{"id":24899,"date":"2025-11-02T19:09:57","date_gmt":"2025-11-02T23:09:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=24899"},"modified":"2025-11-02T19:09:59","modified_gmt":"2025-11-02T23:09:59","slug":"arthur-conan-doyle-playing-with-fire","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/arthur-conan-doyle-playing-with-fire\/24899\/","title":{"rendered":"Arthur Conan Doyle: Playing With Fire"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cPlaying with Fire\u201d<\/em> is a short story by Arthur Conan Doyle, published in March 1900 in The Strand Magazine<\/em>. The story follows a small group of intellectuals and occult enthusiasts who, driven by curiosity and a desire to explore beyond the material world, organize s\u00e9ances in a London house. The arrival of an enigmatic French visitor, an expert in psychic phenomena, introduces an unexpected twist to their experiments. As the session progresses, the participants cross increasingly dangerous boundaries, and what begins as a game becomes a disturbing and out-of-control experience.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Arthur<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Playing With Fire<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Arthur Conan Doyle
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cannot pretend to say what occurred on the 14th of April last at No. 17, Badderly Gardens. Put down in black and white, my surmise might seem too crude, too grotesque, for serious consideration. And yet that something did occur, and that it was of a nature which will leave its mark upon every one of us for the rest of our lives, is as certain as the unanimous testimony of five witnesses can make it. I will not enter into any argument or speculation. I will only give a plain statement, which will be submitted to John Moir, Harvey Deacon, and Mrs. Delamere, and withheld from publication unless they are prepared to corroborate every detail. I cannot obtain the sanction of Paul Le Duc, for he appears to have left the country.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was John Moir (the well-known senior partner of Moir, Moir, and Sanderson) who had originally turned our attention to occult subjects. He had, like many very hard and practical men of business, a mystic side to his nature, which had led him to the examination, and eventually to the acceptance, of those elusive phenomena which are grouped together with much that is foolish, and much that is fraudulent, under the common heading of spiritualism. His researches, which had begun with an open mind, ended unhappily in dogma, and he became as positive and fanatical as any other bigot. He represented in our little group the body of men who have turned these singular phenomena into a new religion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Delamere, our medium, was his sister, the wife of Delamere, the rising sculptor. Our experience had shown us that to work on these subjects without a medium was as futile as for an astronomer to make observations without a telescope. On the other hand, the introduction of a paid medium was hateful to all of us. Was it not obvious that he or she would feel bound to return some result for money received, and that the temptation to fraud would be an overpowering one? No phenomena could be relied upon which were produced at a guinea an hour. But, fortunately, Moir had discovered that his sister was mediumistic \u2014 in other words, that she was a battery of that animal magnetic force which is the only form of energy which is subtle enough to be acted upon from the spiritual plane as well as from our own material one. Of course, when I say this, I do not mean to beg the question; but I am simply indicating the theories upon which we were ourselves, rightly or wrongly, explaining what we saw. The lady came, not altogether with the approval of her husband, and though she never gave indications of any very great psychic force, we were able, at least, to obtain those usual phenomena of message-tilting which are at the same time so puerile and so inexplicable. Every Sunday evening we met in Harvey Deacon\u2019s studio at Badderly Gardens, the next house to the corner of Merton Park Road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Harvey Deacon\u2019s imaginative work in art would prepare any one to find that he was an ardent lover of everything which was outr\u00e9<\/em> and sensational. A certain picturesqueness in the study of the occult had been the quality which had originally attracted him to it, but his attention was speedily arrested by some of those phenomena to which I have referred, and he was coming rapidly to the conclusion that what he had looked upon as an amusing romance and an after-dinner entertainment was really a very formidable reality. He is a man with a remarkably clear and logical brain \u2014 a true descendant of his ancestor, the well-known Scotch professor \u2014 and he represented in our small circle the critical element, the man who has no prejudices, is prepared to follow facts as far as he can see them, and refuses to theorise in advance of his data. His caution annoyed Moir as much as the latter\u2019s robust faith amused Deacon, but each in his own way was equally keen upon the matter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I? What am I to say that I represented? I was not the devotee. I was not the scientific critic. Perhaps the best that I can claim for myself is that I was the dilettante man about town, anxious to be in the swim of every fresh movement, thankful for any new sensation which would take me out of myself and open up fresh possibilities of existence. I am not an enthusiast myself, but I like the company of those who are. Moir\u2019s talk, which made me feel as if we had a private pass-key through the door of death, filled me with a vague contentment. The soothing atmosphere of the s\u00e9ance with the darkened lights was delightful to me. In a word, the thing amused me, and so I was there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was, as I have said, upon the 14th of April last that the very singular event which I am about to put upon record took place. I was the first of the men to arrive at the studio, but Mrs. Delamere was already there, having had afternoon tea with Mrs. Harvey Deacon. The two ladies and Deacon himself were standing in front of an unfinished picture of his upon the easel. I am not an expert in art, and I have never professed to understand what Harvey Deacon meant by his pictures; but I could see in this instance that it was all very clever and imaginative, fairies and animals and allegorical figures of all sorts. The ladies were loud in their praises, and indeed the colour effect was a remarkable one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you think of it, Markham?