by D J Mcintosh
“Gina lost her husband a few months ago. Lucas will conduct a spiritualist demonstration. He wanted you to see it before you talk.”
“Are you saying this is some kind of séance?”
Bennet smiled sweetly at the couple across from us before turning and whispering fiercely in my ear, “They’re not called that anymore. It’s termed channeling. Wait and see.”
I considered making my excuses but Gina already seemed close to tears. Disrupting the event by leaving might upset her even more.
I glanced around the room for want of anything better to do. Two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a back garden; the bare tree branches outside still glistened from yesterday’s rain. An elaborate cornice of pale gray–painted wood ran around the perimeter of the twelve-foot ceiling. A stately Italianate chandelier hung from a decorative plaster base. Facing us and set against the east wall was a piece of furniture oddly out of keeping with the elegant room: a coffin-shaped box of finished pine, about six feet high and three feet wide, standing upright on its base, completely open in front. Inside, someone had placed a chair. As I wondered what purpose this would serve, Gina dimmed the chandelier. She turned on a floor lamp beside the coffin that cast a reddish glow and sat down beside her son.
The salon doors opened. Lucas Strauss towered in the entrance. The couple who’d been quietly chatting clammed up the minute they saw him. “Good evening,” he said, without a smile cracking his lips. He wore a white shirt and black tux for the performance— for surely that was what we were about to witness. He looked around at the assembled mourners until his eyes rested on Gina and he gave her a sympathetic nod.
As he walked past us his gaze fastened on me, so intensely it made me want to avert my eyes. Surprisingly, he took the seat inside the box. He pulled out a small white towel, reached into his pocket again, and withdrew a short knife with a cruel hooked blade. He spoke in a low baritone. A voice that commanded attention. “As you may know, I like to start my sessions with a feat of magic. It sets the tone, if you will, for what is to come. Let us begin.”
Strauss removed his tuxedo jacket, hung it carefully on a peg inside the coffin, then rolled up his left sleeve to expose the pale skin of his forearm, roped with blue veins. He beckoned to Gina. She stood up and walked over to him, rather haltingly. He grasped her forearm and slashed the knife downward.
Gina gasped. For a second I feared she’d been cut. Her son jumped to his feet but stopped when he saw that Strauss hadn’t sliced her flesh, only the button fastening her cuff. Strauss held the button up between two long fingers for everyone to see and nodded at Gina.
Without a word the illusionist waited until all eyes were upon him. To our astonishment, he put the button in his mouth and swallowed it. He didn’t bat an eyelash, just sat for a moment or two, coughed, and pressed his hand to his chest. Then he draped the towel on his left thigh and with his right hand drew the knife’s edge across the skin above his wrist.
Gina’s daughter shrieked. Her husband put his arm around her and hugged her. The knife clattered to the floor as Strauss clamped his hand onto the sizable cut. Blood welled out through the spaces between his fingers. I’d been expecting some silly trick. This seemed only too real.
Finally he wrapped the towel around his wrist and applied pressure to the cut. He smiled. You could have heard a pin drop.
After a minute or so Strauss unwrapped the bloodstained towel and began probing the cut with his fingers. I’m not squeamish but I could barely stand to watch. The others covered their mouths with their hands and turned their eyes away. He manipulated the edges of the wound, eased something out, and then held it up, dark with blood in the lamplight.
The button from Gina’s shirt.
Six
Blood drained from Bennet’s face and I felt her body grow slack against mine. I put my arm around her. The whole thing had to be fake, yet I couldn’t figure out how he’d pulled it off. The blood certainly looked convincing. Strauss was no run-of-the-mill magician pulling doves out of hats. Presumably his spectacular feat was engineered to soften up the patrons, make them more inclined to believe in the spirit that would no doubt put in an appearance.
Gina brought Strauss a bandage and a glass of water, holding them out to him with trembling hands. He wrapped his wrist thoroughly, rolled his sleeve down, and put his jacket back on. He took a quick sip and thanked her.
