I previously related a series of diary entries from an old, unlabelled, leather-bound journal which I discovered last year whilst clearing out the departmental ophthalmic library at my hospital. I had stopped reading it from January 1909 onwards as the entries around that date had unsettled me so much that I thought it best not to continue. I tucked it away on the bookshelf above my desk where it had gathered dust for over a year.
Recently however, as I was returning to my office at the end of a rather frantic day in late autumn, I happened to notice the journal once again. Illuminated in the twilight of the fading sun, it piqued my interest. The unease that I had experienced when reading the previous entries had subsided. I felt a sudden surge of excitement at the thought of learning more about the life of a former colleague from my own hospital at the start of the 20th century.
I took it down from the shelf, prepared a coffee and perused it further, starting from where I had left off. However, it wasn’t long before I came across another set of alarming entries which I again feel obliged to share with you, and to make of what you will…
Saturday 19th November 1910
My housemaid prepared a light breakfast for me in the study this morning so that I might avail myself of an early departure. I only just caught that rapscallion of a cat, Gladstone, on the desk just before he was about to partake of some butter. He only seems to arise from his slumbers to the aroma of food. Fortified for the day ahead, I made my way to Waverley station in good time for the first stage of my journey.
On arrival, I observed that The Scotsman newspaper stand was doing a thriving trade with its announcement of ‘Violent Scenes As Suffragettes March On Westminster’ on the display hoarding. Across the concourse, I was delighted to see that my surgical colleague and sparring partner, Harold, was already waiting for me.
“I am surprised that the Professor gave you permission to attend this conference as well, Harold. The Moray Pavilion is overrun at present. Although, your being away is probably a blessing for everyone, including the patients. The bunting will be out in celebration!” I jested as we carried our portmanteaus to the London-bound platform.
“Ah, you’re on top form, and so early in the morning,” he replied. “Well, in explanation, having supplied the good Professor with a brace of grouse from a weekend’s shooting party, he was more than happy to approve my absence.”
“You wily old fox.”
“Indeed, and there was no way I wanted to miss out on the opportunity of visiting Bucharest, the Paris of the East,” Harold wistfully sighed.
“And the educational content of the meeting?” I prompted.
“Of course,” he said with a knowing wink. “By the way, the Professor asked me to let you know that he is more than happy for you to extend your stay in Romania… indefinitely,” he quipped.
The journey to London passed uneventfully and after a light dinner we have now retired to our respective rooms at the Great Northern Hotel, a wee stone’s throw from King’s Cross station.
Sunday 20th November 1910
A cold blanket of fog shrouded our short journey across town to Victoria station early this morning. It was still with us as we departed, and lingered ominously as we crossed the Kent countryside, only starting to lift as we approached Dover. The ferry crossing was bracing to say the least and whilst I failed to find my sea legs and felt distinctly bilious throughout, Harold paraded the deck like an admiral, exchanging pleasantries with fellow travellers.
By the time we arrived in Paris, and still feeling the world swaying slightly, I was in much need of a lie down or a refreshment in a café at the very least. However, despite my protests, Harold commandeered a Marne taxi to take us on a brief sightseeing tour of the city before depositing us at Gare de l’Est in time for our evening departure on the Orient Express. I am sure it was just so that he could say, “It’s a bit of an eyeful,” when he looked out of the window as we passed the Eiffel Tower.
We departed two hours ago but my constitution has not returned yet. I have therefore taken to my bed in the top bunk of the cabin leaving Harold to dine alone. Even the thought of rich food and fine wines this evening is simply too much to contemplate.
Monday 21st November 2010
I slept heavily and only awoke to the sound of Harold’s loud snoring a little after seven. I felt much revived today and thoroughly enjoyed the journey as we made steady progress heading East. We finally arrived in Vienna in the late afternoon. As darkness fell, Harold made his way to the dining car to survey the menu in advance of dinner but returned a few minutes later all of a bluster.
“You will not believe who boarded the train at Vienna,” he exclaimed.
“Professor Ernst Fuchs?” I suggested.
“How did you guess?”
“My psychic abilities, Harold. Also, he resides in Vienna and I had heard that he was planning to attend the same meeting as us in Bucharest.”
“Well, it’s a disaster! We’ll have to keep a low profile this evening or we will be obliged to dine with him. He’s a frightful bore.”
“Agreed. He’s certainly cornered the market in eponyms. Fuchs’ corneal dystrophy, Fuchs’ coloboma, Fuchs’ uveitis…”
“Yes,” Harold confirmed. “Poulet à la Fuchs is probably le plat du jour on the menu tonight,” he added drily.
“Poulet Au Fuchs,” I corrected. “Male gender. Schoolboy error, Harold. Keep up.”
