Picture a town, a small town situated in the pleasant rural areas of France.  Near Paris, but not so close that it could be said to be on her outskirts yet neither so far as to be totally cut off from modern conveniences.  This town is Brezzenshire, home to one of the time's greatest pianists, Eduard Maval.  Indeed, it is the latter phrase of the previous sentence which was the cause of the sorry tale I am about to relate.  For you see, Eduard Maval had a brother, Stephan, a man whose own ability, while by no means poor, was greatly outshone by that of his brother.  However, I feel that already I begin to rush ahead of myself, as these are facts of which, as my travelling companion, Pere Sauvan, and I entered Brezzenshire, we had no knowledge.  Instead, I shall continue this narrative with the assistance of various letters and journals, which either came into our possession or were penned by us during the cause of those few days.

We had intended to travel from Paris to a destination several days north when I spied an advertisement for the services of a courier to deliver a letter to a M. Maval in Brezzenshire.  Knowing it to be only a short diversion from our route I suggested to the Pere that we perform this service and so we called on M. L'Ecles, the poster of the advertisement, that evening to enquire into the undertaking.  M. L'Ecles was an old man, well into his sixtieth year, and explained to us that he previously had been M. Maval's  piano tutor.  He talked at length of the joy in seeing his pupil succeed and praised the ex-pupil for his concern for an old man - it seemed that M. Maval still valued the council of his former mentor as regarded new compositions and the two had a reciprocating flow of correspondence on the subject.

We agreed to carry the letter and arranged the fee, and although small, it caused us only a minor detour so we did not argue the figure.  M. L'Ecles gave us an ornate scroll case, freshly sealed with wax and addressed to M. Maval.

After clearing our affairs with the hotel at which we were staying, we left the following morning, that being the 12th September, and traveled for two days, staying at an excellent hotel the first night, and arrived in Brezzenshire mid morning of the 14th, which was a Tuesday.

It did not take long to identify the house of M. Maval, a well-appointed building in the better side of the town.  On our arrival at the house we could discern the sound of a piano being played, although to our amazement the noise and I use this word in its full sense, was not what we would have expected from so great a pianist.  For indeed, this was the worst playing I have ever heard!  Discordant melodies played atop chords that seemed to hold no musical theme, and all played with a frustration which was evident in the attack of the playing.  We stared, I admit, at each other in total confusion before I rapped the heavy brass knocker.  At which, the dreadful cacophony thankfully ceased and some time later the door opened.  There, before us, stood a shabbily dressed man, wild eyed and unshaven - not the dress of the man I remember seeing play in Paris so many years before.

'M. Maval?', I enquired.

There was a short pause before he answered,

'Oui, I am M. Maval, how may I help you?'

'You are M. Eduard Maval, the pianist?'

Again, a further pause, then,

'I am Eduard.'

'We carry a package for you from M. L'Ecles, in Paris.  I understand there may be a return letter, which we can deliver on our return to Paris.'

'Ah, M. L'Ecles, well, well, thankyou for your service, but I do not have a current letter to return yet, perhaps you could call again later.'

With that, I handed him the letter and we parted company after making the final arrangement that we would collect the return letter the following day.

Finding ourselves in the town for at least one day, we busied ourselves trying to arrange accommodation.  After walking about the town for part of the afternoon and investigating the town's market and church in the process, we booked rooms at the Cliff View, a small but homely hotel.

Journal of Pere Sauvan, 14th September 1883:

After arriving in Brezzenshire and delivering the letter to M. Maval, I called in to the local church to pray and spoke with the local Pere.  The church is an ideal provincial parish, the building compact and neat.  It is obvious that the local priest, Pere Touson, is greatly immersed in the daily lives of his parishioners as he spent most of my visit talking with local folk, leaving me to peruse the grounds.  There were several new graves, but not wishing to intrude I did not inspect their tombstones and, beside, Francis thought it best we find accommodation for the night.

-----x-----

While we were sitting in the drinking room of the hotel we could not help but overhear the discussions of several townsfolk, although eavesdropping is not a trait a gentleman (nor, indeed, a priest) should entertain.  However, the subject of their discussion was of a nature as to make it all but impossible not to listen in on.  Ghosts, lunatics and murderers!  Indeed, it was the very stuff that makes a man of science like myself almost scoff at its naivete, but one could not help getting drawn into the mystery of it all.  So, with the aid of several rounds of drink to loosen their tongues further, we drew into their circle, to better hear and participate in the discussion.  It seemed that there had been sightings of an apparition in the town park, although others maintained it was a crazed lunatic while still others, more romantic sorts, claimed it was the ghost of a murdered lover who walks the park looking for his love.  Fanciful rumors!  I had boldly stated that no such thing as 'ghost nor goblin nor other such hocus-pocus' could possibly exist, except for in the minds of men and that, to prove my point, I would go and wait in the park to show that nothing extraordinary could possibly occur.  I believe that, by this point, I too had also drunk excessively and my bravado was most probably a symptom of the alcohol.  Nevertheless, I had pledged to do this act and was so committed.

