Original subtitles

um

As my readers are by now only too well aware, I have consumed the better part

of three decades in the pursuit of the supernatural.

In that period, not a single supposed manifestation of the hyperphysical has

survived the scrutiny of my comprehensive knowledge of conjuring.

You may imagine, then, that when in the February of last year I received a call

from a strange voice summoning me to a suburb of North London, I was

disinclined to curiosity.

The communicant, describing himself as a member of a group, offered me the

opportunity of joining their circle the following Tuesday evening, at which time

he guaranteed me the materialization of a spirit child named Meriel,

which I would be unable to explain away.

However, I would have to observe several strange conditions, the foremost of

which was that the identities of the participants and the location of their

residence must never be divulged.

I arrived at the object of my expedition shortly before seven o'clock.

I found myself confronting a large and substantial edifice situated on the

corner of a broad and respectable avenue at a somewhat meaner byway.

The face of the residence looking out upon the avenue had a flight of ten

stone steps leading to an ornately paneled front door.

and separating two large rooms, each with a bay window.

As I was forbidden to use the real names of the circle, I proposed to use the

common names of Smith, Brown,

and Green.

I'm so glad you were able to accept my invitation to come here this evening.

It's my pleasure, sir. My name is Smith.

Please allow me to introduce my wife. Good evening. It's a great honor to meet

you, Mr. Livingston.

May I present Mrs. Brown, the mother of Maryam. How do you do? I'm so pleased

you can come here this evening.

This is my daughter.

Hello.

Hello. And her fiancé, Mr. Green.

Good evening, sir. Good evening.

Mr. Livingston, why don't you come and sit down?

Thank you.

I think the best idea would be for Mrs. Brown to explain what all this is about.

Yes, certainly.

Well, Mr. Livingstone, I was born in Belgium, but in the 50s, I come to this

country to be an au pair.

After some time, I marry a young English soldier, but a year later, he is killed

in Cyprus, so I'm left only with a baby daughter called Myrielle.

She is a delicate child, and at the age of seven, she dies.

Naturally, I'm very much upset by this.

But years, years after she's gone, I wake up one night in my bed, and I

hear what seems to be my child's voice saying, Mama, Mama.

I cannot tell if I'm dreaming or I'm awake, but it continued to happen for

many nights, and I'm bewildered.

So, I turn to my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

who were interested in spiritualism, and who have also lost a daughter when she

was the age of Muriel, and who was very much like Muriel.

So I thought they would be sympathetic.

Well, Mr. Smith kindly suggested that I attend services here so that Muriel

might be encouraged to come.

So we start having the sittings, and after a few weeks, Muriel arrives.

But whom?

completely materialized, although in complete darkness, and I'm able to touch

her. Then, after a few more weeks, her face appears.

Then, later, at later sittings, she begins to speak.

At first, only single words, but then, whole phrases.

Till now, only myself and the smiths are the sitters, because a few more people

might frighten Muriel away.

But tonight, because you are a famous expert, Mr.

Livingstone, we will see if Muriel will appear just for this one time only in

front of strangers.

Thank you very much, Mrs. Brown.

The next thing is, sir, with your permission, to examine the seance

chamber. Most certainly, of course.

If you would all be kind enough to depart for a little while, I'll commence

my examination.

investigated everything in the chamber until i was completely satisfied that no

exits entrances or fraudulent devices lay hidden waiting to deceive me this

achieved i recalled the members of the circle into the chamber

as you see i'm sealing this door

and

now i'm going to sprinkle a little of this powder

starch on the floor.

I must now ask you to indulge me in a requirement which, although somewhat

incommoding, is nonetheless, I assure you, absolutely unavoidable. You wish to

search us?

I do, Wendy.

The ladies do?

With regret, yes, madam. You see, you all asked me to arrive here

unaccompanied, and so I was unable to bring my lady assistant, who usually...

All in a good cause.

I suppose so. It must be so.

Yes, that is the way to look at it. Thank you very much.

Mr. Smith, may I commence with you?

You may indeed.

Thank you very much, Mr. Green.

Thank you.

And now it's my turn, I suppose.

I've endeavoured to conduct the operation as expeditiously as possible.

Oh.

You're extremely gracious.

Thank you.

Vous permettez, madame.

Oui.

Yes.

Merci beaucoup.

And now, Miss Smith.

My daughter had just returned from her ballet class when you arrived and is

still wearing her leotard.

