What Was it? Page #4

"What Was It?" is a chilling novella by Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu, a master of Gothic fiction. Published in 1872, the story unfolds as a series of eerie occurrences plague a group of people in a quiet household. The narrative centers around an unseen, otherworldly entity that induces terror and mystery, leaving the characters—and readers—grappling with the nature of fear, the supernatural, and the inexplicable. Le Fanu's skillful blend of atmosphere, suspense, and psychological depth invites contemplation on the boundaries between reality and the unknown, making it a compelling exploration of ghostly phenomena.

• Novel

								

which themselves were invisible.

Hammond and myself had racked our brains during the long night to
discover some means by which we might realize the shape and general
appearance of the Enigma. As well as we could make out by passing our
hands over the creature's form, its outlines and lineaments were human.
There was a mouth; a round, smooth head without hair; a nose, which,
however, was little elevated above the cheeks; and its hands and feet
felt like those of a boy. At first we thought of placing the being on a
smooth surface and tracing its outlines with chalk, as shoemakers trace
the outline of the foot. This plan was given up as being of no value.
Such an outline would give not the slightest idea of its conformation.

A happy thought struck me. We would take a cast of it in
plaster-of-Paris. This would give us the solid figure, and satisfy all
our wishes. But how to do it. The movements of the creature would
disturb the setting of the plastic covering, and distort the mould.
Another thought. Why not give it chloroform? It had respiratory
organs--that was evident by its breathing. Once reduced to a state of
insensibility, we could do with it what we would. Doctor X---- was sent
for; and after the worthy physician had recovered from the first shock
of amazement, he proceeded to administer the chloroform. In three
minutes afterward we were enabled to remove the fetters from the
creature's body, and a modeller was busily engaged in covering the
invisible form with the moist clay. In five minutes more we had a mould,
and before evening a rough fac-simile of the Mystery. It was shaped like
a man--distorted, uncouth, and horrible, but still a man. It was small,
not over four feet and some inches in height, and its limbs revealed a
muscular development that was unparalleled. Its face surpassed in
hideousness anything I had ever seen. Gustave Doré, or Callot, or Tony
Johannot, never conceived anything so horrible. There is a face in one
of the latter's illustrations to Un Voyage où il vous plaira, which
somewhat approaches the countenance of this creature, but does not equal
it. It was the physiognomy of what I should fancy a ghoul might be. It
looked as if it was capable of feeding on human flesh.

Having satisfied our curiosity, and bound every one in the house to
secrecy, it became a question what was to be done with our Enigma? It
was impossible that we should keep such a horror in our house; it was
equally impossible that such an awful being should be let loose upon the
world. I confess that I would have gladly voted for the creature's
destruction. But who would shoulder the responsibility? Who would
undertake the execution of this horrible semblance to a human being? Day
after day this question was deliberated gravely. The boarders all left
the house. Mrs. Moffat was in despair, and threatened Hammond and myself
with all sorts of legal penalties if we did not remove the Horror. Our
answer was, "We will go if you like, but we decline taking this creature
with us. Remove it yourself if you please. It appeared in your house. On
you the responsibility rests." To this there was, of course, no answer.
Mrs. Moffat could not obtain for love or money a person who would even
approach the Mystery.

At last it died. Hammond and I found it cold and stiff one morning in
the bed. The heart had ceased to beat, the lungs to inspire. We hastened
to bury it in the garden. It was a strange funeral, the dropping of that
viewless corpse into the damp hole. The cast of its form I gave to
Doctor X----, who keeps it in his museum in Tenth Street.

As I am on the eve of a long journey from which I may not return, I have
drawn up this narrative of an event the most singular that has ever come
to my knowledge.
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