Christmas Entertainment by Daphne Froome

According to the Internet Speculative Fiction Database, Daphne Froome was born in 1920 and died in 1988. From 1977 to 1984, thirteen of her stories were published in anthologies from Armada and Fontana Books. Perhaps she worked for the publisher? Who is to say. “Christmas Entertainment” was originally published in The 15th Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories. Merry Christmas everyone.

Professor Conway, the well-known scientist, opened the door of his study, which, with its leather armchairs, green velvet cushions, and its parchment-shaded lamp in one corner, was his favourite room in the house.

There was almost half an hour to spare before the children were due to arrive for the Christmas party, just time to make a note of an idea which had been running through his mind all day. The Professor hated writing, particularly when he was working under the influence of some sudden inspiration. He hated the expression of his thoughts to be delayed even by the time it took to form the letters with a pen, so now, padding rather heavily across the shabbily carpeted floor, he bent and lifted the black plastic cover of his tape-recorder, set the reel spinning, and dictated his idea at considerable length into the microphone. Having used the tape to the end, he removed it, numbered it and filed it away in the appropriate cabinet with all the others. Then he stood gazing complacently round at the walls, crowded on every side with shelves and cupboards, each crammed with data concerning every conceivable kind of psychical phenomenon, from vampires, via poltergeists, down to the mere unresolved echo in an empty, modern flatlet.

For years he had spent his spare time happily ghost-hunting. His hobby had given him an excellent excuse to travel to places all over the world, and to meet all kinds of people, different from and far more interesting than the academics who were normally his associates. What was more, as not one of the apparently mysterious incidents reported to him had withstood a properly organized scientific scrutiny, he had convinced himself absolutely that ghosts did not exist. Now he was ready to begin writing the book that would dispel for ever the mists of superstition and probably make him a substantial sum in royalties as well.

Plugging in the electric typewriter he sat down at his desk and tapped out the title page:

THE FINAL DISAPPEARANCE
by
Harold E. Conway

There was no time for any more now. What a nuisance this party was proving to be! Mrs Barker, the wife of his closest colleague, had established some years ago the tradition of holding a Christmas party for the children of the College staff. This year, however, she had taken it into her head to go away and foist the whole thing on to him. He had not liked, either, the acid way she had remarked that for once he could give up his solitary, self-centred existence and put his large house to good use.

He went thoughtfully over to the window and stood looking up at the darkening sky. It had been raining, and the recently lighted antique lamps, in keeping with the architecture of the small square in which the house was situated, shone peacefully as inverted mirror images in the limpid water of the puddles. Suddenly the reflections were disturbed by a crowd of small boys as they came splashing along.

His guests were beginning to arrive.

Mrs Megan Dent, the Professor’s cleaner and cook, a tall, smart, energetic young woman, lifted a tray of hot mince pies from the oven and began to arrange them on a large dish, chattering all the while to her husband, Tim, who, blowing up the last of the balloons, was for once unable to stem her flow of words.

‘There’s the first child arriving now. Oh I do hope the party will go all right, everyone’s bound to blame me if it doesn’t! I must say it’s not at all like it was last Christmas in Mrs Barker’s house when everywhere was bright and seasonal-looking. The Professor would only let me put up a few bits of holly—not that any amount of decoration would make this place look cheerful. Then again, instead of you dressed up nicely as Father Christmas, doling out presents (and what generous presents they were!), there’s to be a demonstration of some queer optical illusion in his old lecture room that’s full of cobwebs and cold as charity because it’s been out of use for years!’

Mr Dent, deciding the balloon had reached a satisfactory size, stopped blowing, tied it securely with string and said, ‘Actually the Professor’s going to conjure up a ghost. It’s an old trick but I don’t expect the kids will have seen it before. I reckon they’ll love it; it’s far more exciting than Father Christmas.’

‘You only say that because you’ve spent every evening this week helping him to get it ready.

‘You’ll see later on. I bet it will give you the creeps!’

