid Mr. Bessel by the heels. They confirmed Mr. Vincey’s
overnight experiences and added fresh circumstances, some of an even graver character than those
he knew–a list of smashed glass along the upper half of Tottenham Court Road, an attack
upon a policeman in Hampstead Road, and an atrocious assault upon a woman. All these
outrages were committed between half-past twelve and a quarter to two in the morning,
and between those hours–and, indeed, from the very moment of Mr. Bessel’s first rush
from his rooms at half-past nine in the evening– they could trace the deepening violence of
his fantastic career. For the last hour, at least from before one, that is, until a quarter
to two, he had run amuck through London, eluding with amazing agility every effort to stop
or capture him. But after a quarter to two he had vanished.
Up to that hour witnesses were multitudinous. Dozens of people had seen him, fled from him
or pursued him, and then things suddenly came to an end. At a quarter to two he had been
seen running down the Euston Road towards Baker Street, flourishing a can of burning
colza oil and jerking splashes of flame therefrom at the windows of the houses he passed. But
none of the policemen on Euston Road beyond the Waxwork Exhibition, nor any of those in
the side streets down which he must have passed had he left the Euston Road, had seen anything
of him. Abruptly he disappeared. Nothing of his subsequent doings came to light in spite
of the keenest inquiry. Here was a fresh astonishment for Mr. Vincey.
He had found considerable comfort in Mr. Hart’s conviction: “He is bound to be laid by the
heels before long,” and in that assurance he had been able to suspend his mental perplexities.
But any fresh development seemed destined to add new impossibilities to a pile already
heaped beyond the powers of his acceptance. He found himself doubting whether his memory
might not have played him some grotesque trick, debating whether any of these things could
possibly have happened; and in the afternoon he hunted up Mr. Hart again to share the intolerable
weight on his mind. He found Mr. Hart engaged with a well-known private detective, but as
that gentleman accomplished nothing in this case, we need not enlarge upon his proceedings. All that day Mr. Bessel’s whereabouts eluded
an unceasingly active inquiry, and all that night. And all that day there was a persuasion
in the back of Vincey’s mind that Mr. Bessel sought his attention, and all through the
night Mr. Bessel with a tear-stained face of anguish pursued him through his dreams.
And whenever he saw Mr. Bessel in his dreams he also saw a number of other faces, vague
but malignant, that seemed to be pursuing Mr. Bessel. It was on the following day, Sunday, that
Mr. Vincey recalled certain remarkable stories of Mrs. Bullock, the medium, who was then
attracting attention for the first time in London. He determined to consult her. She
was staying at the house of that well-known inquirer, Dr. Wilson Paget, and Mr. Vincey,
although he had never met that gentleman before, repaired to him forthwith with the intention
of invoking her help. But scarcely had he mentioned the name of Bessel when Doctor Paget
interrupted him. “Last night–just at the end,” he said, “we had a communication.” He left the room, and returned with a slate
on which were certain words written in a handwriting, shaky indeed, but indisputably the handwriting
of Mr. Bessel! “How did you get this?” said Mr. Vincey. “Do
you mean–?” “We got it last night,” said Doctor Paget.
With numerous interruptions from Mr. Vincey, he proceeded to explain how the writing had
been obtained. It appears that in her seances, Mrs. Bullock passes into a condition of trance,
her eyes rolling up in a strange way under her eyelids, and her body becoming rigid.
She then begins to talk very rapidly, usually in voices other than her own. At the same
time one or both of her hands may become active, and if slates and pencils are provided they
will then write messages simultaneously with and quite independently of the flow of words
from her mouth. By many she is considered an even more remarkable medium than the celebrated
Mrs. Piper. It was one of these messages, the one written by her left hand, that Mr.
Vincey now had before him. It consisted of eight words written disconnectedly: “George
Bessel . . . trial excavn. . . . Baker Street . . . help . . . starvation.” Curiously enough,
neither Doctor Paget nor the two other inquirers who were present had heard of the disappearance
of Mr. Bessel–the news of it appeared only in the evening papers of Saturday–and they
had put the message aside with many others of a vague and enigmatical sort that Mrs.