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, it\u2019s above me,\u201d said I. \u201cThese beasts \u2014 what are they?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMythical monsters, imaginary creatures, heraldic emblems \u2014 a sort of weird, bizarre procession of them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith a white horse in front!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not a horse,\u201d said he, rather testily \u2014 which was surprising, for he was a very good-humoured fellow as a rule, and hardly ever took himself seriously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it, then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan\u2019t you see the horn in front? It\u2019s a unicorn. I told you they were heraldic beasts. Can\u2019t you recognise one?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVery sorry, Deacon,\u201d said I, for he really seemed to be annoyed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He laughed at his own irritation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExcuse me, Markham!\u201d said he; \u201cthe fact is that I have had an awful job over the beast. All day I have been painting him in and painting him out, and trying to imagine what a real live, ramping unicorn would look like. At last I got him, as I hoped; so when you failed to recognise it, it took me on the raw.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy, of course it\u2019s a unicorn,\u201d said I, for he was evidently depressed at my obtuseness. \u201cI can see the horn quite plainly, but I never saw a unicorn except beside the Royal Arms, and so I never thought of the creature. And these others are griffins and cockatrices, and dragons of sorts?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, I had no difficulty with them. It was the unicorn which bothered me. However, there\u2019s an end of it until to-morrow.\u201d He turned the picture round upon the easel, and we all chatted about other subjects.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moir was late that evening, and when he did arrive he brought with him, rather to our surprise, a small, stout Frenchman, whom he introduced as Monsieur Paul Le Duc. I say to our surprise, for we held a theory that any intrusion into our spiritual circle deranged the conditions, and introduced an element of suspicion. We knew that we could trust each other, but all our results were vitiated by the presence of an outsider. However, Moir soon reconciled us to the innovation. Monsieur Paul Le Duc was a famous student of occultism, a seer, a medium, and a mystic. He was travelling in England with a letter of introduction to Moir from the President of the Parisian brothers of the Rosy Cross. What more natural than that he should bring him to our little s\u00e9ance, or that we should feel honoured by his presence?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was, as I have said, a small, stout man, undistinguished in appearance, with a broad, smooth, clean-shaven face, remarkable only for a pair of large, brown, velvety eyes, staring vaguely out in front of him. He was well dressed, with the manners of a gentleman, and his curious little turns of English speech set the ladies smiling. Mrs. Deacon had a prejudice against our researches and left the room, upon which we lowered the lights, as was our custom, and drew up our chairs to the square mahogany table which stood in the centre of the studio. The light was subdued, but sufficient to allow us to see each other quite plainly. I remember that I could even observe the curious, podgy little square-topped hands which the Frenchman laid upon the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat a fun!\u201d said he. \u201cIt is many years since I have sat in this fashion, and it is to me amusing. Madame is medium. Does madame make the trance?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, hardly that,\u201d said Mrs. Delamere. \u201cBut I am always conscious of extreme sleepiness.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is the first stage. Then you encourage it, and there comes the trance. When the trance comes, then out jumps your little spirit and in jumps another little spirit, and so you have direct talking or writing. You leave your machine to be worked by another. Hein?<\/em> But what have unicorns to do with it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Harvey Deacon started in his chair. The Frenchman was moving his head slowly round and staring into the shadows which draped the walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat a fun!\u201d said he. \u201cAlways unicorns. Who has been thinking so hard upon a subject so bizarre?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is wonderful!\u201d cried Deacon. \u201cI have been trying to paint one all day. But how could you know it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have been thinking of them in this room.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCertainly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut thoughts are things, my friend. When you imagine a thing you make a thing. You did not know it, hein<\/em>? But I can see your unicorns because it is not only with my eye that I can see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you mean to say that I create a thing which has never existed by merely thinking of it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut certainly. It is the fact which lies under all other facts. That is why an evil thought is also a danger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey are, I suppose, upon the astral plane?\u201d said Moir.