“‘No; we were going to get a key, and then forgot all about it,’ Parminter replied. ‘But we’ll soon remedy that. I’ll send for a locksmith at once.’
“He did so, and the man, at last finding a key that fitted, opened the box.
“It was not quite empty; on the bottom of it, stuck firmly down with two big hatpins, its long legs spread out on either side of it like a hideous fringe, was a black Indian centipede.”
CHAPTER IX
THE COUGH
A CASE OF HAUNTING IN REGENCY SQUARE, BRIGHTON
I know a man called Harrison. So, in all probability, do you; so, in all probability, do most people. But it is not everyone, I imagine, that knows a Harrison who delights in the Christian name of Pelamon, and it is not everyone that knows a Pelamon Harrison who indulges in psychical research. Now some people think that no one unless he be a member of the Psychical Research Society can know anything of ghosts. That is a fallacy. I have met many people who, although they have had considerable experience in haunted houses, have never set a foot in Hanover Square; and, vice versa, I have met many people who, although they have been members of the Psychical Research Society, have assured me they have never seen a ghost. Pelamon Harrison belongs to the former category. He is by vocation a gentleman undertaker, and he lives in Sussex. Some years ago, after the publication of my novel For Satan’s Sake, which was very severely criticised in certain of the religious denominational papers, Pelamon Harrison, championing my cause, wrote me rather an interesting letter. I went to see him, and ever since then he has not only supplied me with detailed information of all the hauntings he has come across, but he has at times sent me accounts of his own experiences. This is one of them.
Pelamon was seated in his office one day reading Poe, when the telephone at his elbow started ringing.
“Hullo!” said Pelamon. “Who’s there?”
“Only me—Phoebe Hunt,” was the reply. (Phoebe Hunt was Pelamon Harrison’s housekeeper.)