An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  An Improbable Truth

  The Paranormal Adventures

  of Sherlock Holmes

  Edited by A.C. Thompson

  Praise for

  An Improbable Truth:

  The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

  “There has never been a clue Sherlock Holmes can’t find, no murderer he can’t run down, no crime he can’t follow to its clear conclusion. But what happens when the only answer is almost too improbable to be believed? In “An Improbable Truth”, the Great Detective finds himself facing mysteries of an extraordinary nature – namely, the strange and spectral. Accompanied by his stalwart companion, Dr Watson, Holmes faces dangerous occult beings and unearthly crimes that can only be solved by the most open of minds. Page after page of thrills, chills and supernatural excitement await you – come along with Holmes and Watson and be thoroughly entertained!”

  - Misty Massey, author of Mad Kestrel

  An Improbable Truth:

  The Paranormal Adventuers of Sherlock Holmes

  The Fairy Pool Copyright © 2015 by Lucy Blue

  Sherlock Holmes and the Hungry Ghost Copyright © 2015 by Katie Magnusson

  The Diamond Carter Ghost Copyright © 2015 by Matthew Wilson

  The Haunted Branch Line Copyright © 2015 by Tally Johnson

  The Arendall Horror Copyright © 2015 by Thomas Olbert

  Worlds Collide Copyright © 2015 by S. H. Roddey

  Time is Running Out, Watson Copyright © 2015 by Adrian Cross

  A Voice in the Blood Copyright © 2015 by Dan Shaurette

  The Hunt of the Red Boar Copyright © 2015 by Thomas Fortenberry

  The Canaries of Clee Hills Mine Copyright © 2015 by Robert Perret

  The Chase Copyright © 2015 by Melissa McArthur

  The Adventure of the Missing Trophy Copyright © 2015 by Mark W. Coulter

  The Case of the Rising Dead Copyright © 2015 by Trenton Mabey

  The Adventure of the Slow Death Copyright © 2015 by Harding McFadden

  Cover by: Anne Rosario

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9840042-7-0

  ISBN-10: 0-984-00427-0

  Published by Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC

  www.mochamemoirspress.com

  Greensboro, North Carolina

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  The Fairy Pool - Lucy Blue

  Sherlock Holmes & the Hungry Ghost - Katie Magnusson

  The Diamond Carter Ghost - Matthew Wilson

  The Case of the Haunted Branch Line - Tally Johnson

  The Arendall Horror - Thomas Olbert

  Worlds Collide - S.H. Roddey

  Time’s Running Out, Watson - Adrian Cross

  A Voice in the Blood - Dan Shaurette

  The Hunt of the Red Boar - Thomas Fortenberry

  The Canaries of Clee Hill Mines - Robert Perret

  The Chase - Melissa McArthur

  The Adventure of the Missing Trophy - Mark W. Coulter

  The Case of the Rising Dead - Trenton Mabey

  The Adventure of the Slow Death - Hardin McFadden

  The Authors

  Other Titles by Mocha Memoirs Press

  Acknowledgements

  An amazing amount of work goes into producing an anthology. As an author, I never realized just how many hours were spent, beyond what I’d done writing my teensy little story. So first and foremost, I’d like to thank everyone involved with the production of An Improbable Truth. Nicole Kurtz, the publisher over at Mocha Memoirs Press, believed in this project from the very beginning and has been my shoulder to cry on every step of the way. A huge thanks also goes to Anne Rosario, the artist that created our beautiful cover design. She’s a wonderful friend and really went the extra mile to help us out with this project. Susan Roddey is a formatting extraordinaire and despite the impending birth of her daughter, managed to keep me from pulling my hair out.

  To the authors, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being talented, professional, and basically just utter joys to work with. Some of you I’ve known for years and others I’m lucky to have just met. I would like to think that my editing helped your stories shine, but the credit belongs solely to you. You’re the reason for the strength of this anthology. Thank you again for sharing your talents with me.

  On a final note, I’d like to thank the body of artists that inspired this anthology and my love of Holmes and Watson. Of course, Arthur Conan Doyle deserves much of the credit, but many others have added their own nuances to the character over the years. So many, in fact, that there’s no way I could list them all here. Writers such as Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, Laurie R. King and countless others have contributed stories to continue quenching our thirst for new material. Benedict Cumberbatch, Ian McKellen, Robert Downey, Jr., Johnny Lee Miller, Christopher Lee, Nicholas Rowe, Jeremy Brett, Basil Rathbone, Peter Cushing, and scores of others have breathed life into Sherlock, with all his strengths and foibles. Not to mention the comic books, plays, video games, cartoons, and God help us all—fanfiction. Each of these artists have contributed to this vast mythology that brought myself and all of you to this anthology today. And for that, I am truly grateful.

  Introduction

  I am NOT a devout Sherlockian.