Yes, I see. Well, that's perfectly satisfactory.

I'm now convinced that every precaution has been taken. I should like,

therefore, if I may, to arrange where each person shall be seated. Of course.

I should sit here with my back towards the fireplace.

Mrs. Brown, would you be kind enough to sit upon my left?

Mrs. Smith, upon my right.

Thank you very much. Mr. Green, would you sit next to Mrs. Brown?

Splendid. Miss Smith, would you sit beside Mr. Green?

Very good. And you, sir, would you be kind enough to complete the circle?

Excellent.

Before the seance commences, I'd like to point out two of our habitual practices.

By all means.

Our circle sits with hands unclasped, without touching one another.

Is that all right?

Yes, that's quite all right.

And after we've been seated in silence for some time, I switch on the record

player. I see. We have a little light music.

Yes, we have found that a little light music seems to be conducive...

Conducive? Yes, conducive to the appearance of Muriel.

Yes, well, I have no objection.

Thank you.

The seance will end on the stroke of 11 from the clock in the hallway.

Yes.

All right.

Very well, ladies and gentlemen.

I'm now going to turn off the lights.

there unmoving in the darkness i began to lose all comprehension of time and to

develop in some slight degree a sensation of being somewhat suspended in

spatial terms i have therefore no precise idea how long had elapsed when

I suddenly sensed something close to me within the circle of chairs.

Strangely enough, it was my olfactory sense which first alerted me.

To my astonishment, I inhaled a fresh vernal fragrance like that of sweet peas

in full flower.

Oh, Myrielle, Myrielle, here you are, my darling, my darling.

I wonder, Mrs. Brown, would you allow Mr.

Livingstone to touch the presents?

Oh, I don't know.

She might not like it. I'm sure she will make no objection.

I reached out with my left hand, and to my utter amazement, encountered the nude

body of a little girl.

Taking both of the apparitions' hands in mind, I addressed the assembly.

I'd just like to ascertain whether everyone is in their correct position.

Would you all please answer in turn when I ask?

Mr. Smith?

I'm here, Mr. Livingston.

Mrs. Smith? I'm here.

Mr. Smith? I'm here, Mr. Livingston.

Mr. Green?

Still here, sir.

Mrs. Brown. I have not walked.

Thank you, Warren.

Each one of them remained in their proper place, and I released the

apparition's hands.

I should now like to ask permission to make a further test.

Yes. I have in my pocket a small luminous plaque. It's painted with

fluoride paint.

May I use this to view, Maria?

Oh, no.

I'll show you madam the illumination it bestows is both slight and gentle. No, I

don't know anything.

I'm worried.

Mr. Livingston has gone out of his way to come here tonight. I cannot see any

harm.

Very well, but please do nothing to alarm her. Of that, my dear madam, you

have my absolute assurance.

I started with her feet, which were perfectly formed, the toes showing no

sign of distortion, the nails peach-tinted and delicate.

Then I slowly moved up her legs.

They too were perfectly proportioned, and I could discern fine, fair, wispy

hairs upon them.

The loins were prepubescent, and the hips boyish.

The stomach was delightfully protuberant, the umbilicus shallow, the

chest flat.

with the lovely pastel-pink nipples and fine tracery of blue veins of a seven

-year-old.

And then I came to her face.

She had classical regularity of feature, with a chucky nose, an immaculately

pale opalescent complexion, a well-shaped mouth with lips set in a

determined manner, and large, shining, intelligent blue eyes.

The hair which glissaded upon alabaster shoulders was a subtle auburn, in

perfect complement to the skin and eyes.

Her height I would estimate at some three feet to seven inches.

I turned her round and saw her back.

I was utterly fascinated by the luxuriant texture of her opalescent

flesh, which, although I could make out every exquisite pore,

appeared to be completely without blemish.

That is enough, monsieur. Now the examination will end. Very well, madame,

but before it does, may I make one last request? May I not speak with her?

She will not answer.

Nevertheless,

may I please try? Do you really think it necessary? With respect, I do indeed.

Oh, very well, but she will not speak with you. Thank you, madame.

Where have you come from?

What is your name?

What do you do there?

Do you play with other children?

Do you love your mama?

Yes.

Oh, my darling. Will you put your light away, Mr. Livingstone? Let us have

silence again.

I must confess that I too felt quite affected.

Once again, I cannot judge how much time elapsed before...

Mariel

has now departed.

The séance is at an end.

