The Most Frightening Story Ever Told

by Philip Kerr

  “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 n
ormal 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.

  “Many years ago, there came to the state of Missouri a woman by the name of Miss Bette C. Onions. Originally, she was from England and a schoolteacher, not to mention a Presbyterian. She settled in Hanover, New Hampshire, where, for a time, she worked in a local Indian school, one of many that had resulted from the Civilization Fund Act of 1819, which provided money for the education of American Indians to European standards.

  “In 1840, Miss Onions married Mr. Ward, who was also a teacher, and having obtained a grant of government money, they came west to Kansas City and founded a school for Indians of their own on the site of what is now this hotel. They were both strong in the Lord, which meant that the Indians who were obliged to attend the school—mostly displaced Cherokee from Alabama and Georgia—were forbidden to speak their own native language, denied the right to practice their own native religions and taught Christianity and the English language.

  “Mrs. Ward, who had lacked all maternal affection herself, was not a loving or even a caring woman. No more was Mr. Ward the fatherly type, and the Ward Indian Mission School was a brutal place. The hair of the Indian pupils was cut short, their names and clothes were taken away and they were forced to wear uniforms. The children were given new, Christian names and, in addition to book learning, they were assigned hard physical work, which left many of them little better than slaves. The punishments for neglecting work were severe, but none were so severe as the punishments handed out for speaking the Cherokee language or venerating the old gods.

  “One day, Mrs. Ward caught a Cherokee boy named Col Lee, the son of a great chief, in possession of a medicine bundle. This was a collection of closely guarded sacred objects believed to contain the magical essence of the spirit that the objects represented—in this case, an evil spirit monster called Nunyunuwi. Now, possession of a medicine bundle was a very serious infringement of the school rules, and Col Lee was brutally whipped by Mr. Ward while Mrs. Ward took the bundle and told him she intended to toss it into the Kansas River.

  “Almost hysterical with fear, the Cherokee boy begged her not to throw away the bag, and warned them both of the terrible consequences that might attend anyone who treated it, and by extension what it represented, with disrespect. He explained that the only reason he hadn’t thrown away the bundle himself was that he was more afraid of the spirit monster than he was of Mr. and Mrs. Ward. But it was no use. The Wards were not disposed to listen to anyone unless they had a white face. Mrs. Ward threw the bag into the river the very same day. And that was when their troubles began.

  “First, I ought to say something about the Cherokee idea of evil. Interestingly, they believe that evil spirits are female and invisible to everyone except a medicine man and the human victims they have offended. In this case, the poor Wards. For however uncaring and neglectful they had been to their Indian pupils, neither of them surely deserved what befell them. No one would.

  “Within days, both of them had developed a strange hydrophobia, which is to say they became desperately afraid of water, however it was to be consumed—either as something to drink, something to cook with or something to wash in. In those days, the Kansas River—the very place where Bette Ward had thrown the medicine bundle—was the source of all the city’s water.

  “But it was not the water itself they feared like some mad, rabid dog, but what came with it. For every time each of them poured a glass of water, or filled a ewer with a jug to wash, or drew a bath, or watered a plant, the figure of a terrible-looking woman would appear somewhere close at hand. In the garden outside the window, at the top of the stairs, or even in the same room.

  “Mrs. Ward drew a picture of the woman she saw and showed it to a doctor whom she had consulted for help. The doctor reported that the drawing was most curious, being a skillfully rendered drawing of Mrs. Ward herself, albeit in a state that could best be described as her having been dead for several months.

  “The doctor prescribed laudanum, which was a powerful drug that killed pain but also produced powerful hallucinations. Which was probably the last thing they needed.

  “Soon after this, the Wards stopped sleeping, they stopped washing, they stopped drinking water and drank only alcohol. The Indian school fell into disrepair and closed. Mr. Ward died first. His body was found floating in the river. His heart had been eaten by eels, it is said, but the Cherokee will tell you that Nunyunuwi always ate the heart of her victims.

  “Bette Ward lasted a few months longer than her late husband before throwing herself out of the fifth-floor window of the now-derelict school, although not—the report stated at the time—before running herself a bath, which police officers entering the bathroom in what is now Room 505 found to be still warm. Soon after the autopsy, her heart disappeared and was never found.”