  I am not so acquainted with the great detective that I know all about his favorite flavor of pipe tobacco or the exact measurements of the sitting room at 221-B. In fact, Sherlock would probably have nothing but contempt for me and my motivations in conceiving the book you’re currently holding. For one thing, he’d probably scold me for using the word passion in reference to him or his adventures with Doctor Watson. So while I can’t claim to be a “devout Sherlockian,” I am a passionate Sherlockian. I can’t help it. I get it honestly. I come from a long line of mystery lovers. One of my clearest memories as a child was of sitting at my grandmother’s feet watching Mystery! on PBS every Saturday night. My father is practically an expert on “the Canon.” So there was really no escaping. It is evidently genetic.

  When I decided that I’d like to do a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, I was very adamant about not imitating Conan Doyle. A Study in Scarlet was perfect in 1887 and therefore, I didn’t need to rehash it. I wanted to pay homage to the books, but create something new. Within these pages you will not find any faithful pastiches. While the voice of Conan Doyle echoes through every piece, there is no imitation. I wanted to make Holmes doubt his own mind and put him in impossible situations. What better way to do that than giving him a paranormal puzzle to solve? Problems that would defy all logic and challenge his powers of deduction. I was lucky enough to assemble a group of authors who were just as excited as I was at the prospect of taking Holmes deep into the underbelly of horror. We have seasoned authors and newcomers. Scholars of Sherlockiana and casual fans of mystery and the Victorian age. Horror writers, mystery writers, and yes—even romance writers, united by their love for Sherlock Holmes. And I promise you—they do not disappoint.

  Funny story about story selection before I leave you to your reading. When I constructed the initial submission call for An Improbable Truth, I was very specific about this being an open universe sort of project. So many writers are intimidated by the thought of having to write in a Victorian style. The prose is very distinct and flowery an
d the themes are all about symbolism, class, and etiquette. I wanted my authors to let their imaginations run wild. To be free from any perceived constraints of language or knowledge of history. Their Holmes could be from any time period, in any setting. The only requirement was that the story had to be in the horror genre. So I sat there through the submission period, anxiously awaiting steampunk stories, weird westerns, modern day vampires, and dystopian cyborgs.

  Would you believe all these heifers wrote Victorians?

  At any rate, I hope you enjoy our little collection. I think it’s pretty balanced and the best part is: you don’t have to be a devout Sherlockian to enjoy it. Just passionate.

  I know… tedious.

  --A.C. Thompson

  September 2015

  The Fairy Pool

  Lucy Blue

  1

  Watson packed his case with grim determination, preparing for an outing to the countryside as if for a bivouac through the wilds of Afghanistan. But the most perilous frontier to be crossed was the front parlor of his own London lodging where his accustomed adversary lay in wait.

  “Watson, where are you going?” The ambush came as he’d expected from the dim recesses of Holmes’ library, a shout through the open door.

  “I told you.” He placed his case by the door and went calmly to the cupboard for his overcoat and hat. “Mary and I are going to visit an old school chum of hers in the country.”

  Sherlock popped out of the library like a jack from a box. “It’s a lie.”

  “It is not.” Watson smiled the mild smile of the righteous man. “Why should I lie?”

  “Well done, John.” His friend’s color was high and dramatic. Either he had already imbibed some chemical stimulant at nine in the morning, or the mere fact of John’s leaving had sent him into the first stages of frenzy on its own. “For once, you’ve hit upon the crux of the question without prompting. Why indeed?” John removed the train tickets from his pocket, and Sherlock snatched them from his hand. “Ravenglass,” he read.

  “In the Lake District,” John said, taking them back. “Mary’s friend Seraphima grew up there. It’s meant to be quite lovely.”

  “In summer perhaps.” The great detective was obviously unconvinced. “In October it will be a miserable bog. And really, John, Seraphima? Is that the limit of your invention? Seraphima is the name of an Italian carnival dancer, not the school chum of one’s respectable fiancée.”

  John was inclined to agree. “Nevertheless, that is her name. Her aunts are the novelists Nora and Mirabel May. Perhaps one of them chose her name.”

  Sherlock frowned. “That does seem plausible.” He took the tickets again and sniffed them. “As spinsters and the most prominent and financially successful members of the family, they would no doubt exert a certain influence over the naming of offspring, particularly those from poorer branches of the clan.”

  “Seraphima was orphaned at an early age and brought up by the aunts,” John said. “So I’m sure you must be right.”

  “One hardly follows the other, but yes, I must be.” He sniffed the tickets again. “When did you purchase these?”

  John took them back. “Yesterday afternoon.” He put them back in his pocket. “I had just returned from the station when I told you about our trip.”

  Sherlock’s smile was positively demonic. “That is a lie.”

  “Holmes, really—“

  “Those tickets rested for no small time in close proximity to the bare skin of your fiancée—next to her bosom, unless I miss my guess.”

  John’s eyes popped. “I do beg your pardon!”

  “They reek of her perfume—an ordinarily subtle scent intensified precipitously by abundance, heat, moisture, or some combination of the three. Since Mary is an extremely hygienic young woman not given to bathing herself in perfume or acts of great physical exertion, I deduce that she carried the tickets next to her skin while in a state of anxiety which resulted in greater than usual perspiration.”