As Pere Sauvan and I walked to the park that evening it was still possible to hear that awful noise emanating from M. Maval's house - and so late also, surely his neighbours must complain, but before I could think too deeply about his 'musical' habits we had arrived at the park.  There were no gas lights within the park itself and was, therefore, mostly in darkness when we entered.  We followed the path almost to the center of the trees where a clearing opened before us, in which stood a large tree.  It was under this tree that the supposed ghost was reported to appear and so we settled down to wait, patiently hidden in some bushes to one side.

Sometime later, possibly approaching midnight, the air suddenly turned very cold (and I remember now not being able to hear the disjointed music of M. Maval), while the moon seemed to glow more brightly than usual.  As we watched, a luminous, ethereal figure appeared - actually appeared! - at the base of the tree.  My heart, beating against my ribs like a kettle drum, nearly stopped as I watched transfixed - indeed, I could not move, so stunned was I at the revelation before my eyes.  The figure, who looked familiar from some distant, forgotten place, sat on a stool and looked out toward the town, appearing, at least to me, to be listening to something far away, a look of pure joy on his face.  Straining my ears to hear anything other than my own heart, I too could hear music, a beautiful piano piece, played with precision and grace, its melody rising and falling in sympathy to the mood of its player.  Truly, this was a magnificent composition and played exquisitely.  It was all I could do to stop my own tears from coursing down my face.  As the music continued, I could see the apparition (for what other word could possibly describe such a vision) freely crying as it listened to the playing.  Then, suddenly, the church bell began to ring out, beginning the chimes that denoted midnight.  I looked back to the man at the tree.  He had stood up and, as the heavy chimes of the church bell counted toward the new day, the ghastly figure stepped onto the stool, passing a length of rope around one of the tree's sturdier branches.  With mounting horror I realised his intention but found myself powerless to stop it, such was the degree of shock I found myself in.  I tried to look away but some macabre instinct forced me to watch this re-enactment of a former event.  As the church bell continued, the music soared and rose to new heights of beauty and the figure before me placed the noose around his neck.  With tears now openly running down his cheeks and the music building to a crescendo, I noticed, with unnatural detachment, the figure's hands - warped and deformed, the very fingers twisted and broken - and as the final bell tolled its chime, the figure stepped from the stool.  The rope snapped taut as the music's final chord faded, leaving only the creaking of the rope to fill the silence.

With a sudden gasp for air (I realised that for the duration of the bell's chimes I had been holding my breath) I looked back to the tree to find that the ghastly apparition had vanished leaving the blackness of the park to hide my tears and sobs of terror.

After recovering my senses, we walked slowly back to our hotel, talking over the events we had witnessed.

Journal of Pere Sauvan, 14th September 1883:

After seeing so fantastic a sight as I witnessed with Francis, we spent many hours discussing theosophical and philosophical subjects that would allow this apparition to manifest.  I am, and have been for some time, a supporter of the theory that, superimposed upon our own earthly, material world, there exists a more intangible, ethereal realm - that of the spirits!  I do not believe that this conflicts with my formal belief in God Almighty, as, surely, if there is a Hell below and a Heaven above, then that middling region which lies between the two, can only be that of the dreaded Limbo, wherein souls are trapped if not allowed access to either of the final destinations.  This, too, explains why reports of hauntings, etc, are more common in places where great trauma has been suffered - in that, the soul of the deceased is trapped within its own cycle to remain at the place it met its end.  Thus, when conditions meet certain criteria it may be possible for the soul to slip (or possibly merely become visible) into the realm of men.  Perhaps these souls remain to act out eternally their deeds (as witnessed this evening) or perhaps they stay until a wrong done to them in life is righted, thus allowing them rest.

-----x-----

When we awoke the following morning, still with an uneasy feeling which I, at least, was unable to shake for several hours, we decided to make enquiries as to who the poor soul in the park was.  It was clear to me that the locals to whom we had spoken the previous evening would not be able to offer much in the way of sound information, and so we went to speak with the local priest, Pere Touson.

We found him working within the church, apparently having just finished receiving confession from some local fellow.  He looked tired and drained, explaining that he had had an early start following the discovery of a broken window, the tomfoolery of some local children.  We spoke with him about our experience the night before, my skin breaking out into a cold sweat at just the repetition of the sequence of events we had witnessed.  He explained he was aware of rumors of a ghost in the park, although he said he had not seen it himself, fearing that to see such an unnatural creature might cause him to doubt his own beliefs.

Pere Touson explained, based on the description of the vision, that he had, in fact, buried the unfortunate man in question only the week before, and that his name was Eduard Maval!

Upon hearing him utter those two words, I staggered back and sat upon one of the church pews, my mind reeling at the implication of what he had said.  I managed to explain, through stuttering words and gasps for air, that he must be mistaken as we had only visited this supposedly deceased man the previous morning.  The priest, too, seemed visibly shaken by my outburst, although he seemed to regain his composure as he realised something which neither of us, to this point, had thought of.  He asked us if, perhaps, it was Stephan Maval we had met and not the dead man whose ghost we had seen in the park.  Of course! Eduard had a twin brother!  I realised, almost with a laugh, that, yes, although the man to whom we had delivered the letter seemed like the man I had seen perform many years before, there were differences, which explained my confusion at the door yesterday.  But, in which case, why did he claim to be Eduard Maval?  And further, what event caused the death and subsequent apparition of Eduard  Maval?

