Chapter 52 St. Mary's Loeb Ghoul's Tale

December in London is always the dullest month of the year.A thick yellow damp fog hung over the streets, seeping into the cracks in the stone walls.But one December, the house at 212b Baker Street, which I shared with Sherlock Holmes, was unusually warm.A fire was lit in the stove while I ate the breakfast Mrs. Hudson had prepared.Breakfast was specially prepared to beat the chill outside: English egg and scallion rice, unlike the one I had in India; toast and eggs; buttered cereal; fresh scones; Coffee in the jug, so polished that a distorted mirror image of my face can be seen on its smooth surface.

Holmes, not being a morning man, did not share his food with me, and was, in fact, using the tobacco left over from the day before before preparing the pipe he was going to smoke before breakfast.Satisfied with himself, he immediately lit the smelly pipe.After taking a few puffs, he sat down on the sofa and began to flip through The Times.He usually turned first to the private affairs advertisement column (the column in the newspaper with announcements about missing persons, objects, divorces, etc.), but today he was attracted by something else, and I watched him read it with increasing agitation.

"My dear Holmes," said I, wiping my fingers on a napkin, "you seem a little restless. Let me guess why." Holmes put his pipe on a nearby table.Then he raised his head and gazed at me keenly. "Go ahead, Watson. I have been frightened several times by your ability to use my detective methods. This, perhaps, again. What do you think makes me restless?" "Anyone with a discerning eye knows that it's The Times you're reading." The newspaper, rustling in Holmes' hands, was smudged with some chemical, as newspapers often are. "Yes," said he, "everyone knows, Watson. Can you be more specific?"

"Of course I can," I replied immediately, for I had begun to enjoy the game. "You're reading an article about the St. Mary Lobeau ghoul." "Very well, Watson. You hit it once. How do you know?" I slouched in my chair and began to explain: "I know you think rationality is the most important thing, so only irrational things can make you so disturbed. So you must be reading something related to supernatural events. And in the newspaper The most psychic thing can only be the notorious ghoul." "Things that are not entirely irrational sometimes disturb me," Holmes said.

I smile. "But this one is different, I believe." Holmes touched the paper again. "You have to admit there are other irrational things in this paper." "That's The Times after all," I admitted. "Then you must also admit that you came to this conclusion indirectly?" "May I know what that means?" "I mean you come to that conclusion by reading the papers from earlier in the day. You see the pages of the papers I'm reading and you know what kind of articles catch my attention." "If I did that, wouldn't that be reasoning?"

"Absolutely not. You just read the pages of the newspaper and saw the articles." "But I didn't do that," I protested. "I did read the article, but I drew conclusions based on your unease and what I knew about your thinking." Holmes smiled slightly at me. "Okay, Watson. I believe your reasoning ability has really improved a lot, and it's almost as strong as mine." "You are joking, Holmes. But I don't think you would joke about the St. Mary Lobeau ghoul." "you guessed right." "Inference," I said. "Reason, anyway, I admit that article did annoy me. Our fellow countrymen would be so stupid as to believe that there are real ghost creatures in the world, and in our neighborhood."

"You don't believe in ghouls?" I asked. "What is evil need not be supernatural," said Holmes. "Flesh and blood can be equally evil. In fact, they are more evil." "I've spent some time in India and Afghanistan and probably know this animal better than you do," I replied. "A supernatural being? I have no doubt." Holmes folded the newspaper and picked up his pipe.He took several puffs before the pipe smoked again, and then he said, "What do you know about ghouls?" I don't even need to think about it.As I was reading this article, I was reminded of something that happened to me when I was a soldier.

"First," I said, "the word 'ghoul' comes from the Arabic 'al-Qur.' The word means something like 'to catch.'" "I am astonished by your knowledge of this mysterious word, Watson," said Holmes. "May I suppose that ghouls are in the habit of seizing their victims?" "I'm not sure," I admitted, "that ghouls might actually have that habit, or that ghouls, unlike ghosts, have physical bodies. You can catch one if you want. " "I don't want to do that?" "Really? Their faces are horrible, their skin is rotting, and their yellow fangs smell like dirty, rotting corpses, because that's what they feed on."

