Mediums Rare (11 page)

Even more odd—if not downright peculiar—is the conviction that Houdini’s declared vow to communicate with his wife after death never took place despite yearly attempts on his birthday.

In fact, he
did
communicate with his wife as agreed.

At least, his widow believed that he did.

In a message delivered by well-known medium Arthur Ford—through his Spirit Control Fletcher—Mrs. Houdini was told the following:

“A man who says he is Harry Houdini but whose real name was Ehrich Weiss, is here and wishes to send to his wife, Beatrice

Houdini, the ten-word code which he agreed to do if it were possible for him to communicate.

“He says you are to take this message to her and, upon acceptance of it, he wishes her to follow out the plan they agreed upon before his passing. This is the code:

“ROSABELLE
^**
ANSWER
^**
TELL
^**
PRAY
^**
ANSWER
^**
LOOK
^**
TELL
^**
ANSWER
^**
ANSWER
^**
TELL”

No one on earth knew this code but Houdini and his wife.

Following another sitting with Arthur Ford, Mrs. Houdini stated emotionally, “It is right!”

The code was used by her and Houdini in their “mind-reading” act.

Interpreted, the message was ROSABELLE, BELIEVE.

Mrs. Houdini prepared a hand-written statement as follows:

Regardless of any statements made to the contrary, I wish to declare that the message, in its entirety, and in the agreed upon sequence given to me by Arthur Ford, is the correct message prearranged between Mr. Houdini and myself.

Beatrice Houdini

From the moment Mrs. Houdini signed this statement, she was exposed to a firestorm of scorn and criticism.

It is believed that she later reneged on her signed statement.

At least, virtually everyone believes that she did.

But the facts remain.

The era of the great mediums was coming to a close. Spiritualism was waning.

Psychical research was now concentrating on effects and general tests rather than on individual psychics.

Only one figure remained as the era neared its conclusion. The last truly rare medium.

Arguably, the most rare medium in the history of parapsychology.

May 2, 1890
Hopkinsville, Kentucky

B
y the streamside, he had built a lean-to of saplings, fir branches, moss, bark and reeds.

He was sitting there that afternoon, reading the Bible.

He was only thirteen but he’d read it twelve times and his plan was to complete his thirteenth reading of it by the end of the year.

He was in the middle of a verse from Jeremiah when he sensed a presence.

Looking up, he saw a woman standing in front of him. The blinding sunlight behind her made it difficult for him to see her clearly.

He started as she spoke to him, her voice soft yet perfectly audible.

“Tell me what you would like most of all so that I may give it to you,” she said.

The boy was awed and frightened even though the woman’s voice had been benign.

He winced as he saw something moving behind her shoulders.

Something like wings.

Edgar swallowed dryly, just managing to respond.

“Most of all, I’d like to be helpful to others,” he said. “Especially to children when they’re sick.”

He blinked.

The woman was no longer there.

He sat rooted to the ground for several minutes, gaping at the spot where the woman had been standing.

Then, jumping to his feet, he ran all the way home to tell his mother.

She was in the kitchen making supper and he blurted out his story.

When he was finished, he asked her, “Do you think I’ve been reading the Bible too much? It makes some people go crazy, doesn’t it?”

Mrs. Cayce smiled and put her arms around his.

“You’re a good boy to want to help others,” she told her son. “Why
shouldn’t
your prayer be answered?”

Edgar hit the floor again and sprawled there, breathless.

His father, Squire Cayce, hauled him to his feet and set him down hard on the parlor chair.

Snatching the spelling book off the floor where it had landed when he’d cuffed his son, Squire Cayce slapped it onto Edgar’s lap, making the boy wince.

“You will not disgrace the family,” Squire Cayce told him sternly. “You will stay up all night if need be but you
will
learn to spell the words in that lesson. I will not have a stupid son.”

He pointed at the cowering boy. “Now get to business,” he commanded. “I’ll be back again in another half hour.”

He left the room and the groggy Edgar re-opened his spelling book. It had been a long evening for him. Every time his father had asked him to spell the words from his current lesson, Edgar had failed.

Sniffling, he leaned over the book and began to study again.

At half past ten, Squire Cayce strode into the room and grabbed the speller from his son’s hands.

“Spell
capital
,” he ordered.

“C-a-p-i-t-i-”

He cried out as his father, totally exasperated, smacked him on the left side of the head and sent him flying off the chair.

He pointed fiercely at his huddled son.

“I am going into the kitchen for a few minutes,” he said ominously. “When I come back, I am going to ask you that lesson once more.

“It’s your last chance.”

He stormed out. Edgar, tired and sleepy, left ear ringing, sat up slowly, trying not to cry.

He froze as he heard a woman’s voice; the voice he’d heard in the woods that day. “If you can sleep a little, we can help you,” it said.

Edgar looked around dazedly. The room was empty.

He twitched as the voice repeated, “If you can sleep a little, we can help you.”

Edgar groaned weakly. How could it get any worse no matter what he did? he thought.

Closing his spelling book, he put it on the floor and laid down with his head on top of it. In seconds, he had fallen sound asleep.

His father woke him up ten minutes later by yanking the speller out from under his head so that his skull thumped down on the floor.

“All right,” his father said in a threatening voice. His tone made it obvious that he was sure that nothing had changed.

Grabbing Edgar by the left arm, he pulled him to his feet and sat him on the chair again.
“Capital,”
he ordered.

“C-a-p-i-t-a-1,” the boy replied.

The Squire’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“
Household
,” he said.

“H-o-u-s-e-h-o-l-d,” the boy responded.

“
Valid
,” said the Squire.

“V-a-l-i-d.”

When Edgar had spelled every word in the lesson correctly, his father went on to the next lesson. The boy spelled every word in that lesson as well.

Then the boy said, “Ask me anything in the book.”

The Squire’s face was getting red now. Glaring from the book to Edgar and back again, he skipped through the speller at random, picking out the hardest words he could find—which Edgar spelled correctly.

When the boy said, “There’s a picture of a silo on the next page, the word
synthesis
under it—s-y-n-t-h-e-s-i-s.”

The Squire slammed the book down in a fury.

“What kind of nonsense is this?!” he roared. “You knew that lesson all the time! You knew the whole blessed book!”

“Yes, because the angel—” Edgar broke off with a cry of pain as his father whacked him on the head again, knocking him off the chair.

“Go to bed!” the Squire shouted. “Before I lose my temper!”