Nightmare Alley

by William Lindsay Gresham

  “All right. I thought you were his daughter. I thought you had guts enough to turn a trick that would get you the kind of life he’d want you to have. Give us a few years in this dodge and just one big job and then we can knock off. Stop jackassing all around the country and settle down. We’ll—we’ll get married. And have a house. And a couple of dogs. We’ll—have a kid.”

  “Don’t fib, honey.”

  “I mean it. Don’t you think I want a kid? But it takes dough. A wad of dough. Then it’ll be Florida in the winter and the kid sitting between us in the grandstand when the barrier goes up and they streak out, fighting for the rail. That’s the kind of life I want and I’ve got my angles worked out, every one of them. Got my ordination certificate today. Baby, you’re in bed with a full-blown preacher. I bet you never thought you’d bed down with a reverend! Last week I had a tailor make me an outfit—black broadcloth. I got a turn-around collar and everything. I can put on a pair of black gloves and a black hood and work in a red light like a darkroom lamp—and nobody can see a thing. I’ve even got cloth buttons so they won’t reflect light. I tell you, it’s a perfect setup. Don’t you know a spook worker never takes a real rap? If anybody grabs, the chumps rally around him and start alibi-ing their heads off. Do you think I’m a feeblo to go monkeying around with scientific committees or any other wise guys that are likely to upset the works? Pick your crowd and you can sell ’em anything. And all you have to do is sit there with the old ladies admiring you and thanking you afterward for all the comfort you’ve brought ’em. But if you are yellow I can do it alone. You can go back to the carny and find yourself another kooch show and start all over.”

  “No, honey. I didn’t mean—”

  “Well, I do mean. I mean just that. One way is the big dough and plenty of class and a kid and clothes that will make you look like a million bucks. The other way is the carny, doing bumps and grinds and waggling your fanny for a bunch of rubes for a few more years. And then what? You know what. Make up your mind.”

  “Just let me think about it. Please, honey.”

  “You’ve thought about it. Don’t make me do anything I don’t want to do. Look, baby, I love you. You know that. No, don’t pull away. Keep quiet. I said I love you. I want a kid by you. Get it? Put your other arm around me. It’s like old times, eh, kid? There. Like it? Sure you do. This is heaven, kid. Don’t break it up.”

  “Oh, honey, honey, honey.”

  “That’s better. And you will do it? Say you will. Say yes, baby.”

  “Yes. Yes—I’ll do anything.”

  In the old gray stone house near Riverside Drive, Addie Pea-body (Mrs. Chisholm W.) answered the door herself. She had given Pearl the evening off and Pearl had gone willingly enough, in view of what was coming.

  The first to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, and Mrs. Peabody shooed them into the parlor. “Honestly, I was just dying for somebody to talk to, I thought the afternoon would never go by, I’d have gone to the matinee but I just knew I couldn’t sit through one, I’d be so excited about tonight, they say this new medium is simply grand—and so young, too. They say she hasn’t a speck of background, she’s so spontaneous and natural, she used to be a show girl I hear but it really doesn’t matter, it’s one of the strangest things how the gift strikes people in all walks of life and it’s so often among humble people. I’m sure none of us will ever develop full power although they do say the Reverend Carlisle is simply wonderful at developmental sittings. I have a friend who’s been developing with him for nearly a year now and she has noticed some amazing phenomena in her own home when not a soul was there but herself. She’s simply mad about Mr. Carlisle, he’s so sincere and sympathetic.”

  In twos and threes the rest of the company gathered. Mr. Simmons made one or two little jokes just to liven things up, but they were all in good taste and not offensive, because, after all, you should approach a séance with joy in your heart and all the people have to be attuned or the phenomena are likely to be scarce and very disappointing.

  The bell rang a steady, insistent note, full of command. Mrs. Peabody hurried out, taking a quick look in the hall mirror and straightening her girdle before she opened the door. Outside, the light above the door fell on the heads of two people, the first a tall, dramatic-looking woman in her late twenties, rather flashily dressed. But Mrs. Peabody’s glance slid over her and came to rest on the man.