After tea Mr and Mrs Dent escorted the children, still consuming the remains of the cakes and sweets, into the small lecture theatre for the entertainment.

Professor Conway, twitching slightly, was beckoning Mr Dent. ‘I think we ought to check everything’s all right before we begin.’

Mr Dent pursued him on to the stage and disappeared behind the curtain. His wife, after hesitating for a moment, followed curiously behind.

‘How’s it done?’ she asked.

‘Quite simply really,’ the Professor answered in a patronizing tone. ‘You just have this large sheet of plate glass—he gave the glass a loud resounding tap ‘and by setting it up at an angle of forty-five degrees to your audience the light rays are reflected in such a way that it looks as if the spectators are seeing a transparent ghost behind the glass instead of an illuminated dummy placed out of sight at the side of the stage.’

Mrs Dent glanced at the dummy. ‘It’s very cleverly constructed. Who made it?’

‘The Professor,’ Tim Dent replied, then added more quietly, ‘being a bachelor he’s a dab hand with a needle and thread!’

‘They mustn’t realize the glass is there, of course,’ the Professor continued. ‘I hope you like the way your husband has camouflaged the edges with his paintings of witches and dragons.’

‘You get a better idea of them from a distance of course,’ Mr Dent put in rather diffidently.

The Professor coughed impatiently at the interruption. ‘The illusion is very convincing. When it was first demonstrated by one Professor Pepper in the nineteenth century, people came flocking to see it. Plays with his ghosts in were all the rage. They were better staged, of course, than ours will be, with real actors playing the ghosts, but the principle was the same.’

Glancing at the dummy once more, Meg noticed that the Professor had neglected to fasten one of the shoes. As she was a neat, tidy person, the sight of the trailing lace worried her. She walked across, bent down, and knotted it in a secure double bow.

Standing up, she clutched at one of the arms to steady herself. It felt soft, almost human to the touch. As she moved, the grotesquely featured head rolled forward towards her.

‘Hey, be careful!’ shouted Tim. ‘What are you trying to do, wreck the show? You’d better be getting back to your seat. The Professor will be waiting to make his introductory speech.’

‘Before I came to live in this house,’ the Professor began, ‘it was occupied by a man named Sir Arthur Stanbrook. Now, there is no doubt that Sir Arthur was a very clever scientist - he was an expert in electronics, like me. We often helped each other with our work; in fact, we soon became friends. We shared the same hobby, too. We were both fascinated by anything supernatural. I’ve always found it an absorbing subject- investigating ghostly happenings and proving that they don’t exist. But Sir Arthur spent his time going round saying they did. Can you imagine someone as intelligent as that considering it possible that ghosts exist?’

The Professor paused for effect, then went on.

‘I thought it was dreadful that so clever a man should believe in such superstitious nonsense, so I challenged him to produce for me one of his ghosts. Of course he was unable to do so, and I am afraid we quarrelled violently. It is now over twenty years since Sir Arthur died, but when I decided to conjure up an apparition for your entertainment today I couldn’t resist the temptation to make it like Sir Arthur. Later on I will try to explain how the trick is done, and perhaps one or two of you might be prepared to come up on to the stage and be turned into temporary spectres yourselves. Now, if someone will kindly put out the lights. . . .’

During the rather apprehensive whispering and shuffling that followed, Tim Dent switched on the arc lamps and then, drawing back the curtains, revealed the ghostly image. After about a minute he switched the lamps off, then on, so that the apparition disappeared and reappeared again. Then he walked round behind the sheet of glass and stood in the circle of chalk he had carefully positioned so that the body of the ghost seemed to be superimposed on to his own. A nice touch this, Tim thought. The children had suddenly become very quiet, he noticed. Perhaps they were beginning to get bored. He sauntered over to the edge of the stage and stood there, rather self-consciously, bowing.