  “Have you been sniffing my fiancée?!?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “No, but really!” Ordinarily Holmes’ deductions were a source of wonder and no small delight to his friend, but this seemed not only improper but highly perilous. “Who are you to recognize her scent?”

  “I recognize the presence of Mrs. Hudson’s favorite hack driver by the lingering aroma of horse shit on my hall rug,” Holmes said. “This in no way represents a symbolic romantic attraction.” Now that he had the upper hand, his smile was almost warm. “Tell me the truth, John. Why are you going to the Lake District? What has Mary so frightened?”

  “She isn’t frightened, Holmes; don’t be so dramatic.” He handed over the newspaper clipping Seraphima had enclosed with her frantic letter. “Merely concerned.”

  “Search continues for missing child,” Holmes read the headline. “Hope fast slipping away—good lord, who writes this drivel?”

  “The missing girl apparently has some connection to Seraphima and her family,” John explained. “She’s only seven years old, and Seraphima feels responsible for her in some way. She wrote Mary to ask if I might come and offer my assistance to the police.”

  “You?” He handed back the clipping. “She asked for you?”

  ‘Why not?” John said, trying to remain unruffled. “She has read my accounts of your exploits, so she is aware of my expertise in such matters.”

  “Your accounts, my exploits.” Holmes was heading for his bedroom. “Expertise indeed—do they want a nicely typed story for the newspapers, or do they want the girl found?”

  “Perhaps they don’t want their lives turned upside down by a raving madman whose methods of investigation require the emotional ruin of everyone even remotely involved.” John followed and found him throwing a seemingly random collection of personal belongings into a case of his own. “Holmes, you are specifically not invited.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall go.” He latched the case and handed it to John. “Come, come, Watson; Mary will be waiting. We mustn’t be late.”

  “No.” There was no use arguing, and if put to torture, John might have admitted to feeling a wee bit relieved. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Mary was waiting for them on the platform at the train station. “You owe me a fiver, Dr. Watson,” she said when she saw Holmes had come along. “Shall I put it on your account?”

  “Please.” He gave her a discreet kiss on the cheek. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

  “Of course not.” She smiled at Holmes. “It’s good of you to come on such short notice, Sherlock.”

  Holmes smiled back in a way that might have warmed John’s heart before the business with the perfume on the tickets. Now he found it deeply suspect. “Not at all.”

  “Shall we go then?” John said. “Holmes will have to see the conductor about a ticket. I do hope they don’t put you in back with the chickens.”

  “Chickens don’t travel from London to the country, Watson,” Holmes said, climbing aboard. “Only the other way.”

  They managed to find a compartment to themselves, and the train set off just as it started to rain. “Isn’t this cozy?” Mary said, giving John a wink.

  “You see, Holmes?” he said. “Mary is perfectly cheerful.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t be, Sherlock?” she said.

  “His great powers of deduction convinced him you were in a bit of a panic, dearest,” John said.

  “Really?” she said. “However did you arrive at that?”

  Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but John cut him off. “Never mind that.”

  “You’re perfectly correct, of course,” Mary said.

  “What?” John said as Holmes smirked.

  “I loathe the very idea of going to Ravenglass,” she said.

  “But I thought you and this Seraphima person were close,” John said. “Darling, if you don’t want to go, why--?”

  “Oh, I suppos
e I have to, and yes, Seraphima and I are close, I suppose.”

  “Two suppositions in one sentence,” Holmes noted. “Tell me.”

  “Oh, it’s all silly, I’m sure. I just never . . .” She broke off and looked out the rainy window for a moment. “I’ve only been to The Willows once before, when Seraphima and I were twelve years old, on a summer holiday from school. The Willows is her aunts’ estate.”

  “Naturally,” Holmes said.

  “And it was fine,” she went on. “Her Aunt Mirabel was lovely. She took us rambling all over and let us do whatever we liked. And of course the house and grounds are beautiful—it’s built on the site of an old abbey, and there are ruins and great swaths of wilderness and caves and lakes. We had great fun exploring and making up all manner of horrific tales, like girls do. Her Aunt Nora was an absolute horror, of course, but she was easy to avoid.”

  “So why did you hate it?” Holmes asked.

  “I didn’t—all right, yes, I did; I hated every moment of it. But honestly, I can’t tell you why. I don’t think I could have told you at the time. It was just a feeling. It just didn’t feel . . .” Her eyes met John’s. “It didn’t feel safe.” He reached over and took her gloved hand. “And of course I almost drowned there.”

  “Mary!” John said.

  Holmes was actually smiling. “Indeed?”

  “It was completely silly. We were having a picnic, me, Seraphima, and her Aunt Mirabel. And after lunch, Mirabel took out her journal and told us we should go have a ramble down by the stream. It was so beautiful, the most beautiful setting I’ve ever seen, like something from a fairy tale. All the willow branches trailing into the water, and the tiny little silver fish. We were wading in the shallows, and . . . and I suppose I slipped.” She was gripping John’s hand so tightly his fingers were going numb. “Suddenly I was over my head in the rapids, and I couldn’t find my feet.”