  My mother shook her head. “That is the saddest story I ever heard,” she told Houdini.

  “Indeed,” said my father. “So it is poor Bette Ward who runs the bath in Room 505.” He shook his head. “But why would she do that if she was going to throw herself out of the window?”

  Houdini shook his head gravely. “No,” he said. “It’s worse than that.”

  “Really, I don’t understand; what could be worse than that?” asked my mother. She looked anxiously at me, obviously full of regret that my young ears should have heard the telling of such a terrible story, even if it had been told by the great Houdini himself.

  “I sat in the darkness of Room 505 for several hours without anything odd happening,” said Houdini. “I must have fallen asleep for ten or fifteen minutes, I’m not sure, but I suddenly awoke with the strong feeling that there was something in the bathroom. And when I went in there to investigate, the bath was full of hot water, as if it had just been drawn, when I was certain beyond all contradiction that it had been empty before.”

  He shook his head.

  “It was quite impossible that the water could have ended up in there by itself. For one thing, I had tightened the taps and made sure that the bath plug was hanging on the chain over the side. Either I had drawn the bath in my sleep or something else had done it for me. I say ‘for me’ because the temperature was perfect and the level of water in the bath ideal and, thinking that my understanding of the phenomenon in 505 might thereby be enhanced, I took off my clothes and got in.”

  My mother let out a gasp. “Oh, Mr. Houdini,” she said. “I don’t know how you found the courage to do that. I should have been much too afraid.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I’m scared just listening to this.”

  “Fear is something I have learned to control,” said Houdini. “With fear comes panic and with panic death. Once, in California, I was buried alive, without a casket, in six feet of earth. The weight of the earth was much more than I had expected and I panicked. It was the panic, not the earth, that almost cost me my life. I had to control the panic first, in order to control my breathing. And only then was I able to force my way out of the grave to the surface.”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed.

  “I tell you this not to solicit your admiration, merely to illustrate how it was that I was able to witness and tolerate what happened next. For as I lay in the water, frankly enjoying the bath, the water started to run from the taps again. I sat bolt upright and saw the figure of Bette Ward standing beside me—and, it seemed, desperately trying to turn off the taps on the bath—with such a terrible look of fear on her face that I never hope to see on another human being as long as I live. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not turn them off, and suddenly I knew it was not she who had turned them on but something else. At which point I tried to get out, but could not.

  “For even as she tried to stop the flow of water into the bath, the water around me turned suddenly brackish and then fou
l, and something came up from under me, through my legs, and stood up in the bath. It was like no creature I have ever seen. A long-dead thing that seemed only vaguely human and smelled strongly of decay and death. I did not see the face, for which I have to say I am eternally grateful. But Mrs. Ward did, and, seeing it, she let out a silent scream that must have shattered the peace of the next world, only I could not hear it in this one. She ran out of the bathroom, followed by the Cherokee evil spirit. I call it such because there was an aspect to it that seemed vaguely Indian.

  “Compelled to witness the end of this horrific visitation, I ran, still naked, out of the bathroom into the bedroom and then out of the door of Room 505, where I caught sight of Mrs. Ward standing at the end of a corridor in front of a window that is no longer there, with the creature advancing upon her, inexorably. Then Mrs. Ward shrieked her silent shriek once again, turned and threw herself out of the window. At which moment the creature disappeared.”

  “Do you mean to say that it is not Mrs. Ward who turns on the faucets, but this awful creature?” asked my father. “And that all of this precedes the continuing torment of this poor woman by some dreadful Indian apparition?”

  “I do mean that, sir,” said Houdini. “I most sincerely do.”

  “But what are we to do?” asked my father.

  “My advice, sir,” replied Houdini, “is to do nothing except what you have always done. To keep the door to Room 505 securely locked. And never to allow anyone in there.” He smiled at me. “In particular, the boy here. I hope I didn’t scare you, little man?”

  “Me? I’m not scared,” I said.

  Houdini continued to offer no logical explanation for how he knew any of this and, given his previous instructions on the subject, we did not feel able to press him on the matter; indeed he was gone, returned to New York the same day, the same morning even, and with an alacrity we might have found almost disturbing. Such was his haste to leave, he even carried his own bags downstairs.