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh, well, these are but words, my friends. They are there \u2014 somewhere \u2014 everywhere \u2014 I cannot tell myself. I see them. I could touch them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou could not make us<\/em> see them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is to materialise them. Hold! It is an experiment. But the power is wanting. Let us see what power we have, and then arrange what we shall do. May I place you as I wish?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou evidently know a great deal more about it than we do,\u201d said Harvey Deacon; \u201cI wish that you would take complete control.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt may be that the conditions are not good. But we will try what we can do. Madame will sit where she is, I next, and this gentleman beside me. Meester Moir will sit next to madame, because it is well to have blacks and blondes in turn. So! And now with your permission I will turn the lights all out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is the advantage of the dark?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause the force with which we deal is a vibration of ether and so also is light. We have the wires all for ourselves now \u2014 hein<\/em>? You will not be frightened in the darkness, madame? What a fun is such a s\u00e9ance!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At first the darkness appeared to be absolutely pitchy, but in a few minutes our eyes became so far accustomed to it that we could just make out each other\u2019s presence \u2014 very dimly and vaguely, it is true. I could see nothing else in the room \u2014 only the black loom of the motionless figures. We were all taking the matter much more seriously than we had ever done before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou will place your hands in front. It is hopeless that we touch, since we are so few round so large a table. You will compose yourself, madame, and if sleep should come to you you will not fight against it. And now we sit in silence and we expect \u2014 hein<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So we sat in silence and expected, staring out into the blackness in front of us. A clock ticked in the passage. A dog barked intermittently far away. Once or twice a cab rattled past in the street, and the gleam of its lamps through the chink in the curtains was a cheerful break in that gloomy vigil. I felt those physical symptoms with which previous s\u00e9ances had made me familiar \u2014 the coldness of the feet, the tingling in the hands, the glow of the palms, the feeling of a cold wind upon the back. Strange little shooting pains came in my forearms, especially as it seemed to me in my left one, which was nearest to our visitor \u2014 due no doubt to disturbance of the vascular system, but worthy of some attention all the same. At the same time I was conscious of a strained feeling of expectancy which was almost painful. From the rigid, absolute silence of my companions I gathered that their nerves were as tense as my own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then suddenly a sound came out of the darkness \u2014 a low, sibilant sound, the quick, thin breathing of a woman. Quicker and thinner yet it came, as between clenched teeth, to end in a loud gasp with a dull rustle of cloth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that? Is all right?\u201d some one asked in the darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, all is right,\u201d said the Frenchman. \u201cIt is madame. She is in her trance. Now, gentlemen, if you will wait quiet you will see something, I think, which will interest you much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still the ticking in the hall. Still the breathing, deeper and fuller now, from the medium. Still the occasional flash, more welcome than ever, of the passing lights of the hansoms. What a gap we were bridging, the half-raised veil of the eternal on the one side and the cabs of London on the other. The table was throbbing with a mighty pulse. It swayed steadily, rhythmically, with an easy swooping, scooping motion under our fingers. Sharp little raps and cracks came from its substance, file-firing, volley-firing, the sounds of a fagot burning briskly on a frosty night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere is much power,\u201d said the Frenchman. \u201cSee it on the table!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had thought it was some delusion of my own, but all could see it now. There was a greenish-yellow phosphorescent light \u2014 or I should say a luminous vapour rather than a light \u2014 which lay over the surface of the table. It rolled and wreathed and undulated in dim glimmering folds, turning and swirling like clouds of smoke. I could see the white, square-ended hands of the French medium in this baleful light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat a fun!\u201d he cried. \u201cIt is splendid!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShall we call the alphabet?\u201d asked Moir.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut no \u2014 for we can do much better,\u201d said our visitor. \u201cIt is but a clumsy thing to tilt the table for every letter of the alphabet, and with such a medium as madame we should do better than that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, you will do better,\u201d said a voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho was that? Who spoke? Was that you, Markham?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, I did not speak.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was madame who spoke.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut it was not her voice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs that you, Mrs. Delamere?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is not the medium, but it is the power which uses the organs of the medium,\u201d said the strange, deep voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere is Mrs. Delamere? It will not hurt her, I trust.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe medium is happy in another plane of existence. She has taken my place, as I have taken hers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt cannot matter to you who I am. I am one who has lived as you are living, and who has died as you will die.