It seemed to be a cue. Gina placed a tape recorder on the coffee table, turned it on, then flipped another switch on a CD player. One of those trance-inducing Gregorian chants—although it sounded more Eastern in flavor—filled the room. Strauss rested both arms on his thighs, sat back in the chair, and closed his eyes.
Nothing happened for a few minutes. The chanting had an odd, unnerving effect. Much as I knew it was all a hoax, the sound made me uneasy, as if the music had actually invaded my body, shaking up the natural order of things.
A slight tremor passed through Strauss’s frame. The chanting grew softer then stopped completely. He lifted one hand off his leg; his fingers quivered. A hazy, whitish light seemed to coalesce around his head. Gina let out a short, sharp sob.
This wasn’t the hokey séance of B movies—patrons gathered around a table, hands hovering over an Ouija board—but the basic elements were the same, complete with grieving widow in such a vulnerable state that she’d believe anything. I wondered how much she’d paid for tonight’s charade.
The white light appeared to solidify and migrate to Strauss’s neck. It had the repugnant look of a bodily organ, a larynx, as if the medium’s throat had opened to reveal his interior anatomy. Over the drone of the music, which had started again imperceptibly, I heard sounds of static and something else—a plaintive murmuring coming from the apparition. Strauss’s eyes fluttered open. His gaze was vacant.
Gina began to moan. This went on for about two minutes until, abruptly, the light vanished. The son comforted his mother who was crying softly now. The daughter looked shell shocked while the son-in-law rolled his eyes and grimaced. Strauss remained with his eyes closed for another minute or so, shuddered, and came out of his “trance.” He’d put on a good show. He looked pale and weakened, as if producing the spirit had drained all his reserves.
He rose and sat on the divan beside Gina, bending to fiddle with some of the buttons on the recorder.
“Let’s see what your husband wants, Gina.” Strauss rewound the tape to the beginning and pressed play. We all leaned in closer.
At first we could hear only static over the background chanting. Strauss played with the buttons again. The murmurings now sounded like real words, although they were still too fuzzy to make out. A sentence seemed to be repeated over and over again.
Gina cast a worried glance at Strauss. “What’s Frank trying to tell me?”
Strauss raised his eyes to her. “Your husband says, ‘I will return to the house from which I came.’” Gina covered her face with her hands.
“This is sheer foolishness,” her son-in-law barked.
Strauss put his hand up to silence him. “‘I will return to the house from which I came.’ Do you know where that quote comes from?” He looked at each of us in turn. No one responded.
“Luke 11:24–26.” He recited the complete passage:
When the unclean spirit has gone out of a person, it passes through waterless places seeking rest, and finding none it says, ‘I will return to the house from which I came.’ And when it comes, it finds the house swept and put in order. Then it goes and brings seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they enter and dwell there. And the last state of that person is worse than the first.
Strauss’s eyes came to rest on mine, as if the words should have some special meaning for me alone. Then his gaze returned to Gina. “Your husband is warning you. His soul is in torment. Release him. Let him go so he may battle his demons and find peace. Otherwise his spirit will bring injury and untold evil to your household.”
Seven
The fa
mily asked for some privacy and we were glad to oblige. Bennet and I retreated to a small sitting room, a book-lined study with a cheery fire burning in the grate. Hot coffee had been set out. “What do you take in it?” she asked. “No, let me guess— just black, right?”
“You hardly need to interview me. You seem to know all my deepest secrets already.”
“How’d your date go last night?” She fluttered her eyelashes and crossed her legs. She was wearing another miniskirt, this one a flouncy affair in plaid, its hem startlingly edged in lace. Bennet did have shapely legs.
“Splendid, thanks.”
“What did you think of the channeling?”
