The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

  Lady De Greene, the well-known humanitarian, who was most indefatigable in getting up petitions to the Home Secretary, whenever the perpetrator of any particularly heinous and inexcusable murder was about to be hanged, and who was universally acknowledged “incapable of harming a fly,” called, surreptitiously, on Hamar.

  “I understand,” she said, “everything you do here is in strict confidence!”

  “Certainly, madam, certainly!” Hamar said. “We make it a point of honour to divulge—nothing!”

  “That being so,” Lady De Greene observed, “I want you to tell me of a spell that will hasten some very obnoxious person’s death.”

  “If you will give me a rough idea of their personal appearance,” Hamar said, “I will make a wax image of them, and undertake they will trouble you no longer.”

  But Lady De Greene shook her head. She had no desire to commit herself.

  “Can’t you do it in any other way,” she said, “can’t you let me give them an unlucky charm—the sort of thing that might bring about a taxi disaster?”

  Hamar thought for a moment and then—smiled.

  “Yes!” he said, “I think I can accommodate you.”

  Leaving her for a few minutes, he went to the laboratory, and from a tin box marked homicidal lunatic, he took a plain, gold ring. With this he returned to Lady De Greene, murmuring on the way the prayer he had learned from the table.

  “Here you are,” he said handing the ring to Lady De Greene, “give it to the person you have mentioned to me—and the result you desire will speedily come to pass.”

  Three days later, London was immeasurably shocked. It read in the papers that the highly accomplished Lady De Greene, beloved and respected by all, for the strenuous exertions on behalf of humanitarianism, had been barbarously murdered by her husband (from whom—unknown to the public—she had been living apart for years), who had suddenly, and, for no apparent reason, become insane. Hamar, who was immensely tickled, alone knew the reason why.

  This was no isolated case. Scores of Society women came to the trio with the same request. “A spell, or charm, or something, that will bring about a fatal accident—not a lingering illness”—and the person for whom the accident was desired, was usually the husband. And the trio often indulged in grim jokes.

  Without a doubt, Lady Minkhurst got her heart’s desire when her husband abruptly cut his throat, but alas, amongst those decimated, when the charm fell into the hands of one of the footmen, was her ladyship’s lover.

  Again, Mrs. Jacques, the beauty, who, at one time, wrote for half the fashion papers in England, certainly secured the demise of Colonel Dick Jacques, who tumbled downstairs and broke his neck, but as in his fall the Colonel alighted on one of the maids, who was not insured, and so seriously injured her that she was pronounced a hopeless cripple, Mrs. Jacques—with whom money was an object—had, of course, to maintain her for the rest of her life.

  Likewise, Sir Charles Brimpton, in jumping out of the top window of his house, besides pulverizing himself, pulverized, too, Lady Brimpton’s pet Pekingese “Waller,” without whom, she declared, life wasn’t worth living; and Lord Snipping, in setting fire to himself, set fire to Lady Snipping’s boudoir (which he had been secretly visiting), and thereby destroyed treasures which she tearfully declared were quite priceless, and could never be replaced.

  Crowds of young married women were anxious to get rid of their rich old relatives, who clung on to life with a tenacity that was “most wearying.”

  “Can you give me a spell that will make my grandmother go off suddenly?” a girl with beautiful, sad eyes said plaintively to Kelson. “Don’t think me very wicked, but we are not at all well off—and she has lived such a long time—such a very long time.”

  “You don’t want her to be ill first, I suppose,” Kelson inquired.

  “Oh, no!” the girl replied, “she lives with us and we could never endure the worry and trouble of nursing her. It must be something very sudden.”

  “This will do it,” Kelson said, giving her a locket containing the mumia or essence of life of a mad dog; “fasten it round the old lady’s neck, and you will be astonished how soon it acts.”

  “And what is your fee?” the girl asked, her eyes brimming over with joyous anticipation.

  “For you—nothing,” Kelson said gallantly. “Only tell no one. May I kiss your hand.”