It seemed that Eduard had committed suicide, hanging himself in the park following an accident which left him without the use of his hands.  Surely, for a pianist, could there be any accident more cruel?  After which accident, Eduard was nursed back to health by his brother, but eventually the pain of not being able to play his beloved piano had apparently become too much for him and he had gone to the park with a stool and some rope...

II

Having learned of Eduard Maval's accident and subsequent suicide, we had two paths of intrigue to follow; namely, what caused Eduard's terrible accident and, secondly, why Stephan Maval should pretend to us to be his deceased brother.  Since we already had an appointment with Stephan (who assumed us to believe he was Eduard), I suggested we keep the appointment and the pretence, in order to once again meet the fellow and collect whatever letter he wished us to deliver to M. L'Ecles in Paris.  Meanwhile, Pere Sauvan would meet with M. D'Orso, who Pere Touson informed us was the town commandant.  I, therefore, went to the Maval house and was once again forced to listen to that awful semblance of piano playing.  On reflection, whilst I stood outside the house waiting to knock the door, I realised that the sounds emanating from within were less like piano playing and more similar to that produced by someone trying to learn a difficult piece of music several notes at a time and consistently playing notes incorrectly.  I listened for several more moments and finally announced my presence at the house.  The music stopped, as before, and the door opened.  Again I was met by M. Maval.

'Monsieur, I have come to collect the letter to be sent to M. L'Ecles in Paris.  I hope I have not come at an inopportune moment?'

'Indeed not,' he replied,' I have the letter here, ready for you.’

I tried a dangerous ploy to test the fellow's resolve in his pretence.

'I thankyou, Sir, for your expediency in this matter, I do so hate hanging around - it does tend to make one late.'

At this, I saw the man's face turn at deathly white and, in order to hide my own half smile, I made a show of inspecting my neck tie (a further symbolic gesture I later thought with amusement).  When I looked back at him, he had regained some of his composure - what little of it I thought he had to begin with - and handed me the letter.

'I shall convey it at once to M. L'Ecles.'

'Do so, and ensure he responds poste haste.  Good day.'

With that, he closed the door.

Journal of Pere Sauvan, 15th September 1883:

After leaving Pere Touson, Francis went to collect the letter from M. Maval, while I went to speak with M. D'Orso.

After the necessary introductions, I explained our interest in the circumstances of Eduard Maval's accident and subsequent suicide.  M. D'Orso explained that the case had been closed with the verdict of suicide following an accident at home, leaving him with only the most basic of digital functions, certainly not sufficient ability to continue playing concert piano.  I informed him that it was the accident, primarily, about which we would greatly appreciate any information.  I learned, that afternoon, that apparently the lid of his grand piano had slipped and come down crushing his hands as he sat and played.  His brother, while seeming to take the accident 'in his stride', had nursed Eduard back to some health, playing for him to help sooth his nerves.  I remember pointing out, admittedly with some bad taste, that from what I had heard of his brother's playing, it was no wonder he wished to end it all.  M. D'Orso told me that Stephan's ability at the piano was also great, but, unlike his brother, he had not achieved the same degree of fame.  He also told me that the dreadful noises coming from the house of late had started the day after Eduard had died and continue all day until nightfall, when, in the dead of night, he plays the most beautiful music the town has ever heard.  In fact, it was only out of respect for his loss that neighbours had not complained, although M. D'Orso intended to speak to him, after a respectful period of time, in order to petition him to cease his nightly concerts.

When Eduard took his own life, Stephan’s life was shattered and, M. D'Orso suspects, that to some degree so may have been his mind...

-----x-----

When we two met back at the hotel at sometime approaching dusk, we both had much to tell.  Indeed, I also had the letter penned by Stephen which, against all gentlemanly traits, I suggested we open and read.  Pere Sauvan thought it a breach of ethics, but I explained that if something more sinister had transpired between the two brothers, then, surely, that was a greater breach against God and, by all that we held Holy, it was our duty to discover it.  Still with his doubts, Pere Sauvan agreed and so I broke open the seal that held the envelope closed.  It read;

'         Brezzenshire, IX 1883

M. L'Ecles,

I inform you in this letter that this will be my last missive and would, therefore, request the return of any compositions, or otherwise, of mine which you may currently hold.

Yours,

Maval'

So, indeed, there did seem to be something amiss, for why else would Stephan request the return of his brother's work and spend all his time trying to play a composition that he obviously did not pen - no doubt, one of his brother's great compositions.  A disturbing thought crossed my mind - could Stephan have killed his own brother in order to steal the music for his own?  Indeed, for if that were true, then, Stephan was a murderer!

I explained my fear to Pere Sauvan and we decided that that night, I would go and attempt to spy upon Stephan Maval, while my friend would again go to the park to attempt to commune with the spirit of Eduard Maval, locked within its nightly turmoil.

In order to better convey the timing of the strange events that transpired that night, it shall be necessary to combine both narrative and the journal of Pere Sauvan to provide a more fluid sequence.

