by Dan Gutman
“I REMEMBER THE FLOORBOARD NEXT TO THE BED ON THE THIRD FLOOR,” he texted. “EVERY TIME I PUT MY FOOT DOWN, IT MADE A CREAKY NOISE.”
What?! That’s my room! It finally dawned on me. For the first time, I believed that he was telling the truth. It was real. Harry Houdini was actually texting me from the afterlife.
“It’s really you, isn’t it?” I tapped.
“YES. I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU THAT.”
I noticed that the hairs on my forearms were standing up. I was actually exchanging texts with a dead guy.
“What does it feel like…to be dead?” I tapped.
“IT IS HARD TO EXPLAIN,” Houdini replied, “THERE ARE SOME GOOD THINGS.”
Houdini went on to tell me a few of the advantages of no longer being alive. Like, when you’re dead, you don’t get sick or hurt. You don’t have to brush your teeth or wash your hands or think about your hair turning gray and falling out as you get older. You don’t have to deal with the inconveniences of life. Paying bills. Shoveling snow. Deciding what to eat for dinner. You just exist.
“IT IS SOMEWHAT LIBERATING TO BE FREE OF THE HUMAN BODY,” he explained.
“Do you feel cold?” I tapped. “I mean, with your body being underground and everything.”
I knew that Houdini was buried in a cemetery in Queens, just a subway ride away. I had been meaning to go out there sometime to see his gravesite, but I never got around to it.
“ONLY MY PHYSICAL BODY IS BURIED,” he replied. “IT IS JUST A BUNCH OF BONES. MY SPIRIT IS EVERYWHERE.”
“If your spirit is everywhere, then it must be in my room,” I tapped. “Are you watching me right now?”
There was a pause, as if he was thinking it over. And then…
“YES.”
It was a little creepy, I must admit, knowing that Harry Houdini—and maybe other dead people—were able to see me when I couldn’t see them. I looked around my room for something that nobody in the world would be able to see. I opened the junk drawer at my bedside and pulled out a ruler.
“What am I holding in my hand?” I tapped.
“A RULER.”
That clinched it. It was Houdini. It had to be Houdini.
The hairs on my arm stood up again. It was thrilling to know that the spirit of the great Harry Houdini was right there with me in my room.
“Can I touch you?” I tapped, as I waved a hand in the air over my bed.
“NO,” Houdini replied. “IT DOESN’T WORK THAT WAY.”
I thought I heard my mom walking down the hall from her bedroom, but it was just some noise outside.
I was having fun swapping texts with Houdini. I didn’t want it to end. I sensed that Houdini was in no rush to leave either.
“Can you tell me more secrets of your magic?” I tapped.
“SURE. IT DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE. DO YOU WANT TO BE A MAGICIAN WHEN YOU GROW UP?”
It had crossed my mind. I had also thought about becoming a scientist, or maybe a video-game designer. But being a magician could be pretty cool.
“Maybe,” I tapped.
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Houdini gave me a text tutorial on what he called “escapology”—the science of escape. It was like he needed to get something off his chest. Maybe he was looking for somebody to follow in his footsteps.
He told me that when you have people tie you up, you should always use one long rope rather than a bunch of small ropes. Why? Because a long rope will have more slack to it, which you can use to escape. He also said to always spit on your wrists before you get tied up. It helps you slip off the ropes. Oh, and he said he could undo knots with his toes. He was able to use his toes the way regular people used their fingers.
He told me what to do when your hands are tied behind your back. You just bend forward and get your arms down over your hips until your hands are just behind your knees. Then sit on the floor with your legs crossed. Take each foot out through your looped arms, one at a time. That will bring your wrists in front of your body, where you can use your teeth to untie the knots. It’s not easy, Houdini explained, but it works. He encouraged me to try it.
He told me the trick to getting out of six or seven handcuffs is to make sure the easier ones were put on near your wrists and the harder ones closer to your elbows, where your arms are thicker. That way, you can break out of the easy ones first, and then just slip your arms through the harder ones.
