Wild Talents

by Charles Fort

  In December, 1921, there was an occurrence in the village of Zetel, Germany (London Daily News, Jan. 2, 1922). This was in the streets of a town. Somebody dropped unconscious and, whether in an epidemic of fright, accounted for in terms of “mass psychology,” or not, other persons dropped unconscious. “So far no light has been thrown on the mystery.” It was thought that a “current of some kind” had passed over the village. This resembles the occurrence at El Paso, Texas, June 19, 1929 (New York Sun, Dec. 6, 1930). Scores of persons, in the streets, dropped unconscious, and several of them died. Whatever appeared here was called a “deadly miasma.” And the linkage goes on to the scores of deaths in a fog, in the Meuse Valley, Belgium, Dec. 5, 1930—so that one could smoothly and logically start with affairs in a girls’ school, and end up with a meteorological discussion.

  Lloyd’s Weekly News (London) Jan. 17, 1909—story from the Caucasian city of Baku. M. Krassilrukoff, and two companions, had gone upon a hunting trip to Sand Island, in the Caspian Sea. Nothing had been heard from them, and there was an investigation. The searchers came upon the bodies of the three men, lying in positions that indicated that they had died without a struggle. No marks of injuries; no disarrangement of clothes. At the autopsy, no trace of poison was found. “The doctors, though they would not commit themselves to an explanation, thought the men had been stifled.”

  The Observer (London) Aug. 23, 1925—“A mysterious tragedy is reported from the Polish Tatra Mountains, near the health resort of Zakopane. A party, composed of Mr. Kasznica, the judge of the Supreme Court, his wife, a twelve-year-old son, and a young student of Cracow University, started in fine weather for a short excursion in the neighboring mountains. Two days later, three of them were found dead.”

  Mrs. Kasznica was alive. She told that all were climbing, and were in good condition, when suffocation came upon them. “A stifling wind,” she thought. One after another they had dropped unconscious. The post-mortem examinations revealed nothing that indicated deaths by suffocation, nor anything else that could be definitely settled upon. “Some newspapers suggest a crime, but so far the case remains a mystery.”

  There have been cases that have been called mysterious, though they seem explicable enough in known circumstances of human affairs. See a story in the New York World Telegram, March 9, 1931—about thirty men and women at work in the Howard Clothes Company factory, Nassau Street, Brooklyn—sudden terror and a panic of these people, to get to the street. The place was filled with a pungent, sickening odor. In the street, men and women collapsed, or reeled, and wandered away, in a semi-conscious condition. Several dozen of them were carried into stores, where they were given first-aid treatment, until ambulances arrived.

  The phenomenon occurred in the second floor of the Cary Building, occupied by the clothing company. Nobody in any other part of the building was affected. All gas fixtures in the factory were intact. No gas bomb was found. Nothing was found out. But, considering many crimes of this period, the suspicion is strong that in some way, as an expression of human hatred, of origin in industrial troubles, a volume of poisonous gas had been discharged into this factory.

  And it may be that, in terms of revenges, we are on the track of a general expression, even if we think of a hate that could pursue people far up on a mountainside.

  In hosts of minds, today, are impressions that the word “eerie” means nothing except convenience to makers of crossword puzzles. There are gulfs of the unaccountable, but they are bridged by terminology. Four persons were taken from a wedding party to hospitals. Well, if not another case of such jocularity as mixing brickbats with confetti, it was ice cream again, and ptomaine poisoning. There is such a satisfaction in so explaining, and showing that one knows better than to sound the p in ptomaine, that probably vast holes of ignorance always will be bridged by very slender pedantries. Asphyxiation has seduced hosts of suspicions that would be resolute against such a common explanation as “gas poisoning.”