Mr. Livingstone, I hope that we've not disappointed you.

Oh, certainly not. I'm completely astounded.

You cannot explain it. My dear madam, I have never experienced anything similar.

I confess myself to be completely bewildered.

But come, let me examine the chamber again.

Of course.

I discovered that nothing had been even remotely disturbed.

I therefore took leave of my hosts and commenced myself a journey home.

As I drove, a myriad questions revolved within my brain.

Could it have been a hoax?

And if so, to what purpose?

Who would possibly gain from the contrivance of such an elaborate

imagination?

If there had been a deception, how had it been achieved?

The experience defied every conjuring explanation I tested upon it.

If the participants were acting, then they were highly consummate artists.

Then which of them was the medium? If there was a medium, I'd never heard of

an alleged materialization occurring without one.

Had I finally come upon a genuine manifestation of the paranormal?

The sitting had taken place under controls that not one medium in a

thousand would have accepted.

What I had experienced in those few hours was so shatteringly inexplicable.

and so contrary to everything I had ever experienced before that it challenged my

whole attitude, not only to my profession, but to the very nature of

reality.

I made several attempts to persuade the Circle to permit me to attend a further

sitting, but to no avail.

Therefore, I present the case to the reader as it happened, a mystery without

an answer, but with bewildering and possibly momentous implications.

A case which must remain for eternity.

An enormously tantalizing question mark.

Wait a minute, not so fast.

My name is Nichols, Sam Nichols.

I'm a kind of detective, what you might call a ghost detective.

Same line of work as George Livingston.

I guess you could say I'm his number one fan.

My big regret is I never met him.

Died of bronchopneumonia a couple of years back.

Fall of 1970.

Well, his chapter on Muriel and his last book, Annals of a Psychical

Investigator, sure made a big impression.

The capital D, debunker, coming up with a case he couldn't explain.

Well, back in the States, I worked on it. Did a couple of pieces for some

magazines.

They caught the eye of the Psychical Research Centre here in London.

They gave me an assignment.

Clear up the Muriel case.

So I began right here.

Livingston Archives.

Psychical Research Centre.

Went through the lot. Couldn't find a thing.

Except a few letters written to his publisher.

Only one of any interest was this.

Oh, yeah.

Dear Mr. Sharp, please find and close the final manuscript of the report on

Muriel. It'll form the final chapter in my book, and I feel that it'll provide

just the climax which the book needs.

Not much to go on.

So my next move was to put out an ad.

Information, please. Anybody.

Strict confidence.

But I didn't get any takers.

Well, Livingston had given only one clue in his book to the location of the

seance. He said it was in Crickley Wood.

So it was time to take a look at Crickley Wood.

When hunting for corner locations like Livingston described, day after day,

week after week, visited every one, and every time I

drew a blank.

I drove around and around and around.

Then hooked it down every street.

Every avenue.

And every back alleyway in the neighborhood.

I came up with nothing.

So what next?

Where could I get a lead?

Livingston's wife.

Where were you on the evening of the seance?

Bosman. Yeah?

Recovering from an operation.

Oh, so you weren't with your husband?

Not from January till March.

I see.

When did he first mention the Muriel case?

When he came to see me.

Oh, when was that?

Early March.

What did he say?

What's in his book? Oh, nothing else?

Nothing. Nothing different?

Not a thing.

Hmm.

Who saw him at the time?

Time?

The time of the seance.

Oh.

I don't know.

Anybody at all?

His secretary, I suppose.

Had a secretary?

Oh, yes.

Never knew that.

She'd become a hairdresser.

Miss, uh, Radson.

Yes.

Ever work for a guy called Livingston?

Who are you?

Psychical Research Center.

Oh. Did you work for Livingston? Perhaps.

Oh, come on. You're rather rude. Sorry.

One should be polite.

Okay, answer my question.

Please. Please.

Yes?

The time of the Mariel case?

Yes. You remember him going to it?

No. Oh, you remember him coming back?

No. I thought you said you were with him. I was. He never mentioned it. Never

mentioned it? Well, not till ten days after it happened.

No? No.

Tell me about the 22nd.

Please? Please tell me about the 22nd.

Perfectly ordinary.

Typed a few letters left at six.

The next morning?

Perfectly normal.

Usual routine.

Didn't say a thing? Not a thing.

How'd he look?

His usual self. How different?

None whatsoever.

Was he good at hiding his feelings?

No good at all.

You sure?