Approaching twilight we parted company, I to go to the Maval house, Pere Sauvan to go to the park.

As I approached the house, again I could hear the man playing disjointedly what I now understood to be his brother's music.  The house was in darkness except for one downstairs window, to which I crept and peered through the glass.  Inside, at the piano, sat Stephan Maval.  After playing several phrases, he would appear to be reading something, I can only assume the sheet music, although he seemed to be having problems reading it as, every now and again, would get up and consult other pages of what looked like notes on the reading desk, not more than four foot from where I crouched, and, although separated by a wall, I could hear him muttering and cursing his brother for his distrust.  The audacity of the man!  Cursing his brother's distrust when his own actions had betrayed brotherly love and, in doing so, murdered him!

Pere Sauvan, by this time, had once again hidden himself within the same copse of bushes from which we had watched the ghost's ritual the previous night.

Soon after the sun had fully dipped below the horizon, Stephan rose from the piano, taking care to lower the lid I noticed, and turned down the lights until they guttered and went out.  Using a solitary candle he left the room and closed the door.  Waiting for several minutes I could see he ascended the stairs as the flickering light was evident in one of the upstairs windows - I assume his bedroom.  Shortly after, that too was extinguished, leaving the house in darkness.  I waited about an hour until I was certain he was asleep an tried to raise the window of the piano room.  It was locked but, with the aid of a small pocketknife, I was able to hold the latch up time enough to allow me to open the window.  Lord forgive me! I was behaving like a common burglar, although as I kept reminding myself, this man was probably a murderer and so I had Right on my side - I only hoped any passing Policeman would also believe that!

As I climbed through the open window, and carefully lowered it, the clock in the room began to chime eleven o'clock, half startling me out of my wits - I had not realised how late it had become.  Lighting a match I moved over to the desk to look at the notes written there.  I stared uncomprehendingly at the manner in which the music was written, for it was like no other music manuscript I had ever seen.  Of course, a code!  Eduard had written his music in code!  I almost laughed aloud had the situation not been so appalling, for Stephan had killed his brother for his music but that was denied him and now, in order for his crime to serve any purpose, he must decipher his dead brother's code.  No wonder he seemed to be loosing his mind.  But, as I was to discover, his cold blooded crime was more diabolical than I could conceive, for I had no idea of the lengths to which Stephan Maval's warped greed would carry him.

Moving to look at the piano, the first thing which struck my eyes, even by the dim light of the match which I held aloft, were two dents in the lid, where one would expect the player's hands to be as it came crashing down.  But what force would be necessary to crush a man's hands?  And how could a piano lid possess such momentum?  These were questions I was posing to myself when I heard a movement on the stairs!  Extinguishing my match, I quickly moved and hid behind a large wardrobe near the window - not a moment too soon, for just as I was satisfied that I was safely hidden, the door swung open, and there stood Stephan Maval!

A slow, cold terror crept over me as I beheld his eyes - glowing, glowing with the same luminous intensity which surrounded the apparition the night before.  He walked, jerkily, to the piano and sat down, a look of...what? fear? on his face as he raised the piano lid, making sure that it was fastened in the upright position.  Then he began playing.  That same beautiful music we had heard so faintly the previous night from the park.  And while he played, his eyes stared directly ahead, not looking at the music, just glowing with that eerie, unearthly light, a look of pleasure on his face as his hands caressed and played upon the piano keys.

Again that confounded clock startled me with its chiming - this time twelve o'clock, echoed by the deeper chiming of the church bell.

In the park, Pere Sauvan had fallen asleep only to be awoken as the first of the twelve midnight chimes sounded.  Starting from his sleep, he opened his eyes to see the ghost of Eduard Maval already partly through the ghastly repetition of his death.  At this point the ghost was standing, preparing to climb onto the stool to set the rope.

As the chimes continued, Pere Sauvan, knowing he had only until the chimes ended, stood up and walked towards the ghost.

The figure, with the noose around his neck, and preparing to step from the stool, suddenly looked up, staring directly at Pere Sauvan.

In the room, as Stephan's body continued to play the piano, building to the climactic crescendo I recognised from the night before, his eyes suddenly burned more intensely.

Pere Sauvan was bathed in the same blue light that surrounded the ghost - in communication with the very thing itself! - and as the apparition stepped from the stool on the final chime of midnight -

- the body of Stephan Maval, his fingers still holding the final chord, crumpled from the piano stool, the blue fire in his eyes extinguished.

III

When Pere Sauvan returned to our hotel later that evening, he found me among my scientific apparatus, the more mobile of which I always carry when I travel.  Such items include a sturdy microscope, of the kind used in so many anatomical study laboratories - indeed, had I not excused myself from my earlier studies, I believe I would have become a successful medical doctor; but the pull of exploring new subjects caught my interest with too great a passion.  I also carried with me numerous other items for analytical work - chemical reagents and substances without which such work would be impossible.

Thus it was, that when my friend returned, I immediately seized the opportunity to collect a sample of the ghostly substance which still clung to him and, as he explained the night's strange events (to which I will return later), I made examination.

