Other Worlds (12 page)

"Your ignoble fatuities and monstrous extravagances, gentlemen, indicate that you are totally ignorant of the subject. The true nature of the Bell Witch is hideously apparent to anyone with an open mind. This suffering child, this unhappy maiden, was doomed to suffer because of the ignoble heresies of Calvin and Knox. The misguided ministers had neither the spiritual nor
the practical knowledge to deal with so dark and difficult a task. The only thing that could have saved Betsy Bell was an exorcist—
spiritualis imperator
—specifically ordained to cast out demons by the grace of the Holy Ghost.

"Yes! This was a clear and dreadful case of diabolic possession. Have we not the authority of God's holy word as to its reality? 'Behold, they brought him a dumb man possessed with a devil, and after the devil was cast out, the dumb man spoke.' (Matthew nine, gentlemen—verses thirty-two and thirty-three.)

"History records innumerable examples of obsession and diabolic possession. That unhappy home in Tennessee saw another. At first the demon attacked the Bell family from without, by knocks and rappings and physical attacks. This is technically known as obsession. It is often the prelude to actual possession, in which the demon assumes control of an individual's body from within. Betsy Bell's seizures, or fainting fits, were unmistakable signs of possession. The filthy obscenities voiced by the creature, its knowledge of all languages, the foul stench noted by one witness—all are signs of the presence of an unclean spirit. Or, in this case, spirits. Scripture tells us that a demonic presence admitted its name was Legion—innumerable, countless. With what typical frivolity did you dismiss one of the most important clues in the narrative—the witch family, and the devilishly significant name of its leader. A black dog was one of the commonest manifestations of that oldest and most vile of fallen angels.

"Sir Arthur, you appear flushed. No wonder! Don't you realize you are playing with fire—Hell fire—when you summon the dead? The voices you hear at your seances are not dear ones who have passed from this life, they are demonic actors of diabolic skill. The New Religion of Spiritualism is but the Old Witchcraft, and the Bell Witch was indeed a witch—a vile, perverse, and perverting spirit like the ones that led the Salem witches to death and damnation. Spiritualism is most foul, most loathly, most—"

Doyle surged to his feet. "By Heaven, Summers, you go too far! This was a private conversation which—"

"Which was on the verge of concluding," Houdini interrupted, taking his irate friend firmly by the arm. "Shall we go, gentlemen?"

"We may as well." Podmore shot a glance of cold dislike at the disembodied head, which grinned back at him. "There is no hope of intelligent discussion now. Good night, Mr. Summers."

"Reverend Summers, sir! And let me warn you, Sir Arthur—"

Doyle's friends surrounded him and led him out. In the hall, while they waited for the servant to fetch their coats, the Inspector asked incredulously, "Who the devil is that madman?"

"He is no priest, whatever he pretends," Doyle sputtered.

"His name is Montague Summers," Fodor explained. "He is the author of a number of learned books on magic and witchcraft which are distinguished by the astonishing fact that the man believes in each and all of these superstitions. He deplores the fact that the witch finders were not thorough enough, and considers burning to death too light a punishment for persons who have embraced Satanism."

"You're kidding," Ryan said. "Or is he?"

"No, he is quite in earnest. Strangely enough," Fodor said thoughtfully, "he has done quite a nice job of editing the major Restoration dramatists."

"Oh, what does it matter?" Houdini slipped into his overcoat and took his hat from the cloakroom attendant. "The fellow is a bad joke. If Sir Arthur hadn't been on the verge of losing his temper, I'd have encouraged Summers to rave on. He is funnier than a vaudeville show."

The front door opened; a gray tendril of fog slid in, like a ghostly arm. Podmore turned up his collar. Fodor contemplated
the spectral glow of a street lamp, eerily swathed in mist.

"We part here, gentlemen," he said. "A strange conclusion to our evening. We had dispelled the ghosts and demons, only to have them raised again by Summers."

"Perhaps it was a fitting conclusion after all," Houdini said musingly. "Our theories offer satisfying explanations, but in spite of all our logic we will never know the true answer—unless in some other universe we are privileged to meet Mrs. Betsy Bell Powell face-to-face, and hear the story from her own lips. We might not care for that, you know. It would be a dull world if all doubts were resolved and all questions answered—a world without wonder or scope for imagination ..."

The five men part. Their forms melt into the fog and disappear.

The Second Evening

“
The
fog
thickens," said Conan Doyle in solemn tones.

He stood at the tall window, which was framed by heavy red plush draperies. Outside, the wrought-iron railings glistened with condensed moisture. All objects beyond them were wrapped in a veil of fog; the forms of passersby moved like shrouded spectres, and the gas lamps shone with a ghostly glow.

His companion laughed. "An appropriate setting, isn't it? Like the start of one of your famous stories. Come and sit down, Arthur, and let the servant draw the curtains."

