The Most Frightening Story Ever Told (26 page)

Twice in my life I have seen a ghost. Or thought that I did. And in both cases I also believed that the ghost wanted to scare me.

The first time was when I was a child of about ten or eleven years old. I would like to be able to describe this incident as a hallucination, except for the fact that I remember it so vividly. It was the look of sheer malevolence on the apparition's face that alarmed me the most and caused me to jump six or seven feet, from one side of the room to the other.

That night, I slept with the light on.

The second time was in the autumn of 1975 and I was nineteen years old. I was standing in front of a dressing table and unloading my pockets of wallet and keys, and as I glanced up at the cheval mirror in front of me, I saw someone step away from behind me. I could not have said that it was a man or a woman with any degree of certainty any more than I could have said that there was someone there at all, for I knew the room to be empty of anyone but me. But the strong sense that I had seen
something
in the blink of an eye was underlined by the fact that at the very same moment, the electric light fused with a loud bang, the fan heater stopped working and the flame on the gas fire died out. In the same moment, I felt something very cold behind me, as if someone had opened a refrigerator door, and, with my hair standing on end, I felt quite sure that if I turned around, I would see a ghost—moreover, a ghost that wanted to scare me. So I ran out of the room and into the drawing room, where the friend I lived with looked up from the book he was reading and said, “What's the matter? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

That was another night I slept with the light on.

Do ghosts exist? I don't know. No one does; however, for a number of reasons, I prefer to think that they do. But mostly, the reasons boil down to this: I'd hate someone to prove that they really don't exist. Life is dull enough as it is without ghosts going the way of the Loch Ness monster and Santa Claus.

A poll of two thousand people in August 2009 showed that 40 percent of people believe in ghosts; this compares with a 1950s Gallup poll in which only 10 percent of the public said they believed in ghosts.

Clearly, there are more people who want to believe in ghosts than there used to be. After all, where would Christmas be without a good ghost story?

It goes without saying that I have met several people who claim to have seen a ghost. My own mother was one of these. And I believe her father told her he once saw a ghost, too. Neither of them strikes me as the kind of person who would make up a ghost story. That's my job.

The best ghost story I ever heard was the one in Kansas City, in 1987, which informs the scene in chapter fourteen of this book, in which Mr. Rapscallion and Billy go to stay at the Savoy Hotel. Because it was there that I met an old man who told me the following tale.

I have no idea if it's true or not. But I'd like to believe it is.

I once met Harry Houdini. I was a kid at the time, about eight or nine years old. He was staying at the Savoy Hotel on Ninth Street, where my dad was the manager, and—I'm not sure how this happened exactly, because Houdini was incredibly famous—Houdini agreed to keep an eye on me for half an hour while my dad went outside to run an errand for him. Houdini was the most famous escape artist in America, and he couldn't walk around the streets like normal people or else he'd have been mobbed. So, anyway, he showed me some magic tricks and looked at my toys and games, and noticing a Ouija board among my possessions, he laughed and told me that spiritualism was nonsense.

“All mediums and psychics are frauds,” he said. Houdini had a Hungarian accent that was almost as broad as his face and his shoulders. “And there are no such things as ghosts.”

With the precocity of youth, I contradicted him and told Houdini that the Savoy Hotel had a ghost in Room 505. “That's what my pa says, anyway.”

“Have you seen it?” he asked me gravely.

“No, but I've heard it,” I told him.

“Tell me what you heard,” said Houdini.

“Well, there's someone who turns on the faucets in the bathroom,” I told him. “When there's no one in there. And then afterwards you sometimes hear the sound of someone running along the corridor.”

“And has your pa heard this, too?”

“Oh yes. Lots of people have. That's why 505 now stays locked.”

“If that really happened, then wouldn't the room flood?” he asked, very sensibly.

“That's the curious thing. It doesn't. Someone turns the faucets off, too.”

“So if we went in there now,” said Houdini, “do you honestly think the bath would be full of water?”

“Well,” I said. “It's possible. I dunno. I haven't been in there for a while. To be honest, sir, I'm not allowed. But I overheard my pa telling my ma that the last time he went in there, the bath was full.”

“Why don't you go and get me the key to 505?” Houdini smiled kindly. “And we'll put a stop to this silly superstition.”

“I dunno,” I said. “My pa wouldn't like it. He's pretty strict about me not going in there.”

Houdini nodded and rubbed my hair vigorously. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you're absolutely right. Always obey your parents. If I had done this, I might have become a rabbi like my father. But I was headstrong. At your age, I was a trapeze artist in a circus and calling myself ‘Ehrich, the Prince of the Air.' ”

“But you're Houdini,” I told him. “The Handcuff King. You're famous. Surely you have no regrets.”

“Fame isn't everything,” he told me. “Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.”