  New York Sun, May 22, 1928—story from the town of Newton, Mass. In this town, a physician was, by telephone, called to the home of William M. Duncan. There was nobody to meet him at the front door, but he got into the house. He called, but nobody answered. There seemed to be nobody at home, but he went through the house. He came to a room, upon the floor of which were lying four bodies. There was no odor of gas, but the doctor worked over the four, as if upon cases of asphyxiation, and they revived, and tried to explain. Duncan had gone to this room, and, upon entering it, had dropped, unconscious. Wondering at what was delaying him, his wife had followed, and down she had fallen. One of his sons came next, and, upon entering this room, had fallen to the floor. The other son, by chance, went to this room, and felt something overcoming him. Before losing consciousness, he had staggered to the telephone.

  The doctor’s explanation was “mass psychology.”

  It is likely that readers of the Sun were puzzled, until they came to this explanation, and then—“Oh, of course! Mass psychology.”

  There is a continuity of all things that makes classifications fictions. But all human knowledge depends upon arrangements. Then all books—scientific, theological, philosophical—are only literary. In Scotland, in the month of September, 1903, there was an occurrence that can as reasonably be considered a case of “mass psychology,” as can be some of the foregoing instances: but now we are emerging into data that seem to be of physical attacks. There will be more emerging. One can’t, unless one be hopelessly, if not brutally, a scientist, or a logician, tie to any classification. The story is told in the Daily Messenger (Paris) Sept. 13, 1903.

  In a coal mine, near Coalbridge, Scotland, miners came upon the bodies of three men. There was no coal gas. There was no sign of violence of any kind. Two of these men were dead, but one of them revived. He could tell, enlighteningly, no more than could any other survivor in the stories of this group. He told that his name was Robert Bell, and that, with his two cousins, he had been walking in the mine when he felt what he described as a “shock.” No disturbance had been felt by anyone else in the mine. Though other parts of this mine were lighted by electricity, there was not a wire in this part. There was, at this point, a deadly discharge of an unknown force, just when, by coincidence, three men happened to be passing, or something more purposeful is suggested.

  Down in the dark of a coal mine—and there is a seeming of the congruous between mysterious attacks and surroundings. Now I have a story of a similar occurrence at a point that was one of this earth’s most crowded thoroughfares. See the New York Herald, Jan. 23, 1909. John Harding, who was the head of a department in John Wanamaker’s store, was crossing Fifth Avenue, at 33 Street when he felt a stinging sensation upon his chest. There was no sign of a missile of any kind. Then he saw, nearby, a man, who was rubbing his arm, looking around angrily. The other man told Harding that something unseen had struck him.

  If this occurrence had been late at night, and, if only two persons were crossing Fifth Avenue at 33rd Street; and if a force of intensity enough to kill had struck them, the explanation, upon the finding of the bodies, would probably be that two men had, by coincidence, died in one place, of heart failure. At any rate, see back to the case of the bodies on benches of a Harlem park. No reporter of the finding of these bodies questioned the explanation that two men, sitting near each other, had died, virtually simultaneously, of heart failure, by coincidence.

  We emerge from seeming attacks upon more than one person at a time, into seemingly definitely directed attacks upon single persons. New York Herald Tribune, Dec. 4, 1931—Ann Harding, film actress, accompanied by her secretary, on her way, by train, to Venice, Florida. There came an intense pain in her shoulder. Miss Harding could not continue traveling, and left the train, at Jacksonville. A physician examined her, and found that her shoulder was dislocated. The secretary was mystified, because she had seen the occurrence of nothing by which to explain, and Miss Harding could offer no explanation of her injury.

  Upon Dec. 7,
1931—see the New York Times, Dec. 8, 1931—the German steamship Brechsee arrived at Horsens, Jutland. Captain Ahrenkield told of one of his sailors who had been unaccountably wounded. The man had been injured during a storm, but he seemed to have been singled out by something other than stormy conditions. The captain had seen him, wounded by nothing that was visible, falling to the deck, unconscious. It was a serious wound, four inches long, that had appeared upon the sailor’s head, and the captain had sewed it with ordinary needle and thread.

