27 January 2010, 3:34pm...
"John!"
He looked up from where he was looking down at the pavement and found Mike Stamford's smiling face, sitting on a bench by the fountains in Regent's Park.
"Hey," he joined his friend on the bench. "What is it? You sounded excited on the phone."
"It's a big one," Mike replied as he handed over a stapled clump of papers. "The morgue at Bart's."
"What? No. How did you...?"
Mike grinned. "I never reveal my secrets."
John grinned back and scanned the papers. They contained details of the case: unusual sounds at night in Bart's morgue, occasionally a broken piece of equipment or a shattered window, but never anything stolen. And then there were the eyewitness accounts. Dozens of employees over the past several decades, at the very least, had seen in the early hours of the morning, some sort of figure in the morgue. It was always doing something different, but the description was the same: dark, tall, and disruptive. Also, according to a few, rather creepy.
Records of the "Phantom of the Morgue" stretched back for over a century. They were sporadic and unpredictable, but it was generally accepted that it was permanent resident of the morgue.
"It's not the coffin lift, that's been done. And the ladies are old hat, everyone in our circles know about that. There are even more accounts of them than this one."
"So this one has more renown, basically,"John smirked. "More risk, because less evidence, but a higher payoff if we prove it. No pictures?"
"None," Mike shook his head. "Which is surprising, since there's been security cameras down there for ages. Every time any activity happens, the cameras conveniently go out."
"So we have a tech-savvy spirit, then."
Mike leaned over. "And the best bit is, we're the first team they've ever allowed down there. Bart's is very protective of their morgue, and no one else has ever been let in to investigate. But in the past two years there have been more sightings there than ever before, and they want answers, proof that it's not just pranksters or whatever. So..."
"So somehow, you got us in with them." John shook his head, smiling.
"I did," Mike looked wildly pleased with himself. "And we're going in tomorrow night, so read through that file. It''s your turn anyway."
"You want to be in the van for this one? Are you sure? I would have thought you'd want to be the one down there at night."
"No, mate," Mike shook his head, some of the boyish glee fading from his expression. "I'm still not over Highgate, so how about you take a turn?"
John chuckled. "Alright, if you're too afraid, fine. I don't mind doing it. I was in med school, remember? I've been around dead bodies, and since then I've been around plenty of the dead."
Mike stood. "See you tomorrow then? I'll come get you."
John nodded. "Until then." He smirked. This was going to be good.
29 January 2010, 2:37am...
The next evening, John scanned Mike's file on the Phantom of the Morgue for what seemed like the thousandth time. He couldn't help it, though; this was the most promising case he'd seen in ages, and the adrenaline was coursing through him.
The phantom was most definitely an apparition, though the morgue also showed occasional indications of having cold spots and shadow ghosts as well. Mike, already preparing since probably days ago, had been texting John for an hour about the very promising primary readings. There was definitely going to be activity tonight, he swore over and over. It had to happen; this was their chance. They could hit it big with this one, he declared over and over.
By nighttime, early morning technically, both John and Mike were in their respective positions, Mike in the van watching the instruments, John down in the morgue, armed with a handheld reader and a camera on a tripod. Also a coffee, which was just as important.
They had spent the day preparing, no only taking more primary readings of the morgue in the daytime, but also interviewing the medical examiners. One in particular, a woman named Molly, had provided excellent observations, though it was nothing they had not heard or read before. In general, whatever the phantom was had to be something sentient, an actual entity rather than just a hot spot.
What was perplexing to John, though, was the mixed signals. Whatever this thing was had similar descriptions through all the years, going back to at least the 1910s, but its behavior was undefinable. Sometimes it was more like a poltergeist, sometimes more like an imprint, and sometimes more like just a strange, human-shaped light. It made no sense, as if it couldn't make up its mind of what it wanted to be. If it hadn't been for the consistent description of its form (tall, human-shaped, possibly dark-haired, definitely mischievous), then John would have thought there was more than one down spirit there.
John yawned and glanced at the clock on the wall. Two fifteen. Most of the activity or sightings - when the night shift was present - occurred around this time usually, between two and four in the morning. Assuming the phantom decided to appear tonight.
He felt his phone vibrate and glanced down.
M: Nothing yet?
J: Not yet, mate. You'll see it on the camera, anyway.
He locked the phone and smiled at Mike's eagerness. He didn't blame him, of course; John too had been - pun not intended - dying to get in here and see what the morgue had to offer.
"Television or private contract?"
"Aaah!" John yelped at the sudden voice, nearly dropping his phone and coming within centimeters within knocking over the coffee cup. "How did you get in here?"
He whirled and was suddenly facing a rather tall man, whose dark curls were tousled as if he had just been out in the wind. Whoever this was smirked, raising an eyebrow. But something was off, John realized, frowning. His handheld reader was showing spikes of energy, its needle flicking to the extreme end of the meter. And the reader was pointed... directly at this man.
John blinked, staring at him incredulously. He could see, now that the shock had worn off and his observational skills were returning, that there was a faint glow around the man, like an aura or something. Some sort of... otherworldly light.
Well, this was just unprecedented.
He blinked rather stupidly. "You..."
"Yes, yes, I'm the phantom," the other waved a hand dismissively, rolling his eyes with clear exasperation at the title. "You did not answer my question, sir. Television or private contract?"
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," John stammered. "But..."