Carefully sealing some of the goo (I have no other word to describe the material) between two plates of glass, I used the microscope to peer into its very matter.  Staring with amazement, and calling Pere Sauvan to also behold this wonder, I saw movement within the glass.  Not the slow, bustling motion of red blood cells when viewed in this manner, but an altogether stranger image.  For there, trapped within my slides, were faces!  Countless faces, swarming and surging within the strange liquid, soundlessly screaming with the eternal agony of the injustices which caused their souls to be trapped within this unlife.  Of course, we reasoned, this must be so, for what is an apparition but the visible appearance of an individual's form, made of the collective ether of all souls upon the Earth.

For several hours following I tried the application of many different chemicals to the ethereal liquid in order to provoke a reaction but it was not until after many frustrating failures, that I accidentally knocked over a bottle of some particular metal oxide which fell upon a small sample of the goo.  As soon as the two materials touched, there was produced a blue glow, the same as that which surrounded the ghost itself.  Just at this point, however, the sun began to appear in the morning sky, and the otherworldly liquid simply evaporated into nothing, ending my practical examinations.

Journal of Pere Sauvan, 16th September 1883:

It is very early in the morning as I write this entry, in fact the details took place at the very stroke of midnight, as the world passed into this new day.

Francis has spent most of the last few hours making scientific examination of the ghostly substance which made up the apparition of Eduard Maval, allowing me time to collect my thoughts, the better to make a concise recording of the strange events which befell me.

After returning to the park to watch the ghost last night, I believe I must have fallen asleep during the wait, but was fortunately awoken by the chiming of the midnight bells from the church.  As the ghost prepared to step from the stool, I stepped from my hiding place and walked toward it.  The ghost stared at me and we two joined - that is, the ghost's aura seemed to extend and surround me; as a priest I would like to believe that Eduard sensed I could, in some way, absolve him of his suicide and allow his soul to rest.  In some way, I believe this was his intention, or, at least, to inform me as to how this may be achieved, but, as our minds merged, while I sensed from him great sorrow and loss, this then changed as he obviously read from my mind.

As his rope snapped taut, again banishing him from the living world, I sensed a feeling of great shock and anger.

-----x-----

Due to our nightly exertions and prolonged vigil at the microscope, we were both sorely tired when we fell abed at the crowing of the cock.  Indeed, I dimly remember berating the maid for her early attentions as she attempted to clear our room, for which outburst I later apologised when we finally arose refreshed and ravenously hungry, at some time approaching midday.

Journal of Pere Sauvan, 16th September 1883 - Addendum:

Possibly due to some ghostly imprint left by the soul of Eduard Maval during my meeting with him last night, I awoke with a strange phrase fresh in my mind.  I record it here, lest I forget;

'In the hour that the old day becomes the new,

At the place where a restless man lies,

Speak the words to turn the key - Corpus Est Mortum

Spiritus Liberatum Est - the door will open wide.’

-----x-----

As we sat there in the hotel that afternoon, and ate a vast lunch, we talked of what we had witnessed and learned in the past few days.  It seemed to us that Stephan Maval had engineered the accident which so crippled his brother, and which eventually led him to suicide, but we were to soon learn the truth of our imaginings and the terrible retribution which a ghost can exact.  While we were sitting in that room, we overheard a group of old men talking, one of whom to which the rest of the group obviously deferred as they listened to his story - one which, by the telling and the embellishments, I surmised was a favourite, having been retold countless times over the years, most likely becoming more detailed and heroic with each telling.  I include the story in its entirety as, by chance, it relates to the Maval brothers, or, rather, more accurately, to their mother, who, we learned from the story, died when the boys were very young.

The storyteller's name was Georges and he had been the driver of the coach which, on that fateful night, had plunged to its doom, carrying one Sandrine Maval.  A great storm had arisen that night and as the rain lashed down, Georges had spurred the horses onto greater speeds, the better to return home more quickly to avoid the full brunt of the weather.  Having traveled the greater part of the journey, there only remained a few twists in the road before the coach arrived.  At the edge of the road lay a sheer cliff, which we assumed to be a continuance of the cliff after which our hotel was named.  As the horses began to turn one particularly sharp bend, the coach wheels slipped on the rapidly deteriorating road and the whole carriage began to slide toward the edge.  With the woman in the back, Georges tried valiantly to recover the horses grip but, they too, harnessed to the doomed coach, began to be pulled backward.  With the shrill cries of the animals and the screams of the woman filling the air, Georges remained at his post until the last minute, only the violent lurching of the coach as it fell over the edge throwing him clear.

That night we again decided to go to the park in order that Pere Sauvan continue to communicate with the ghost.  All proceeded as usual during the early part of the ghost's appearance, but we noticed a difference in the face of the apparition; where, before, he cried with joy at the sound of the music, he now seemed to cry tears of sorrow, his whole body racked with some unknown grief.  At the first stroke of midnight, again he followed his pre-determined suicide, but before stepping from the stool, his face twisted with what appeared to be anger.  Pere Sauvan, apparently now able to know the ghost's feelings, realised with a gasp what was to come even before it happened.

The ghost looked toward the town and as his eyes changed to a fiery, hellish red, he called out -

'Why? Why did you do this to me Stephan?'