Oh, yes. I saw him five days a week for four years.

Did he confide in you?

Yes.

About his work.

Who typed the report?

The Muriel report.

Yeah. He did.

Oh, wasn't that unusual?

Yes, most unusual.

And even more unusual, he didn't even talk about the case. Very unusual.

The most important of his career. Very, very unusual. Didn't even seem slightly

disturbed. Extremely unusual. You never wondered about it. Yes. Well, what did

you think? Well, I think it's mysterious.

Well, that was it.

My last bit of evidence.

What was I left with? A mystery?

A riddle? I don't think so.

I went through all the evidence.

There was only one way to add it up.

I couldn't find that house in Crickley Wood because it was never there.

Livingston never went back there because there was no place to go.

He didn't talk about it with his secretary because there was nothing to

talk about.

She noticed nothing unusual about him because there was nothing unusual to

notice. He didn't name names because there weren't any names to name.

Well, Livingston made the whole thing up.

I'd broken the case. There was no case. Mariel never existed.

Mariel was a lie.

She was a lie, I tell you.

It saddened me.

After all, the guy was my hero.

There was no getting away from it.

So what in the hell had gotten into him?

To answer that, we've got to remember that Livingston was a very famous man.

Reports of a Psychical Investigator.

Cases of a Psychical Investigator.

Experiences of a Psychical Investigator.

Chronicles of a Psychical Investigator.

Aye, his first book was a smash-a-roo.

So was his second and his third.

But in 1966, when his fourth book came out, it didn't do too well.

Audiences for Endless Debunking was cooling off.

Oh, sure, it was fascinating.

Sure, it was scientific.

But, uh, people were starting to want a little something more.

The door left open a crack.

A little bit of... Might be.

So, what's Livingston going to do?

He likes his fame.

How's he going to win back his readers?

Yet another anthology of frauds?

Oh, forget it.

His next book needs a little something extra.

Another anthology of frauds plus X.

Plus a little number can't be explained away.

A little number called Mario.

And who better than Livingston to pull it off?

Who knew better what was required?

Who was in a better position to be believed?

Why, with his record, who's going to doubt him?

Let's take another look at that letter again.

I feel that it'll provide just the climax which the book needs.

Is that the phraseology of a scientist?

Climax the book needs?

Sounds more like a novelist or a short story writer.

The guy unconsciously gives himself away.

He's cooked up a climax to sell his new book.

And he's done a swell job.

When his last book came out, it hit the top of the charts, you betcha.

It had to.

Like all good works of fiction, the Merrill case gave its readers exactly

what they wanted.

introduce myself yeah my name's robina that's it robina robina rolliver

i'm into psychical research you know occult and all that i've been interested

in the mario thing you know for a long time so when i came across this expose

by sam nichols when i was really brought down i just couldn't get it together

while a really great investigator like livingston should you know sort of

cop out on all its principles just to keep him with the public.

So that's... I mean, that's why I decided to look into the thing for

myself. So I started here, same as Nicholls, and had a real good old look

through all the documentation.

And I came across these letters.

Letters between Livingston and his publisher.

You know, letters, what Nicholls said, word of no interest, but which I think

are. I mean, listen to this one from Livingston.

I really am most reluctant to include the Mariel case in my forthcoming book.

There are no independent witnesses to corroborate the experience and I am

pledged never to reveal the names.

And here, the reply from the publisher.

With your reputation, no one will question the veracity of your account.

It will absolutely fascinate the public and provide just the climax the book

needs. I mean, listen to that.

provide just the climax the book needs.

It was the publisher what first used the phrase.

Well, my next thing was to go and see Mrs.

Livingstone.

Now, Mrs... Um... Mrs?

Call me Cynthia.

Oh, yeah, well, Cynthia, what do you think of Mr. Nicholls? A complete

nonsense.

But what about what his secretary said? His secretary?

Yeah.

George never showed his feelings. Well, I mean, he might, I suppose, to me, you

know, as his wife, now and again, but other people, oh, no. And certainly not

to, uh... Miss Wrightson.

Rats. Wrightson, yes. Not to her.

They wash its shape. Say the opposite, yes. Well, I mean, this is where we come

to the, uh... I mean, I'm

not going... say anything against her i think it was simply a question of faulty

memory i mean george would have gone he would have done anything to hide his

feelings from her to appear perfectly normal there was well she was only a

slip of a girl in those days there's been all this controversy since i simply

think she over dramatized the whole thing and really believed

You know, I think she's come to believe that she was more important in my

husband's affairs than she... So it was quite so, you know... Really was, or...

