Stories of Terror and the Supernatural

by Herman Graf

  He related to us at some length the wonderful results obtained by English scientists and by the doctors of the Nancy school; and the facts which he adduced appeared to me so strange that I declared that I was altogether incredulous.

  “We are,” he declared, “on the point of discovering one of the most important secrets of nature; I mean to say, one of its most important secrets on this earth, for there are certainly others of a different kind of importance up in the stars, yonder. Ever since man has thought, ever since he has been able to express and write down his thoughts, he has felt himself close to a mystery which is impenetrable to his gross and imperfect senses, and he endeavors to supplement through his intellect the inefficiency of his senses. As long as that intellect remained in its elementary stage, these apparitions of invisible spirits assumed forms that were commonplace, though terrifying. Thence sprang the popular belief in the supernatural, the legends of wandering spirits, of fairies, of gnomes, ghosts, I might even say the legend of God; for our conceptions of the workman-creator, from whatever religion they may have come down to us, are certainly the most mediocre, the most stupid and the most incredible inventions that ever sprang from the terrified brain of any human beings. Nothing is truer than what Voltaire says: ‘God made man in His own image, but man has certainly paid Him back in his own coin.’

  “However, for rather more than a century men seem to have had a presentiment of something new. Mesmer and some others have put us on an unexpected track, and, especially within the last two or three years, we have arrived at really surprising results.”

  My cousin, who is also very incredulous, smiled, and Dr. Parent said to her: “Would you like me to try and send you to sleep, madame?” “Yes, certainly.”

  She sat down in an easy chair, and he began to look at her fixedly, so as to fascinate her. I suddenly felt myself growing uncomfortable, my heart beating rapidly and a choking sensation in my throat. I saw Madame Sablé’s eyes becoming heavy, her mouth twitching and her bosom heaving, and at the end of ten minutes she was asleep.

  “Go behind her,” the doctor said to me, and I took a seat behind her. He put a visiting card into her hands, and said to her: “This is a looking glass; what do you see in it?” And she replied: “I see my cousin.” “What is he doing?” “He is twisting his mustache.” “And now?” “He is taking a photograph out of his pocket.” “Whose photograph is it?” “His own.”

  That was true, and the photograph had been given me that same evening at the hotel.

  “What is his attitude in this portrait?” “He is standing up with his hat in his hand.”

  She saw, therefore, on that card, on that piece of white pasteboard, as if she had seen it in a mirror.

  The young women were frightened, and exclaimed: “That is enough! Quite, quite enough!”

  But the doctor said to Madame Sablé authoritatively: “You will rise at eight o’clock tomorrow morning; then you will go and call on your cousin at his hotel and ask him to lend you five thousand francs which your husband demands of you, and which he will ask for when he sets out on his coming journey.”

  Then he woke her up.

  On returning to my hotel, I thought over this curious séance, and I was assailed by doubts, not as to my cousin’s absolute and undoubted good faith, for I had known her as well as if she were my own sister ever since she was a child, but as to a possible trick on the doctor’s part. Had he not, perhaps, kept a glass hidden his hand, which he showed to the young woman in her sleep at the same time as he did the card? Professional conjurors do things that are just as singular.

  So I went home and to bed, and this morning, at about half-past eight, I was awakened by my valet, who said to me: “Madame Sablé has asked to see you immediately, monsieur.” I dressed hastily and went to her.

  She sat down in some agitation, with her eyes on the floor, and without raising her veil she said to me: “My dear cousin, I am going to ask a great favor of you.” “What is it, cousin?” “I do not like to tell you, and yet I must. I am in absolute need of five thousand francs.” “What, you?” “Yes, I, or rather my husband, who has asked me to procure them for him.”

  I was so thunderstruck that I stammered out my answers. I asked myself whether she had not really been making fun of me with Dr. Parent, if it was not merely a very well-acted farce which had been rehearsed beforehand. On looking at her attentively, however, all my doubts disappeared. She was trembling with grief, so painful was this step to her, and I was convinced that her throat was full of sobs.