  The firm’s sale of spells for getting rid of husbands having risen one day to five hundred—and the sale of their spells for putting old people out of the way to fifteen hundred—even Hamar, who was no believer in the perfection of human nature, was astonished.

  “My word!” he remarked. “Isn’t this a revelation? Who would have thought how many people have murder in their hearts? At least half Society would, I believe, become homicides if only there were no chance of their being found out and punished. Anyhow, if we go on at this rate there will be no old people left.”

  And it did indeed seem as if such would be the case. For the moment the idea got abroad that old people could be thrust out of existence with absolute safety and ease, there was a perfect mania amongst men, women, and even children, to get rid of them, and the deaths of people over sixty recorded in the papers multiplied every day. The following is an extract from the Planet of July 28—

  Bolt.—On July 27, at No. —— Elgin Avenue, S.W., Emily Jane, loved and venerated mother of Mary Bolt, M.D., in her 69th year. Drowned in her bath. And all the Angels wept!

  Cushman.—On July 27, at No. —— Sheep Street, Northampton, Sarah Elizabeth, adored mother of Josiah Cushman, Plymouth Brother, in her 88th year. Run over by a taxi. Joy in Heaven!

  Starling.—On July 27, at No. —— Snargate Street, Dover, Susan, highly esteemed and greatly beloved mother of Alfred Starling, Wesleyan Minister, in her 71st year. Lost in the harbour. Asleep in Jesus.

  Tretickler.—On July 27, at No. —— The Terrace, St. Ives, Cornwall, Elizabeth, adored grandmother of Tobias Tretickler, Congregationalist, in her 91st year. Fell over the Malatoff. “Oh, Paradise! Oh, Paradise!”

  Broot.—On July 27, at Charlton House, Queen’s Gate, S.W., Jane, greatly beloved mother of John Broot, Labour M.P., in her 83rd year. Fell down the area. Peace, blessed Peace.

  Gum.—On July 27, at No. —— Church Road, Upper Norwood, Sophia, widow of the late Albert Gum, L.C.C., in her 85th year. Choked whilst eating tripe. Sadly missed!

  Paveman.—On July 27, at No. —— Queen’s Road, Clifton, Bristol, Anne Rebecca, dearly beloved mother of Alfred Paveman, grocer, in her 74th year. Accidentally burned to death! At rest at last.

  But it must not be supposed from these few notices, selected from at least a hundred, that the applicants for spells were by any means confined to the upper and middle classes. By far the greater number of spells were sold to the working people—to those of them who, prudent and respectable, counted amongst their aged relatives, at least, one or two who were insured.

  Nor was the sale of spells confined to adults; for among the numbers, that flocked to consult the trio, were countless County Council children.

  “Can you give me a spell to make teacher break her neck?” was the most common request, though it was frequently varied with demands such as—

  “I’ll trouble you for a spell to pay mother out. She won’t put more than three lumps of sugar in my tea;”—or, “Mother has got very teazy lately. I want a spell to make her fall downstairs”—or, “Father only gives me twopence a week out of what I earn blacking boots; give me a spell to make him have an accident whilst he’s at work.” And it was not seldom that the trio were petitioned thus: “Please give us a spell to make our parents die quickly. Teacher says at school ‘perfect freedom is the birthright of all Englishmen,’ and we can’t have perfect freedom whilst our parents are alive.”[4]

  The sta
tistics of those who died from the effects of accidents for the week ending August 1, of this year, in London alone, were—over sixty years of age, five thousand; between the ages of twenty-five and sixty, six thousand; and, for the latter deaths, children alone were responsible.

  The greatest number of these accidents occurred in Poplar, West Ham, Battersea, and Whitechapel; and at length the working class applicants became so numerous that the Modern Sorcery Company could not cope with them, and were forced to raise their charges.

  Among other customers, as one might expect, were many militant Suffragettes; whom Hamar and Curtis palmed off on Kelson.

  “Give me a spell,” demanded a hatchet-faced lady, wearing a half-up-to-the-knee skirt, “one that will cause the roof of the House of Commons to fall in and smash everybody—EVERYBODY. This is no time for half-measures.”