Compatible.

Compatible.

Ever.

Ever.

Um...

Yes, you were.

I mean, it was compatible with George's normal behaviour, you know, to appear

really cool when he'd just been through a, you know, a traumatic... Oh, yes.

Perfectly compatible.

I think that's exactly how he would have behaved.

I see, yes.

thing to do was to nose round cripplewood you know sort of looking for

the house as described by livingston

a look at all sorts of houses but none of them was what was required

I didn't allow myself to be got down.

And then, you know, one afternoon, at first sort of glance of it, you know, my

heart sank.

I mean, it was large and the right age and all that, and it stood on the right

sort of a corner, you know.

But, I mean, where was the, um, by your windows?

And one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, there was only nine steps.

And where was the, um, what do we call it?

Ornately panelled door.

I mean, the place had none of any of these features.

Well, but anyway, just to make sure.

As always with my routine, I had a bash at the front door.

Oh, hello.

Hello.

Hello, I'm doing some research. Oh, market research. No, no, cyclical.

Cyclical? No, cyclical.

Oh, no, go on with that.

No, you know, sales isn't a thing.

Oh, I think you've come to the wrong place.

Well, probably. What number are you looking for? Well, I'm not... This isn't

any kind of company.

No, this is serious.

It is.

Yeah, I'm looking for a house where a famous seance might have taken place.

What makes you think that? Well, I did. I mean, I did think it might be, but now

you know I don't think it can be.

Why not?

Well, I mean, there are no bay windows.

It used to have bay windows.

Well, then, Eureka! The house Nicholls said ain't never existed.

With it, I'd really demolished Nicholls' arguments against Livingstone. But why

had Nicholls suppressed and distorted evidence?

Why had he fitted Livingstone up?

Because Nicholls didn't believe that genuine ad phenomena ever took place.

And Livingstone's account of the Merrill case undermined his position.

But back to the owner of the house, Mr Craig. I interviewed him there and then.

When did you buy the house exactly?

Three years ago.

It had been gutted by fire.

So that's why you had to have all them renovations?

Aye. That's why you couldn't recognise it.

What happened to the people who lived here?

Burnt to death.

What, all of them? Aye.

And you knew nothing about them?

Nothing. I bought the house from an agent.

An agent? You know, for who?

No, I'm afraid I cannae help you.

Whoever was in charge of the deceased's estate. Oh, come on, you know.

The agents, you know, told me the executrix,

uh, exec, yeah, was a Miss Furnace. So I went to her house, but there was nobody

in. However, a neighbour told me that he thought she was a student at the

Department of Applied Physics at Watford University, yeah.

So I sort of made my way there.

shown into a lab, and I set up the equipment, and I got the shock of my

life. Good morning.

I'm Mariel. What?

Perhaps I should say I was Mariel. Come on. I was a spirit child.

I'll explain to you.

I was the daughter of the house in Cricklewood. I escaped the fire, and I

took part in all the seances. I just don't believe it. I was sworn to

secrecy. but as all the others are dead and i'm the only one left i can now

reveal the truth in 1968 i lived with my parents right my father worked

for a plastics firm accounts department he lost a lot of money on the horses and

he embezzled from his employers what and no one sort of tumbled yes they did one

of his colleagues the woman livingstone called mrs brown she caught him at it

yeah yes she was going to report him But father knew she'd had a daughter who

died. Knew she yearned to communicate with her.

Father was quick.

He pretended mother was a materializing medium.

They made a deal.

Don't tell, and mother will spirit up Mariel. And Mrs. Brown fell for it. Not

immediately. But she'd give mother a chance.

What did your mum do? She said she'd do it. She always stood by my father.

But she wasn't a medium. No. But father read some stuff.

They got clued up.

And then they asked me to be Mariel's ghost.

Well, I mean, how old were you then?

Twelve. Mariel was supposed to be seven.

I mean, how come a twelve-year-old... I was small for my age. But you wouldn't

look nothing like Mariel. Apparently I did.

Coincidence. Except for my hair. That had to be changed.

But how do you reckon you managed... I'll tell you.

Father, Mother and Mrs. Brown sat in the drawing room.

In the dark... I waited in the hall.

Father switched off the record player.

That was my signal. I slipped in, answered a few questions.

What sort of questions?