Oh, and he said that whenever he escaped from a pair of handcuffs, he would ask if he could keep them as a souvenir. He would take them apart and file the insides down to make them easier to open next time. Then he’d plant them with people in the audience at his next show. Most people didn’t bring handcuffs to his shows, so he would just provide ones that were easy to escape from.
“Why would I need to know any of that?” I tapped.
“YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN IT MIGHT COME IN HANDY,” he replied. “AND NEVER MAKE A TRICK LOOK EASY. IF IT LOOKS EASY, THE AUDIENCE WON’T BE IMPRESSED. LET THEM SEE YOU STRUGGLE. MAKE IT LOOK HARD. PEOPLE WON’T CARE IF IT LOOKS EASY.”
There was more, but I think you get the idea.
“DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THE BIGGEST SECRET TO MY SUCCESS?” Houdini texted.
“Yes!” I tapped excitedly.
“WE ALL ARE AFRAID OF SOMETHING,” he texted. “EVEN THE RICHEST, MOST POWERFUL PERSON IN THE WORLD HAS FEAR. BUT IF I COULD BE TIED UP, SHACKLED, AND ESCAPE FROM A BOX THAT WAS THROWN INTO A RIVER, PEOPLE FEEL THEY CAN ESCAPE FROM THE THING THEY FEAR. I GAVE PEOPLE HOPE. THAT WAS MY POWER.”
Wow. It took me a minute to process all that.
But Houdini wasn’t finished texting. “WHAT DO YOU FEAR?” he asked.
I thought it over. The usual fears many people have—insects, blood, loud noises, scary monsters under the bed—never bothered me.
“Bullies,” I finally tapped. There’s this kid named Simon Foster at school who has been hassling me since second grade. “And heights. I don’t like high places.”
Ever since I was little, I got a weird feeling whenever I was in a tall building, or walking over a bridge. And I don’t like being in elevators.
“YOU CANNOT GET PAST FEAR UNLESS YOU CONFRONT IT,” Houdini replied. “THEN YOU REJECT FEAR. IF YOU CAN DO THAT, YOU CAN ACCOMPLISH WHAT APPEARS TO BE IMPOSSIBLE.”
Houdini had given me a lot of stuff to think about.
“Thank you,” I tapped. “It is nice of you to give me so much of your time.”
“I HAVE NOTHING BUT TIME,” he replied. “LIFE IS SHORT, BUT DEATH IS FOREVER.”
I was beginning to sense a certain sadness in Houdini’s texts. Maybe he was spending so much time texting with me because he was lonely. And I suppose eternity can be boring.
It was getting late. I had to get up for school in the morning.
“I have to go,” I tapped. “Can I text you again sometime?”
“I’M SORRY, NO. THE LIVING CANNOT CONTACT THE DEAD. IT IS A ONE-WAY STREET. ONLY THE DEAD CAN CONTACT THE LIVING. THAT IS ANOTHER ONE OF THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING DEAD.”
“Okay,” I tapped. “But I really want to do this again. There’s so much more I want to ask you. Like, how did you escape from a straitjacket? Stuff like that.”
“TOMORROW NIGHT,” was the reply.
FRIENDS AND ENEMIES
The largest church in the country is three blocks from my house. It’s the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine. The thing is huge, and one of the windows is made out of ten thousand pieces of stained glass. But here’s the most amazing thing about the church—there are peacocks living in the parking lot.
I kid you not. The peacocks’ names are Phil, Jim, and yes…Harry. No, Harry wasn’t named after me or Harry Houdini. He was named after a priest. Peacocks have been living at the church since the 1980s, when they were donated by the Bronx Zoo. Here’s the church…
And here’s Phil…
Anyway, Zeke and I sometimes stop by to visit Phil, Jim, and Harry on our way home from school. They’re not al
l that friendly. You’re not supposed to feed them or touch them, but it’s kind of cool to see peacocks running around in the middle of New York City.
“You want to come over tonight and hang out?” Zeke asked as we watched Phil and Jim trudge around the driveway.
“I can’t,” I told him. “I gotta do something.”