And as the noose tightened around his neck, we were both certain we heard a terrible scream from within the town.

IV

M. D'Orso spoke,

'Well, my friends, it seems your theory was correct.  Stephan Maval did murder his brother - look upon his death as proof of that, his guilt evidently becoming too great a burden to bear.'

We two, however, knew better and so I took the opportunity, as several Policemen removed the body, to demonstrate to M. D'Orso that other powers were at work here.  Taking some of the metal oxide powder, I cast it into the still open eyes of the corpse, causing the same instant reaction that occurred previously during my examination of the ghostly material.

The Policemen, startled as they were by the strange glowing, dropped the body unceremoniously as they backed away in haste.  I explained to M. D'Orso, and the terrified officers, that we suspected that Stephan did not merely jump but was, somehow, made to jump, although I did not hint at what we thought the real facts were for fear of being thought fools.

We arranged to return in the morning to more fully inspect the house in an attempt to discover further what transpired that night and, more importantly, over the last week or so since Eduard's accident.  M. D'Orso agreed and arranged to have the house keys left at our hotel for us.  With a final warning to the Policemen not to touch or disturb anything within the house, we retired to our hotel.

When we returned in the morning we found the house disturbingly quiet, not accustomed to the absence of the piano playing which had become so much a part of the background ambience during our short stay in Brezzenshire.  Upon entering, we decided to each investigate different areas, the quicker to get the job done and be away from that awful house.  I remained downstairs to examine the piano and manuscripts I had briefly seen during my previous excursion into the house, while Pere Sauvan went upstairs.

A cursory examination of the piano revealed, not only the two dents I had previously witnessed, but also evidence of blood ingrained in the wood of the lid and surrounding area.  Using my magnifying glass, I also found screw holes bored into the lid.  Following a train of thought which suddenly occurred to me, I also found more holes cut through the body of the instrument, leading to the inside, wherein I found two more sets of screw holes, again on either side of the piano.  What was the purpose of these holes, for they were surely not part of the original design?

Turning my attention to the writing desk at which I had seen Stephan Maval consulting various pages, I immediately saw more of the strange coded music manuscripts.  All these and any others of similar fashion which I came across, I collected for future reference.  The desk also had several drawers, one of which I found locked.  Armed again with my trusty pocketknife I had soon defeated the simple lock and opened the drawer.  Inside I found an item of singular importance - the journal of Eduard Maval!

Undoubtedly, this was the document in which Stephan had hoped to find some means of deciphering his brother's music.  This, too, went with my growing collection of papers.

Journal of Pere Sauvan, 17th September 1883:

Examining the upper level of the house I felt I could sense a familiar feeling, exactly as that which I experienced when communicating with the ghost of Eduard Maval.  I reasoned, therefore, that the room in which I stood was that of the deceased man.  That feeling was later confirmed when Francis presented me with Eduard's journal and I again experienced that same strong feeling of presence.  Moving to the second bedroom, from which Stephan Maval had fallen, I found a second journal on the small beaureu in the corner, still open at the page of his last entry – that of last night.

I collected the journal so that we may peruse it at a later time, for now, however, I began to search through various chests and cupboards for further clues.  It did not take long until I found a large chest, securely locked, hidden beneath much old rubbish, although it appeared to me that it had not, itself, lain there for such a period of time and that the surrounding coverings had been more recently placed there.

Breaking open the chest, I found within what looked like the inner workings of some strange contraption.  There was included in the array, a collection of springs, weights and fixing brackets among more mundane equipment.  All were made of brass, finely wrought, and the weights were sufficient to warrant the name - indeed, I had to call Francis in order to assist me in moving the chest.

-----x-----

When Pere Sauvan and I had eventually manhandled the chest downstairs, we paused to look over our collection of items.  My friend suggested we start by reading Stephan's journal.  The more important entries of which I include below;

16th July, 1883:  Following further success by dear younger brother Eduard, I have formulated a plan to allow my own genius chance to rise.  Indeed, I cannot write it even in these pages for its nature is too secret.

19th August, 1883:  The machine is complete!  Initial trials surprised even myself.  I only hope it does not kill poor Eduard - perhaps I should adjust its intensity, for to fail here would surely destroy my plans...

27th August, 1883:  Success! Or rather, success in my initial plan - for the machine activated perfectly and while the fools attended my brother (I insisted on only the best medicines and played quite the concerned elder brother - ha!), I have dismantled the machine and stowed it components away.

28th August, 1883:  Eduard seems to have regained some strength and the doctors inform me that he may even recover some use of his hands, although not enough to ever again play the piano - perfect!  For if he can still hold a pen, so much the better.

6th September, 1883:  I have nursed Eduard back to some semblance of health - it now remains to persuade him to continue to compose, and, of course, I shall offer my humble services as functioning hands, able to play his great works...

9th September, 1883:  Great disaster!!  It appears that my brother, curse his name, has killed himself.  I am ruined!  There may yet be hope - perhaps I can simply play his last composition - from what I have heard, it too sounds like a masterpiece.  I have found the manuscript, but my brother, it seems, had not trusted me, me his elder brother!  The damn music is in code!