  I knew that she was very rich and I continued: “What! Has not your husband five thousand francs at his disposal? Come, think. Are you sure that he commissioned you to ask me for them?”

  She hesitated for a few seconds, as if she were making a great effort to search her memory, and then she replied: “Yes . . . yes, I am quite sure of it.” “He has written to you?”

  She hesitated again and reflected, and I guessed the torture of her thoughts. She did not know. She only knew that she was to borrow five thousand francs of me for her husband. So she told a lie. “Yes, he has written to me.” “When, pray? You did not mention it to me yesterday.” “I received his letter this morning.” “Can you show it me?” “No; no . . . no . . . it contained private matters . . . things too personal to ourselves. . . . I burned it.” “So your husband runs into debt?”

  She hesitated again, and then murmured: “I do not know.” Thereupon I said bluntly: “I have not five thousand francs at my disposal at this moment, my dear cousin.”

  She uttered a kind of cry as if she were in pain and said: “Oh! Oh! I beseech you, I beseech you to get them for me. . . .”

  She got excited and clasped her hands as if she were praying to me! I heard her voice change its tone; she wept and stammered, harassed and dominated by the irresistible order that she had received.

  “Oh! Oh! I beg you to . . . if you knew what I am suffering . . . I want them to-day.”

  I had pity on her: “You shall have them by and by, I swear to you.” “Oh! Thank you! Thank you! How kind you are.”

  I continued: “Do you remember what took place at your house last night?” “Yes.” “Do you remember that Dr. Parent sent you to sleep?” “Yes.” “Oh! Very well, then; he ordered you to come to me this morning to borrow five thousand francs, and at this moment you are obeying that suggestion.”

  She considered for a few moments, and then replied: “But as it is my husband who wants them—”

  For a whole hour I tried to convince her, but could not succeed, and when she had gone I went to the doctor. He was just going out, and he listened to me with a smile, and said: “Do you believe now?” “Yes, I cannot help it.” “Let us go to your cousin’s.”

  She was already half asleep on a reclining chair, overcome with fatigue. The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her for some time with one hand raised toward her eyes, which she closed by degrees under the irresistible power of this magnetic influence, and when she was asleep, he said:

  “Your husband does not require the five thousand francs any longer! You must, therefore, forget that you asked your cousin to lend them to you, and, if he speaks to you about it, you will not understand him.”

  Then he woke her up, and I took out a pocket book and said: “Here is what you asked me for this morning, my dear cousin.” But she was so surprised that I did not venture to persist; nevertheless, I tried to recall the circumstance to her, but she denied it vigorously, thought I was making fun of her, and, in the end, very nearly lost her temper.

  There! I have just come back, and I have not been able to eat any lunch, for this experiment has altogether upset me.

  JULY 19. Many people to whom I told the adventure laughed at me. I no longer know what to think. The wise man says: “It may be!”

  JULY 21. I dined at Bougival, and then I spent the evening at a boatmen’s ball. Decidedly everything depends on place and surroundings. It would be the height of folly to believe in the supernatural on
the Ile de la Grenouilliiré . . . but on the top of Mont Saint-Michel? . . . and in India? We are terribly influenced by our surroundings. I shall return home next week.

  AUGUST 2. I came back to my own house yesterday. Everything is going on well.

  AUGUST 4. Quarrels among my servants. They declare that the glasses are broken in the cupboards at night. The footman accuses the cook, who accuses the seamstress, who accuses the other two. Who is the culprit? It is a clever person who can tell.

  AUGUST 6. This time I am not mad . . . I have seen . . . I have seen . . . I have seen! . . . I can doubt no longer . . . I have seen it . . .

  I was walking at two o’clock among my rose trees, in the full sunlight . . . in the walk bordered by autumn roses which are beginning to fall. As I stopped to look at a Géant de Bataille, which had three splendid blossoms, I distinctly saw the stalk of one of the roses near me bend, as if an invisible hand had bent it, and then break, as if that hand had picked it! Then the flower raised itself, following the curve which a hand would have described in carrying it toward a mouth, and it remained suspended in the transparent air, all alone and motionless, a terrible red spot, three yards from my eyes. In desperation I rushed at it to take it! I found nothing; it had disappeared. Then I was seized with furious rage against myself, for a reasonable and serious man should not have such hallucinations.