  Had she been pretty, it is just possible Kelson might have assented, but he had no sympathy with the ugly—they set his teeth on edge—he loathed them.

  “Certainly, madam, certainly,” he said, “here is a spell that will have the effect you desire,” and he handed her a ring containing a magnes microcosmi fully charged with the essence of life of an idiot. “Wear it,” he said, “night and day. Never be without it.”

  She joyfully obeyed, and within forty-eight hours was lodged in a home for incurables.

  Another woman, if possible even uglier than the last, approached him with a similar request.

  “Let me have a spell at once,” she said, “that will make every member of the Government be run over by taxis—and killed. They are monsters, tyrants—I abominate them. Let them be slowly—very slowly—SQUASHED to death!”

  “Very well, madam,” Kelson said, carefully concealing a smile, “here is what you want—wear it next your heart;” and he gave her a locket, containing a magnes microcosmi charged with the essence of life of a leper, which he had procured at considerable risk and expense.

  “I consider your fee far too high,” the Suffragette said. “You take advantage of me because I’m a woman.”

  “Very well, madam,” he said, “I will make an exception in your case, and let you have it for half the sum.”

  With a good deal more grumbling she paid the half fee, and, fastening the locket round her neck, flounced out of the building. As Kelson gleefully anticipated, the spell acted in less than two days, and with such success, that he was more than compensated for the monetary loss.

  Shortly afterwards, Kelson received a frantic visit from another Suffragette—a woman whose virulent sandy hair at once aroused his animosity.

  “Quick! Quick!” she cried, bursting into the room where he was sitting. “Let me have a spell that will blow up every Cabinet Minister, and their wives and families as well.”

  “Such an ambitious request as that, madam,” Kelson rejoined, “cannot be granted in a hurry. I must have time—to—”

  “No! No! At once!” the lady cried, stamping her feet with ill-suppressed rage.

  “—to consider how it can best be done,” Kelson went on calmly. “I must have time to think.”

  The lady fumed, but Kelson remained inexorable; and directly she had gone, he made a wax image of her, and taking up a knife chopped its head off. In the evening, he learned that a lady answering to her description had been run over by a train at Chislehurst—and decapitated.

  Kelson grew heartily sick of the Suffragettes. They were not only plain but abusive, and he complained bitterly to Hamar.

  “Look here,” he said, “it’s not fair. You and Curtis see all the decent-looking women and shelve all the rest on me. I’ll stand it no longer.” And he spoke so determinedly, that Hamar thought it politic to humour him.

  “Very well, Matt,” he said, forcing a laugh. “I’ll try and arrange differently in future. After to-day you shall have your share of the pretty ones—anything to keep the peace. Only—remember—no falling in love.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE PERSECUTION OF THE MARTINS

  Hamar’s one great idea on reaching stage four was to utilize the torments as a means of getting Gladys. Though he saw crowds of pretty girls every day, none appealed to him as she did—and the very difficulty of getting her enhanced her value and stimulated his passions.

  “I will give her one more chance,” he said to himself, “and then if she won’t have me I’ll plague her to death.”

  He went to the Imperial, and passing himself off as her father to the new official at the stage-door entrance, was shown into the ante-room (which led to her dressing-room). It took a good deal to scare Hamar, but he admitted afterwards that he did feel a trifle apprehensive whilst he awaited her advent; and his anticipations were fully realized.

  “Why, father!” she began, as the door of her dressing-room swung open and she appeared on the threshold, clad in a shimmering white dress, that intensified her fair style of beauty, “what brings you—” The smile on her face suddenly died away.

  “You!” she cried, “how dare you! Go! Go at once! And if you dare come here again or attempt to molest me in any way, I’ll prosecute you!”

  Hamar, dumbfounded at such an exhibition of wrath, slunk out of the room without uttering a syllable.

  “The vixen,” he muttered as soon as he found himself in the street. “A thousand cats in one! Treated me like mud. Jerusalem! I’ll pay her out. And I’ll lose no time about it either. She’ll look differently at me next time we meet.”