Tuesday 22nd November 2010
Fortunately, we managed to avoid old Fuchs in the dining car yesterday evening and for the entire duration of the journey today. We passed through Budapest early this morning and spent the day traversing Transylvania.
“We are now travelling through the land of vampires and the home of Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula,” I gestured to Harold as a castle partially hidden by trees passed by on the distant horizon.
“Have you read the book?” he asked. “Total balderdash and nonsense superstitions! If you haven’t, I wouldn’t waste your time.”
“As declared by Harold, the world-renowned literary critic! Actually, I’ve learnt that there are quite a few superstitions here in Romania. There are often things that can’t be explained by science,” I added, recalling the disturbing events at the College Museum a few years previously.
“Ha! The only thing that science can’t explain is how a buffoon like you can be an eye surgeon!”
I laughed. However, for some reason I had started to feel uneasy. Although we had awoken to a beautiful sunrise with breath-taking scenery, as the day progressed the skies had clouded over and darkened considerably. I had also begun to notice a surprising number of crows sitting motionless in the fields. There appeared to be a menacing air about them.
When we finally disembarked from the train in Bucharest in the late afternoon we were caught in the most torrential downpour, receiving a thorough soaking on transferring to a cab to take us to Manuc’s Inn, our residence for the duration of the meeting. Although I am terribly excited to have finally arrived, I still haven’t shaken the sense of foreboding that developed earlier today.
Wednesday 23rd November 1910
Following dinner last night, I had left Harold at the bar. He had been keen to partake of one or two glasses of the local spirit, ţuică, and this morning it was quite evident that he had consumed more than just the one or two as he looked distinctly rough around the edges. He nursed a coffee irritably for a while before informing me that he would be returning to his bed. He planned to join me in the meeting being held at Coltea Hospital around lunchtime.
There had been some lively debate at the morning lectures, the highlight being Dr Eduard Zirm describing the technique for corneal transplantation which he has recently pioneered. There was some scepticism in the audience, often associated with the presentation of a novel surgical procedure and most likely a result of a modicum of professional jealousy prevalent amongst physicians. Following the morning’s proceedings, I arrived at the main quadrangle in front of the Clinica de Oftalmologie at midday, where I had prearranged to meet up with Harold. He approached a few minutes late and looking rather flustered.
“I see you’ve rested well,” I japed.
“Well, I was perfectly recovered until a few minutes ago. A hideous, disfigured patient accosted me as I rounded the corner over there,” Harold gestured. “She grasped at me, shouting ‘Ajuta-ma!’ repeatedly. I’m afraid I rather lost my rag with her as I made my escape. She screamed out ‘Te blestem!’ after me across the courtyard. I have no idea what she was trying to communicate but it was all quite unsettling. I had to take a detour and double back here.”
“Maybe she was a tad smitten by you,” I suggested with a grin.
“Well, she didn’t sound like it.”
“We have two hours until the lectures start. Come, I think the hair of the dog with another glass of whatever you were drinking last night may revive you,” I said as we wandered off to find a local tavern.
The most entertaining part of the afternoon session was at the start when a French colleague mispronounced Fuchs’ surname and his face became puce with suppressed outrage. “I think he’s going to have a stroke,” Harold whispered sitting next to me.
The main talk was delivered by a local eye surgeon, Dr Thomas Jonnesco, who gave a detailed description of the treatment of glaucoma by resecting the superior cervical ganglion which appeared to give favourable results. “Hogwash again, just like Dracula,” muttered Harold under his breath. “I can’t believe we’re having to sit through this,” he continued, shuffling restlessly in his seat.
As the afternoon progressed though, Harold became subdued and his deprecating comments stopped, which is most unlike him when there are so many flawed opinions to criticise. I turned to look at him and he had become rather pale with beads of sweat on his forehead. When the final lecture drew to a close, he grabbed my arm saying with some urgency, “I really need to leave. Right now.”
Outside, it was already dark and it had turned distinctly cold. As we descended the stone staircase of the main hospital building Harold stopped suddenly and froze. His face looked aghast as he stared intently into the distance. He then raised his arm and started pointing.
“There she is again, watching me. Look!” he said urgently.
“Who?” I replied.
“That lunatic woman at lunchtime who tried to grab at me,” he replied impatiently.
I followed the line of sight to where he was pointing. “There’s no one there, Harold. You’re imagining things. Maybe you’re just tired and still under the influence.”
He blinked. “I tell you, she was there a moment ago. Hideous. Dressed all in white, almost like a shroud.” He shivered.
“I think you need an early night,” I said reassuringly.
However, the initial fear and now disquietude which had descended on him was contagious and I started to feel unsettled myself. The streets back to our hotel were poorly lit, with a scarcity of gas lamps, and as we navigated through the streets the darkness seemed to envelop us.
Harold remained silent and seemed ill at ease. I was concentrating too hard on the landmarks and finding the correct route to try and engage in any conversation. I also had the uncomfortable sensation that we were being followed.