  The Rev. Stanton Carlisle was about thirty-five. He was holding his black hat and the lamplight made his hair glisten golden —just like the sun, she thought. He made her think of Apollo.

  Mrs. Peabody noticed in her first swift glance that he was dressed in street clericals with a black vest and a turn-about collar. He was the first spiritualist minister she had ever seen who wore clericals but he was so distinguished-looking that it didn’t seem a bit ostentatious; anybody would have taken him for an Episcopalian.

  “Oh, Mr. Carlisle, I just knew it was you. I got a distinct impression the minute you rang the bell.”

  “I am sure we shall establish an excellent vibrational harmony, Mrs. Peabody. May I present our medium, Mary Margaret Cahill.”

  Inside, Mrs. Peabody introduced them to the others. She served tea and it was so English—just like having the vicar over, she thought. Miss Cahill was a sweet-looking girl, and after all some people can’t help being born on the wrong side of the tracks. She probably did the best she could with what she had to start with. Even if she did look a little cheap she was beautiful and had an odd, haggard expression about her mouth that touched Mrs. Peabody’s heart. Mediumship takes so much out of them—we owe them such a tremendous debt.

  Mr. Carlisle was charming and there was something about his voice that stirred you, as if he were speaking just to you even when he addressed the others. He was so understanding.

  Finally Mrs. Peabody stood up. “Shall I play something? I always say there’s nothing like having an old-fashioned family organ. They’re so sweet-toned and so much nicer than a piano.” She sat at the console and struck a gentle chord. She would have to get the pedal levers oiled; the left one squeaked a little. The first piece she turned to was “The Old Rugged Cross” and one by one the company picked it up, Mr. Simmons coming in with a really fine baritone.

  The Rev. Carlisle cleared his throat. “Mrs. Peabody, I wonder if you recall that splendid old hymn, ‘On the Other Side of Jordan.’ It was a favorite of my sainted mother’s, and I should dearly love to hear it now.”

  “Indeed I do. At least, it’s in the hymnal.”

  Mr. Simmons volunteered to lead, standing by the organ, with the others humming:

  On the other side of Jordan

  In the sweet fields of Eden

  Where the Tree of Life is blooming

  There is rest for me.

  There is rest for the weary,

  There is rest for the weary,

  On the other side of Jordan

  There is rest for me.

  Mrs. Peabody’s eyes were wet when the hymn was finished, and she knew that this was the psychological moment. She sat silently on the bench and then closed her eyes and let her fingers find the chords. Everyone sang it softly.

  Shall we gather by the river,

  The beautiful, the beautiful river.

  Yes, we shall gather by the river

  That flows by the throne of God.

  She played the “Amen” chords softly, drawing them out, and then turned to the Rev. Carlisle. His eyes were closed; he sat upright and austere with his hands resting on the knees of his black broadcloth trousers. When he spoke he kept his eyes closed.

  “Our hostess has provided us with a fine cabinet. The niche between the organ and the wall will serve beautifully. And, I believe, there are hangings which can be lowered. Let us all compose ourselves with humble hearts, silently, and in the presence of God who hath hid these things from the wise and prudent and hast revealed them unto babes.

  “I call upon the Spirit of Eternal Light, whom some call
God the Father and some call the Holy Ghost; who, some believe, came among the earth-bound as our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ; who spoke to Gautama under the Bo tree and gave him enlightenment, whose praise was taught by the last of India’s great saints, Sri Ramakrishna. Marvel not at what we shall attempt, for the hour is coming in which all that are in the graves shall hear his voice and shall come forth. Many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, but some who did evil in their days upon the earth shall be reborn and remain among the earth-bound for yet another existence. No spirit who has ever returned speaks to us of hell fire but rather of rebirth and another chance. And when a man has done much evil he does not descend into a pit of eternal torment but wanders between the worlds, neither earth-bound nor liberated; for the Lord, being full of compassion, forgives their iniquity. He remembers that they were but flesh, a wind that passeth away and cometh not again until the prayers and faith of liberated and earth-bound alike cause their absorption into the Universal Soul of God, who is in all things and from which everything is made that was made. We ask that the Great Giver of Love enter our hearts and make us to become as little children, for without innocence we cannot admit those presences who draw near about us now, anxious to speak to us and make their nearness known. For it is written: ‘He bowed the heavens also, and came down: and darkness was under his feet. And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.’ Amen.”