Bullock has from time to time delivered. When Doctor Paget heard Mr. Vincey’s story,
he gave himself at once with great energy to the pursuit of this clue to the discovery
of Mr. Bessel. It would serve no useful purpose here to describe the inquiries of Mr. Vincey
and himself; suffice it that the clue was a genuine one, and that Mr. Bessel was actually
discovered by its aid. He was found at the bottom of a detached shaft
which had been sunk and abandoned at the commencement of the work for the new electric railway near
Baker Street Station. His arm and leg and two ribs were broken. The shaft is protected
by a hoarding nearly 20 feet high, and over this, incredible as it seems, Mr. Bessel,
a stout, middle-aged gentleman, must have scrambled in order to fall down the shaft.
He was saturated in colza oil, and the smashed tin lay beside him, but luckily the flame
had been extinguished by his fall. And his madness had passed from him altogether. But
he was, of course, terribly enfeebled, and at the sight of his rescuers he gave way to
hysterical weeping. In view of the deplorable state of his flat,
he was taken to the house of Dr. Hatton in Upper Baker Street. Here he was subjected
to a sedative treatment, and anything that might recall the violent crisis through which
he had passed was carefully avoided. But on the second day he volunteered a statement. Since that occasion Mr. Bessel has several
times repeated this statement–to myself among other people–varying the details as the narrator
of real experiences always does, but never by any chance contradicting himself in any
particular. And the statement he makes is in substance as follows. In order to understand it clearly it is necessary
to go back to his experiments with Mr. Vincey before his remarkable attack. Mr. Bessel’s
first attempts at self-projection, in his experiments with Mr. Vincey, were, as the
reader will remember, unsuccessful. But through all of them he was concentrating all his power
and will upon getting out of the body–“willing it with all my might,” he says. At last, almost
against expectation, came success. And Mr. Bessel asserts that he, being alive, did actually,
by an effort of will, leave his body and pass into some place or state outside this world. The release was, he asserts, instantaneous.
“At one moment I was seated in my chair, with my eyes tightly shut, my hands gripping the
arms of the chair, doing all I could to concentrate my mind on Vincey, and then I perceived myself
outside my body–saw my body near me, but certainly not containing me, with the hands
relaxing and the head drooping forward on the breast.” Nothing shakes him in his assurance of that
release. He describes in a quiet, matter-of-fact way the new sensation he experienced. He felt
he had become impalpable–so much he had expected, but he had not expected to find himself enormously
large. So, however, it would seem he became. “I was a great cloud–if I may express it
that way–anchored to my body. It appeared to me, at first, as if I had discovered a
greater self of which the conscious being in my brain was only a little part. I saw
the Albany and Piccadilly and Regent Street and all the rooms and places in the houses,
very minute and very bright and distinct, spread out below me like a little city seen
from a balloon. Every now and then vague shapes like drifting wreaths of smoke made the vision
a little indistinct, but at first I paid little heed to them. The thing that astonished me
most, and which astonishes me still, is that I saw quite distinctly the insides of the
houses as well as the streets, saw little people dining and talking in the private houses,
men and women dining, playing billiards, and drinking in restaurants and hotels, and several
places of entertainment crammed with people. It was like watching the affairs of a glass
hive.” Such were Mr. Bessel’s exact words as I took
them down when he told me the story. Quite forgetful of Mr. Vincey, he remained for a
space observing these things. Impelled by curiosity, he says, he stooped down, and,
with the shadowy arm he found himself possessed of, attempted to touch a man walking along
Vigo Street. But he could not do so, though his finger seemed to pass through the man.