His wife sat watching him quite proudly. She had seated herself at the back of the room, as far away as possible from the illusion on the stage. She was glad to see the image flicker and become blurred—perhaps the demonstration would go wrong and they could all spend the rest of the time playing games and singing a few songs. But the spectre gradually began to appear again; only now the general shape had taken on more realistic contours, the mitten-like hands possessed fingers, and the mask-like face was transformed into something distinctly human. She opened her mouth to shout a warning to Tim, but for once the power of speech utterly deserted her and she could only gasp, fishlike.

Professor Conway had descended from the stage and was walking between the rows of children, studying their obviously delighted reaction with smug satisfaction. Then he turned to survey the shadowy reflection he had created. It was certainly very realistic, but there was something odd about it when seen from this angle, he thought, a distortion that gave the impression that the sagging limbs were straightened and the lolling head had reared upright above shoulders suddenly squared. Then, as Tina extinguished the arc lamps, the spectre vanished and there was a roar of appreciative applause from the audience.

The Professor turned to Meg, huddled pale and mute in her chair. ‘What a success! Look at them now, all pestering Tim to let them take a turn at being a ghost!—I say, are you all right?’

‘I feel rather faint,’ Meg whispered. ‘I think I’ll go outside for a bit.’

Professor Conway smiled condescendingly down at her. ‘Good heavens, Megan, it was only a trick!’

He elbowed his way back up on to the stage, among the crowd of excited children, and shifted the dummy in order that they could stand, one by one, in its place. Controlling so many energetic youngsters was certainly absorbingwork, but he still found time to worry about the strangeness of that final image. He found it impossible to concentrate on the problem with all these children enjoying themselves so enthusiastically around him. It was extraordinary how long it took them to get tired. The party seemed to continue for an almost interminable time, but when it had eventually dragged to a close he turned to Tim and said, ‘Really, the ghost looked most peculiar the last time you showed it. Could we see it again, do you think? Your wife seemed quite upset by it, too.’

‘You don’t mean you were scared, Meg?’ Tim laughed.

‘You just sit here with me, Mrs Dent, and we’ll soon solve all this with a simple, scientific explanation,’ the Professor added.

‘I’d rather not—there’s all the clearing up to be done.’

‘Oh do stop fussing, we can clear up tomorrow—it’s Saturday.’ Tim sounded impatient as he rather wearily began to demonstrate the spectral effect yet again. ‘I can’t see anything wrong,’ he called. ‘Everything seems to be working perfectly to me.’

‘I agree. Your wife and I were mistaken, of course.’ Professor Conway beamed at Meg. ‘Let me give you a drink before you go—you’ve certainly earned it.’

He rose, and ushering them into his study, he happily dispensed generous quantities of whisky to them both.

* * *

The house seemed very silent after Megan and Tim’s departure. It was just the contrast, the Professor decided, after the pandemonium of the afternoon. Thank goodness it was over. The cost of the food had been quite excesssive, not to mention all the extra electricity they had used. Megan was certainly not the most economical of housekeepers; there were electric fires and lights still burning in all the downstairs rooms. Wandering round switching them off, he came to the lecture room, where the image was still distinctly visible on the screen.

He stood just inside the door, surveying it gloatingly. It really had amused the children—they would not think very highly of Mrs Barker’s parties after this! The effect really was extraordinarily good. The arc lamps seemed to be giving a far more powerful image than he had anticipated, too, and from here they almost produced the odd impression that the spectre was lit by some inward source of its own. It also looked disconcertingly like Sir Arthur. He thought he saw the momentary gleam of white teeth as the mouth opened and closed again. . . The Professor blinked, then fixed the apparition with a coldly questioning scientific stare. He wished he hadn’t given the thing eyes—even from this distance they seemed to be glowering back at him. And now the tall figure, swaying slightly, appearing to become more solid every moment, moved with slow deliberation out of the circle of chalk, straight through the glass, down from the stage and along the aisle between the rows of chairs. Professor Conway suddenly realized that he could even hear the man’s heavy gold watch chain clinking with a small rhythmic jingle.Still illuminated in the darkness by an eerie glow, its bald head gleaming, its loosely knotted tie flapping, the ghost turned and inclined its head, in a supercilious fashion, towards him, before disappearing into the corridor.