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We heard the creak and grate of a cab pulling up next door. There was an argument about the fare, and the cabman grumbled hoarsely down the street. The green-yellow cloud still swirled faintly over the table, dull elsewhere, but glowing into a dim luminosity in the direction of the medium. It seemed to be piling itself up in front of her. A sense of fear and cold struck into my heart. It seemed to me that lightly and flippantly we had approached the most real and august of sacraments, that communion with the dead of which the fathers of the Church had spoken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you think we are going too far? Should we not break up this s\u00e9ance?\u201d I cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the others were all earnest to see the end of it. They laughed at my scruples.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll the powers are made for use,\u201d said Harvey Deacon. \u201cIf we can<\/em> do this, we should<\/em> do this. Every new departure of knowledge has been called unlawful in its inception. It is right and proper that we should inquire into the nature of death.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is right and proper,\u201d said the voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere, what more could you ask?\u201d cried Moir, who was much excited. \u201cLet us have a test. Will you give us a test that you are really there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat test do you demand?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, now \u2014 I have some coins in my pocket. Will you tell me how many?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe come back in the hope of teaching and of elevating, and not to guess childish riddles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHa, ha, Meester Moir, you catch it that time,\u201d cried the Frenchman. \u201cBut surely this is very good sense what the Control is saying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is a religion, not a game,\u201d said the cold, hard voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExactly \u2014 the very view I take of it,\u201d cried Moir. \u201cI am sure I am very sorry if I have asked a foolish question. You will not tell me who you are?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat does it matter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave you been a spirit long?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow long?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe cannot reckon time as you do. Our conditions are different.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you happy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou would not wish to come back to life?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo \u2014 certainly not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you busy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe could not be happy if we were not busy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have said that the conditions are entirely different.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you give us no idea of your work?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe labour for our own improvement and for the advancement of others.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you like coming here to-night?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am glad to come if I can do any good by coming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen to do good is your object?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is the object of all life on every plane.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou see, Markham, that should answer your scruples.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It did, for my doubts had passed and only interest remained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave you pain in your life?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo; pain is a thing of the body.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave you mental pain?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes; one may always be sad or anxious.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you meet the friends whom you have known on earth?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSome of them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy only some of them?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOnly those who are sympathetic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo husbands meet wives?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThose who have truly loved.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd the others?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey are nothing to each other.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere must be a spiritual connection?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs what we are doing right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf done in the right spirit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is the wrong spirit?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCuriosity and levity.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMay harm come of that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVery serious harm.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat sort of harm?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou may call up forces over which you have no control.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEvil forces?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUndeveloped forces.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou say they are dangerous. Dangerous to body or mind?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSometimes to both.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a pause, and the blackness seemed to grow blacker still, while the yellow-green fog swirled and smoked upon the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAny questions you would like to ask, Moir?\u201d said Harvey Deacon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOnly this \u2014 do you pray in your world?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOne should pray in every world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause it is the acknowledgment of forces outside ourselves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat religion do you hold over there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe differ exactly as you do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have no certain knowledge?