  He opened his eyes and Mrs. Peabody thought she had never seen eyes as blue or with a glance so resembling an eagle’s. Spiritual power flowed out of him; you could just feel it.

  The spiritualist continued, “Let Mrs. Simmons sit nearest to the cabinet on the far side. Mrs. Peabody on the other side, before the organ which she plays so beautifully. I shall sit here, next to her. Mr. Simmons next to his wife.”

  An armchair was carried into the niche for Miss Cahill who sat tautly, her knees close together, her hands clenched. The Rev. Carlisle stepped into the niche.

  “Are you sure you feel equal to it this evening, my dear?”

  Miss Cahill smiled bravely up at him and nodded.

  “Very well. You are among friends. No one here will break the circle. There are no skeptics to endanger your life by suddenly flooding you with light. No one will move from his chair when it is dangerous to the vibration lines. Any ectoplasmic emanations from your body will be carefully observed but not touched so you have nothing to fear. Are you perfectly comfortable?”

  “Yes. Comfortable. Fine.”

  “Very well. Do you want music?”

  Miss Cahill shook her head. “No. I feel so—so sleepy.”

  “Relax, my dear friend.”

  She closed her eyes.

  Mrs. Peabody tiptoed about and extinguished all the lamps except one. “Shall I close the cabinet curtains?”

  Carlisle shook his head. “Let us first have her with us. Without anything between us. Let us form the circle.”

  Silently they took their places. Minutes crept by; a chair creaked and outside a car passed. Behind the velvet drapes which shut off the street light it sounded out of key and impertinent. The Rev. Carlisle seemed in a trance himself.

  Knock!

  Everyone gasped and then smiled and nodded.

  Knock!

  Carlisle spoke. “Ramakrishna?”

  Three sharp raps answered him.

  “Our dear teacher—our loving guru who has never left us in spirit—we greet you in the love of God, which you imparted so divinely while you were earth-bound. Will you speak to us now through the lips of our dear medium, Mary Cahill?”

  Miss Cahill stirred in her chair and her head drew back. Her lips opened and her voice came softly, as from a great distance:

  “The body of man is a soul-city containing the palace of the heart which contains, in turn, the lotus of the soul. Within its blossom are heaven and earth contained, are fire and water, sun and moon, and lightning and stars.”

  Her voice came, monotonous, as if it were a transmitter of the words of another. “He, whose vision is clouded by the veils of maya, will ask of that city, ‘What is left of it when old age covers it and scatters it; when it falls to pieces?’ To which the enlightened one replies, ‘In the old age of the body the soul ages not; by the death of the body it is not slain.’ There is a wind that blows between the worlds, strewing the lotus petals to the stars.”

  She stopped and let out her breath in a long sigh, pressing her hands against the chair arms and then letting them drop into her lap.

  “Our guide has spoken,” Carlisle said gently. “We may expect a great deal tonight, I am sure.”

  Miss Cahill opened her eyes, then jumped from the chair and began to walk about the room, touching the furniture and the walls with the tips of her fingers. She turned to the Rev. Carlisle. “D’you mind if I get into something more comfortable?”

  The reverend nodded. “My friends, it has always been my aim to present tests of mediumship under such conditions that the slightest suspicion of fraud is impossible. We must face it: there are fraudulent mediums who prey on the noblest and purest emotions known to man. And I insist that the gifts of Mary Cahill be removed from the category of ordinary mediumship. She is able, at an expense to her strength it is true, to work in a faint light. I should like a number of the ladies here tonight to accompany her when she changes her clothes and make sure that there is no chance of fraud or trickery, that nothing is concealed. I know that you do not for one moment harbor such thoughts, but to spread the gospel of Spiritualism we must be able to say to the world—and to our most hostile critics—I saw. And under test conditions.”