Something prevented his doing this, but what it was he finds it hard to describe. He compares
the obstacle to a sheet of glass. “I felt as a kitten may feel,” he said, “when
it goes for the first time to pat its reflection in a mirror.” Again and again, on the occasion
when I heard him tell this story, Mr. Bessel returned to that comparison of the sheet of
glass. Yet it was not altogether a precise comparison, because, as the reader will speedily
see, there were interruptions of this generally impermeable resistance, means of getting through
the barrier to the material world again. But, naturally, there is a very great difficulty
in expressing these unprecedented impressions in the language of everyday experience. A thing that impressed him instantly, and
which weighed upon him throughout all this experience, was the stillness of this place–he
was in a world without sound. At first Mr. Bessel’s mental state was an
unemotional wonder. His thought chiefly concerned itself with where he might be. He was out
of the body–out of his material body, at any rate–but that was not all. He believes,
and I for one believe also, that he was somewhere out of space, as we understand it, altogether.
By a strenuous effort of will he had passed out of his body into a world beyond this world,
a world undreamt of, yet lying so close to it and so strangely situated with regard to
it that all things on this earth are clearly visible both from without and from within
in this other world about us. For a long time, as it seemed to him, this realisation occupied
his mind to the exclusion of all other matters, and then he recalled the engagement with Mr.
Vincey, to which this astonishing experience was, after all, but a prelude. He turned his mind to locomotion in this new
body in which he found himself. For a time he was unable to shift himself from his attachment
to his earthly carcass. For a time this new strange cloud body of his simply swayed, contracted,
expanded, coiled, and writhed with his efforts to free himself, and then quite suddenly the
link that bound him snapped. For a moment everything was hidden by what appeared to
be whirling spheres of dark vapour, and then through a momentary gap he saw his drooping
body collapse limply, saw his lifeless head drop sideways, and found he was driving along
like a huge cloud in a strange place of shadowy clouds that had the luminous intricacy of
London spread like a model below. But now he was aware that the fluctuating
vapour about him was something more than vapour, and the temerarious excitement of his first
essay was shot with fear. For he perceived, at first indistinctly, and then suddenly very
clearly, that he was surrounded by faces! that each roll and coil of the seeming cloud-stuff
was a face. And such faces! Faces of thin shadow, faces of gaseous tenuity. Faces like
those faces that glare with intolerable strangeness upon the sleeper in the evil hours of his
dreams. Evil, greedy eyes that were full of a covetous curiosity, faces with knit brows
and snarling, smiling lips; their vague hands clutched at Mr. Bessel as he passed, and the
rest of their bodies was but an elusive streak of trailing darkness. Never a word they said,
never a sound from the mouths that seemed to gibber. All about him they pressed in that
dreamy silence, passing freely through the dim mistiness that was his body, gathering
ever more numerously about him. And the shadowy Mr. Bessel, now suddenly fear-stricken, drove
through the silent, active multitude of eyes and clutching hands. So inhuman were these faces, so malignant
their staring eyes, and shadowy, clawing gestures, that it did not occur to Mr. Bessel to attempt
intercourse with these drifting creatures. Idiot phantoms, they seemed, children of vain
desire, beings unborn and forbidden the boon of being, whose only expressions and gestures
told of the envy and craving for life that was their one link with existence. It says much for his resolution that, amidst
the swarming cloud of these noiseless spirits of evil, he could still think of Mr. Vincey.
He made a violent effort of will and found himself, he knew not how, stooping towards
Staple Inn, saw Vincey sitting attentive and alert in his arm-chair by the fire. And clustering also about him, as they clustered
ever about all that lives and breathes, was another multitude of these vain voiceless
shadows, longing, desiring, seeking some loophole into life. For a space Mr. Bessel sought ineffectually
to attract his friend’s attention. He tried to get in front of his eyes, to move the objects
in his room, to touch him. But Mr. Vincey remained unaffected, ignorant of the being
that was so close to his own. The strange something that Mr. Bessel has compared to
a sheet of glass separated them impermeably. And at last Mr. Bessel did a desperate thing.