Professor Conway hesitated only momentarily before giving chase. He caught a vague glimpse of it making its way across the darkened hall before it disappeared from sight. Glancing into each of the rooms as he passed, he reached and flung open the front door, and stood surveying the scene outside. The rain clouds had given way to a clear sky and the moon irradiated the area with almost daylight brightness. The cutting wind had cleared the square of people; it was quite deserted.

Very thoughtfully he went back into the house. The whole thing must be a hoax perpetrated by Tim, he decided. This was the only possible explanation. And Meg, of course, had pretended to feel faint at the appearance of the ghost during the party, just to add to the effect. Tim had probably by now crept into the house by the back door and they were no doubt waiting together in the lecture room to plague him with further stupid, infantile pranks. Well, they would not be given the opportunity to fool him a second time. He went into his study, and, filling a large glass with the remainder of the whisky from the decanter, he stamped upstairs with it into his bedroom.

Stumbling into the kitchen the following morning, Professor Conway set the left-over coffee from the day before re-heating on the stove, then turned to address Tim.

‘I did not think much of your idea of a walking ghost,’ he stated acidly.

Tim looked confused. ‘Walking ghost? What walking ghost?’

The Professor brooded wearily over the pungent liquid full of grounds in the saucepan. ‘You didn’t return then, after the party?’

Meg looked at the Professor sharply. ‘Hardly! We’d had quite a long enough day of it, as it was.’

‘Well, someone played a ridiculous prank on me.’ The Professor’s red-rimmed brown eyes glared blearily into Meg’s wide grey ones. ‘Those loose slates rattling on the roof disturbed me, too. It was a very stormy night. I hope you haven’t forgotten that I’ve asked you once or twice to climb up and deal with them, Mr Dent.’

Tim, with the air of a man fighting to retain the final vestiges of his patience, washed the last of the mugs, handed it to his wife to dry, squeezed the suds from the dishmop, pulled the plug out of the sink and waited while the water bubbled slowly down the drain before replying. ‘You sometimes seem to forget, Professor, that I do have my own work to do, and if there’s anything to be dealt with today it had better be the vacuum cleaner. It blew up when my wife plugged it in this morning—why, she might very easily have been killed!’

The Professor, haughtily ignoring Tim completely, turned out the gas beneath the saucepan and stepped across to the refrigerator for milk. As he opened the door a small stream of water dribbled out and spread into a pool on the floor. ‘Why, look at this! The thing’s defrosted. Everything’s swimming in water.’ He looked up. ‘The blasted plug’s in pieces!’

‘Those children!’ Tim laughed weakly. ‘Little demons! They must have done it. Last year at Mrs Barker’s we had hunt the thimble and it took us days to sweep up the horsehair stuffing they’d torn out of the chaise-longue.’

‘Nonsense, it was perfectly all right when I went to bed.’

‘Then perhaps you and Tim really did conjure up a ghost,’ Meg cried. ‘Perhaps it was that you saw walking. Perhaps it did for the vacuum cleaner, too. Who knows what it might not get up to next?’

The Professor swore loudly. ‘Of course there isn’t a ghost! If that dummy is giving you hysterics I’ll go and burn the thing now, right away!’

Rushing from the kitchen, Professor Conway arrived, breathless, in the lecture room.

The apparition that once more stared down from the sheet of plate glass seemed to be standing watching him, the face creased in the frown of malignant concentration which the late Sir Arthur Stanbrook always wore when wrestling with some particularly taxing problem. The figure was already beginning to move.

‘I’ll soon put paid to you!’ the Professor shouted. ‘I’lI turn the lamps off !’

Running forward he mounted the steps on to the stage and hurled himself towards the switch.

Tim and Meg reached the doorway just in time to see a brilliant flash reflected in the glass, as the body of the Professor slumped on to the stage. The ghost of Sir Arthur Stanbrook had disappeared, and, perfectly distinct behind the glass, that of Professor Conway had taken its place.