"An unpleasant meal indeed," said Holmes, looking at the table. "It does not resemble the food before you at all." "The food in front of me," I said, looking into his eyes, "I think I've eaten most of it." "You believe a ghoul would rather eat a rotting corpse than have such a delicious breakfast?" I hesitated. "I also know that ghouls seem like unlikely creatures. In the time I've known you, I've known that everything we've come across, from vampires to seemingly ghostly hounds , has a logical explanation. But I also know that those who told me about the ghoul fully believed it existed. One of them even swore that he fought one of them. Before he saw it, it eating the corpse of a newly buried child, which it dug out of the ground with its spike-like claws."

"Paws, huh?" said Holmes. "I believe claws are very convenient for digging. But why this ghoul has attacked St. Mary Lobeau's, please tell me." I thought about something I had read in The Times.In fact, there is no explanation for the appearance of ghouls, but only an exaggerated, vivid description of tomb robbery. "I don't know," I said. "I believe the nocturnal animal has come to London, found that particular cemetery and started frequenting that cemetery." "'Haunted' doesn't seem appropriate here. Ghosts are haunted. Ghouls seem to have other unpleasant habits. He doesn't necessarily 'come' to London, he's probably always been here."

"Of course," said Holmes, "even ghouls must have come from somewhere, had an origin. Where, then, did this one come from?" I have no way to answer this question.Frankly, I've never heard of the home of the ghouls. He stood up and went to the window.He opened the window, which was closed against the morning chill and fog.Only then did I hear the muffled sound of footsteps in the street, which Holmes' keen ears had already detected.Then there was a knock on the door. "Someone must need your help, or he wouldn't have come to you so early." To train my reasoning ability, I said this. "Perhaps," said Holmes, "or he has not slept at all, and we shall find out in a moment." He was right.After a while, Mrs. Hudson showed the guest to our room.He was a short, brown, but muscular young man.He began to look around the room, his watery brown eyes seemed magnified behind thick glasses.He merely glanced at me, and then began to stare at Holmes. "You are Sherlock Holmes?" he said, in a soft but loud voice. "I am," replied Holmes.Then, pointing to me, he said, "This is my friend Dr. Watson." "It is my honor," said our guest, "that my name is—" Holmes did not let him finish. "Benjamin Swara." The young man froze for a moment.I am not surprised.I have seen Holmes reason in this way many times. "You are the night watchman at St. Mary's Lobeau," continued Holmes. "You have come here straight from your job." "It's amazing." I'm not as surprised as our guests.At this time, too, I remembered his name being mentioned in The Times.But I must also confess that I do not know how Holmes deduced that our guest was the Night Watchman. "I am not at all surprised," explained Holmes. "I see calluses on your hands, which may be from frequent use of the shovel. Also, I noticed the calluses on your forefinger, and the dirt on your left shoe. Dirt from St Mary's Lobeau Cemetery, and today's Times says you've just been hired." Holmes often told me that much can be deduced from a man's hands and shoes.Once again he proved his theory. "And," continued Holmes, "you are evidently of Indian descent. The names mentioned in The Times, the calluses on your hands, the dirt on your shoes--all these point to the fact that you are the one whom the article refers to." The man you are referring to. Besides, you came directly from your place of work." When he said this, Holmes looked at me triumphantly, but I pretended not to notice, "Because you are happy for the so-called St. Mary's." Worrying about ghouls, those are the basics." "Possibly," said Swara, eyes wide open, "but I doubt there is anyone in London who can draw the conclusions you infer from these phenomena." "Well, there may be another person," said Holmes, "or two. At any rate, you did not come here to discuss my powers of reasoning. Watson, let us take off our guests' coats and sit down." Come down and hear his story." I did as he was told, and put away my hat and scarf, and when we were comfortably seated, Holmes let Mr. Swara begin his story. "My father was a Parsee (parsee, referring to those Persians who fled to the Indian subcontinent because of religious persecution.) Indian, a convert to Christianity, and an evangelical minister," he said. "My mother was British. ...you can certainly imagine that this unusual family combination - at least in the eyes of some - was a source of horror. It wasn't our own horror, it was other people's." Holmes nodded to him.I thought he was getting impatient now.Perhaps, he is eager to know the key to the