Oh, harmless stuff.

Whether I was happy, stuff like that.

Father taught me the answers and told me not to answer anybody but Mother. And

Mrs Brown was satisfied with that?

Yes. But how could your voice on me sound like Merriam's? I don't suppose it

did. But Mrs. Brown fell for it. Mariel had been dead for a long time.

A mother wouldn't forget her child's boy. Speaking from experience. Well, no,

but... Thought not.

Mrs. Brown was thoroughly convinced.

Had seances every Tuesday.

Then she started to worry about my father's debts again.

Ever quick, father decided it was time for Mariel to be seen.

Dressed in black leotard, tights and arm-length gloves, I experimented with a

torch. The bulb covered with several layers of tissue paper.

And Mrs. Brown was taken in by that?

Yes. It was very effective.

A facelift from underneath is unrecognizable. I don't believe it. Try

it sometime.

Things went well for a couple of months.

Then a new problem arose.

What?

Years before, Father had told Mrs. Brown he'd got a daughter.

Suddenly one evening she asked why she'd never met me.

Father said I was 17 and went to ballet class every Tuesday evening.

Mrs. Brown said she insisted she meet me. So I had to play myself.

But five years older.

That's incredible.

I mean, how could you... I'll tell you.

Mother disguised me.

She gave me tights, a padded bra, teenage dress, a blonde wig and make

-up, and high heels.

I was transformed.

What is it? Something out of the circus?

A convincing adult.

Livingston said Mary was three foot seven.

Even in a wig and heels, you'd look like a dwarf.

You guessed wrong.

I was taller.

And Mrs. Brown, you know, bought it.

Absolutely. And when you reappeared, you know, as Mariel, she didn't notice no

similarity? None.

Things went smoothly.

Then I got too confident.

Ignored Father's instructions.

Answered one of Mrs. Brown's questions.

It was the wrong answer.

She demanded an investigation.

Demanded George Livingstone.

Father had to agree.

But Father knew he'd seal everybody in the room. Then how would you, you know,

get in?

Ah, I'd be there all the time. I did?

No, visible, as sweet 17 Miss Smith.

In the dark, I changed into Mariel. How come Livingstone never heard you? I

rehearsed and practiced.

Practiced stripping? Yes.

It was embarrassing, but Father realised Livingstone would want to see more than

a face.

But if it was... You know, nude for the first time. Why didn't Mrs. Brown

comment? She thought spirits were unpredictable.

She was emotionally overcome.

Well, there were you, starkers, 12 years old. What about puberty? Why didn't

Livingston notice nothing?

I was a late developer.

Cor, you must have been.

Though my legs weren't bad then.

Showing them to Livingston prevented him from searching me. You mean when Miss

Smith lifted up her skirt?

Yes. To show him there was nothing underneath.

There's your great scientist boy, completely taken in.

The final touch was having a fiancé. Who was Mr. Green?

Father's youngest brother.

Uncle Frank, officer in the army, on leave.

Who'd doubt the age of a girl old enough to be engaged?

But in the dark, how'd you make out your old designs?

Oh, that.

Yes.

In the dark, I left my seat, tiptoed to a corner, took off my clothes.

Slipped back.

When the time came to do Mariel, I went over to Livingston.

He touched me.

Now came the hands test, but we were ready for him.

Mother had small hands, no larger than mine.

She rolled up her sleeves and then removed her ring.

I moved back to my place.

Mother put her hands in front of him.

He took hold of them, thought they were mine.

He didn't notice all that shuffling around? He didn't shuffle.

We did everything perfectly.

He was completely baffled.

Mrs. Brown was happy. Faith restored.

Seances went on for another six months.

When father was straight with the firm, Mrs. Brown was told mother had lost her

powers. What, and she just, like, took it? She had to. It was too late to tell.

But why hadn't she spoken before?

She died last year.

Liver complaint.

Earlier this year, Frank was shot dead in Ulster.

So I'm the only one left. The only one who knows what happened.

Handy, innit?

What? All the others kicking the bucket means there's no one left to contradict

you. Or corroborate. But what I say stands up on its own.

That's it. That's what happened.

No more mystery. No more speculation.

The end of the Merrill case.

Well, I didn't believe Miss Farney.

But I checked, and she really was the daughter of the house, but I didn't

believe she played Mariel in any of the seances.

But if the whole thing took place just as Livingston described it, then what

can be the explanation?

I'd like you to have a look at this film.