  Mrs. Peabody and Mrs. Simmons rose and Miss Cahill smiled to them and waited. Carlisle opened a small valise, drawing out a robe of white watered silk and a pair of white slippers. He handed these to the medium and the ladies filed out.

  Mrs. Peabody led the way up to her own bedroom. “Here you are, dear. Just change your things in here. We’ll be waiting downstairs.”

  Miss Cahill shook her head. “Mr. Carlisle wants you to stay. I don’t mind a bit.” The ladies sat down, tongue-tied with embarrassment. The medium slowly drew off her dress and slip. She rolled down her stockings neatly and placed them beside her shoes. When she stood completely stripped before them, leisurely shaking out the robe, a sadness gripped Mrs. Peabody, deep and nameless. She saw the naked woman, unashamed there in the frilly celibacy of her own bedroom, and a lump rose in her throat. Miss Cahill was so beautiful and it was all so innocent, her standing there with her mind, or certainly part of her mind, far away still in that mysterious land where it went voyaging. It was with regret and a feeling she had had as a little girl when the last curtain descended on a play, that she watched Miss Cahill finally draw the robe about her and tie the cord loosely. She stepped into the slippers and smiled at them; and Mrs. Peabody got up, straightening her dress.

  “My dear, it is so good of you to come to us. We appreciate it so.”

  She led the way downstairs.

  In the living room all the lights were extinguished, save for a single oil lamp with a shade of ruby-red glass which the clergyman had brought with him. It gave just enough light for each person to see the faces of the others.

  The Rev. Carlisle took the medium by the hand and led her to the armchair in the niche. “Let us try first without closing the curtains.”

  They formed the circle, waiting patiently, devoutly. Mary Cahill’s eyes were closed. She moaned and slumped lower in the chair, twisting so that her head rested against its back. A low whimper came from deep within her, and she twisted again and began to breathe heavily. The cord of the white robe loosened, the fringed ends fell to the carpet. Then her body suddenly arched itself and the robe fell open.

  With a swift intake of breath the sitters leaned forward.

  “Mrs. Peabody, do you mind?” The reverend’s voice was like a benediction.

  She hurried over, feeling the warmth in her face, and clos
ed the robe, tying the cord firmly. She couldn’t resist giving the girl’s hand an affectionate little pat, but the medium seemed unconscious.

  When she had regained her chair she looked over at the Rev. Carlisle. He sat upright, eyes closed, his hands motionless on his knees. In the dim red glow of the lamp his face, above the severe collar, seemed to hang in mid-air; his hands to float as motionless as if they were made of papier-mâché. Save for the indistinct circle of faces the only other thing visible in the room was the medium in her white robe. Her hair was part of the darkness.

  Slowly and gently spirit sounds began. Gentle raps, then louder knocks. Something set the glass prisms of the chandelier tinkling, and their musical voices continued for several minutes, as if a ghostly hand were playing with them—as a child might play with them if it could float to the ceiling.

  Mrs. Simmons spoke first, in a hushed, awed voice. “I see a light.”

  It was there. A soft, greenish spark hovered near the floor beside Mrs. Peabody and then vanished. Mrs. Peabody felt a breeze —the psychic breeze of which Sir Oliver Lodge had written. Then, moving high in the air across the room, was another light. She tilted her eyeglasses a trifle to bring it into sharper focus. It was a hand with the forefinger raised as if toward heaven. It vanished.

  The shadows now seemed to flit with lights but some, she knew, were in her own eyes. The next time, however, they all saw it. Floating near the floor, in front of the medium, was a glowing mass which seemed to unwind from nowhere. It took form and rose before her and for a moment obscured her face.

  It grew brighter and Mrs. Peabody made out the features of a young girl. “Caroline! Carol, darling—is it you?”