10th September, 1883:  We buried the pathetic fool today.  Why Eduard?  Why did you do this?  Why have you coded your music?

(later)  I awoke and heard a strange scratching noise.  I immediately thought of rats, but the sound seems more like a pen passing over rough parchment.  I cannot ignore it!  It gnaws at my mind!

13th September, 1883:  The scratching!  It drives me to distraction - I cannot concentrate.  Every night I hear that awful noise- stop, stop, STOP!

14th September, 1883:  code - must break it!  Awful scratching, what is it? Someone make it stop...a letter, from L'Ecles to Eduard...

Indeed, we had been correct in our surmising, although we had not fully realised the awful truth of Stephan's plan - for what man could conceive of crippling his brother and yet still force him to compose music for his captor to play?

We quickly read Eduard's journal; again, the more important entries below -

3rd August,1883:  I have begun working on a new composition, The Golden Calf, but I feel that I cannot trust Stephan as regards my music.  A pity though this is, surely brothers should be able to trust one another, I have taken to writing all scripts for this piece in code.

9th September, 1883 (very poorly written):  Since the accident I have not written in this journal - Stephan is very good, but I feel that I cannot place the burden of my care upon him, and this thought, together with the loss of my ability to play piano has made me formulate a solution - I intend to die!

Such nobility!  To accept what he believed to be an honest accident and, however misguided his method, to attempt to remove the burden of his care from his brother!  It made me weep for his action, although in truth, I did find some grim amusement from the predicament in which he then placed Stephan.

Turning to the chest of strange devices, and informed of their use in Stephan's journal, I decided to reconstruct the apparatus which Stephan Maval had used to crush his brother's hands, the better to demonstrate his guilt to M. D'Orso.

After several hours work, we managed to finally fit all the weights and springs into the piano - indeed, as a feat of engineering, its design was magnificent; as a practical machine, its use was awful in the extreme!  Having primed the contraption, and using a walking cane from a suitable distance, I carefully pressed the key which would activate the trap.  No sooner had I applied pressure to the switch beneath, then the lid came crashing down, power and inertia imparted to its action by the arrangement of powerful springs and weights hidden within.  For all my care and attention, the lid crushed the cane as if it were made of some flimsy material and not the stout wood from which it was constructed.  Indeed, this was a terrible device and we had seen the destruction it could cause to mere Human flesh and bone in the very hands of the ghost of Eduard Maval.

One further item from Stephan's journal continued to trouble me.  In it he stated that he had been hearing strange scratching noises in the night and, investigating the journal, I discovered this started the night after Eduard killed himself.

Scratching?  Stephan wrote that it was if it were pen on parchment - if so, then...a thought crossed my mind in a moment of inspiration.  I took some of the metal oxide powder and sprinkled it onto the pages of Eduard's journal.  To my amazement, although some part of me expected the observed result, words became visible where the powder touched the page.  Of course, the scratching was Eduard Maval, recording his journal as he had in life, yet using the very substance that made his being as a ghost appear visible in the night.  Excited by my discovery and eager to read more of this journal from beyond the grave, I made up a solution of the powder and carefully applied it to the page.  It read;

10th September, 1883:  My God! What have I done?  I am trapped in this place, doomed forever to swing on that awful tree! My music!  I am denied my music, but...possibly...forgive me Stephan, I do not wish to cause you harm - but I must play my music again.

11th September, 1883:  It would appear I have found temporary release from my prison.  By possessing Stephan as he sleeps, I can use his undamaged fingers to play the piano.

15th September, 1883:  What is this?  My brother?  I have sensed it was he that caused this hideous chain of events.  The preacher suspects foul play.

16th September, 1883:  It is done, Stephan is dead!  The priest can help me, return my manuscript if you understand, and help me!  But, my brother, why?  You have doomed me to eternal agony...help me!

Of course, it made sense.  Eduard Maval, now dead, was denied the pleasure of his music and, as such, was possessing his brother in order to again hear its sweet refrains.  This information, coupled with the strange verse implanted into Pere Sauvan's mind made clear the path we should take to return this quiet town to normal.  We two must journey to the realm of the spirits to return Eduard's manuscript and allow his soul to rest!

V

'In the hour that the old day becomes the new,

At the place where a restless man lies,

Speak the words to turn the key - Corpus Est Mortum

Spiritus Liberatum Est - the door will open wide.'

This was the verse as given to Pere Sauvan by the ghost of Eduard Maval, and as we sat in our hotel that evening, we tried to work some meaning into its cryptic phrases.  The old day becomes the new at midnight, therefore, 'in the hour that...' meant, surely, between midnight and one o'clock.  But where?  'At the place where a restless man lies' - Pere Sauvan reasoned that this must mean the graveyard and, more specifically, at the grave of Eduard Maval, for what is he but a restless man - indeed, a ghost!

'Corpus est mortum, spiritus liberatum est' - from what I remembered of my childhood Latin, it translated as 'the body is dead, the spirit is free'.  Surely another reference to Eduard Maval himself.

Thus, we had determined our action that night.  We would go to the grave of Eduard Maval and, after midnight, would recite the phrase, supposedly opening a door to the spirit world.