It was taken in Reykjavik, Iceland, with an infrared camera, and it's been proved

to be completely authentic.

It depicts some phenomena very much like what I think happened in the Mariel

case, you see.

I believe that Mariel really was the materialisation of a seven-year-old girl

who had been dead for several years.

My own theory for what it's... is that a material, you know, from what the

materialised being is formed, is called ectoplasm.

And this sort of ectoplasm is a sort of neutral substance with no cloud, you

know, no taste, no smell, no texture, no nothing.

And it's sort of brought into existence by the exertions, the powerful

exertions, yeah, of a medium out of our own body.

Though it has nothing to do with normal flesh and blood, you know, as we

understand.

Well, this ectoplasm is then sort of moulded by, you know, paranormal forces,

which ain't got any sort of physical quality for their own.

And these forces sort of, what, impress themselves on the ectoplasm.

and sort of mould themselves, the body, with whatever sort of characteristics

they need.

I mean, in the Mariel case, the spirit of the little girl, you know, used the

ectoplasm to mould the form it had when it was alive.

My only suspicion is that Mrs Smith was the medium, yeah.

Well, then, to sort of sum up...

I believe that on that evening in February, five years ago, George

Livingstone took part in one of the most amazing and irrefutable supernatural

events that has ever been recorded.

Well, at this point, I enter the story.

My name's Dylan.

I'm what they call a psychologist.

Some months ago, I came across Miss Oliver's documentary on the little ghost

girl.

She convinced me that something very odd had taken place on that mysterious

evening, but she didn't win me with her explanation.

I know.

No.

So I decided to open up my own very private eye and peer.

with as much penetration as I could muster into the depths.

Now, I went after those who'd known Livingston throughout his career, and in

particular his wife, who told me about his mood at the time of the séance.

She said he'd reached 50 the previous year and was going through what she'd

heard described as the male menopause.

To be sure, that's the sort of word they use these days.

Now, just what can we make of this unusual case?

But to put it plainly, I think that what happened that February evening was an

example of group hallucination.

And indeed, the group hallucination had been going on in that house for a tidy

old time.

Now, the important thing about hallucinations are that you have to both

crave for and believe in whatever you hallucinate.

These are the twin passions needed to bring forth miracles.

Of course, I'm not suggesting for a moment that the Cricklewood Circle had

consciously worked out all these things.

Far from it.

I'm talking about unconscious and intuitive processes evolved over long

periods.

Now, we've heard they believed it perfectly possible for departed souls to

materialize before the living. But why, we must ask ourselves.

Should that be?

Well, in the case of Mrs. Brown, I should think the answer is obvious.

Hadn't she lost her only daughter and yearned to be reunited with her?

As for the family Smith, well, the parents had also lost a daughter.

Not only the same sort of age as Mariel, but apparently,

Very much like her.

As for their surviving daughter, we don't really know. But isn't it safe to

conjecture that the two girls had been very close when both were alive?

But what about the young fellow, Mr. Green, the young fiancé?

Well, surely there in that very word fiancé we have it.

Which of us has never been in love and suffered that...

overwhelming ache, not only to be with the object of our desires, but also to

become them and share in every morsel of their existence and make it into our

own.

Ah, well, that's enough said about that.

So I think we can see how every member of the Circle had an emotional

investment in Mario's materialization.

It may be that before Mrs. Brown began attending seances, the Smiths had been

materializing their own dead daughter.

But by the time Livingston attended a seance, their lost little girl had

somehow blended and merged with Mrs. Brown's lost little girl to form a sort

of compound lost child they could all equally draw comfort from.

Yes, I think we can peer into that dark room and realize that Meriel was, in

more senses than one, a communal possession.

Where no wonder Livingston couldn't work out who the medium was.

Because in an individual sense, there was no medium. The whole group was the

medium. All had entered equally into a trance-like condition.

But how did they become entranced?

Well, after the ceremonies of introduction, Mrs. Brown gave a detailed

and graphic description, a menu, one might say, of what was going to appear

at the séance.

But this wasn't simply for Livingston's benefit, but for everyone in the room,

herself included.

By her recitation, she was reminding, re-suggesting, reinforcing exactly what

it'd be they'd all be experiencing shortly.

And she was also ensuring they'd all experience exactly the same thing.

At exactly the same time.

I cannot tell if I'm dreaming while I'm awake, but it continued to happen for

many nights, and I... and I'd be worried.