I have told how that in some strange way he could see not only the outside of a man as
we see him, but within. He extended his shadowy hand and thrust his vague black fingers, as
it seemed, through the heedless brain. Then, suddenly, Mr. Vincey started like a
man who recalls his attention from wandering thoughts, and it seemed to Mr. Bessel that
a little dark-red body situated in the middle of Mr. Vincey’s brain swelled and glowed as
he did so. Since that experience he has been shown anatomical figures of the brain, and
he knows now that this is that useless structure, as doctors call it, the pineal eye. For, strange
as it will seem to many, we have, deep in our brains–where it cannot possibly see any
earthly light–an eye! At the time this, with the rest of the internal anatomy of the brain,
was quite new to him. At the sight of its changed appearance, however, he thrust forth
his finger, and, rather fearful still of the consequences, touched this little spot. And
instantly Mr. Vincey started, and Mr. Bessel knew that he was seen. And at that instant it came to Mr. Bessel
that evil had happened to his body, and behold! a great wind blew through all that world of
shadows and tore him away. So strong was this persuasion that he thought no more of Mr.
Vincey, but turned about forthwith, and all the countless faces drove back with him like
leaves before a gale. But he returned too late. In an instant he saw the body that he
had left inert and collapsed–lying, indeed, like the body of a man just dead–had arisen,
had arisen by virtue of some strength and will beyond his own. It stood with staring
eyes, stretching its limbs in dubious fashion. For a moment he watched it in wild dismay,
and then he stooped towards it. But the pane of glass had closed against him again, and
he was foiled. He beat himself passionately against this, and all about him the spirits
of evil grinned and pointed and mocked. He gave way to furious anger. He compares himself
to a bird that has fluttered heedlessly into a room and is beating at the window- pane
that holds it back from freedom. And behold! the little body that had once
been his was now dancing with delight. He saw it shouting, though he could not hear
its shouts; he saw the violence of its movements grow. He watched it fling his cherished furniture
about in the mad delight of existence, rend his books apart, smash bottles, drink heedlessly
from the jagged fragments, leap and smite in a passionate acceptance of living. He watched
these actions in paralysed astonishment. Then once more he hurled himself against the impassable
barrier, and then with all that crew of mocking ghosts about him, hurried back in dire confusion
to Vincey to tell him of the outrage that had come upon him. But the brain of Vincey was now closed against
apparitions, and the disembodied Mr. Bessel pursued him in vain as he hurried out into
Holborn to call a cab. Foiled and terror-stricken, Mr. Bessel swept back again, to find his desecrated
body whooping in a glorious frenzy down the Burlington Arcade. . . . And now the attentive reader begins to understand
Mr. Bessel’s interpretation of the first part of this strange story. The being whose frantic
rush through London had inflicted so much injury and disaster had indeed Mr. Bessel’s
body, but it was not Mr. Bessel. It was an evil spirit out of that strange world beyond
existence, into which Mr. Bessel had so rashly ventured. For twenty hours it held possession
of him, and for all those twenty hours the dispossessed spirit-body of Mr. Bessel was
going to and fro in that unheard-of middle world of shadows seeking help in vain. He
spent many hours beating at the minds of Mr. Vincey and of his friend Mr. Hart. Each, as
we know, he roused by his efforts. But the language that might convey his situation to
these helpers across the gulf he did not know; his feeble fingers groped vainly and powerlessly
in their brains. Once, indeed, as we have already told, he was able to turn Mr. Vincey
aside from his path so that he encountered the stolen body in its career, but he could
not make him understand the thing that had happened: he was unable to draw any help from
that encounter. . . . All through those hours the persuasion was
overwhelming in Mr. Bessel’s mind that presently his body would be killed by its furious tenant,
and he would have to remain in this shadow-land for evermore. So that those long hours were
a growing agony of fear. And ever as he hurried to and fro in his ineffectual excitement,
innumerable spirits of that world about him mobbed him and confused his mind. And ever
an envious applauding multitude poured after their successful fellow as he went upon his
glorious career. For that, it would seem, must be the life
of these bodiless things of this world that is the shadow of our world. Ever they watch,
coveting a way into a mortal body, in order that they may descend, as furies and frenzies,
as violent lusts and mad, strange impulses, rejoicing in the body they have won. For Mr.