“I hate to see susceptible people taken advantage of by a charlatan. Although he may have done Gina a favor with what he claims the husband said.” Strauss’s words had seemed harsh, but perhaps they’d help Gina let go of a destructive grief that was probably affecting her whole family.
“A charlatan?” Strauss’s voice sailed into the room somewhere behind me. I turned around to see him coming through the doorway.
I shrugged. “I’m a skeptic. Nice to finally meet you.”
He helped himself to a coffee and fixed me with his blue-eyed stare. “Perhaps when we’re finished talking, Mr. Madison, you’ll allow that human perception just skims the surface. There is much in this world unknown to us by any rational measure.”
“It’ll be a waste of your time trying to persuade me.”
“We’ll see.”
“Well, you’ll have to allow that I’ve been patient. Now, I want to know what this article Bennet’s supposed to be writing is all about.”
“It would be easier for me to show you.” He set his coffee down and walked to the far end of the couch, picked up an aluminum case from the floor, pushed aside the cups and set the case on the coffee table. He punched in a code. Inside, nestled in a soft black mold, were three bubble-wrapped objects. He unpeeled the wrap on two of them and placed them carefully on the table.
“Have a close look. I’m sure they’ll appear familiar to you.”
He’d revealed two Mesopotamian seals, small stone cylinders that, when rolled onto clay, would produce images to denote ownership. In some cases they were also used as magic amulets worn about the neck, which may have explained why Strauss had them. At first glance they appeared to be originals, but without an expert opinion it was impossible to tell. I asked if I could pick one of them up.
“By all means,” Strauss said.
I got a tissue from a box on the mantel and held the first seal gingerly, revolving it to see the complete image.
Adam and Eve Temptation Seal
It depicted what some believed to be the Sumerian Adam and Eve seated before the tree of knowledge. “This is a famous seal,” I said. “But it must be a reproduction.”
Strauss smiled. “It’s no reproduction. And it was fashioned at least 5500 years ago, possibly more.”
I raised my eyebrows and picked up the second seal. It showed a hybrid bird–human figure before a stylized plant, an image similar to one I knew belonged in the British Museum. “And this?”
“It’s been authenticated too.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid you’ve been duped, Mr. Strauss. These are both well-known seals from a much later period. If memory serves correctly, dating to between 2100 and 2200 B.C. The originals are priceless artifacts presently held in museums. Who authenticated them?”
He named Tricia Ross, a University of Pennsylvania professor and one of the foremost experts in the field. Hearing her name surprised me; she’d been a good friend of Samuel’s. I didn’t know what to think. I suppose it was possible for more than one seal of a similar design to exist.
Strauss waved his hand. “Don’t worry about authenticity for now.” He bent over, unwrapped the larger object, and set it down on the coffee table.
Ubaid-Era Statue
I had to stifle a gasp. The terra-cotta figure stood about six inches high; its style, decoration, and posture, along with its elongated head, suggested it came from the Ubaid period in preliterate Mesopotamia. That could place it anywhere from 3500 to 6500 B.C. Actual elongated human skulls had been found all over the world, some dating back forty-five thousand years. The process was called cranial deformation—the deliberate wrapping of an infant’s skull to create a permanently lengthened head in adulthood. Experts presumed the skulls were from high-status individuals—royalty or priests. I’d never heard of any elongated skulls being found among Mesopotamian ruins, but the statue Strauss had placed before me suggested that ancient Mesopotamians may have carried out this practice as well.
“Where did these come from? Were they all found together? And when?”
Strauss crossed his legs and settled in his chair. “Well, that’s quite a tale.”
“Seeing as you’re claiming these seals vastly predate any other cylinder seals held in the British Museum—or anywhere else on the globe—yes, I’d say that was quite a tale.”
I’d assumed Bennet had already heard Strauss’s story, yet she listened eagerly when he spoke.
