Chapter IX

In the Land of Mystery—Planchette and Ouija—Necromancers
and Hypnotists and Fortune Tellers—Adventures
in the Occult—A Spirit
Medium—Mental Telepathy—Fortune
Telling by Tea Cups and Cards—Living
in a Haunted House.

Whether one believes in the supernatural or not is of no consequence in the reading or writing of these experiences. Some strange things have occurred—and there may or may not be a plausible explanation of them. All I have to do is to say that there is full corroboration for any assertion made.

First, about the mystic boards—Planchette and Ouija. The only difference between them is that Planchette has two legs and the third support is a lead pencil which writes on a sheet of paper spread out on the table; and Ouija has three legs and the board itself has “yes,” “no,” the alphabet and the numerals up to ten.

The first time I used Planchette was in the early ’70’s when I brought one home from Toronto, and with it an unopened bundle of several newspaper exchanges from the post office. Without looking at it I took up an unopened paper, and held it behind my back and asked a casual visitor, Mrs. Kent, and my sister (who acted as the “mediums”) the name of the paper. Planchette wrote _Expositor_ and, on opening it, I found the paper was the Seaforth _Expositor_. That gave me more confidence in it than I can honestly say I have in Ouija, who is decidedly off color in many of her answers. She has told me different versions of matters asked, and is as unreliable as a star witness in a divorce case. And I am a pretty good medium too, can work it alone, and even with one hand, while I have seen people who couldn’t make it move at all.

I have tried to interview several dead and living people through Ouija, and if I only recorded what he, she or it recorded I would be sent either to jail or to the lunatic asylum. Ouija merely records what your sub-conscious mind impels your hands, unconsciously on your part, to move. The board itself means nothing. It merely tells you what you don’t know you were thinking about.

Then there are the necromancers and the hypnotists and the Anna Eva Fays; also the Georgia Wonders and such like. McKeown, a nephew of the Scotch wizard, Anderson, did remarkable feats which I can’t explain; Malina, who never appeared in public, but received $100 a night at private houses, was a mystery, which he claimed he wasn’t. The Georgia Wonders increased in numbers as the subject of points and angles became known. Charlie Kelly, the well-known Winnipeg singer, travelled with one troupe and at Halifax was astounded when the manager of the show told him he would have to get another “Wonder” as the one he had was getting too fat and wouldn’t “draw.” So he advertised for one—of course discreetly—and after Charlie had witnessed a couple of rehearsals, he resigned in disgust.

Anna Eva Fay performed remarkable feats. One day while visiting Winnipeg I met Billy Seach, manager of the Princess Opera House, and while enjoying an evening stroll he told me of the successes and failures of the previous season. Anna Eva Fay had made the greatest hit and packed the house every night. He then went on to tell me that Miss Fay had scouts out at every place she performed. I knew that, for my next door neighbor in Montreal, Billy Cameron, was one of them.

Well, one morning, Anna’s scout happened to drop into Archibald & Howell’s law office to see a clerk of his acquaintance. There was a minister in the waiting room, and one of the members of the firm came out and greeted him. He was from a little town not far from Winnipeg, in which city he was well known. This reverend gentleman remarked that things were not going well with him, that his little boy had broken his arm, but was getting better, and that he had lost a drove of pigs, but thought he would find them in a slough near a red barn a couple of miles away.

That night, the minister attended Anna Eva Fay’s performance and standing up handed in some written questions. He was directly spotted by the scout, who conveyed the intelligence Miss Fay desired. She answered the questions quite satisfactorily, and the wonder-stricken reverend gentleman freely communicated to those near him the accuracy of the answers. Shortly after Miss Fay predicted that Hugh John Macdonald would beat Joe Martin by 1,435 majority and Peter Rutherford, a staunch Grit and a firm believer in Miss Fay’s prophecies, rushed out of the show and ran down to the Liberal committee rooms and shouted for them to close the place as they were licked already. Hugh John was elected all right, but not by the majority she said he would have.

Adventures in the Occult.

In Los Angeles, I met Miss Dolly Chevrier, daughter of the late Senator Chevrier of Winnipeg, who was an old friend. She asked me to accompany her to the residence of an Irish lady acquaintance, who is the wife of one of the city officials of Los Angeles, and who had the gift of second sight. We had a very pleasant evening and, always incidentally, she brought up some subject or other that demonstrated she had some occult gift. She asked me what person wished to accompany me home, and mentioned the name of one, whom I afterwards discovered had entertained the desire. She told me about my sister, of whose existence she ordinarily could have no knowledge, and informed me of several occurrences in my life which astonished me. In leaving she told me that if I believed in the occult, I should call upon a Madame Lenz, who was a professional fortune teller, which I did.