Bessel was not the only human soul in that place. Witness the fact that he met first
one, and afterwards several shadows of men, men like himself, it seemed, who had lost
their bodies even it may be as he had lost his, and wandered, despairingly, in that lost
world that is neither life nor death. They could not speak because that world is silent,
yet he knew them for men because of their dim human bodies, and because of the sadness
of their faces. But how they had come into that world he could
not tell, nor where the bodies they had lost might be, whether they still raved about the
earth, or whether they were closed forever in death against return. That they were the
spirits of the dead neither he nor I believe. But Doctor Wilson Paget thinks they are the
rational souls of men who are lost in madness on the earth. At last Mr. Bessel chanced upon a place where
a little crowd of such disembodied silent creatures was gathered, and thrusting through
them he saw below a brightly-lit room, and four or five quiet gentlemen and a woman,
a stoutish woman dressed in black bombazine and sitting awkwardly in a chair with her
head thrown back. He knew her from her portraits to be Mrs. Bullock, the medium. And he perceived
that tracts and structures in her brain glowed and stirred as he had seen the pineal eye
in the brain of Mr. Vincey glow. The light was very fitful; sometimes it was a broad
illumination, and sometimes merely a faint twilight spot, and it shifted slowly about
her brain. She kept on talking and writing with one hand. And Mr. Bessel saw that the
crowding shadows of men about him, and a great multitude of the shadow spirits of that shadowland,
were all striving and thrusting to touch the lighted regions of her brain. As one gained
her brain or another was thrust away, her voice and the writing of her hand changed.
So that what she said was disorderly and confused for the most part; now a fragment of one soul’s
message, and now a fragment of another’s, and now she babbled the insane fancies of
the spirits of vain desire. Then Mr. Bessel understood that she spoke for the spirit that
had touch of her, and he began to struggle very furiously towards her. But he was on
the outside of the crowd and at that time he could not reach her, and at last, growing
anxious, he went away to find what had happened meanwhile to his body. For a long time he
went to and fro seeking it in vain and fearing that it must have been killed, and then he
found it at the bottom of the shaft in Baker Street, writhing furiously and cursing with
pain. Its leg and an arm and two ribs had been broken by its fall. Moreover, the evil
spirit was angry because his time had been so short and because of the painmaking violent
movements and casting his body about. And at that Mr. Bessel returned with redoubled
earnestness to the room where the seance was going on, and so soon as he had thrust himself
within sight of the place he saw one of the men who stood about the medium looking at
his watch as if he meant that the seance should presently end. At that a great number of the
shadows who had been striving turned away with gestures of despair. But the thought
that the seance was almost over only made Mr. Bessel the more earnest, and he struggled
so stoutly with his will against the others that presently he gained the woman’s brain.
It chanced that just at that moment it glowed very brightly, and in that instant she wrote
the message that Doctor Wilson Paget preserved. And then the other shadows and the cloud of
evil spirits about him had thrust Mr. Bessel away from her, and for all the rest of the
seance he could regain her no more. So he went back and watched through the long
hours at the bottom of the shaft where the evil spirit lay in the stolen body it had
maimed, writhing and cursing, and weeping and groaning, and learning the lesson of pain.
And towards dawn the thing he had waited for happened, the brain glowed brightly and the
evil spirit came out, and Mr. Bessel entered the body he had feared he should never enter
again. As he did so, the silence–the brooding silence–ended; he heard the tumult of traffic
and the voices of people overhead, and that strange world that is the shadow of our world–the
dark and silent shadows of ineffectual desire and the shadows of lost men–vanished clean
away. He lay there for the space of about three
hours before he was found. And in spite of the pain and suffering of his wounds, and
of the dim damp place in which he lay; in spite of the tears–wrung from him by his
physical distress–his heart was full of gladness to know that he was nevertheless back once
more in the kindly world of men.