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe have only faith.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThese questions of religion,\u201d said the Frenchman, \u201cthey are of interest to you serious English people, but they are not so much fun. It seems to me that with this power here we might be able to have some great experience \u2014 hein<\/em>? Something of which we could talk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut nothing could be more interesting than this,\u201d said Moir.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, if you think so, that is very well,\u201d the Frenchman answered, peevishly. \u201cFor my part, it seems to me that I have heard all this before, and that to-night I should weesh to try some experiment with all this force which is given to us. But if you have other questions, then ask them, and when you are finish we can try something more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the spell was broken. We asked and asked, but the medium sat silent in her chair. Only her deep, regular breathing showed that she was there. The mist still whirled upon the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have disturbed the harmony. She will not answer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut we have learned already all that she can tell \u2014 hein<\/em>? For my part I wish to see something I have never seen before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou will let me try?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat would you do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have said to you that thoughts are things. Now I wish to prove<\/em> it to you, and to show you that which is only a thought. Yes, yes, I can do it and you will see. Now I ask you only to sit still and say nothing, and keep ever your hands quiet upon the table.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room was blacker and more silent than ever. The same feeling of apprehension which had lain heavily upon me at the beginning of the s\u00e9ance was back at my heart once more. The roots of my hair were tingling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is working! It is working!\u201d cried the Frenchman, and there was a crack in his voice as he spoke which told me that he also was strung to his tightest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The luminous fog drifted slowly off the table, and wavered and flickered across the room. There in the farther and darkest corner it gathered and glowed, hardening down into a shining core \u2014 a strange, shifty, luminous, and yet non-illuminating patch of radiance, bright itself, but throwing no rays into the darkness. It had changed from a greenish-yellow to a dusky sullen red. Then round this centre there coiled a dark, smoky substance, thickening, hardening, growing denser and blacker. And then the light went out, smothered in that which had grown round it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt has gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHush \u2014 there\u2019s something in the room.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We heard it in the corner where the light had been, something which breathed deeply and fidgeted in the darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it? Le Duc, what have you done?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is all right. No harm will come.\u201d The Frenchman\u2019s voice was treble with agitation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood heavens, Moir, there\u2019s a large animal in the room. Here it is, close by my chair! Go away! Go away!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was Harvey Deacon\u2019s voice, and then came the sound of a blow upon some hard object. And then … And then … how can I tell you what happened then?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some huge thing hurtled against us in the darkness, rearing, stamping, smashing, springing, snorting. The table was splintered. We were scattered in every direction. It clattered and scrambled amongst us, rushing with horrible energy from one corner of the room to another. We were all screaming with fear, grovelling upon our hands and knees to get away from it. Something trod upon my left hand, and I felt the bones splinter under the weight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA light! A light!\u201d some one yelled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMoir, you have matches, matches!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, I have none. Deacon, where are the matches? For God\u2019s sake, the matches!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can\u2019t find them. Here, you Frenchman, stop it!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is beyond me. Oh, mon Dieu<\/em>, I cannot stop it. The door! Where is the door?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My hand, by good luck, lit upon the handle as I groped about in the darkness. The hard-breathing, snorting, rushing creature tore past me and butted with a fearful crash against the oaken partition. The instant that it had passed I turned the handle, and next moment we were all outside, and the door shut behind us. From within came a horrible crashing and rending and stamping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it? In Heaven\u2019s name, what is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA horse. I saw it when the door opened. But Mrs. Delamere \u2014\u2014 ?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe must fetch her out. Come on, Markham; the longer we wait the less we shall like it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He flung open the door and we rushed in. She was there on the ground amidst the splinters of her chair. We seized her and dragged her swiftly out, and as we gained the door I looked over my shoulder into the darkness. There were two strange eyes glowing at us, a rattle of hoofs, and I had just time to slam the door when there came a crash upon it which split it from top to bottom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s coming through! It\u2019s coming!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRun, run for your lives!