by Unknown
That's how the house was known. Hanging House. Oh, some people referred to it as Death House or Blood House, but Hanging House was the most popular name, since that was how those who dared to spend a night within it were found the next morning. Hanging. And that was the primary reason for Cyril Sutton’s skepticism. It was obvious to him, he pointed out, that the stories of the house formed quite a convenient outlet — not for anything supernatural, but for something quite natural. Murder,
At his press conference that last afternoon he explained what he meant. "People have enemies, all of us do. Therefore, some enemy who knows the tale, about the house takes advantage of it. The first night the unsuspecting victim spends there, he is murdered — hanged, of course, to fulfill the requirements of the curse or whatever is supposed to be the cause." Asked if his theory did not presuppose an abundance of murderers, each with most accurate timing as well as similar methods of reasoning, Cyril Sutton asked in return whether anyone thought the act of hanging oneself was an easy way to die. "It takes a bit of managing, I daresay," he said. To an additional question — did he himself have any enemies who might employ the method posed by his theory? — he replied that he suspected he did. However, he had taken measures — in the form of a security patrol ringing the house — to assure that he would not be dispatched in an untimely manner by any human source intent on malice. In addition, he himself was going to carry an automatic pistol.
So it was that, armed with his pistol, a strong four-cell flashlight, and a small battery-operated tape recorder, Cyril Sutton entered Hanging House at nine fifteen. He entered quite alive, and the evidence has it that he remained in that state until some time after two in the morning. It was about two when the security guards heard the shots, you see. They converged on Hanging House at a run, but none of them entered the house itself. That was not in their bargain. Besides, they did not have to enter to see what had happened. But it wasn't until morning, when the security chief did deign to enter the house, that the additional evidence was discovered. The tape recorder. It said most of it, all in the voice of Cyril Sutton... almost as if he were speaking to his listeners from the other side of the Veil.
At nine thirty, he recorded the time and the following: "Well, here we are in Hanging House. Dismal sort of place." A laugh, quite cheerful. "I must say, having had a look around the rooms, that the previous owners deserved what they got. The place is a designer's nightmare, the overall theme being Early American Trash, ha-ha. I'm opening one of the windows now and you'll never guess the color of the curtains. It's an original color that I don't recall ever having seen before, I guess you'd have to call it Putrid Puce, ha-ha..."
At ten, Cyril Sutton reported again, this time mentioning his boredom. At half-hour intervals over the next two hours, he did the same. At midnight, however, he spoke at length of the Witching Hour, closing with the note that "if anything happens, it should happen soon." At twelve thirty and one he suggested that it was obvious that no witches were responsible for the supposed evils of the house. "They don't like to miss the midnight hour in doing their deeds," he laughed. But at one thirty he sounded bored again. "I should have had the foresight to bring a good book," he said. Then came the two recording.
It is a certainty that Cyril Sutton turned on the machine after he'd emptied his pistol, almost as an afterthought. It is also a certainty that he carried it with him until... until his fingers no longer could hold onto the device. In the increasingly hysterical words of Cyril Sutton, then:
"...don't understand it. Almost like the wind, the sound... but that's not the worst. I tried shooting at them, but they still are there... figures of men... women, too, I think. It's hard to tell, they wear dark robes which cover everything but their hands... Lord, what hands... white, thin, twisted... And in those hands, held high up in the spaces above their heads... ropes... ropes in the form of nooses...
"But the nooses aren't real! I've shot right through them as well as the carriers. And if they aren't real, they can't hurt me... can't But —"
And then there is a scream on the tape and the sound of running feet — obviously those of Cyril Sutton. And then — a gagging, choking sound... a frantic beginning of a cry... and then the clatter of the machine striking the floor where it was found the next morning. Right there by the windows with the oddly colored drapes Cyril Sutton had commented upon, the windows which Cyril Sutton had intended to use as an exit from the house... the drapes among whose cords Cyril Sutton had become tangled... cords from which the body of Cyril Sutton now dangled by the throat...
Ah, but ghost hunting can be a rewarding profession! If you're personally interested, I have a list of houses I might be persuaded to share with you. There and thirteen houses on the list. Seven of them are not really haunted. The problem, of course, is which seven...
A SMALL TRICK
The story of Palmer the Great
I always enjoy stage magicians and their tricks. They provide not only entertainment but also mental stimulation. Attempting to unravel the explanations of how their effects are achieved is not always an easy task — unless the magician is of the order of Palmer the Great whose act offered little in the way of anything new or startling. Not until that one trick he performed which was most startling... especially to himself...
He worked in nightclubs, Palmer the Great did, the nature of his places of work quite in harmony with the nature of his act — third class. He was working in Detroit when he read of Rosetti's visit to the city. Rosetti, the grand old master of magic. Rosetti, whose illusions were so spectacular that they puzzled even those magicians whose names were among the real greats of the industry. Rosetti, who long had quit the stage but who was known now and then to help a younger member of his craft. And, although not young, Palmer the Great was in definite need of help, he decided.