It was with some relief that we finally returned to civilisation and entered Manuc’s Inn again. I made way to the restaurant but Harold, who by now was ashen faced, retired to his bed. We arranged to reconvene at breakfast. A traditional stew and a couple of glasses of wine have somewhat lifted my spirits, but as I lie here in bed, something feels slightly out of kilter.
Thursday 24th November 1910
“Her eyes were the worst I have ever seen, opaque and bloodshot,” Harold said as he sat down opposite me when he arrived for breakfast this morning. He still looked deathly pale and had a haunted look about him.
“Are we still talking about the woman from yesterday lunchtime that tried to accost you?”
“Yes, and I saw her again this morning when I looked out of my bedroom window down onto the street below. She was pointing up at my window reciting something. I went away to get dressed and when I looked out some five minutes later, she had disappeared. I also have a terrible, awful headache with colicky pains in my stomach.”
He remained subdued throughout breakfast, fidgeting with a coffee which he barely touched. As we were about to leave, the hotel porter approached our table and handed Harold a telegram. As he opened the envelope and read it, he slumped back in his seat. He passed it to me with a forlorn expression.
“ANNE GRAVELY ILL WITH FEVER STOP ADMITTED TO ROYAL INFIRMARY STOP APPENDICITIS SUSPECTED STOP SURGERY PLANNED STOP”
His six-year-old daughter Anne, an only and cherished child, was decidedly unwell back in Edinburgh.
“My luck has turned since yesterday lunchtime. I feel really unwell and now my daughter is moribund in hospital back home with an operation planned. It’s almost as if…” he tailed off, deep in thought.
At that moment a group at the table next to us broke out into laughter, and one of the men who I recognised from yesterday’s lectures arose from his seat. It was the Romanian surgeon Dr Thomas Jonnesco and Harold spotted him at the same time.
“Excuse me, sir!” Harold frantically waved at the doctor.
Jonnesco approached our table. “Good morning gentlemen, you were in the audience yesterday were you not?” he asked, and on noticing the alarm evident on Harold’s face, added, “Can I be of assistance to you?”
“Yes,” Harold replied, and he proceeded to explain the recent events with the repeated disturbing encounters with the woman, including a complete description of her disfigured appearance. He then requested a translation of the two phrases that she had shouted at him.
“Well, ‘Ajuta-ma!’ means ‘Help me’ and ‘Te blestem’ is ‘Curse you!’ in Romanian,” Jonnesco explained. “It appears that she became angry when you did not stop to help her.”
“I tell you, she’s cursed me!” Harold beat the table with his fist. “But who is this blasted woman?” he asked.
Dr Jonnesco frowned, removed his glasses and rubbed at his temples. “The lady in question that you have described is someone that I am familiar with. But…” he paused. “She is dead.” His words hung in the air.
“She was a patient of mine some three years ago,” he eventually continued. “A previously attractive young woman called Maria Vaduva from Afumați, a small village outside Bucharest. She contracted leprosy resulting in terrible corneal scarring with deformed eyelids. She was effectively blind. On discovering that there was little that we could offer her in the way of treatment and that she would ultimately be confined to a leprosy colony, she threw herself from a third-floor hospital window. She died instantly from a head injury. The priest from her village came to collect her body.”
“Yes, that’s all very well, but you say she is dead, so it’s not really a potential explanation,” Harold said exasperatedly.
Jonnesco earnestly looked between the two of us. “I am not a superstitious man, but there have been occasional sightings of this woman around Coltea Hospital ever since her suicide. I believe you call it a ‘ghost’ in English. I have always been sceptical of these claims, but the way you describe her so accurately and without any prior knowledge makes me believe that it is true. What is more worrying though, is that it appears that this woman has given you…” he lingered, “the evil eye.”
“The evil what?” Harold enquired, going even more pale, if that was possible.
“The evil eye is a curse emanating from a malicious glare,” I explained. “I’ve read that it’s a common belief here in eastern Europe, Harold.”
“Your colleague is correct, we call it ‘deochi’ here in Romania,” Jonnesco confirmed. “What is of the utmost importance now is that you break this curse before it is too late.”
“This is absolute bunkum!” Harold exclaimed.
“Don’t be too dismissive, Harold,” I urged, having had prior experience with an evil spirit back in Edinburgh but which I was not about to admit.
“You should come with me today to visit the priest in Afumați and tell him your story,” suggested Jonnesco. “He will know what to do. I believe that this will be far more important than you attending any of today’s lectures.”
I spent a few minutes persuading Harold to take up Jonnesco on his offer, and he finally relented. My argument was that he had nothing to lose and everything to gain, particularly now his daughter was so unwell back in Edinburgh.