\u201d cried the Frenchman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another crash, and something shot through the riven door. It was a long white spike, gleaming in the lamplight. For a moment it shone before us, and then with a snap it disappeared again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cQuick! Quick! This way!\u201d Harvey Deacon shouted. \u201cCarry her in! Here! Quick!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We had taken refuge in the dining-room, and shut the heavy oak door. We laid the senseless woman upon the sofa, and as we did so, Moir, the hard man of business, drooped and fainted across the hearth-rug. Harvey Deacon was as white as a corpse, jerking and twitching like an epileptic. With a crash we heard the studio door fly to pieces, and the snorting and stamping were in the passage, up and down, shaking the house with their fury. The Frenchman had sunk his face on his hands, and sobbed like a frightened child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat shall we do?\u201d I shook him roughly by the shoulder. \u201cIs a gun any use?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, no. The power will pass. Then it will end.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou might have killed us all \u2014 you unspeakable fool \u2014 with your infernal experiments.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI did not know. How could I tell that it would be frightened? It is mad with terror. It was his fault. He struck it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Harvey Deacon sprang up. \u201cGood heavens!\u201d he cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A terrible scream sounded through the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s my wife! Here, I\u2019m going out. If it\u2019s the Evil One himself I am going out!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He had thrown open the door and rushed out into the passage. At the end of it, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Deacon was lying senseless, struck down by the sight which she had seen. But there was nothing else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With eyes of horror we looked about us, but all was perfectly quiet and still. I approached the black square of the studio door, expecting with every slow step that some atrocious shape would hurl itself out of it. But nothing came, and all was silent inside the room. Peeping and peering, our hearts in our mouths, we came to the very threshold, and stared into the darkness. There was still no sound, but in one direction there was also no darkness. A luminous, glowing cloud, with an incandescent centre, hovered in the corner of the room. Slowly it dimmed and faded, growing thinner and fainter, until at last the same dense, velvety blackness filled the whole studio. And with the last flickering gleam of that baleful light the Frenchman broke into a shout of joy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat a fun!\u201d he cried. \u201cNo one is hurt, and only the door broken, and the ladies frightened. But, my friends, we have done what has never been done before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd as far as I can help,\u201d said Harvey Deacon, \u201cit will certainly never be done again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that was what befell on the 14th of April last at No. 17 Badderly Gardens. I began by saying that it would seem too grotesque to dogmatise as to what it was which actually did occur; but I give my impressions, our<\/em> impressions (since they are corroborated by Harvey Deacon and John Moir), for what they are worth. You may, if it pleases you, imagine that we were the victims of an elaborate and extraordinary hoax. Or you may think with us that we underwent a very real and a very terrible experience. Or perhaps you may know more than we do of such occult matters, and can inform us of some similar occurrence. In this latter case a letter to William Markham, 146m, the Albany, would help to throw a light upon that which is very dark to us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cPlaying with Fire\u201d is a short story by Arthur Conan Doyle, published in March 1900 in The Strand Magazine. The story follows a small group of intellectuals and occult enthusiasts who, driven by curiosity and a desire to explore beyond the material world, organize s\u00e9ances in a London house. The arrival of an enigmatic French visitor, an expert in psychic phenomena, introduces an unexpected twist to their experiments. As the session progresses, the participants cross increasingly dangerous boundaries, and what begins as a game becomes a disturbing and out-of-control experience.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":24898,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[565,572,772],"class_list":["post-24899","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-arthur-conan-doyle-en","tag-horror-en","tag-united-kingdom","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":565,"label":"Arthur Conan Doyle"},{"value":572,"label":"Horror"},{"value":772,"label":"United Kingdom"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/Arthur-Conan-Doyle-Jugando-con-fuego.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":565,"name":"Arthur Conan Doyle","slug":"arthur-conan-doyle-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":565,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":9,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":572,"name":"Horror","slug":"horror-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":572,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":127,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":772,"name":"United Kingdom","slug":"united-kingdom","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":772,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":92,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24899","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24899"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24899\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/24898"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24899"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24899"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24899"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}