Just at this time I received a letter from the son-in-law of Mrs. William Stitt, asking if I knew of any property that her husband, who had just died, owned in the West. Madame Lenz’s methods were simple. You wrote five questions and placed them in a sealed envelope; she would then twist the envelope in her hands and return it to you. She first told me that I had recently lost a friend, and that he was buried in Mon-Mon-Mon—she appeared to be in doubt—but finally said Montana. I corrected her and said it was Montreal. She admitted her haziness, but said he was interred on top of a mountain, which was true. She said he had some property in the West, but it was worthless, as it proved to be.

As I was leaving she remarked that September 10th was her birthday, and that, on the anniversary of her birth, I would receive a good sum of money. I wasn’t down at the office next September 10th with an express wagon to carry away any gold that might come, and when the clock struck twelve at midnight, I charitably thought that Madame had had another attack of haziness. A few years went by, and after a peculiar coincidence of circumstances one fine September 10th the prediction was realized, and I was $4,400 the richer. Madame Lenz asked me the whereabouts of a number of my friends, amongst those she mentioned being Mr. A. A. Polhamus; I told her he was sitting out in the auto waiting for me.

Amongst my acquaintances was Saint Nihil Singh, a young Hindoo who came with a letter of introduction from Eddie Coyle, then the C.P.R. representative at Vancouver. He was a bright young fellow and soon made a name for himself in his writings in the Canadian and American press. Taking me by the hand, he read it, and said I was a human fish—sucker, I suppose—and preferred liquids to solids—that is soups and stews to roasts—which was true. I asked him if he had ever seen any of those miraculous feats that the Hindoo fakir (not fakir but fakeer) had done, instancing a boy climbing a rope which had been thrown up into the air and disappearing into space. He had. And how was it done? And he replied, how did I think it was done? I said by hypnotism, and he smilingly agreed with me.

Then came another Singh—I forget his other name—but he was an Indian doctor, and he, too, had seen these wonderful feats, but he explained that they were only done by a certain cult whose forefathers for thousands of years had practised the black art, and had developed an additional sense which enabled them to do the seemingly impossible. So “you pays your money, and takes your choice.”

”Getting the Dope” on the “Prof.”

In the earlier days of Winnipeg Prof. Cecil appeared and gave an exhibition of spectacular table moving and other things. Jim McGregor and I were induced to go on the platform and he and I faced each other at the table while the Professor and his assistant sat on the other sides. The table moved all right enough, and so did my left hand, for I grabbed the Professor by the arm to find that he had attached to his wrists two strong steel bars which, with his hands on the table and the bars under the leaf, acted as levers and the whole thing was done.

He wasn’t exposed of course. It would have spoilt the show.

But he “got it in the neck” a little later. He released himself from handcuffs—which is easily done by slipping the mainspring of a watch into the ratchets and off they come. He, unfortunately, challenged everybody to produce any sort of manacle and he would open it. Dick Power, then chief of the provincial police, came forward with a brand new shackle. It had never been used before. It was locked on Dick’s leg, a handkerchief thrown over it, and the Professor tried in vain to open it. He couldn’t get the mainspring into the ratchet, and was finally compelled to admit his inability to do so.

Telepathy and Fortune Telling.

All this is different from telepathy and spirits. One night not so very long ago I was awakened by hearing Reggie Graves’ voice just outside my bedroom door, saying, “George Ham, George Ham, George H. Ham of the C.P.R.” This continued for some time, and I also recognized Brent MacNab’s voice. It was absurd to imagine that they were in the hallway of my house at that unearthly hour, two o’clock in the morning. When I turned on the light, the voices ceased; when I turned it off Reggie recommenced calling my name. I pinched myself to see if I was awake or dreaming, but after half an hour or so the calling ceased for good and I fell asleep.

The next night at two o’clock I was again awakened by Reggie’s voice calling upon me as it had the night previous. The calling continued while the light was off and ceased when it was turned on. After a while I lighted a cigarette, smoked part of it, and, extinguishing the fire, placed it on a small stand at my bedside. If it was there in the morning, this telepathy calling was no dream. True enough in the morning the cigarette was just where I had put it. Three or four evenings later, Reggie and Brent dropped in to see me, and I related what I have just written.

“It’s true,” exclaimed Reggie, “it’s true—I was in great distress and bodily pain and you were my only sheet anchor and I called you both nights.”

Reggie was at his home at Ste. Rose seventeen miles away.

Another night I was awakened by women’s voices at 4 a.m. and, while I could not hear what they said, could easily distinguish the voice of one of the ladies. Just for fun I ’phoned her next day, and told her she had not gone to bed until four o’clock and she related how a neighbor had been ill and she had gone in to see her and stayed with her until that late hour. The sick woman’s house was nearly a mile away from my residence.