How did they go about synchronizing themselves?

Well, they plant a communally accepted device.

Now, this acts as a subconscious trigger in each mind for the supernatural to

make its entrance.

And so we have all the ingredients for the exercise, except one.

Sensory deprivation.

Now, the important thing about sensory deprivation is the individual loses all

sensory orientation and becomes suspended in a limbo out of which

anything might come.

You see, when you're completely out of contact with everyday reality, you're

free to arrange any new reality you fancy.

You... suit yourself.

I'm sure it's darkness and silence you need if you're after fashioning up

infants from the dead.

So back there in Cricklewood, once the lights are out, our friends are in the

right condition.

Apart from their backsides perched on the chairs, they sense practically

nothing. They sit with hands unclasped without touching one another, perfectly

still in the total darkness and in unbroken silence.

now as the minutes go by livingstone tells us he began to lose all

comprehension of time and began to develop in some slight degree a

sensation of being somewhat suspended in spatial terms and then

Now why, by all the saints, should he do such an incongruous thing?

It was the signal I mentioned earlier.

The trigger for Mariel to begin.

And likewise, hours later, the clock striking eleven in the hall.

That was the signal telling everyone they could now stop hallucinating.

Now, I've talked about everyone's motives for hallucinating, except George

Livingston's.

Now, what in a month of Sunday should he be hallucinating for?

Well, let's just see what we can piece together.

Now, his wife told me at the time of the seance he was depressed, and his

colleagues echoed the same thing.

He'd lost all hope of finding genuine phenomena.

I think by early 1969, Livingston felt like a spent man.

Like a man spent searching after the fabled water horse and finding nothing

but mats of weed.

What has a man spent like that to do with himself?

How is he to spend his future?

Well, he won't be spending it at all, for he hasn't it to hand over.

What can a spent man do but give up the ghost?

Give up the ghost. Ah, yes.

Yes, but wait a minute. If you really need a ghost, desperately need a ghost,

can't live without one, then there's one place you're certain to find it.

Ah, in the depths of your own skull.

But you'd best be careful.

To be sure, the human mind is a very strange business.

A man has to be very careful about fooling himself.

You mustn't let the right lobe know what the left lobe.

is doing so to speak we're talking about leisure demand of the mind our man

subconsciously decided to find himself a phenomenon no not a phenomenon you'd

absolutely have to believe in just one you couldn't get around so he waited

and when the call came from cricklewood something in what the caller said

told him subconsciously that here was the opening he'd been waiting for

That's why we find him breaking all his usual conditions.

And if one thinks about it, isn't it easy to see how going alone and never

going back were essential for his own subconscious purpose?

To be sure, they'd defend the mystery against solution.

And just listen to the vividness of the language he uses when his mystery at

last appears.

When he finally gazes upon her.

He murmurs of her toes showing no sign of distortion and the nails peach-tinted

and delicate.

Then the fine, fair, wispy hairs on her legs.

He whispers how her stomach was delightfully protuberant and how on her

chest he made out lovely pastel pink nipples and the fine tracery of blue

veins.

Then when he finally arrives at her face, he sings of her chucky nose,

her... opalescent complexion and her large, shining, intelligent blue eyes.

Then scanning her back, he sighs over how he could make out every exquisite

pore.

All very vivid, which is a quality common to all hallucinations.

It's as though the mind has to make them double strength so as to ensure their

credibility. I mean, here we have Livingston describing Nerial.

with a vividness not found in anything else he ever wrote.

And surely there's the sexual and even a parental quality in the way he caresses

the little apparition with words.

We must remember he was a man of 50. His marriage was without children.

Maybe the Browns and the Smiths weren't the only ones that sad Tuesday who were

seeking long-lost daughters.

Perhaps our journeyer after truth was also looking for the long-lost daughter

he had never had.

And wouldn't that be fitting?

That the self-generated riddle that should save his life should come to him

in the form of a little girl.

Well, now, after this renaissance, how did our man feel?

Well, he tells us he felt shattered at first.

But I've spoken to his wife and colleagues, and they're unanimous that

he recovered his old aplomb, and in particular, his spirit for spirits.

And so, a changed man.

A man who'd rediscovered faith.

By rediscovering doubt.

Yes, a man went out into the night to find his life and did so.

Peach-nailed and opalescent, with blue eyes shining out of the darkness.

Ah, yes, indeed, a fitting daughter.

The daughter of a man's desperate need for an enigma.