story. "As I said, my father was a clergyman," continued Swara, "but in his parish"—here he refers to a housing estate on the outskirts of Sheffield—"something has changed, a long Nothing happened for a while. Our parish garden was full of roses, and the hollyhocks grew taller than me. There were bees in the hollyhocks, but we didn't care." He shook his head. "But, you probably don't want to hear that stuff. . We had a very happy time in that place. After that, it became more and more difficult. Unfortunately, we left our country home and came to London, and things changed." Holmes seemed even more interested now. "What has become difficult?" he asked. Swara didn't meet his eyes, "There was a... accident." "What accident?" "An unpleasant surprise." "Be more specific, please," said Holmes, and Swara turned to look at me with wide eyes. "Anything you can say to me, you can say to Dr. Watson," said Holmes. "He is a man of integrity." Swara took a deep breath. "Well, there was some foul language on some houses in the parish. Small animals and pets started getting lost, and we found out later that they were all killed by vicious people. Some people...something...ate them, at least it seemed That's how it is. It's all my fault." "Are you connected with these things?" "No, I would never do such a horrible thing. I have been converted to my father's Christianity since I was a child, but some people think I am sinful, and it is hard to bear the accusation." "Someone blames you and your family for your faults. Is it real or just a fantasy?" "I assure you, it's all figment of the imagination. My father was a strong Christian and his faith infected me and my mother too. The only things wrong with our family were their marriage and my birth, that's why we moved away of." "So, is there no such accident now?" "That's what I thought. But, now I think they're starting again." "A ghoul?" asked Holmes. "Yes, ghoul. I don't know what I did wrong to provoke such a horrible demon. He came here with me, and now, even this humble position that I have won myself - gravedigger and graveyard The caretaker—there is no way to keep it." "The crimes of these legendary ghost monsters should not be blamed on you." "Someone told the cemetery owner about my past, and my imaginary sin, like that ghoul, followed me again." "And do you know who wants to make you bear such a strange crime?" He shrugged. "Many people in Sheffield don't like this kind of interracial marriage, and they don't like children born from interracial marriage even more." "Undoubtedly," said Holmes, "there are such people everywhere. Is there anyone in particular who deserves attention?" "Stanley Forbes was one of them, and he took pleasure in torturing me at school. He and his friends made my life...very unpleasant." Holmes nodded, knowing what he meant. He knew as much about school violence as anyone else. "I can believe it, I don't think you saw the ghoul." "I see it, Mr. Holmes." "you saw it?" "Yes, but only once." "So, does he look like Forbes?" "No, not at all. More terrifying than him. Not like anything I've ever seen, dead or alive." "According to reports I've read in The Times, that ghoul opened up the cemetery and destroyed the bodies in the cemetery you were in charge of." "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Swara, growing more and more agitated, "I saw more than once, and it was horrific. Corpses were torn and thrown everywhere. Their shrouds were torn to shreds, and their faces Torn apart. Even the bravest are intimidated." "I have no doubts," said Holmes, "but I want to see for myself." Swara shook her head and said, "I want your help badly, but I don't approve of you going face to face with a ghoul. It's too—" "Horror," said Holmes. "Dreadful. I know it. But Watson and I have seen many things as terrible as ghouls. Is there any way of knowing when it usually strikes?" "It could come anytime. But, generally, it's after a new funeral." "When is the next funeral?" asked Holmes. "Tomorrow," Swara said, "if I don't stop the ghouls from insulting the corpse this time, I'm sure I'll be out of a job. If my parents are doing well, it won't matter. But, Since my father came to London, he has not been able to find a church for him. He is now working as a greengrocer for a meager income. What I earn is just enough to support the family." "Dr. Watson and I will be on guard with you to-morrow evening," said Holmes. "We shall see what this ghoul can do, but tell no one that we will be there, too." Although Swara begged us not to go, he was clearly happy to have company the next time he encountered a ghoul.He shook hands with both of us as he left.After he had gone, I asked Holmes: "Are you sure you really want to meet that hideous monster?" Holmes' eyes lit up. "It's been a bit boring lately, Watson. I have nothing else interesting to do at this time. Will you go with me?" I frankly couldn't go.Holmes