"Please, your occupation is obviously a ghost hunter. Ex-medical student, but you had an accident or... perhaps an encounter, which changed your mind about your career, so now you are here, tracking paranormal happenings throughout England. You specialize in London, though, but you have not yet dealt with many major cases. This is likely the most important one in years, but you still have not answered me. Television or private, sir?"
"You mean, for the case? Private. Mike and I don't work with a telly network. We just investigate and recommend how to get rid of the..." he trailed off, realizing how insane this was. He was talking to a bloody ghost!
But this was the most... animated ghost he had ever seen. He had seen poltergeists and other spirits, but none had possessed such... sophisticated communication skills.
"And why did you think to enter here, to enter my morgue?" the phantom asked, a slight crease in his pale forehead. John's breath caught. There had been no reports of the phantom ever harming anyone, but then again, no ghost hunter had ever willingly invaded its territory for the explicit purpose of finding it.
"Oh, do not be boring," the ghost sighed as if reading his mind, and he moved over to the stool beside John. He wasn't sitting on it, obviously, but for all appearances he was. "This is the first interesting conversation in which I have engaged in decades, and I would deplore your spoiling it with your shock at my speech capabilities or worry that I shall harm you."
"Erm... So you aren't going to hurt me?"
The phantom gave him a disdainful look. "How could I? I am not exactly equipped with sufficient corporeality to do so, at least severely. Though you still have not answered me. Again."
"I just wanted to find you. I didn't expect to find you like this though..."
"No, I suspect not. Will you be here long?" he sighed.
"Just until sunrise. Unless you want to throw me out with your ghostly powers?"
He chuckled. "That would be a wasted effort. However, I am curious about you..." He turned toward John fully. "I propose a deal. An answer for an answer. I can tell you are simply bursting with queries."
"Right. Um, okay..." John took a breath. "How are you so... sentient? No offense."
The phantom smirked. "I have always possessed a keen mind, going back to when I was alive. What is your name, sir?"
"John Watson," he breathed, staring at him, fascinated. He glanced down at the reader again, which was still proudly proclaiming that this ghost was a strong presence, something of which John was well aware. He reached down and switched it off, then looked back up, again fixing his gaze on the figure sitting across from him. Really looking this time, not just gaping.
The ghost, or phantom, or whatever, was transparent, though just barely. His form was closer to solid than any other paranormal thing John had ever seen. He had dark curls and pale skin, which his undead/limbo state made milky white. And his clothes, John now saw, were too old-fashioned, buttoned-up Victorian, to really fit in here. Still, despite these obvious indications that this was an otherworldly spirit from another time, he looked astoundingly real.
"You must have more questions than that," the phantom murmured, idly sliding a slender finger across the morgue tabletop, eyes down.
"You could say that," John chuckled. "What's your name? Are you the only entity down here? Why are we getting all sorts of readings if you're the only one people ever see? Why are you here?"
The phantom looked amused at the flood of eager questions. "Sherlock Holmes," he said softly. "I would shake your hand, Mr. Watson, if it were not for the obvious obstacle."
John chuckled. "Call me John. Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. This is certainly the strangest conversation I've ever had, though."
Sherlock Holmes nodded. "Sherlock, please. And in fact, this is the first conversation I have had in years, if I'm honest." He rushed on, as if afraid of hearing a reply to that. "And yes, I am the only entity here. Any other... what do you call them... presences? Well, any other presences who show up here tend to move on rather quickly once they meet me. Though they might be the reason for your inconsistent readings on that device there."
He paused. "As for your last query, who really knows?"
John considered that for a moment, then smiled. "So how long have you been here? That's an easier one to answer."
That got Sherlock to look at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Since 1888."
John blinked. The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Are you Jack the Ripper?"
Sherlock chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Of course not. If you want proof, I died on the evening of October 31st, and the so-called Ripper's final 'canonical' victim was found on the morning of November 9th. I may still be sentient, but I was far from capable of murdering any young women the week following my death."
"Alright, alright," John smirked. "Just had to clarify." A moment later, he laughed. "Wait. You died on Hallowe'en?"
"Oh, refrain from mentioning that, if you please," Sherlock scowled. "I have had my fill of that teasing from the other souls that pass through here. Well, from the ones who linger for more a moment, at the least."
John bit his lip. Sherlock seemed perfectly aware he was a walking - well, floating - cliche. A ghost of Hallowe'en. In a morgue.
"You have rather overstepped your questioning privileges, John Watson," Sherlock noted. "And at this point, your time is running out to ask more."
"What? Why?" John stood as Sherlock abruptly drifted away, toward a wall. "Sherlock, wait!"
Sherlock turned and nodded at the exit. "Your companion has noticed your troubles."
"My...?" Bewildered, John turned and surveyed his equipment. Then he froze. The camera, the sensor, everything that connected back to the van's recording system, was turned off. Who knew how long it had been like that. John whirled back around, seeing a smug, Cheshire cat grin as the ghost disappeared through a wall.
"Oh, you pompous..." he growled, switching on the camera again, though at the same time was unable to suppress an amused smirk. Moments later, Mike rushed in, eyes wide, a tire lever from their van raised above his head, ready to attack.
"Oi, mate, it's fine!" John jumped back out of reach. "I'm fine!"
"John, bloody hell," Mike gasped, lowering his arms. "I'm so sorry! I nodded off for a few minutes, and then when I woke up again your cameras had gone out, and the sensor. What happened?"
John stammered. "I... I don't know, there was a... cold spot, definitely, but... I didn't see anything."
To be continued... (I don't know when, but it will be) :)