  In this case, unaccountable wounds did not appear upon several other sailors. Suppose, later, I tell of instances in which a number of persons were so injured. Mass psychology?

  4

  Not a bottle of catsup can fall from a tenement house fire-escape, in Harlem, without being noted—not only by the indignant people downstairs, but—even though infinitesimally—universally—maybe—

  Affecting the price of pajamas in Jersey City: the temper of somebody’s mother-in-law, in Greenland; the demand, in China, for rhinoceros horns for the cure of rheumatism—maybe—

  Because all things are interrelated—continuous—of an underlying oneness—

  So then the underlying logic of the boy—who was guilty of much, but was at least innocent of ever having heard of a syllogism—who pasted a peach label on a can of string beans.

  All things are so interrelated that, though the difference between a fruit and what is commonly called a vegetable seems obvious, there is no defining either. A tomato, for instance, represents the merging-point. Which is it—fruit or vegetable?

  So then the underlying logic of the scientist—who is guilty of much, but also is very innocent—who, having started somewhere with his explanation of “mass psychology,” keeps right on, sticking on that explanation. Inasmuch as there is always a view somewhere, in defense of anything conceivable, he must be at least minutely reasonable. If “mass psychology” applies definitely to one occurrence, it must, even though almost imperceptibly, apply to all occurrences. Phenomena of a man alone on a desert island can be explained in terms of “mass psychology”—inasmuch as the mind of no man is a unit, but is a community of mental states that influence one another.

  Interrelations of all things—and I can feel something like the hand of Emma Piggott reaching out to the hand, as it were, of the asphyxiated woman on the mountainside. John Doughty and bodies on benches in a Harlem park—as oxygen has affinity for hydrogen. Rose Smith—Ambrose Small—the body of a shepherd named Funnell—

  Upon the morning of April 10, 1893, after several men had been taken to a Brooklyn hospital, somebody’s attention was attracted to something queer. Several accidents, in quick succession, in different parts of the city would not be considered strange, but a similarity was noted. See the Brooklyn Eagle, April 10, 1893.

  Then there was a hustle of ambulances, and much ringing of gongs—

  Alex. Burgman, Geo. Sychers, Lawrence Beck, George Barton, Patrick Gibbons, James Meehan, George Bedell, Michael Brown, John Trowbridge, Timothy Hennessy, Philip Oldwell, and an unknown man—

  In the course of a few hours, these men were injured in the streets of Brooklyn, almost all of them by falling from high places, or by being struck by objects that fell from high places.

  Again it is one of my questions that are so foolish, and that may not be so senseless—what could the fall of a man from a roof, in one part of Brooklyn, have to do with a rap on the sconce, by a flower pot, of another man, in another part of Brooklyn?

  In the town of Colchester, England—as told in Lloyd’s Daily News (London) April 30, 1911—a soldier, garrisoned at Colchester, was, upon the evening of April 24th, struck senseless. He was so seriously injured that he was taken to the Garrison Hospital. Here he could give no account of what had befallen him. The next night, to this hospital, was taken another seriously injured soldier, who had been “struck senseless by an unseen assailant.” Four nights later, a third soldier was taken to this hospital, suffering from the effects of a blow, about which he could tell nothing.

  I have come upon a case of the “mass psychology” of lace curtains. About the last of March, 1892—see the Brooklyn Eagle, April 19, 1892—people who had been away from home, in Chicago, returned to find that during their absence there had been an orgy of curtains. Lace curtains were lying about, in lumps and distortions. It was a melancholy prostration of virtues: things so flimsy and frail, yet so upright, so long as they are supported. Bureau drawers had been ransacked for jewelry, and jewelry had been found. But nothing had been stolen. Strewn about were fragments of rings and watches that had been savagely smashed.

  There are, in this account, several touches of the ghost story. There are many records of similar wanton, or furious, destructions in houses where poltergeist disturbances were occurring. Also there was mystery, because the police could not find out how this house had been entered.