As we spoke the necessary phrase, at the correct time and place, there came upon me a curious feeling.  My whole body felt as though I were light-headed, not unlike the feeling imbued by too much alcohol - although neither one of us had touched a drop of the stuff that night.  As I looked down I saw my own body lying by the grave, a thin blue line extending from it to me.  And, although I could not see Pere Sauvan's prone body, I could see my friend looking, at what I imagine, was a similar line extending from his consciousness to his body, also lying beside the grave.

As I looked around, I noticed that, though the terrain was exactly as before, the colours of the place were made up from deep blues, purples and greens.  We looked at each other for a moment and began to move toward the churchgate, in order to make our way to the park for our meeting with Eduard Maval, the blue line continuing to extend as we moved further from our bodies, left in the material world.

Leaving the church, I heard the dull thud of horses hooves getting louder around a bend in the road, evidently drawing a carriage behind them.  With some shock I realised we stood at the very same spot where the events in Georges' story had taken place.

Then, as we watched, the coach-plus-four came around the corner and, as we dreaded, began to slip toward the edge.  The sound of the terrified horses filled the air and, as we watched, the driver, whom we could see to be a much younger Georges, immediately jumped clear, disappearing in a blue flash before he hit the muddy road, leaving the woman trapped in the carriage as it slid further toward the edge of the cliff.  The rear wheels lost their purchase on the edge and, with a splintering of wood, began to fall.  Within the carriage the woman clawed at the window, screaming - yet there was no way in which we could influence her eternal death.

So much for Georges' heroism, for he had jumped at the earliest possible moment, apparently to crawl into town to spend the rest of his life claiming he had fought a valiant struggle which he was eventually forced to abandon, leaving an innocent woman to plunge to her death.

Snapping back to the present, I witnessed the final moments of the carriage, teetering on the brink of doom; it finally fell, the screaming of the woman accompanying it down to sudden silence.

As the awful reality of what we had just witnessed sank in, I admitted to myself the sickening realisation of what was to come - for, after only a moments silence, once again I heard the heavy thudding gallop of horses from around the bend in the road...

Leaving Sandrine Maval to enact her tragic death eternally, we quickly made our way to the park, passing many more examples of the final moments of so many of the town's deceased.  Eventually we arrived at the park and went to the tree where, in the material world, Eduard Maval had hanged himself.  Having witnessed so many dynamic death scenes, while travelling through this spirit town, we were unprepared to face the shade of Eduard Maval - for he remained motionless, hanging from the tree, his eyes open, tears still running from his eyes - indeed, this was a ghastly way to spend eternity.

'M. Maval, we know of your tragic story and have brought your music to you as you desired.  Here also, my friend Pere Sauvan, who offers you an immeasurable gift - absolution and release from this place.'

I placed the manuscript within the hanged man's clawed hand, watching with distaste as his damaged fingers clasped the papers.  He moaned a sigh of, what seemed to me, to be relief, obviously the music parchment providing much comfort to him.

As I stood back watching, Pere Sauvan stepped toward the shade and began the rite of absolution - the forgiveness of sins in the eyes of God.  Finishing the blessing, he stood back and prayed for the soul of Eduard Maval.

There was a bright flash of light and, when our eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, we could see that, before us, stood Eduard - his hands no longer claws, the rope and other trappings of his death having disappeared, his neck as straight and true as in life.  He thanked us for our aid in saving his soul and promised that his composition, which we had heard playing during his midnight hauntings, would now be played in a far brighter place and for sensibilities far more noble and Holy than Man's.

Seeing his angelic form in this so bleak and dismal a place lifted my heart and brought much joy to my face, which, seeing, he bade us to leave quickly before the essence of Death that permeated the very earth of this place affect us beyond redemption - for, indeed, we were not dead things, our bodies were merely vacant until we returned.  Before Eduard's visage disappeared completely, he warned us of a most evil and dangerous threat.  It seemed that, driven by greed and jealousy in life, the shade of his brother Stephan had become an evil spirit who, at this very moment, raced to enter either one of our vacant bodies.  Eduard warned us that, should this happen, then the unlucky soul whose body was taken would be forced to forever remain within this Limbo world.

On hearing these words, and without further ado, we turned and I, with no small quantity of terror clasping at my heart, began to race toward the graveyard.  

We left the park and had almost reached the church when I heard the slobbering, as if made by a large dog, and, screwing up my eyes, the better to peer through the gloom into the graveyard, I saw a strange creature, with the face of Stephan Maval!

This monster sniffed at the body of Pere Sauvan but, obviously finding something disagreeable about the body of a priest, moved to my own.

With absolute horror building within me, I raced madly but before I reached my goal I saw the evil spirit appear to melt into my body, and, at that very moment, the thin, blue line which led me back simply disappeared!

I choked back tears of rage and terror as I made my departure from Pere Sauvan and the rest of the living world.

And that, my fellow shades, is my story.  To this day I can only hope that my friend Pere Sauvan continues to chase Stephan Maval and that he will, one day, finally catch him, allowing me to return to the warmth of the material world and my own body!

FIN