  He hurried back to Cockspur Street and going into the laboratory, threw himself into a chair and—thought.

  That same evening at nine-thirty, in the interval between her first and second “going on,” Gladys hastened to her dressing-room, and was preparing to partake of the light refreshments she had ordered, when—to her horror—she perceived crawling towards her, across the floor, a huge cockroach—a hideous black thing with spidery legs and long antennae that it waved, to and fro, in the air, as it advanced. It was at least double the size of any Gladys had hitherto seen, and her feelings can best be appreciated by those who fear such things—her blood ran cold, her flesh crawled, she sat glued to her chair, terrified to move, lest it should run after her. She screamed, and her dresser, startled out of her senses, came flying into the room.

  “What is it, madam? What is it?” she cried.

  Gladys pointed at the floor.

  “Kill it!” she shrieked. “Stamp on it! Oh, quick, quick, it is coming towards me.”

  But the moment the dresser caught sight of the cockroach, she sprang on a chair and wound her skirts round her.

  “Oh, madam,” she panted, “I daren’t! I daren’t go near it. I’m frightened out of my life, at beetles. And there’s another of them”—and she pointed to the wainscoting—“and another! Why, the room’s full of them!”

  And so it was. Everywhere Gladys looked she saw beetles crawling towards her—dozens upon dozens, hundreds upon hundreds—and all of the same monstrous size and ultra-horrible appearance.

  “Look!” she screamed. “They are climbing on to my clothes. One’s got into my shoes, and another will be in them, in a second. There’s another—crawling up my cloak—and another on my skirt. Oh! Oh!” and her cries, and those of the dresser, speedily brought a troop of actors and actresses to the door. The instant, however, the cause of the alarm was ascertained, there were loud yells, and a wild stampede down the passages. The Stage Manager was called, but one glance at the floor was enough for him—he fled. And in the end three of the supers had to be fetched. Hot water, brooms, ashes, and quicklime were used, and although thousands of the cockroaches were killed, thousands more came, and so hopeless did the task of getting rid of them become, that the room eventually had to be vacated, and the cracks under the door securely sealed.

  Before Gladys left the theatre, she was called on the telephone.

&
nbsp; “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Hamar,” came the reply, in insinuating tones. “How do you like the beetles? You’ll never see the end of them till—”

  But Gladys rang off.

  On her return home something scuttled across the hall floor in front of her. She sprang back with a scream. It was a gigantic cockroach. The hall was full of them. She summoned the servants, and they set to work to kill them. But they might as well have tried to stop Niagara, for as fast as they squashed one battalion, another took its place. They came out of cracks in the floor, from behind the wainscoting, from every conceivable place in the kitchens, and in a dense black ribbon some six inches broad, ascended the staircase. Gladys tried to barricade her room against them, but it was of no avail. They came from under the boards of the floor and poured down the chimney. They swarmed over the furniture, in the cupboards, chest of drawers, the washstand (where they kept continually falling into the water), in her clothes (her dressing-gown was covered with them), over the bed, and the climax was reached when they approached the chair she stood on. Too fascinated with horror to move, she watched them crawling up to her. She was thus found by her father. He had come to her assistance in the very nick of time, and after lifting her from the chair and taking her to a place, as yet safe from molestation, returned to her room, where, with savage blows, smashing, equally, beetles and furniture, he remained till daybreak.

  With the first streak of dawn the beetles decamped, and the fray ended. The work of devastation had been colossal. Corpses were strewn everywhere—and it took the combined household hours, before all evidences of the slaughter were obliterated. As for Gladys, she had not slept all night and was a wreck.

  “I can never go through another night of it,” she said to Miss Templeton. “Do you think we shall ever get rid of the horrible things?”

  “We can but try, dear!” Miss Templeton said consolingly, and she accompanied Gladys up to town, where they inquired of doctors, and chemists, and all sorts of possible and impossible people; and returned to Kew laden with chemicals, and patent beetle destroyers. But though they tried remedies by the score, none were of use, and the beetles repeated their performance of the preceding night.