  But was it an hallucination? I turned round to look, for the stalk, and I found it at once, on the bush, freshly broken, between two other roses which remained on the branch. I returned home then, my mind greatly disturbed; for I am certain now, as certain as the alternation of day and night, that there exists close to me an invisible being that lives on milk and water, that can touch objects, take them and change their places; that is, consequently, endowed with a material nature, although it is imperceptible to our senses, and that lives as I do, under my roof—

  AUGUST 7. I slept tranquilly. He drank the water out of my decanter, but did not disturb my sleep.

  I wonder if I am mad. As I was walking just now in the sun by the riverside, doubts as to my sanity arose in me; not vague doubts such as I have had hitherto, but definite, absolute doubts. I have seen mad people, and I have known some who have been quite intelligent, lucid, even clear-sighted in every concern of life, except on one point. They spoke clearly, readily, profoundly on everything, when suddenly their thoughts struck upon the breakers of their madness and broke to pieces there, and scattered and foundered in that furious and terrible sea, full of rolling waves, fogs and squalls which is called madness.

  I certainly should think I was mad, absolutely mad, if I were not conscious, did not perfectly know my condition, did not fathom it by analyzing it with the most complete lucidity. I should, in fact, be only a rational man laboring under an hallucination. Some unknown disturbance must have arisen in my brain, one of those disturbances which physiologists of the present day try to note and to verify; and that disturbance must have caused a deep gap in my mind and in the sequence and logic of my ideas. Similar phenomena occur in dreams, which lead us among the most unlikely phantasmagoria, without causing us any surprise, because our verifying apparatus and our sense of control is asleep, while our imaginative faculty is awake and active. Is it not possible that one of the imperceptible notes of the cerebral keyboard has been paralyzed in me? Some men lose the recollection of proper names, of verbs, or of numbers, or merely of dates, in consequence of an accident. The localization of all the variations of thought has been proved; why, then, should it be surprising if my faculty of controlling the unreality of certain hallucinations were destroyed for the time being?

  I thought of all this as I walked by the side of the water. The sun shone brightly on the river and made earth delightful, while it filled me with a love for life, for the swallows, whose agility always delights my eyes, for the plants by the riverside, the rustle of whose leaves is a pleasure to my ears.

  By degrees, however, an inexplicable feeling of discomfort seized me. It seemed as if some unknown force were numbing and stopping me, were preventing me from going farther, and calling me back. I felt that painful wish to return which oppresses you when you have left a beloved invalid at home, and when you are seized by a presentiment that he is worse.

  I, therefore, returned in spite of myself, feeling certain that I should find some bad news awaiting me, a letter or a telegram. There was nothing, however, and I was more surprised and uneasy than if I had had another fantastic vision.

  AUGUST 8. I spent a terrible evening, yesterday. He does not show himself any more, but I feel that he is near me, watching me, looking at me, penetrating me, dominating me, and more redoubtable when he hides himself thus than if he were to manifest his constant and invisible presence of supernatural phenomena. However, I slept.

  AUGUST 9. Nothing, but I am afraid.

  AUGUST 10. Nothing; what will happen to-morrow?

  AUGUST 11. Still nothing; I cannot sleep at home with this fear hanging over me and these thoughts in my mind; I shall go away.

  AUGUST 12. Ten o’clock at night. All day long I have been trying to get away, and have not been able. I wished to accomplish this simple and easy act of freedom—go out—get into my carriage to go to Rouen—and I have not been able to do it. What is the reason?