went to the coal-scuttle, where his cigars were hidden.He chose one, and I waited for him to light it before I said, "You don't believe that ghouls are supernatural beings, but what if you're wrong?" He exhaled twice, and the smoke lingered around his face.Then he said: "You know, Watson. I missed it too." "I admit, you seldom make mistakes." Holmes smiled and nodded slightly. "I don't want to be wrong this time. Supernatural beings? They don't exist, my dear Watson, you know that." Then, after several puffs of smoke, he continued, "What do you know about cemeteries, Watson?" Health? How much do you know about ghouls among humans?" I had to think about it a bit before I understood what he meant, and I said, "Are you talking about something like Buck and Hal The body of a victim was sold to Edinburgh Medical University, the chief client being Dr. Robert Knox.) of that type?" "Book is the butcher, Hal is the thief, and Knox is the beef boy," said Holmes.He didn't like poetry, but he was as familiar as any Englishman when we came to those limericks about the activities of odious criminals. "Some catchy tune," he went on, "but that's not what I meant. If you think about it, Watson, they have nothing to do with this ghoul. Buck and Hal are strictly speaking , not ghouls. As a doctor, you should remember that they sold their victims' bodies to anatomy schools, in effect, to Dr. Knox. But, they didn't just steal bodies from the grave. Now, I'm Thinking of those sinful body-snatching boys like the notorious Robert Crouch." "Of course, I know what you mean, those body snatchers. But since the Parliament passed a bill requiring places like asylums and mortuaries to provide medical corpses to doctors, there are no people like Crouch anymore. " "Certainly, Watson. The bill was passed, I recall, in 1832. It is lawful to have corpses from your medical training. What about cemeteries, then? I am speaking of this London cemetery." I am sure Holmes already knows the answer to this question.He usually figured it out on his own.I happen to know a little bit about this myself.This was something that was discussed when I was in medical school.So, I'm also happy to be able to answer his questions. "There was a time," I said, "not that long ago. At that time, most of the cemeteries were churchyards. It was a great hazard to public health. Churchyards were crowded and sometimes , you can even see the bones of the dead coming out of the ground. Children walk on the corpses that have just been buried in the shallow graves above the floors of mission schools and houses of worship. The living above breathe the dead Toxic fumes coming out. It’s not healthy for everyone. So the government passed laws allowing private cemeteries to be built, St Mary’s Lobo is one of them.” "Watson, you have not disappointed me." Holmes casually picked the ashes from his pipe. "You just have very useful information. When you talk about it, you don't seem to be afraid of those corpses and rotting corpses." "To a doctor," I said, "death is nothing to fear. Death is a part of life." "However, many people fear the inevitable end of their own lives. Just like some people fear those who have a different color than us. Death is as natural as a different color." "Ignorance is the root of their fear," I said, "and it is the root of human fear." "Very well said, Watson. Well, we are not ignorant people. So we should not be afraid of ghouls. If they are supernatural beings, they can only exist in the minds of ignorant people. If they are Humans, we can beat them." "I think so. So, you mean Swara is ignorant?" "Not exactly. However, under his father's teaching, he must have been exposed to some folklore. It is reasonable for a father to tell his children about his native culture. Besides, children also like to hear stories about ghosts and ghosts. And in their His father must have told him the ghoul story when discussing the accidents that befell Benjamin." "What about me?" Holmes smiled slightly at me. "Watson, you don't believe in ghouls any more than I do. You may pretend to believe, at least a little, you can recall your time in India and the things you've heard. But, I know, in your heart Deep down, you are the most determined and sane person." "Thank you, Holmes, for the assurance of my sanity. But, I must say sometimes, that I am more gullible than you think." "Well, then, when we go to the cemetery to-morrow, we'll have a better look," he said, turning his pipe in his hand and looking at it thoughtfully. "You'd better take your pistol, Watson." "I'm definitely going to take it," I said. In spite of the bad weather, Holmes remained outside for the rest of the day and the greater part of the next.He didn't discuss where he was going, nor did he explain it to me.I didn't ask him either.I'm used to his occasional unexplained departures by now. The night we went to the cemetery was as bad as the