“When I was in my thirties,” he began, flexing his long, slim fingers, “these old hands were much more dextrous and I was considered one of the greatest magicians on the continent. A young man approached me, begging to be taken on as my apprentice. He was badly dressed, a poor farm boy from a rural area near Batavia, upstate. His parents, he told me, were German immigrants; he was fluent in the language. His name was George Helmstetter. Naturally, I refused him. The magical crafts are highly secret and one risks having them revealed, or worse, stolen, by trusting the wrong people. Not dissuaded, Helmstetter then asked if he could at least demonstrate some of his own magical effects.
“I acquiesced and recognized his astonishing talent right away. Of course I know all the tricks of the trade. But Helmstetter had an ability to make birds and other objects vanish in such a way that I had no idea how he’d pulled it off. I thought I might even learn from him, although of course I didn’t tell him that. I was perplexed. How could someone so young with no professional profile manage those illusions? He astounded me. I should have known he was no rube.
“It made sense for him to seek me out. Alone, even with such spectacular talent, he’d have a long, arduous journey to prove himself. Working with me would vault him into the limelight. At the time, I thought only of my own interests: that he’d prove a great addition to my show as the opening act. I agreed to take him on. In short, we made a deal. I would promote him, make him famous, provided he rewarded my trust by agreeing to stay with my show exclusively. We worked together for several years. He fell in love with my assistant and they married.”
Strauss paused. His dark brows drew down and when he looked at me again his expression had changed. “Helmstetter had an engaging personality; he was a born entertainer. But he’d fall into black moods, mistreat his wife when he thought he hadn’t achieved enough. He had an outsized ambition and wanted to be wealthy. Under my tutelage, he delved into the esoteric world. As you saw tonight, my practice leans heavily on mentalism and spiritual endeavors. I began to realize it was this specialty that had attracted him to me. But the more he learned about that world, the more unpredictable and temperamental he became. One day, thirty-five years ago, he simply vanished. I never heard from him again.”
I stretched my legs out and drained my coffee cup. “An interesting story, but I can’t imagine how it relates to those artifacts.”
“Patience. I’m coming to that. George did not leave empty handed. He raided my safe, taking ten thousand dollars in cash along with a precious book, a 1792 German edition of The Steganographia, by a Renaissance scholar named Trithemius.” Strauss’s eyes blazed. “He betrayed me.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” I knew of Trithemius and though I’d never seen a copy, or known one to come up for auction, I was familiar with The Steganographia, one of the first texts of cryptography disguised as a book of angel magic—the title came from Greek
and Latin roots and meant “hidden writing.”
Strauss leaned forward, his hands curled into fists. “I want you to find Helmstetter and retrieve my book.”
Eight
That was the last thing I expected to hear. “Are you serious? Your assistant disappeared thirty-five years ago. I’m sure his trail has gone cold. And anyway, missing persons are hardly my forte.”
“Yes, but ancient Near East artifacts are your specialty. And if you trace the origin of these objects, you’ll pick up Helmstetter’s trail.” He glared at me so forcefully it felt like a blow. “Does my former assistant’s name not ring a bell?”
“Not at all. Why should it?”
“But you’ve heard of Faust, no doubt.”
“Of course,” I said, puzzled about what all this was leading to. “Helmstetter was one of Faust’s names. Faust was a real person, you know, not just a character made famous by Marlowe and Goethe. The actual historical individual took up an assumed name: Georgios Faustus Helmstetter. He was a scholar, alchemist, and magician who lived in fifteenth-century Germany. My Helmstetter claimed to be a direct descendant. After he fled I traced his family history. He’d told the truth about his genealogy. He was descended from the real Faust’s family.”
“Since he disappeared so long ago, what makes you think he’s still alive?”
“I have no proof, only instinct, and my instincts have never failed me.”
Except those instincts didn’t warn you about trusting your apprentice.
Strauss leaned back and crossed his legs. “Naturally I searched for him high and low—in North America and Europe. I hired private investigators, checked in with his parents and associates, ran newspaper ads. Yet I failed to pick up even a scent.”