When the well-respected Secretary of the Society of Psychic research is found mysteriously dead in a Brighton Hotel, inspector Abberline of Scotland Yard seeks the help of Mabel Collins, an occultist and Douglas Blackburn a Journalist. Together they stumble onto a club of shadowy men seeking the secret of the Rosicrucians in order to enact an occult plot for world domination.
He who seeks the light in darkness... from the light to darkness fall.
In 1855 a Club was formed by young members of Trinity College Cambridge University England and included in its membership Charles Dickens. The Ghosts as they called themselves gathered to share information and stories of their own experiences of the paranormal. They also performed the first psychic investigations into paranormal activity.
The club was disbanded after the death of Dickens and revived on All Saints Day in 1882 by Alfred Alaric Watts, the son of journalist and poet Alaric Alexander Watts, and a famous contemporary medium, the Reverend Stainton Moses.
Unlike the Society for Psychic Research, The Ghost Club was a selective and secretive organization of convinced believers in the paranormal. Membership was by invitation only after a member passed certain tests.
The names of members - both living and dead (incorporeals) were solemnly recited each year on the Day of the Dead. These meetings were cloaked in secrecy and all members living or dead were required to attend.
The minutes of these meetings have never been seen by anyone.
Some of its illustrious members were:
Sir William Crookes; Sir Oliver Lodge, the physicist; Nandor Fodor, psychologist and a former associate of Sigmund Freud; and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes and William Butler Yates.
MIDNIGHT has come, and the great Christ Church Bell
And may a lesser bell sound through the room;
And it is All Souls' Night,
And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel
Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come;
For it is a ghost's right,
His element is so fine
Being sharpened by his death,
To drink from the wine-breath
While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.
William Butler Yates