|
|||||||||
| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
|
The Ghost Club
|
|||||||||
|
Now I know you’ve heard the stories about Mr. Houdini, but at least one isn’t true: he’d performed the Chinese Water Torture Act dozens of times. It wasn’t the torture cell that killed him- it was a burst appendix. When he first introduced the cell, which he called the Up Side Down, it was a part of a one man play- a trick to copyright the effect and prevent imitation. That was because his previous bread and butter, the milk can escape, had been stolen a hundred times over.
But something you may not know is Mr. Houdini was friends with none other than the creator of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself. They met in the 20s, while Mr. Houdini was touring England. Doyle was a member of a group of spiritualists that went by the name of the Ghost Club. Ostensibly, their work focused on rooting out frauds in the spirit world, but Doyle became convinced that Mr. Houdini was a great medium- which teed Mr. Houdini off. They were quite a pair. Conan Doyle was a full head taller- and nearly two of Mr. Houdinis thick. Mr. Houdini didn’t cotton to spiritualists and grifters trying to take advantage of him and his family after his mother Cecelia’s passing. Conversely, Doyle, following the death of his wife Louisa and his son Kingsley, found solace in the idea that those he lost weren’t really and truly gone. I think that’s why they became friends: they both wanted to believe, and the difference came down to whichever side of skepticism they landed. Their friendship ended abruptly- that many people know- but there’s one incident that neither man, despite their books on the subject and their general outspokenness, ever told. It was the year before Mr. Houdini’s death, and they hadn’t spoken since before he published A Magician Among the Spirits. Doyle sent a letter over the ocean: “I’ve spoken with Louisa. You must come. A. Conan Doyle” (signed). When Mr. Houdini arrived at Doyle’s door two weeks later, he asked, “Whatever was so urgent?” Doyle smiled. “I’d hoped you would arrive today. It’s the anniversary, you might not recall, of the séance with Lady Jean. I won’t abuse the proverbial beast of burden, but it was the last time I believe we attempted one to another to see the other’s eyes. In the past you’ve accused me of incaution- even zeal- and perhaps I’m culpable on both counts. But I’ve found someone- a mystic beyond anything I’ve seen, and I’d wager beyond even the cleverest artifices of your luminous mind.” Mr. Houdini was immediately taken aback. Doyle had sworn for quite some time that his feats were to a one supernatural, owing to powers perhaps he was unaware of, but of a metaphysical nature he was certain. “You believe you’ve found a genuine spiritualist?” “I have,” he paused. “It’s strange, but without knowing firsthand the actual article, how simple it was to... confuse the merely mysterious with the magical. But I have seen-” Doyle stopped himself, “I can’t expect, after all these years, you to take anecdote for evidence of the thing. You shall see, with your own eyes, the very thing tonight.” “Will Lady Doyle be joining us?” Mr. Houdini asked after a moment’s pause. “No. They’ll be plenty time enough for pleasantries. And perhaps Bess will join us before you take your leave. But come. I’ve an audience scheduled on the hour, and we should have just enough time for it.” They walked perhaps two-thirds of the way to the Queen’s Head pub before Doyle said something to the effect of, “It’s a good feeling, walking with you again. It has been a great sacrifice.” Houdini snapped back at him. “It is no ‘sacrifice’ to convince people who have recently suffered a bereavement of the possibility and reality of communicating with their dear ones.” Doyle smiled pleasantly. “Our friendship has suffered. I am mocked openly in the presses. If not sacrifice, what word would suffice?” “To me the poor suffering followers eagerly searching for relief from the heart-pain that follows the passing on of a dear one are the ‘sacrifice.’” “I’ve missed your passion, Houdini; I pray it survives its trial.” “I would like nothing more than to believe, but unlike you Conan, I must be convinced. Validation mustn’t be sought after; it must be manifest.” “You should have your proof,” Doyle said, holding the door into the Queen’s Head open. There was a small room near the rear of the pub, and Doyle led the way through a gentle mob of patrons. Inside the room, Doyle spoke. “This is the medium I’ve spoken of, Albert Roberts. And Mr. Roberts, this is the great Harry Houdini. Not sell Mr. Roberts short, but he’s not the showman you are.” “Who could be?” Mr. Houdini asked, with a twinkle in his eye. Roberts was not at a moment an impressive man. Bespectacled, balding, and with a thin beard and a thinner frame, he looked beside Mr. Houdini’s rather rugged and muscular build as an aging spinster- an old maid, to you youngins. But he had enough pride to him that he rose up from his seat and put out his hand to be shaken. “I understand your hostility to spiritualists; and I admire your skepticism. Those who