When my father returned from performing the errand, Houdini told him about our conversation and told him that he should very much like to see inside Room 505. My father gave me an exasperated look, at which point Houdini begged him not to be cross with me and said that really it was all his fault for leading me on. I think cash may also have changed hands at this point, and the upshot was that all three of us went upstairs with the key to 505, and my father unlocked the door.

We paused in the room for a moment, my father drawing a large, nervous breath, and then opened the bathroom door. He could hardly bring himself to look at the bath, which of course was full of water and perfectly still, at least until Houdini rolled up his sleeve and placed his muscular arm in it. I never saw a man more muscular than Houdini.

“Freezing cold,” he said. “Unusually so, perhaps.”

“It would be cold,” said my father. “It's at least a month since anyone was in here.”

“And the bath was empty when you left?”

“Yes,” said my father. “Quite empty.”

“And no one else has been in here?”

“I keep the key in my safe.”

Houdini moved his arm around in the water for a moment and then pulled out the plug. We watched the water drain noisily down the plug hole, and even before he said it both my father and I knew what he was going to say.

“I should like to spend the night in this hotel room,” he said. “I should like to observe exactly what happens—if anything—for myself, as, ever since the death of my mother, the subject of the supernatural has been of great interest to me. I have considerable experience in these matters and it may be that by a great effort of concentration—I will not call it anything more, as I have formed the opinion that most psychics and mediums are charlatans—that in this way I may gain some insight into what happens in this room and, perhaps, I can offer you some kind of reasonable explanation in the morning. We may even lay a superstition to rest, which will enable you to rent this particular room again.”

“Your pardon, sir,” said my father, “but suppose something happened to you? What then? You are a famous man, sir, and no doubt a wealthy one. We should not be able to resist a suit brought by your family that held us contractually responsible for an injury to your person.”

“I am very well insured against all manner of injuries,” explained Houdini. “In my line of work, that is only prudent, yes? But as in all things where there is some risk, I am always properly prepared, both physically and mentally. I assure you that I am as equal to this particular feat of endurance as if it had been a straitjacket or a sealed casket in a grave.”

He stood squarely in front of my father as he said this. My father was taller by a head than the great man, but there was no question of Houdini not getting his way. He wasn't very tall, but he was built like a small boxer, with thick, curly black hair and bright, piercingly blue eyes—not to mention a smile that could have charmed the birds from the trees. If my father had any doubts about letting Houdini have his way, these were overcome by the great man's smile, which was the most charismatic smile I ever saw. He put his hand on my cheek and patted it gently, which only served to endear him to me even more.

“Very well, sir,” said Pa. “It shall be as you wish. And I ask but one thing of you in return, Mr. Houdini. That if you do discover there is any substance to our superstition, that the room is indeed haunted, then you might please keep this matter to yourself beyond what you tell us. I should not like this hotel to become the subject of idle gossip and newspaper speculation. It would not be good for the reputation of this hotel.”

“It shall be as you ask,” replied Houdini.

My father handed Houdini the room key and said that he himself would bring Houdini's bags along to the room, as it was certain that neither the hall porter nor the maid would set foot in the room; and then we left him alone until the morning.

That night, I hardly slept at all and I confess I was more than a little worried about the little man, which manifested itself in a nightmare. What if some terrible accident happened to him? Having escaped from handcuffs, and mail sacks, and safes, what if he was unable to escape from whatever it was that haunted 505?

My mother was obliged to come into my room and calm me.

“Rest assured, son,” she said, “if anyone can discover the truth of Room 505, it is the great Houdini. He's not called the master of mystery for nothing.”

The following morning, we did not go up to the room but waited for Houdini to come down for his breakfast. The previous day, he had breakfasted at eight o'clock exactly, so when nine o'clock came and went, we began to grow a little anxious that some unfortunate fate had befallen America's hero. My father was just about to go upstairs with the only other key to 505 and to knock on his door when Houdini appeared in the dining room.

The look on his unshaven face was enough to tell us he had not enjoyed an untroubled night. But worse than that was the color of his hair, which had been black and curly all over and now was distinctly gray around the ears. Or had we imagined that? I don't know, but Houdini sat down and ordered black coffee and a brandy to be brought to him immediately.

“Did you see anything?” I asked excitedly. “Did you see a ghost?”

My father gestured at me to pipe down, and I did, although I could hardly restrain my curiosity.

Houdini was quiet for what seemed like ages. He raised the glass at us and toasted our health. Then he downed the brandy, sipped the coffee and spoke rather sadly. This is what he said:

“First of all, I must ask you to accept what I say without question. For what I know, I can offer no explanation that would not itself require further explanation, perhaps several explanations. And while what I say to you now might, you feel, insult your intelligence and hospitality, I may only plead in mitigation that what I now know goes beyond all normal methods of reason and inquiry. The most important principle of my life has always been: never lie, always tell the truth. So when I say that everything I am going to tell you now is the truth, you may know that I am speaking from the bottom of my heart.