previous nights.A thick fog hung in the air and it was so cold that halos hung over the petrol lamps as we made our way to the cemetery.Holmes and I seemed to be the only passers-by in this dark street.Of course, we both occasionally saw a horse-drawn carriage rattling by because of the roughness of the gravel road. When we reached the gate of the cemetery, Holmes motioned that he would go ahead of me, as the road wound its way between headstones and graves. "All you have to do is follow me," he said, "and I'll take you to the grave of Jonathan Holden, who was just buried." "Holden? I'm not familiar with this name." "He's not someone you know well. He's just a recently buried fellow. That's why our ghouls are likely to visit him. Come on, Watson. We don't want to miss our appointment with this interesting spectre. " I follow him.The road gets darker and darker, and we are farther away from the main street.There are no gasoline lamps on the road to the cemetery, as if those lamps would disturb the dead sleeping peacefully here.Holmes reached into his cloak with shoulder pads and took out a black lantern, which he lit, and in the dim light we walked on.We walked past low headstones and granite tombstones, adorned with white crosses, praying hands, flying eagles and ascended youths, looming in silhouette.Fog surrounds the higher tombstones, obscuring their foundations.I feel like I can smell the freshly turned cemetery.I stopped, wiped the mist off my face, and comforted myself that it was only due to the fog, not from inner anxiety. "Here we are," said Holmes.I must admit that I was quite terrified for a while. The dim light of a black lantern lit a heap of black earth, and standing beside it was the figure of a man, whom I assumed to be Swara.The man walked towards me, and I reached into my coat pocket, clutching the pistol hidden there. "Glad you're here," Swara said, so it was indeed him.As he approached, I recognized him. "I'm still worried about your safety if the ghouls show up." "He has been here before, and you have been unhurt," asked Holmes, drawing down the cover of the lantern. The surroundings suddenly turned into a grotesque half-black state.The sky was hazy and there was no shadow of moonlight.On the contrary, the fog seemed to be phosphorescent at this time.I can still see things around me clearly, but it's just blurry, like in a dream. Swara looked at the new cemetery and came over to us. "I didn't tell you the whole story." "I should like to know very much," said Holmes. "If the ghouls are so dangerous, how can you escape from them?" "I ran away," Swara said, his eyes still on the ground. "I couldn't face it. It was too scary." "You have to face him to-night," said Holmes. "I and Dr. Watson will be with you." Holmes looked around at the strange tombstones.After a while, he said, "This is a good location, Watson. It's neither too far away nor too close. The ghouls can't feel our presence." I looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a large tomb. In front of it was a tombstone commemorating the deceased. If it was shining in the sunlight during the day, it must have been shining white, but now it was only glowing with a weird gray light.The statues adorning the tomb clearly represented a resurrected body, breaking through the shackles of the earth and rising from the cold ground. "We shall wait behind the great tombstone," continued Holmes, "and if the ghoul appears, we shall confront him head to head." "And me?" Swara asked, finally looking up. "Do as you usually do," said Holmes, "as if nothing had changed." "Since the ghouls invaded the cemetery, I've been sitting nearby looking at the grave." "Fine. Just do that, we're leaving." After saying that, Holmes led me to the back of the tomb. Although we were in such a gloomy environment, we both relaxed as much as possible.Holmes had never cared about the cold and the damp.But, I have to admit, the cold and damp seemed to seep into my joints.In the silent darkness, I froze.Neither the hard earth nor the even harder tombstone I leaned against gave any relief. At the end of about two hours Holmes nudged me slightly.I think I was dozing off then, because I jumped out of the back of the grave on a reflex, reaching into my trouser pocket for a gun. "Not yet, Watson," said Holmes in a low voice, "but it should be soon. Come here." He stood up, crawled to the corner of the tomb, stared for a while, and motioned for me to follow.I followed, my joints creaking and complaining.What I saw on the edge of the grave woke me up instantly, and I no longer cared about the complaining joints. Swara stood terrified at the edge of the tomb, over which floated the spherical, jagged face of a ghoul with a distorted mouth.Suddenly he came at Swara, and Swara hit him with a shovel hidden by the side.He missed, and the hideous ghoul's head flew away, letting out a hideous laugh, and swooping in