Still, Palmer was surprised when the old man did not hesitate to invite him to his hotel suite. Arriving there a little after seven in the evening, Palmer explained his problem. He needed something new, new trick, which would catapult him from the bottom rungs of the profession, they both shared. Rosetti laughed quietly, not unkindly, but in a way, which told Palmer the Great that the old man understood. "You really wish to excel in the art?" he asked Palmer. "Would you, for example, wish to be able to perform a feat such as this?"
At the question, the old man solemnly uttered the well-worn magic word — Abracadabra — and thin appeared to snatch a golden coin from the air with his right hand. Palmer the Great looked puzzled. That was certainly nothing new. Even Palmer the Great could do it. But there was more to the trick, he now saw. In fact, he hardly could believe his own eyes as he watched — watched the old man... becoming smaller. Rosetti actually was shrinking in size! He had been about the same height as Palmer and now he was a head shorter, now two heads shorter. Then, with a sharp laugh, Rosetti repeated the magic word, this time producing his golden coin in his left hand. He began to grow taller.
When Rosetti was restored to normal size, Palmer the Great pleaded with the old man. "You must show me that trick! Such an effect would make me famous overnight!" The old man smiled. No, he said. Perfection in magic, as with anything else, took hard work and dedication. Palmer the Great was where he was in the field because he lacked these two essentials. No, he repeated. He neither would explain the effect to Palmer nor would he simply give him any other.
It was in a state of frustrated rage that Palmer the Great's fist crashed into the face of the older man. Rage, however, was replaced by fear when Rosetti did not get up from the floor, and it became apparent that he never would rise from it under his own power. The old man was dead. But by his head was the golden coin! Palmer the Great took it and ran from the hotel room.
It was not until he was in the middle of his nightclub act that night that he decided to give the golden coin a try. He had, after all, nothing to lose. At worst, it would be just an appearing-coin trick. But, if somehow, he could make Rosetti's trick work... if, as the thought just then str
uck him, it wasn't just a trick, but the com itself were... magic... He laughed at the idea, then shook his head. Suppose it were magic, the coin itself? Then he — anyone — could do it. "Abracadabra!" Palmer the Great shouted — and he produced the coin by seeming to pluck it from the air. He felt the change at the exact moment someone in his audience gasped. There were more cries of surprise now as, yes, the room seemed to get larger around him. It worked! It was magic, real magic! Palmer the Great was on his way to becoming really great! But this first time it would be best not to overdo it, not to reduce himself too much. He slipped the coin from his right hand to his left. He again said the magic word, this time with the solemnity, which befit a first-class magician. Then he said the word again — and again!
He had been screaming for more than five seconds, getting smaller by the instant, when it came to him —the old man must have had two coins, one to reduce his size and the other to... It was then that Palmer the Great screamed even more loudly, leading the chorus of cries which came from all those who gathered around him... all those gigantic people who seemed to loom larger and larger...
Have you ever thought of dabbling in sleight of hand? If you do, the tale of Palmer the Great is one to remember. Its moral of thoroughness is most clear. Half a trick decidedly is not better than none...
DOWN TO THE SEA IN SCREAMS
The story of John and Deborah Grover
It is said that all life came from the sea, that down in the dark depths the original life forms still inhabit the mutating ooze. But if the sea is so bountiful, why is it the source of so much fear? Is it, perhaps, because where there is life there also is death? Or is it because the world under the waves is closed to most of us — and that now and then, when we get a glimpse of what lies at the sea bottom... or when from the depths something moves shoreward... its impact upon us is such that it would have been far better for the known to remain as it was... unknown?
John and Deborah Grover might be in a position to enlighten us... or I should say that they might have been...
It was a tiny New England coastal village, one that appealed to the Grovers’ because it looked so small and lonely there on the map. A far cry from Boston, which was what they were looking for. Young newlyweds are like that. They seek to be alone, which, in the Grovers' case, would have been fine — if they had not also wished additional adventures.
The man who sold fishing bait and tackle was stern in his warning. "For this one week we do no crabbing, nor any other type of fishing. We honor the elder god by this, and none venture into the sea to ensnare his little brothers." To John and Deborah the advice was nonsense. They had this one-week before returning to Boston and their city jobs. No, they would not be dissuaded by superstitious claptrap, even though the local resident, repeating his warning, refused to rent them a boat.
By the late afternoon of their first day, they had done well. Although confined to the shoreline, they had a sizable catch of crabs, and they were about ready to quit when they noticed the boat. A small rowboat, which seemed to be drifting aimlessly along the shoreline — a boat that was empty. No, not quite, they found. For as they waded out a bit to intercept the vessel, they discovered that, although there was no one guiding the boat, there were things aboard. Namely the oars, a tackle box and two sturdy fishing poles. Without a word, John and Deborah agreed that this afforded them an excellent opportunity to try their luck a ways out from the shore. Besides, they couldn't let the boat just drift on, could they? They climbed aboard, John using the oars to guide the vessel. Deborah, meanwhile, affixed an artificial lure to her line and cast out to the rear of the boat. Immediately she squealed with joy, then she scowled.