  AUGUST 13. When we are attacked by certain maladies, all the springs of our being appear to be broken, all our energies destroyed, all our muscles relaxed; our bones, too, have become as soft as flesh, and our blood as liquid as water. I am experiencing these sensations in my moral being in a strange and distressing manner. I have no longer any strength, any courage, any self-control, not even any power to set my own will in motion. I have no power left to will anything; but someone does it for me, and I obey.

  AUGUST 14. I am lost! Somebody possesses my soul and dominates it. Somebody orders all my acts, all my movements, all my thoughts. I am no longer anything in myself, nothing except an enslaved and terrified spectator of all the things I do. I wish to go out; I cannot! He does not wish to, and so I remain, trembling and distracted, in the armchair in which he keeps me sitting. I merely wish to get up and to rouse myself; I cannot! I am riveted to my chair, and my chair adheres to the ground so that no power could move us.

  Then suddenly, I must, I must go to the bottom of my garden to pick some strawberries and eat them, and I go there. I pick the strawberries and eat them! Oh, my God! My God! Is there a God? If there be one, deliver me! Save me! Succor me! Pardon! Pity! Mercy! Save me! Oh, what sufferings! What torture! What horror!

  AUGUST 15. This is certainly the way in which my poor cousin was possessed and controlled when she came to borrow five thousand francs. She was under the power of a strange will which had entered into her, like another soul, like another parasitic and dominating soul. Is the world coming to an end?

  But who is he, this invisible being that rules me? This unknowable being, this rover of a supernatural race?

  Invisible beings exist, then! How is it, then, that since the beginning of the world they never have manifested themselves precisely as they do to me? I have never have read of anything that resembles what goes on in my house. Oh, if only I could leave it, if I could go away, escape, and never return! I should be saved, but I cannot.

  AUGUST 16. I managed to escape to-day for two hours, like a prisoner who finds the door of his dungeon accidentally open. I suddenly felt that I was free and that he was far away, and so I gave orders to harness the horses as quickly as possible, and I drove to Rouen. Oh, how delightful to be able to say to a man who obeys you: “Go to Rouen!”

  I made him pull up before the library, and I asked them to lend me Doctor Herrmann Herestauss’s treatise on the unknown inhabitants of the ancient and modern world. Then, as I was getting into my carriage, I intended to say: “To the railway station!” but instead of this I shouted—I did not say, but I shouted—in a voice so loud that all the passers-by turned around: “Home!” and I fell back on the cushion of my carriage, overcome by menta
l agony. He had found me again and regained possession of me.

  AUGUST 17. Oh, what a night! What a night! And yet it seems to me that I ought to rejoice. I read until one o’clock in the morning! Herestauss, doctor of philosophy and theogony, wrote the history and the manifestation of all those invisible beings which hover around man, or of whom he dreams. He describes their origin, their domain, their power; but none of them resembles the one that haunts me. One might say that man ever since he began to think has had a foreboding fear of a new being, stronger than himself, his successor in this world, and that, feeling his presence, and not being able to foresee the nature of that master, he has, in his terror, created the whole race of occult beings, of vague phantoms born of fear.

  Having, therefore, read until one o’clock in the morning, I went and sat down at the open window, in order to cool my forehead and my thoughts in the calm night air. It was very pleasant and warm! How I should have enjoyed such a night formerly!

  I fell asleep, dreaming thus in the cool night air, and when I had slept about three-quarters of an hour, I opened my eyes without moving, awakened by a confused and strange sensation. At first I saw nothing, and then suddenly it appeared to me as if a page of a book that had remained open on my table turned over of its own accord. Not a breath of air had come in at my window, and I was surprised, and waited. In about four minutes, I saw, I saw, yes, I saw with my own eyes another page lift itself up and fall down on the others, as if a finger had turned it over. My armchair was empty, appeared empty, but I knew that he was there, and sitting in my place, and that he was reading. With a furious bound, the bound of an enraged wild beast that springs at its tamer, I crossed my room to seize him, to strangle him, to kill him! But before I could reach it, the chair fell over as if somebody had run away from me—my table rocked, my lamp fell and went out, and my window closed as if some thief had been surprised and had fled out into the night, shutting it behind him.