would abuse innocent pain deserve the damnation of more than a fiery tongue. While enough of them are likely themselves innocent and convinced, I’d prefer to know myself if I am genuine or merely insane.” Mr. Houdini sat on Roberts’ right, his dominant side, holding onto his hand and wrist, while Doyle did the same on his left. At Houdini’s insistence, both he and Doyle placed a foot over each of the mystic’s feet. The lights were low, lit only by a single candle in the center of the table, already burnt through most of the wax. As the candlelight waned, the room became chilled, and all men felt a breeze. And suddenly there was light, not so much that you could see clearly, but enough so you could see what was making the light: a face, the face of a woman, a woman Mr. Houdini hadn’t seen in a very long time, and his mouth opened and couldn’t be shut. She spoke to him. My Yiddish is, well, I’ve been warned off the language, as I have a tendency to mistakenly mutter curses rather than proper phrasing, but she said in his mother’s tongue, “My little boy.” “Momma,” he said, and a tear went down his face. “It’s my birthday. Did you remember?” She asked, her voice wavering upon the final word. He turned out his collar and produced a flower he’d tacked to the inside of his lapel- a black Hungarian flower specifically. He released it from the pin, set it down on the table and pushed it forward, in the direction of the face. She breathed it in, and when she exhaled the smell of it filled the room. Then her expression changed. And she shimmered, and when she spoke her voice was stern. “You must stop this, Eric. Your crusade… the powers you’ve angered are a gathering shadow over you. You will lose your life, and death will be most unkind to you.” “Enough.” Mr. Houdini said, and every muscle in his body tensed at once; his hand squeezed down so tightly that Roberts’ hand emitted a series of painful pops, and the mystic’s face contorted. Mr. Houdini released his hand and rose, his entire body balled as if in a fist. “Stop this.” Small though he might have been, nobody in a right mind would have denied his request. But at a minimum, the medium was not in a right mind, and despite some lingering pain he appeared distant. Mr. Houdini was about to belt Roberts in the mouth, when the medium started to vomit. And he vomited enough that there shouldn’t have been anything left of the man but a husk, yet he kept at it, a frothy slime that covered the floor by an inch. Mr. Houdini walked hurriedly from the room, and Doyle followed. He’d badly misread Mr. Houdini, and believed the man’s distress came from disappointment at being wrong. Doyle couldn’t help himself, and there was a pinch of triumph in his rounded boy’s cheeks. “Well?” “Yet another medium requesting I cease my investigations to his own benefit. My only surprise is how long it’s taken one to find a photograph of my mother and to learn Yiddish.” “I assure you the man speaks not a word.” “And you know this how? By his admission? I’m sorry. No amount of ectoplasm, or of visual or auditory trickery, is enough.” Wounded, and perhaps sensing that he may not have another opportunity, Doyle hurriedly blurted, “You must by now know how many spiritualists have predicted your death. I worry over those dangerous stunts of yours.” “I defy Death daily- and predict my demise every morning. Sir Arthur,” he said with a light smile and a shallow bow, and took his leave. They were the last words spoken between them; and no extant letters seem to have passed, either, as both men seemed wary of misuse of their words. “And maybe it’s just a ghost story. After all, Mr. Houdini never spoke on it, and Doyle prolific as he was never wrote it down. But there are times, especially at night walking these halls in the dark, surrounded by so many of the things that tried so desperately to take away Mr. Houdini’s life- only to see his body do the work itself- that I feel his breath on the nape of my neck, or see a shadow that shouldn’t be on the floor, or what I think’s a reflection for a moment, that when stared at disappears.” “But Mr. Houdini left instructions with Bess. If ever he got a message across, if ever he spoke to her from beyond the grave, there was a phrase he was to speak to her. She gave an annual séance for him for ten long years and not a peep- and declared ten years was too long to wait for any man- even Mr. Houdini.” “Now, unfortunately, the gift shop’s closed now; we usually end the tour there, but they cash out before dark, safety concerns. If any of the children saw something they simply must have, perhaps we could do something for it, but- no? All right. I have to ask, because I hate the thought of sending away some imp with a twinkle in his eye. You folks have an excellent night, and drive carefully home. I can’t guarantee what manner of afterlife you might experience, or if there is one.” The old door latched with a familiarity that felt like a hand on shoulder, and I realized I felt warmth, too; I couldn’t be certain if I heard the words, or felt them ask, “Rosabelle believes?” “I believe she does, Mr. Houdini. The good Lord knows I do.” |
|||||||||