  Then came news of another house, which, while the dwellers were away, had been “mysteriously entered.” Lace curtains, in rags, were lying about, and so were remains of dresses that had been slashed. Jewelry and other ornaments had been smashed. Nothing had been stolen.

  So far as the police could learn, the occupants of these houses had no common enemy. A rage against lace curtains is hard to explain, but the hatred of somebody, whose windows were bare, against all finery and ornaments, is easily understandable. Soon after rages had swept through these two houses, other houses were entered, with no sign of how the vandal got in, and lace curtains were pulled down, and there was much destruction of finery and ornaments, and nothing was stolen.

  New York Times, Jan. 26, 1873—that, in England, during the Pytchley hunt, Gen. Mayow fell dead from his saddle, and that about the same time, in Gloucestershire, the daughter of the Bishop of Gloucestershire, while hunting, was seriously injured; and that, upon the same day, in the north of England, a Miss Cavendish, while hunting, was killed. Not long afterward, a clergyman was killed, while hunting, in Lincolnshire. About the same time, two hunters, near Sanders Gorse, were thrown, and were seriously injured.

  In one of my incurable, scientific moments, I suggest that when diverse units, of, however, one character in common, are similarly affected, the incident force is related to the common character. But there is no suggestion that any visible hater of fox hunters was traveling in England, pulling people from saddles, and tripping horses. But that there always has been intense feeling, in England, against fox hunters is apparent to anyone who conceives of himself as a farmer—and his fences broken, and his crops trampled by an invasion of red coats—and a wild desire to make a Bunker Hill of it.

  In the New York Evening World, Dec. 26, 1930, it was said that Warden Lewis E. Lawes, of Sing Sing Prison, had been ill. The warden recovered, and, upon Christmas morning, left his room. He was told that a friend of his, Maurice Conway, who had come to visit him, had been found dead in bed. Upon Christmas Eve, Keeper John Hyland had been operated upon “for appendicitis,” and was in a serious condition in Ossining Hospital. In the same hospital was Keeper John Wescott, who also had been stricken “with appendicitis.” Keeper Henry Barrett was in this hospital, waiting to be operated upon “for hernia.”

  Probably the most hated man in the New York State Prison Service was Asael J. Granger, Head Keeper of Clinton Prison, at Dannemora. He had effectively quelled the prison riot of July 22, 1929. Upon this Christmas Day of 1930, in the Champlain Valley Hospital, Plattsburg, N.Y., Granger was operated upon “for appendicitis.” Two days later he died. About this time, Harry M. Kaiser, the Warden of Clinton Prison, was suffering from what was said to be “high blood pressure.” He died three months later (New York Herald Tribune, March 24, 1931).

  The London newspapers of March, 1926, told of fires that had simultaneously broken out in several parts of Closes Hall, the residence of Captain B. Heaton, near Clitheroe, Lancashire. The fires were in the woodwork under the roof, and were believed to have been caused by sparks from the kitchen stove. These fires were in place
s that were inaccessible to any ordinary incendiary: to get to them, the firemen had to chop holes in the roof. Nothing was said of previous fires here. Maybe it is strange that sparks from a kitchen stove should simultaneously ignite remote parts of a house, distances apart.

  A fire in somebody’s house did not much interest me: but then I read of a succession of similars. In three months, there had been ten other mansion fires. “Scotland Yard recently made arrangements for all details of mansion fires to be sent to them, in order that the circumstances might be collated, and the probable cause of the outbreaks discovered.”

  April 2, 1926—Ashley Moor, a mansion near Leominster, destroyed by fire.

  Somebody, or something, was burning mansions. How it was done was the mystery. There was a scare, and probably these houses were more than ordinarily guarded: but so well-protected are they, ordinarily, that some extraordinary means of entrance is suggested. In no report was it said that there was any evidence of how an incendiary got into a house. No theft was reported. For months, every now and then there was a mansion fire. Presumably the detectives of Scotland Yard were busily collating.