It wasn’t like me to be secretive around Zeke. But he had already told me he thought I was crazy to think that dead people can communicate with the living. I didn’t want to tell him I couldn’t go over his house because I had an appointment to text with Harry Houdini again.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my text session the night before. Houdini had chosen me, of all the living people in the world, to communicate with. I had a delicious secret. I felt special. I wanted to share it with Zeke, but I was a little embarrassed.
“Don’t tell me,” Zeke said. “You heard from your new BFF again, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I admitted.
I finally told Zeke about my chat with Houdini, and how I became convinced that he was for real when he mentioned the creaky floorboard in my bedroom. I made Zeke promise not to blab it all over school. The last thing I needed was for the kids to find out and start making fun of me. I told Zeke not to tell his parents. I probably shouldn’t even have told him.
“Do you have the flip phone with you?” Zeke asked me.
“Yup.”
I sure did. After my last session with Houdini, I had decided to carry the flip phone with me at all times. Who knew when Houdini might decide to get in touch with me? He said he was going to text that night. But what time zone was Houdini in? Do the spirits of the dead even have time zones? They’re everywhere. They might not even know what day or night means.
I patted my right back pocket, where I had carefully stashed the phone. If I lost it or if anything happened to it, that would be a disaster. No more conversations with Houdini. My phone was his link to our time.
“Are you gonna let me meet Houdini?” Zeke asked. I looked at him to see if he was putting me on.
“Maybe,” I replied. “After he and I get to know each other a little better maybe.”
“Did he say he is in heaven?” Zeke asked. “Is he in hell? Where do you think he is?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “He told me he’s everywhere. But we didn’t get into much of that stuff. Maybe the next time I text with him.”
“When will that be?”
“Tonight,” I told Zeke. “That’s why I can’t hang out with you.”
“It’s okay.”
It didn’t look like Zeke was okay. He looked a little hurt.
“Do you believe me?” I asked him. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Zeke wouldn’t give me a yes or a no. He just shook his head sadly from side to side. I took that to mean no.
“I’m really not sure, dude,” Zeke said. “It’s hard for me to believe in stuff I can’t see with my own eyes. But let’s say it really is Houdini. Why do you think he’s communicating with you?”
“He told me he wanted to know what happened in the world after he died,” I told Zeke. “But I think it’s more than that. He must have a pretty important message he wants me to deliver. Either that, or he’s just lonely. What do you think?”
“You really want to know?” Zeke asked.
“Yeah.”
“I think you both have daddy issues,” he told me.
Oh, here we go. Zeke’s mom is a psychologist, so naturally he thinks he knows what makes everybody tick.
“Let’s hear it,” I said.
“You don’t have a dad,” Zeke explained. “You never knew your dad because he died when you were so young. So Houdini is a father figure to you.”
I snorted.
“And you think I’m crazy?” I said.
“Hear me out,” Zeke told me. “Houdini and his wife never had children, right? So maybe he has baby issues. You’re a child. So it’s like you’re his new child and he’s your new dad. It fits. That’s my theory.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I replied.
Zeke has been my best friend for a long time. We like the same teams, the same bands. He and I were always in synch on most stuff. Until now. I didn’t want to lose his friendship. But I was feeling some anger bubbling up inside on both sides.
“You’re just jealous,” I told him. “That’s what I think.”
“Jealous of what?” Zeke asked.
“You’re jealous of Houdini,” I said. “It bothers you that I’m spending time with him instead of with you. You’re afraid that he’s my new best friend.”
“Maybe he’s your imaginary friend,” Zeke replied.
I wished Houdini would have texted me at that moment. Then Zeke would know I wasn’t crazy.
I’ll tell you what else I think. I didn’t tell Zeke this, but I think he feels guilty over what happened at the Freedom Tunnel. It was his idea to put the coins on the track. He feels he’s responsible for me getting hurt that day and nearly dying. So if I suffered brain damage or went crazy after hitting my head at the railroad tracks, Zeke thinks it’s his fault. But I’m not crazy. I’m not brain damaged. Houdini really did communicate with me. I’m not hallucinating. It really happened.