Then there is fortune-telling—by cards and by tea cup. A clever reader of the remaining tea leaves can make up a mighty good story, from one’s imaginative powers and the knowledge of the person whose tea-cup is being read. Cards are different, and apparently are read by the proximity of one card dealt out of the pack to the others that follow. However that may be, I know of several instances where the fortune-teller’s predictions came absolutely true. One happened while crossing the Atlantic on board the old Champlain, when a lady acquaintance one lazy afternoon offered to tell my fortune. The cards told her, and she told me, that I would hear very bad news on my arrival at St. John, and would learn of the death of a very close friend. True enough, I was handed a letter from Mell Duff before I left the ship informing me of the death of my very intimate friend, Bob Morris, general baggage agent of the C.P.R., of Montreal. The other instance occurred in Shediac, N.B., when one rainy afternoon on going to Weldon’s Hotel, I found my wife packing her trunk. She told me that a lady had told her fortune an hour or so before, and the cards predicted that she was to leave the place immediately. Of course, I laughed over her unseemly haste, but a few minutes later received a rush telegram from Mr. McNicoll instructing me to report at once at headquarters. We left for Montreal next morning, and I have been stationed there ever since.

Besides these, there is palmistry. That is an old art, and anyone who studies a book on palmistry can correctly read the lines of anybody’s hand.

Story of the Haunted House.

While I am on this subject I might as well tell you that I once lived in a haunted house for a couple of years. Here’s the story, which in every particular can be corroborated by Major George II. Young, formerly of the Customs office, Winnipeg, the owner and previously the occupant of the house, and by Charlie Bell, for many years secretary of the Winnipeg Board of Trade, who also lived in the place, and by others.

It was on St. Patrick’s Day, 1877, that my wife and I took possession of the little house just south of old Grace Church on Main Street, Winnipeg, our landlord being Mr. Geo. H. Young. Tradition said it was built on an old Indian burial ground. The house was not fully furnished the first day and we fixed up a bed in what was to be the parlor. During the night queer noises were heard. The stove in the adjoining room rattled like mad, and investigation proved nothing. There was no wind or anything else visible that should cause a commotion. A door would slam and on going to it, it was found wide open. One night there was a loud noise as if some tinware hanging up on the wall in the kitchen had fallen. Saying: “There goes the boiler lid,” my mother, who had come from Whitby on a visit, ran downstairs and returned with the assertion that nothing had fallen on the floor to make such a noise. And so it went on.

I spoke to George Young about it, and he laughingly said: “You’re hearing those noises too; well, I won’t raise the rent anyway on that account.” And he didn’t—but that’s not the custom nowadays.

One time the cellar was filled with water, coming from where, goodness only knows, though it was said that there was a slough through that property years ago. Anyway the cellar was full of water, and it had to be baled out. I said, “Leave it to me. Let George do it.” My motto is “Do it now”—“now” being an indefinite time.

After a few days, despairing of any decisive action on my part, my wife engaged the Laurie boys, (who came from Whitby) to empty the cellar. They came one fine morning with pails and ropes and everything was ready to put the cellar in its normal condition. But lo and behold, when the trap door was opened, there wasn’t a blamed drop of water in the blooming cellar. It was dry as a tin horn. Of course I triumphantly boasted, “There, didn’t I tell you. Always leave things to me.” The Laurie boys were puzzled, for they had seen the cellar full the previous day. And I gloated. We never ascertained whence came the water or where it went, but by this time I had got accustomed to the prances and pranks of the house and didn’t care a continental.

After a couple of years’ occupancy of the house, which in the meantime had been purchased by the late George McVicar, we sought a new residence on Logan Street, next to Ald. More’s; and the Main Street house was leased to a Mr. Conlisk, a cigar manufacturer, who hitherto had boarded at John Pointz’s hotel, diagonally opposite. We were to move out on a Saturday morning, but the rain came down in torrents and the muddy streets were almost impassable. Besides our new house wasn’t ready.

I went to Mr. Conlisk and asked him if he would let us stay for a couple of days longer and I would pay his rent and his board at the hotel. But he wouldn’t. He had leased the house and he was going into it Saturday afternoon. And he did. I don’t like to think of unpleasant things, so I’ll skip telling about how we—and our furniture—fared. In less than a week, Jimmy Bennett, a well known citizen who had a room with the Conlisks, left for other—and doubtless quieter—quarters, and before the month was up Conlisk paid another month’s rent in advance, and gave the landlord notice that he was quitting. George McVicar came to me and angrily wanted to know why I was spreading reports that his house was haunted. I told him I had not done anything of the kind, but that it was the spooks who had spoken. The building was removed to the north end, and some years after, on recognizing it, I called to see if the noises still continued. But they wouldn’t let me in.

I don’t pretend to be able to explain the queer noises, nor could George Young, nor Charlie Bell, and Jimmy Bennett would not even speak of them. Whether they were the spirits of the past and gone Indian braves showing their displeasure at our intrusion in their domain, or were caused by some peculiarity in the construction of the house and its environments, I can not offer an opinion. But, as we got accustomed to them, they didn’t disturb us at all, and we got rather proud of our ghostly guests whose board and lodging cost us nothing.