again.Swara hit him again with the shovel, still missed, and threw the shovel at the head, which easily avoided it.Swara tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he fell to the ground. "Watson, do it!" cried Sherlock Holmes, and I understood his meaning, and immediately drew out my gun, and shot at that terrible head which was attacking us.The first shot missed, and Holmes had left, running in the direction of the grave.I fired again, and this time it was a hit, but the result was unexpected.The ghoul's head exploded into pieces, drifting away and disappearing into the fog. Holmes had run across the tomb, past an obelisk beside it.The sound of the shooting was still lingering in my ears, and I heard someone shouting and struggling. I run forward.Swara, having recovered from her panic, joins Holmes in his fight against the ghoul.When I arrived, I saw that what they were facing was not a midnight monster, but an ordinary person.Of course, the man looked more malevolent than any ghoul.He raised the knife and waved it in front of him, forcing Holmes and Swara not to approach. "This is what you call a ghoul, Watson," said Holmes, as I approached. "I have never seen him, but I am sure his name is Stanley Forbes." "I think you're right," Swara said, leaning forward to get a better look, "but why is he here, what happened to that monster?" "The monster is nothing more than a balloon," said Holmes, "with a hideous face painted on it. Your former schoolmate used an old psychic trick to hang the balloon on a fishing rod, and I think we Definitely find that fishing rod nearby." "You won't find anything," said Forbes - and it seemed to be him - as he leaned forward, brandishing his knife. "A knife is not a good weapon sometimes," said Holmes. "I think our American friends have a saying: Hit an egg with a rock." I held out my gun.Forbes looked at it for a long time without saying anything, flipping the knife in his hand, holding the blade with the handle facing us.Suddenly he threw the knife at Swara, and Swara just had time to avoid it, and the knife whizzed past him.Before Forbes had time to see if the knife had hit him, he turned and fled. "It's your turn, Watson," said Holmes, and I fired.The bullet hit Forbes in the right calf, and he fell to the ground, sliding several feet on the ground. "Then," said Holmes, "this is the end of the days of the St. Mary Loeb ghoul." Next morning, after a late breakfast, I asked Holmes how he knew we were about to encounter such things. "Of course I'm not sure," he said, buttering the muffins, "but it seems to me that Swara is a gullible, especially in the dark. You must have noticed how nearsighted he is?" I said, I noticed."Even in the best of circumstances," continued Holmes, "he would need a great deal of help to see clearly. At night he is practically blind. Add to that the frightening momentum of the ghoul, and his Superstitious thinking, people could easily take advantage of the situation to intimidate him." "Like Stanley Forbes," I said, taking a sip of Mrs. Hudson's delicious coffee. "Of course," said Holmes, "his hatred for the Swara family, and especially for Benjamin, led him to bully him at school. Afterwards, when he found that not enough to satisfy him, he thought of other vicious things. .When the Swara family moved to London, Forbes had no fun and followed. I found out on the train to Sheffield. I wanted to find Forbes in London. But, in such a short time Guilty, I can't help it. I'm not discouraged by it, because I know we'll meet Holden on his grave." "But how can you be so sure?" "Holden was a wealthy man and I had a few words with his family. They told me that some of his personal belongings would be buried with him, including a valuable gold ring and a pocket watch." Forbes Dropping dead bodies to make it look like they were eaten, when in reality he was robbing them." "Ah, now I know why you think it's a ghoul dressed up by a person." "Yes, ghouls don't just sell bodies to anatomists, they steal. They take anything they find on a body. Forbes does the same." "Forbes is such a poor fellow," I said. "Yes," said Holmes, "it is not a good thing that ignorance, hatred, and superstition do not explode and disappear like the painted balloon." I put down my glass and said, "That reminds me of something else, Holmes. That so-called ghoul's laugh as he attacked Svara...how did that come about?" "Forbes, of course," said Holmes. "But, the direction of that laughter is wrong?" I asked again. "That's not easy, Watson. Some people confuse voices, especially at night, and when it's foggy." "However, Forbes vehemently denies his mutilation." "My dear Watson," said Holmes, looking impatient, "do you mean to say that there are other people in the cemetery?" “或者是其他什么东西，”我说，“你必须承认，那个笑声有点食尸鬼的味道。” “我相信这是你说过的最不好笑的笑话。”福尔摩斯说道。他把椅子推回，站起来。“我想我现在要用小提琴拉几首曲子，这个烦闷的十二月天里实在没有别的事情可做。” 不一会儿，他已经把乐弓搭在琴弦上，而我又再一次听到了圣玛丽乐博食尸鬼的笑声。