This barn, or rather shed, where “certain phenomena” occurred in October 1956 ( a few months prior to Hazel Shade’s death) had belonged to one Paul Hentzner, an eccentric farmer of German extraction, with old-fashioned hobbies such as taxidermy and herborizing. Through an odd trick of atavism, he was (according to Shade who liked to talk about him—the only time, incidentally, when my sweet old friend became a tiny bit of a bore!) a throwback to the “curious Germans” who three centuries ago had been the fathers of the first great naturalists. Although by academic standards an uneducated man, with no real knowledge of far things in space or time, he had about him a colorful and earth something that pleased John Shade much better than the suburban refinements of the English Department. He who displayed such fastidious care in his choice of fellow ramblers liked to trudge with the gaunt solemn German, every other evening, up the wood path to Dulwich, and all around his acquaintance’s fields. Delighting as he did in the right word, he esteemed Hentzner for knowing “the names of things”—though some of those names were no doubt local monstrosities, or Germanisms, or pure inventions on the old rascal’s part.
Now he was walking with another companion. Limpidly do I remember one perfect evening when my friend sparkled with quips, and marrowskies, and anecdotes which I gallantly countered with tales of Zembla and harebreath escapes! As we were skirting Dulwich Forest, he interrupted me to indicate a natural grotto in the mossy rocks by the side of the path under the flowering dogwoods. This was the spot where the good farmer invariably stopped, and once, when they happened to be accompanied by his little boy, the latter, as he trotted beside them, pointed and remarked informatively: “Here Papa pisses.” Another, less pointless, story awaited me at the top of the hill, where a square plot invaded with willow herb, milkweed and ironweed, and teeming with butterflies, contrasted sharply with the goldenrod all around it. After Hentzner’s wife had left him (around 1950) taking with her their child, he sold his farmhouse (now replaced by a drive-in cinema) and went to live in town; but on summer nights he used to take a sleeping bag to the barn that stood at the far end of the land he still owned, and there one night he passed away.
That barn had stood on the weedy spot Shade was poking at with Aunt Maud’s favorite cane. One Saturday evening a young student employee from the campus hotel and a local hoyden went into it for some purpose or other and were chattering or dozing there when they were frightened out of their wits by rattling sounds and flying lights causing them to flee in disorder. Nobody really cared what had routed them—whether it was an outraged ghost or rejected swain. But the Wordsmith Gazette (“The oldest student newspaper in the USA”) picked up the incident and started to worry the stuffing out of it like a mischievous pup. Several self-styled psychic researchers visited the place and the whole business was so blatantly turning into a rag, with the participation of the most notorious college pranksters, that Shade complained to the authorities with the result that the useless barn was demolished as constituting a fire hazard.
From Jane P. I obtained however a good deal of quite different, and much more pathetic information—which explained to me why my friend had thought fit to regale me with commonplace student mischief, but also made me regret that I prevented him from getting to the point he was confusely and self-consciously making (for as I have said in an earlier note, he never cared to refer to his dead child) by filling in a welcome pause with an extraordinary episode from the history of Onhava University. That episode took place in the year of grace 1876. But to return to Hazel Shade. She decided she wanted to investigate the “phenomena” herself for a paper (“on any subject”) required in her psychology course by a cunning professor who was collecting data on “Autoneurynological Patterns among American university students.” Her parents permitted her to make a nocturnal visit to the barn only under the condition that Jane P.—deemed a pillar of reliability—accompany her. Hardly had the girls settled down when an electric storm that was to last all night enveloped their refuge with such theatrical ululations and flashes as to make it impossible to attend to any indoor sounds or lights. Hazel did not give up, and a few days later asked Jane to come with her again, but Jan could not. She tells me she suggested the White twins (nice fraternity boys accepted by the Shades) would come instead. But Hazel flatly refused this arrangement, and after a row with her parents took her bull’s-eye and notebook and set off alone. One can well image how the Shades dreaded a recrudescence of the poltergeist nuisance but the ever-sagacious Dr. Sutton affirmed—on what authority I cannot tell—that cases in which the same person was again involved in the same type of outbreaks after a lapse of six years were practically unknown.
Jane allowed me to make a copy out some of Hazel’s notes from a typescript based on jottings made on the spot:
10:14 P.M. Investigation commenced.
10:23. Scrappy and scrabbly sounds.
10:25. A roundlet of pale light, the size of a small doily; flitted across the dark walls, the boarded windows, and the floor; changed its place; lingered here and there, dancing up and down; seemed to wait in teasing play for evadable pounce. Gone.
10:37. Back again.