At the entrance to the hotel, Jonnesco managed to arrange a horse and carriage to take us to Afumați. He explained that the driver had initially not been keen as it was a way out of the city and not worth his efforts for a one-way fare. However, he had ultimately agreed having been assured of a bonus payment for waiting and the return journey as well.
The trip to the village of Afumați was one of the worst I have ever encountered. The road became unpaved shortly after leaving the city and progress was slow owing to the uneven and often flooded route following the recent heavy rains. Another downpour started to fall midway through the journey. I felt sorry for the exposed driver at the front, encouraging the horses in such inclement weather and resolved to supplement his bonus.
We arrived by mid-afternoon but the village appeared to be deserted. Jonnesco requested that we be taken directly to the rectory. As the carriage pulled up, he jumped out, rushed up to the house and hammered away at the door. The rain was falling hard and he very quickly became soaked through. It was a full two minutes before the door opened and there appeared to be a frantic discussion between the two men. Eventually he beckoned for us to join him.
Sitting in the study surrounded by copious religious texts, Jonnesco informed us that he had explained to the priest Harold’s predicament. Between them they had decided upon an appropriate course of action. The deceased lady, as was customary for someone who had committed suicide, had been buried on un-consecrated ground on the outskirts of the village. Furthermore, as a result of superstition from her suicide and the fear of contracting her disfiguring disease amongst the villagers, she had been interred face down and her neck pinned to the ground with a sickle in the hope that this might prevent her reanimation following death. Following our story, the priest was clearly alarmed that these preventative measures clearly had not worked. He insisted that we all follow him to her grave for an impromptu religious ceremony in order to try and break the curse and put her demon spirit to rest.
Harold was non-plussed at having to brave the elements on what appeared to him to be a wild goose chase, especially as he was feeling nauseous from the journey. Jonnesco and the priest were insistent that he really had no choice. The wind had increased and the rain was now falling as sleet, which was being whipped into our faces and reducing visibility.
After a five-minute brisk walk and as dusk was falling, we came to a sign – ‘Afumați’ – marking the entrance to the village. A little further on we arrived at a small wooden cross upon which was written ‘Maria Viduva, 23.03.1887 – 24.12.1907’ by a barren looking tree.
The priest suddenly became panic struck. He spoke urgently to Jonnesco who explained to us that the earth around the grave appeared to have been disturbed. Without delay, he insisted that Harold recite the Lord’s prayer word for word after the priest in Romanian.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Harold grimaced.
At the conclusion of the prayer ending with “…acum și pururea și în vecii vecilor, Amin,” the priest tied a red ribbon to the wooden cross.
“It’s to counteract the evil eye curse,” Jonnesco explained in response to our confused expressions.
Standing around in the field for any period of reflection following the ministrations by the priest in the driving sleet was of no benefit to anyone and we made haste back to the rectory. The priest bade farewell to us and hurried back inside the rectory whilst we climbed back inside the waiting horse and carriage. We travelled back to Bucharest deep in our own thoughts and the return journey was equally as unpleasant as the outward bound one, if not more so, as we were all now very cold and damp.
On arrival at Manuc’s Inn again, I managed to persuade Harold to join me for a light supper. We were both too exhausted from the day’s events to countenance any nightcap and have now retired to our beds.
Friday 25th November 1910
I had a restless night’s sleep and was haunted by images of the bleak grave which we had attended the previous day. Arriving for breakfast, I found Harold already sitting at one of the tables and he appeared much revived with a good colour about him. As I sat down, he smiled and handed me another telegram:
“OPERATION SUCCESSFUL STOP ANNE’S CONDITION MUCH IMPROVED TODAY STOP”
“What’s more,” Harold began, “is that my constitution has returned today and I’m feeling pretty chipper. No sign of that dreadful woman either this morning. Perhaps the priest’s actions did finally put her to rest after all, despite my misgivings.”
“Maybe…” I replied but didn’t follow up with my own reservations regarding this based on my previous experience with the possessed skull. Sometimes spirits are reluctant to remain dormant. “Will you be joining me at the lectures today?” I enquired.
“Maybe,” Harold replied with a wink.
The rest of the doctors’ trip to Bucharest seemed to pass uneventfully and there was no further mention of the ghost which Harold had seemingly encountered. However, there was an entry a little further on in the diary from the following year which was quite alarming.
Thursday August 24th 1911
I bumped into Dr Jonnesco from Bucharest at the Ophthalmology Congress in Paris today and we shared a Pernod at one of the street cafes on the Champs-Élysées. I enquired about the ghost of Maria Viduva and whether there had been any new encounters with her. There had been no further sightings to date. However, he informed me that sadly the priest of the village Afumați was found dead inside the rectory four weeks after our departure on Christmas Eve. He had been strangled with a red ribbon. The murderer had not been found, but the villagers all believed that there was little point in looking. They had given Maria’s grave a wide berth ever since.