With the dreary night shut out the room felt cozy and comfortable. A fire crackled on the hearth and handsome oriental rugs muffled the footsteps of the servants moving about the room. Several overstuffed chairs had been drawn up in a semicircle facing the fire. Instead of taking one of them, Doyle turned, courteously awaiting the arrival of the others. They were not long in following: thin-faced, intense Frank Podmore, who had been called the skeptic-in-chief of the Society for Psychical Research; the suave Viennese psychiatrist, Nandor Fodor; and, preceding them, the sole American member of their informal society, gallantly escorting a lady whose hand rested lightly on his arm. Harry
Houdini was not a tall man, but the lady's crown of thick auburn hair barely reached his ear. Like the men, she wore formal evening attire; the skirts of her satin gown trailed behind her and the bodice glittered with jet and crystal beads. She was not in her first youth, but Doyle, a gentleman of the old school, had privately decided she was still a fine figure of a woman. He was too much of a gentleman to wonder whether the color of her hair was entirely natural.

The lady examined the pleasant room and its elegant furnishings with interest. "Well, this is a privilege," she remarked, her deep contralto voice marked (not unpleasingly Doyle thought) by an unmistakable American accent. "I never expected to be admitted to such a bastion of masculine privacy. How did you get me in?"

Houdini chuckled, and led her to a chair in the center of the circle. "The rules of that other world—I won't call it the real world, since this one suits me just fine—are suspended here, ma'am. If this were a traditional gentleman's club, I probably wouldn't have been admitted either!"

Andrew Lang, who had already seated himself, rose politely, and the others waited until she had taken a chair before selecting their own. Brandy and coffee were ordered. Houdini lit a cigar, and Fodor took out his pipe. The lady fumbled in her unfashionably large evening bag and produced a packet of cigarettes. She was still rummaging around in it, presumably for a means of lighting her cigarette, when Harry Price, on her right, struck a match for her.

She acknowledged the gesture with a smile. "I'm honored all the same, gentlemen, to be part of such a distinguished company as this! You are all authorities on the subject of the occult, and I am the merest amateur."

A courteous murmur of denial followed the statement, and the lady smiled more broadly "In fact, I have drawn extensively from your works for my own humble literary efforts. Yet I venture to
suggest that we writers of fiction may occasionally contribute a kind of insight that eludes the strictly rational mind."

She nodded at Doyle, who beamed back at her. "Exactly," he said eagerly. "The creative impulse—"

He broke off to take a glass from the tray the waiter offered. The lady had refused brandy, and Doyle said with anxious courtesy, "Would you prefer another beverage, ma'am?"

The lady coughed deprecatingly. "Since you are kind enough to ask, Sir Arthur, a whiskey and soda would be just the thing. I hope that doesn't shock you."

Houdini laughed and beckoned the waiter. "An excellent idea, ma'am. I'll join you."

Fodor, pipe in hand, leaned forward. "What you were saying of the creative impulse is of course correct. Whence such inspirations come is unknown, but that they may tap a source of knowledge hidden from the common mind is unquestionable."

"Are you implying that mine is a common mind?" Price asked. His well-schooled countenance remained grave, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. Fodor, who knew him well, smiled and replied, "Not common, Price, but certainly limited! As is mine. I bow to the talents of our writers of fiction, including Andrew, of course."

Lang shook his head. "My little fairy tales aren't my own creations, you know. Like our charming guest, I am an amateur on the subject of folklore and the supernatural; but, like her, I have read widely and given the matter much thought. I look forward to her exposition with interest. Am I correct in assuming that we are to have another American ghost story this evening?"

"Quite," said the lady After an appreciative sip of her whiskey, she put the glass down on the table, extinguished her cigarette, and dug into her bag with both hands. They emerged with a sheaf of paper, which she displayed triumphantly "The Phelps case. We Americans do seem to specialize in poltergeists, don't we, Mr. Houdini?"

"People call them that," said Houdini cynically. "Most of it's trickery and sleight of hand."

Conan Doyle snorted vigorously, and Price remarked, "Never mind, Sir Arthur. We know your views. It is the disagreement among our views that produces such interesting discussions during these informal meetings. As for poltergeists, they are not a purely American phenomenon. I've investigated dozens of such cases in England."

"But you can't investigate this one," said Lang. "Except by inference." He went on, addressing their visitor. "We restrict ourselves, ma'am, to cases that have never been properly investigated or explained—the classic unsolved mysteries of the occult."

"So I have been given to understand," said the lady. "The case I have selected is certainly one of the most famous of those mysteries, at least to those of us who are familiar with the literature of the occult. I have written it in the guise of fiction, but I believe you will find that the basic facts are all there."

Removing a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from her bag, she set them on her nose, took another sip of whiskey, cleared her throat genteelly, and began reading.