Whatever she had hooked into was of some size, judging by the way her pole bent. But when she tried to reel in her line, the spool didn't move. It seemed to be jammed. Releasing the oars, John moved to assist his wife. It was just as he was about to take the pole from her that there was a snapping sound and they both cried out in pain. Their four hands were on the pole and through their palms — completely through — were strong steel hooks, very effectively barbed, which had snapped upward from the handle portion on the rod. It was then that whatever was on the other end of the line jerked hard and the boat capsized, spilling Deborah and John over the side and into the waves. Screaming and choking, their terror-filled minds wondered what was coming next.
They didn't wonder long. For, hooks baited and taken, the fisherman who had them now was slowly beginning to reel in the catch...
Do you enjoy fishing? If so, I suggest that when you're out in your boat and you see something dark — something large and shapeless — under the surface that you reel in your line rather quickly. There are some things... even in the smallest of lakes and rivers... that it would be best not to hook into...
THE PHANTOM FIDDLER
The story of Theodore and Thayer
There is something mysterious about twins, especially identical twins. Oh, there are scientific explanations as to why some twins are so in tune with each other. But rational explanations evaporate when twins look at each other in that special way, a way, which you know, means that they are communicating with each other... in eerie silence. And shall we try to explain, in logical terms, what really happened when twelve-year-old Thayer played the violin?
The violin was not Thayer's. No, the instrument was the treasured possession of his twin brother, Theodore. And the excitement in their home was in high pitch, as it was almost time for that looked-for night at the city music hall when Theodore was to appear as a soloist. For the boy, even at twelve, played the violin like a master, and the conductor of the city orchestra had publicly said that he'd heard no one better in all his years in music. But the euphoria of the family was short-lived. The day prior to the long-awaited concert, Theodore was struck down and killed by an automobile. Amidst the grieving, someone mentioned that, as a result of the tragedy, the concert might have to be canceled.
It was then that Thayer announced that he would appear in his brother's stead, an announcement that drew sad smiles from those who heard it. For while Theodore had been inclined to music and other artistic pursuits, his look-alike brother had been more devoted to rough sports. Thayer played no musical instrument at all. He had never once touched his brother's violin, his parents would have sworn to it. "Nonetheless," Thayer insisted, "I shall appear on the music hall stage tomorrow night."
The conductor, of course, had very real reservations. But finally, due to his respect for the dead youth, he agreed that the concert would be given and that Thayer could sit among the orchestra members — and that, yes, he could hold his brother's violin. But there was to be no playing by Thayer, which was to be clearly understood. The particular piece, which was to feature Theodore, was not to be performed. Thayer finally agreed to these terms, although there was something in his face, which, if anyone had looked closely, would have been slightly disturbing...
All went well during the first two-thirds of the program. Thayer did exactly as he was told. He sat solemnly if a bit disinterestedly in the violin section as number after number drew the expected amount of polite applause from the audience. Then suddenly a smile formed on the boy's face. The conductor had turned to the audience and was explaining that, due to young Theodore's tragic accident, the next selection noted on the printed program was to be deleted.
It was then that Thayer stood — and began to play.
Audience and orchestra were stunned. The conductor, his eyes wide with non-comprehension, nonetheless lifted his baton. The other instruments came in somewhat clumsily behind the violin, but within moments the selection was being performed as it was intended to be. The violin in Thayer's hands sang out gloriously, its full tones bringing tears of sorrow and tears of joy alternately to those who filled the music hall. When the last notes came triumphantly from the strings of the violin, the applause was thunderous. The standing ovation rocked the very walls of the building as Thayer's mother and father rushed out onto the sta
ge. Shouts of encore! began in earnest, then the conductor gestured the audience to silence. He turned to Thayer, a questioning look on his face. The boy shook his head and handed the instrument to his mother.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Just the one time... that's all we could work it..."
What is your logical explanation for what is a true story? I'd be most interested to hear it. While we speak, do you mind if we listen to a recording of music... played by a young violinist who never played ever again...
THE DEAD REST UNEASILY TONIGHT
The story of Thomas Tilden
We hear so much today of minority rights and there is, I suppose, much merit in these discussions. But have we paid enough mind to the rights of the majority — by which I mean the greatest majority... the dead? Perhaps you think I am joking. If so, it is best that I tell you what happened to Thomas Tilden who also might have thought I was joking. In other days, he might have, but not today. No, there would be little chance of that...
Thomas Tilden liked to call himself a developer. By Thomas Tilden's definition, a developer is one who obtains effective control over a piece of real estate and, doing something with it to increase its value (in some cases merely effective promotion), then selling said piece of real estate for a sizable profit. Thomas Tilden did very well at being a developer for three excellent reasons. One, he worked hard.
Two, he was quite shrewd in his dealings. Three, he had marshaled enough political pull to manipulate those elements of legal machinery which might otherwise be obstructive to Thomas Tilden's having his way. Thus he expected little difficulty when he decided that, in order to carry out a large and expensive housing project, an old but otherwise unassuming church would have to be relocated — complete with the bodies in the church cemetery...