The Pimple, on the other hand, did not at all relish the idea of either insanity or death at the hands of the opposition. He thought we ought not lightly to discard the warning of the Spook. Death, after all, was a terrible thing. And he himself, as sitter, had an unfortunate habit of making mistakes.
We denied that death meant anything for mediums who knew what splendid activities awaited them in the world of spooks. Indeed we were quite anxious to pass on. So we forgave the Pimple beforehand for any mistakes he might make; then we outvoted him, and refused to contemplate a move until we had tried every possible method in Yozgad.
The poor little man acquiesced with the best grace he could muster. When the hour for the trance-talk arrived (it was to take place in the dark) he shook hands with us very solemnly and took his place in the dark at the other side of the room. His instructions were to listen, but not to interrupt.
Hill and I held hands in the usual way and went off into a trance to the usual accompaniment of grunts and groans. Then the Spook announced he was going off to Constantinople (where AAA was for the time being) in order to put AAA under similar control.
Hill and I had everything rehearsed beforehand. We waited for the silence and the darkness to begin to prey on the Pimple’s nerves, and then rose together, called to the Pimple to follow and set off downstairs. We talked, as we went, to an imaginary spirit. With the Pimple at our heels we turned to the left at the bottom of the stair and passed through a doorway (usually shut) into a large hall on the ground floor. Immediately there was the bang of a most terrific explosion. Hill and I shrieked to Moïse to run. Blind with terror, the poor little fellow rushed out of the house and smashed into the ten-foot wall of the yard, which he vainly sought to climb. Then, recovering himself bravely, he came back to our rescue. We were half-way up the wooden stairs that led to our room, bawling for help at the top of our voices, and wrestling desperately with an invisible opposition in the dark. First one and then the other of us fell clattering to the bottom of the stairs. As fast as we climbed up we were thrown down again. The night was filled with our groans and shouts, and the noise of blows. The din was terrific.
Moïse often told us afterwards that it was the most awe-inspiring incident in all his spooking experience. It was so dark on the stairs that he could see nothing, but he realized that we were fighting for our lives. Sometimes our calls for help sounded so agonized he feared we were losing the struggle.
It was small wonder our voices were “agonized,” for we were really suffering most abominably from a desire to laugh. The tumult on the stairs was of course prearranged. First Hill dragged me backwards then I dragged him, and we both yelled at the top of our voices, pounded one another in the dark, kicked and stamped and raved to drown the laughter that was rising within us. We were seeking to terrify Moïse into another flight, and hoped he would make a bolt for home, but we failed. We did not know until afterwards that he had left the key of the outer gate in our room upstairs, and was as much a prisoner as ourselves.
The end came suddenly; Hill was halfway upstairs, holding on to the banisters with both hands and shaking them till they rattled. I had him by the ankles and was heaving and hauling in an endeavour to break his grip and give him as bumpy a passage to the bottom as he had just given me. We were both yelling blue murder. Then the Pimple took a hand in the fight. He came up to within a foot of my back in the dark, stamped his heavy boots loudly on the wooden stairs, and cried “Shoo—shoo!” in a very frightened voice. The idea of “shoo-ing” away a malignant spirit who was intent on our murder was too much for us; Hill let go of the banisters and I loosed his heels at the same instant, and we fled together to our room to suffocate our laughter in our blankets,—a “fuite precipitée au haut de l’escalier” Moïse called it in his notes. The Pimple followed, and bravely took up his position at his table. I must admit the little rascal had courage where spooks were concerned, for he took out his pencil and carefully recorded the curious sounds we made in stifling our laughter, annotating the whole with the remark, “cries of souls in torment.” Finally we got back into our chairs, and with the usual groans and grunts the “power passed away.” The Pimple lit the lamp and peered at us anxiously.
“Did anything happen? Have we found it?” I asked.
“It has been terrible—atrocious!” said the Pimple. “You feel all right? You are sane? Eh?”