“I gotta go home,” Zeke said abruptly.
We didn’t say goodbye. I watched him walk away without turning around.
I spent a few minutes watching the peacocks, but it wasn’t that much fun without Zeke so I decided to leave too. To get home from St. John the Divine, I either walk to the front and go down 110th Street, or walk out the back and go through Morningside Park, which is faster, and prettier.
I decided to go through the park.
It was a mistake.
There’s this really long staircase that goes down into Morningside Park. This is what it looks like.
It’s 155 steps. Yeah, I counted them. I was somewhere in the middle when I heard my name.
“Hey, Mancini!”
I knew who it was. Simon Foster, that jerk in my school who has been picking on me ever since we were in second grade. I don’t know what Simon’s problem is. He probably has a bad home situation or something. But hey, my dad died when I was two. I had a bad home situation, and I didn’t become a jerk like Simon.
He came out of the bushes at the side of the stairs, as if he had been hiding there waiting for me. He blocked my way. I couldn’t go past him. If I tried to run back up the steps, he would tackle me from behind.
I glanced left and right quickly. There had to be somebody else around who would see this. It’s a busy park. But no. Simon always made sure of that. Bullies always manage to get you when you’re alone.
Why couldn’t this have happened five minutes before? Simon never would have messed with me if Zeke had been around. It would have been two against one. Simon probably saw Zeke come down the steps and figured I’d be heading home the same way.
I thought that maybe if I didn’t make eye contact with Simon, he’d leave me alone. Wishful thinking.
“Well, well, well,” he said, a stupid smirk on his face.
Simon is bigger than me. Not much bigger, but big enough to win a fight with me. Not that I know how to fight. When I was little, my mother suggested I take karate lessons. I talked her into letting me take a magic class instead.
“What do you want, Simon?” I asked, knowing full well what he wanted.
“For starters, you could loan me five bucks,” Simon replied.
Loan him. Ha! As if I would ever see that money again.
“I don’t have five bucks,” I lied.
I knew I had twenty dollars in my pocket, because that’s what I was prepared to pay for my cell phone charger before the lady in the store gave it to me for free. But why should I give my money to Simon? Grown-ups are always telling us that we should stand up for ourselves. Simon had no right to take my money.
“All I find I keep?” Simon asked.
Oh, the classic “all I find I keep” line.
Bullies have been using that one for centuries, I bet. They make it seem like it’s your fault that they’re robbing you.
Simon reached for my pants pockets, and I slapped his hand away. That got him mad, and he grabbed my hand.
If I was really cool, I would have kneed him in the face when he leaned over to reach for my pocket. Then I would have jammed my elbow into the back of his head to make him fall forward, tumble back down the steps, and beg for mercy when I’d come after him for more.
But I’m not really cool.
“Get your hands off me!” I shouted as he tried to get at my pockets with his other hand.
“So you do have five bucks,” Simon said. “I knew you were a liar, Mancini.”
Yeah, I’m a liar. So I guess he’s entitled to take my money.
I didn’t care about the money. He could take my money. But I didn’t want him to find my flip phone. What a dope I was to carry it around with me all day. I protected my right back pocket.
Simon grabbed my arm and twisted it. He put his other hand over my mouth so I couldn’t call out for help. I struggled to get free, but he was too strong for me.
“Don’t make this hard on yourself, Mancini,” he said. “It’s just five bucks.”
“Let go!” I tried to shout.
I stomped on his foot hard, and I guess that took him by surprise because he released his grip on my arm. He wasn’t used to me fighting back. I usually just give him the money.
He was really mad now. He wrapped his right arm tightly around my chest and was grabbing at my back pockets.
“There must be something pretty valuable in here or you wouldn’t be fighting so hard,” he mumbled into my ear.
I tried to cover my right pocket with my hand, but he got to it first. He reached in and pulled out my flip phone. As soon as he got a look at it, he let go of me and doubled over laughing.
“Are you kidding me?” he said, barely able to control himself. “This is what you were fighting for?”