The notes continue for several pages but for obvious reasons I must renounce to give them verbatim in this commentary. There were long pauses and “scratches and scrapings” again, and returns of the luminous circlet. She spoke to it. If asked something that it found deliciously silly (“Are you a will-o-the-wisp?”) it would dash to and fro in ecstatic negation, and when it wanted to give a grave answer to a grave question (“Are you dead?”) would slowly ascend with an air of gathering altitude for a weighty affirmative drop. For brief periods of time it responded to the alphabet she recited by staying put until the right letter was called whereupon it gave a small jump of approval. But these jumps would get more and more listless, and after a couple of words had been spelled out, the roundlet went limp like a tired child and finally crawled into a chink; out of which it suddenly flew with extravagant brio and started to spin around the walls in its eagerness to resume the game. The jumble of broken words and meaningless syllables which she managed at last to collect came out in her dutiful notes as a short line of simple letter groups. I transcribe:
pada ata lane pad not old wart alan ther tale feur far rant lant tal told
In her Remarks, the recorder states she had to recite the alphabet, or at least begin to recite it (there is a merciful preponderance of a’s) eighty times, but of these, seventeen yielded no results. Divisions based on such variable intervals cannot be but rather arbitrary; some of the balderdash may be recombined into other lexical units making no better sense (e.g., “war,” “talant,” “her,” “arrant,” etc.). The barn ghost seems to have expressed himself with the empasted difficulty of apoplexy or of a half-awakening from a half-dream slashed by a sword of light on the ceiling, a military disaster with cosmic consequences that cannot be phrased distinctly by the thick unwilling tongue. And in this case we too might wish to cut short a reader’s or bedfellow’s questions by sinking back into oblivion’s bliss—had not a diabolical force urged us to seek a secret design in the abracadabra,
812 Some kind of link-and bobolink, some kind
813 Of correlated pattern in the game.
I abhor such games; they make my temples throb with abominable pain—but I have braved it and pored endlessly, with a commentator’s infinite patience and disgust, over the crippled syllables in Hazel’s report to find the least allusion to the poor girl’s fate. Not one hint did I find. Neither old Hentzner’s specter, nor an ambushed scamp’s toy flashlight, nor her own imaginative hysteria, express anything here that might be construed, however remotely, as containing a warning, or having some bearing on the circumstances of her soon-coming death.
Hazel’s report might have been longer if—as she told Jane—a renewal of the “scrabbling” had not suddenly jarred upon her tired nerves. The roundlet of light that until now had been keeping its distance made a pugnacious dash at her feet so that she nearly fell off the wooden block serving her as a seat. She became overwhelmingly conscious that she was alone in the company of an inexplicable and perhaps ver evil being, and with a shudder that all but dislocated her shoulder blades she hastened to regain the heavenly shelter of the starry night. A familiar footpath with soothing gestures and other small tokens of consolation (lone cricket, lone streetlight) led her home. She stopped and let forth a howl of terror: a system of dark and pale patches coagulating into a phantastic figure had risen from the garden bench which the porch light just reached. I have no idea what the average temperature of an October night in New Wye may be but one is surprised that a father’s anxiety should be great enough in the present case to warrant conducting a vigil in the open air in pajamas and the nondescript “bathrobe” which my birthday present was to replace (see note to line 181).
There are always “three night” in fairy tales, and in this sad fairy tale there was a third one too. This time she wanted her parents to witness the “talking light” with her. The minutes of that third session in the barn have not been preserved but I offer the reader the following scene which I feel cannot be too far removed from the truth.
The Haunted Barn
Pitch-darkness.
Father, Mother and Daughter are heard
breathing gently in different corners. Three
minutes pass.
Father (to Mother)
Are you comfortable there?
Mother
Uh-huh. These potato sacks make a perfect—
Daughter (with steam-engine force)
Sh-sh-sh!
Fifteen minutes pass in silence. The eye begins to make out here and there in the darkness bluish slits of night and one star.
Mother
That was Dad’s tummy, I think—not a spook.
Daughter (mouthing it)
Very funny!
Another fifteen minutes elapse. Father, deep in workshop thoughts, heaves a neutral sigh.
Daughter
Must we sigh all the time?
Fifteen minutes elapse.
Mother
Does anyone realize that there are still quite a few of those creampuffs in the refrigerator?
That does it.
Daughter (exploding)
Why must you spoil everything? Why must you always spoil everything? Why can’t you leave people alone? Don’t touch me!
Father
Now look, Hazel, Mother won’t say another word, and we’ll go on with this—but we’ve been sitting an hour here and it’s getting late.
Two minutes pass. Life is hopeless, afterlife heartless. Hazel is heard quietly weeping in the dark. John Shade lights a lantern. Sybil lights a cigarette. Meeting adjourned.
The light never came back but it gleams again in a short poem “The Nature of Electricity,” which John Shade had sent to the New York magazine The Beau and the Butterfly, some time in 1958, but which appeared only after his death:
The dead, the gentle dead—who knows?—
In tungsten filaments abide,
And on my bedside table glows
Another man’s departed bride.
And maybe Shakespeare floods a whole
Town with innumerable lights,
And Shelley’s incandescent soul
Lures the pale moths of starless nights.
Streetlamps are numbered, and maybe
Number nine-hundred-ninety-nine
(So brightly beaming through a tree
So green) is an old friend of mine.
And when above the livid plain
Forked lightning plays, therein may dwell
The torments of a Tamerlane,
The roar of tyrants torn in hell.
Science tells us, by the way, that the Earth would not merely fall apart, but vanish like a ghost, if Electricity were suddenly removed from the world.