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    Beaumaris Road Ghost
    Beaumaris Road Ghost
    Beaumaris Road Ghost
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    Beaumaris Road Ghost

    By Jeremy Tyrrell

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    About this ebook

    The path of science is convoluted, as I discovered during the first Winter of my tenure with the Professor. There are people, upon whom we must rely, that would prefer to see our research into the paranormal abandoned. Politics and preconceptions are subtle barriers to the truth, more so than the elusive spirits we chase. The investigation at the Beaumaris House revealed to me a secret; the biggest threat to our scientific endeavours did not lie in old, creaky houses but in old, creaky minds.

    This is the second book in the Paranormology series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJeremy Tyrrell
    Release dateMar 1, 2015
    ISBN9781310512742
    Author

    Jeremy Tyrrell

    Jeremy Tyrrell lives in Melbourne, Australia. He spends his morning getting started, his afternoon slowing down and his evening with his family.As a Software Engineer, he uses writing as a way to escape the drudgery of sitting in front of a screen and tapping away at a keyboard. The irony, however, is lost on him.He has finished Tedrick Gritswell of Borobo Reef, and is looking toward doing side projects such as the Paranormology series, Iris of the Shadows and Atlas, Broken.Jeremy's Author Website can be found at jeztyr.com or jtyrrell.com

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      Book preview

      Beaumaris Road Ghost - Jeremy Tyrrell

      Beaumaris Road Ghost

      By Jeremy Tyrrell

      Book 2 of Paranormology

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2015 Jeremy Tyrrell

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      This book is also available in print. Please visit www.jeztyr.com for more in the Paranormology series and other works by this author.

      Dedication

      For my intrepid and adventurous sister Monica.

      Chapter 1 – An Unfortunate Letter

      Chapter 2 – The University

      Chapter 3 – The Test

      Chapter 4 – A Tour

      Chapter 5 – Footsteps and Perfume

      Chapter 6 – Indiscretions

      Chapter 7 – The Master Bedroom

      Chapter 8 – Inconclusive

      About the Author

      Other Works

      An Unfortunate Letter

      I cannot fully recollect how many months went by before the Professor ventured to increase my responsibilities. I guess, thinking back upon it now, that he was still unsure about my abilities, my attitude, my maturity if I am being honest (and I am), and I confess that I was not as mature as I would like to think I should have been.

      After all, I had been given the opportunity to study under a sponsored Professor in a rather singular field. The chances of me ever finding similar employment were so remote it was more than maturity that I owed him.

      On top of this a further gift, rare indeed, had been bestowed upon me: A second chance. Well aware of the ramifications, I redoubled my efforts, focused my energies.

      I strove to show the Professor that I could indeed be an asset to him. I was not some hanger-on, not some parasitic wretch who needed saving. No, I was just beginning to taste what it was like to be responsible, to be paid a wage not for physical labour, but for my intellectual talents.

      That is going a bit too far. I was still, at that time, keeping his office clean, organising the notes and collected evidence, documenting cases and the like. I was mostly on administration duty, but that, still, required initiative and nous.

      And every other day I was allowed to don the cap of Field Assistant and go with the Professor to perform an investigation. On those ventures I honed my practical skills. Each piece of equipment became more and more familiar to me as I sought in earnest to become master of their intricacies.

      I remember quite clearly my frustration with many of the hunts I participated in. Nights were spent sitting still, straining my ears, my eyes, wanting nothing more than a repeat of my first encounter. My note taking improved measurably, I am proud to say, as a result of direct, critical feedback from the Professor.

      While I understood (or at least thought I understood) the value of precise notes, that did not mean that I enjoyed the task. I had developed a form of shorthand in my notes to speed up the process, approved by the Professor. While he did not adopt it himself, preferring to take his immaculate notes as he always had, he saw the value in conserving my attentions for observation.

      My shorthand was a double-edged sword. While my system indeed meant I spent less time taking notes, it also meant I spent more time sitting in dark, uneventful rooms, ignoring my itching nose, doing my best to remain focused on, more often than not, nothing. On reflection, this is probably why the Professor preferred longhand: it meant his mind had something to do during an uneventful night.

      And so many nights! It became such that my original encounter became less and less real in my mind, until I began to disbelieve I had ever experienced the icy cold grip upon my arm, the disembodied voice in my ears. I would revisit the notes from Grosvenor, relive the memory, keeping the torch alight by the sight of the hand print and the ghostly photograph.

      The nights were long. They were tiresome, noisome, boring. Several hours I spent on one particular night studying the random motions a cockroach as it crawled about next to my feet.

      But every so often there would be something stirring within a room next to where I was, something unearthly, that reminded me of why I was there. The hair on my arms would rise up, prickling me as a definite presence wafted past. Breaths, voices and murmurs, creaks and groans. These were what kept me going.

      I can show you many examples, if there is ever a time when we shall release our findings to the public, where my writing has changed from a lazy, lack-lustre scrawl to a hasty, feverish scribble as I was jolted out from my monotony.

      You can practically see the excitement in my scrawl.

      I was still quite young, at the time of this story. Young and impulsive. I had bought a new suit with the money I had earnt from my labours, eaten a little better and looked every bit the upstart that I regret to think I was.

      One trait that I simply could not seem to shake, however, was my clumsiness. No tailored suit, no amount of butter and meat, could mitigate my genetic predisposition to all things awkward.

      It was not a nervous thing. If anything, I am less error prone when I am nervous. I become more attuned to my surroundings, acutely aware of the attitude of my limbs. That does not mean that my nerves provide some kind of immunity from my family's curse, only that I have found my more memorable indiscretions occur when my mind is occupied on topics other than my immediate situation.

      Which is, I freely admit with not a little shame, often.

      But I digress. The Professor had increased my responsibilities slowly, testing me along the way, probing my inabilities. He was still unsure of me, no matter how sure I was of myself, yet at the same time I could sense his confidence growing in my abilities.

      With his confidence came familiarity. It was a gradual transition. His manner of speech became more informal, when we were not discussing important matters, and conversations felt more two-sided. He now actually cared for my opinion.

      We were discussing, on one particular day, the problems associated with sponsorship. The topic had come up after I brought the mail in. The Professor was flipping through the envelopes in his usual manner, when he stopped and stared.

      I consider the Professor a brave man. In our investigations before and since, he has shown himself to be stalwart, made of hardy stuff. He has never, as I have seen him, shrunk from matters that might make another person pale with fright.

      He is not impervious to fear, however, for I have seen that while supernatural happenings are humdrum, his blood changes temperature when it comes to politics.

      Especially when dealing with his benefactors, the Board at the University. Correspondence was via the post, and it was in the post that a letter from the University had arrived.

      He opened the letter with a shaking hand (almost driving the knife into his palm) and looked at the contents.

      I had just finished compiling some notes from the investigation the night before, an uneventful night in the hills (I shall not bore you with the details), and was in the process of filing them away.

      He thumped his desk in frustration. I looked up with a start.

      Confound it all! Just when I was getting traction. Just when we were on to something.

      "I'm sorry, Professor, what is the matter?

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