Other Worlds (7 page)

The startled seer whirled around, rolling his eyes wildly from side to side in an attempt to locate the source of the impertinent voice. But no man can acquire a reputation as a magician without having a cool head and a smooth tongue. Mize soon recovered himself and questioned the Spirit. He was no match for this diabolical debater, who had
out-argued
cleverer men than Mize. After an exchange of questions, the Spirit lost its temper and began to swear in earnest. Its command of profanity must have been superb. Mize had unquestionably been cursed before, but
this verbal blast scared him so badly he decided he had better leave. He did not escape without a final gesture from the Spirit, who made his horse buck and then bolt, with the terrified sorcerer clinging to its mane.

This admittedly comic episode—low comedy though it is— was the only light moment in an affair that rapidly went from bad to worse. John Bell's suffering intensified, and in September Mrs. Bell also became ill.

It is a wonder this much-tried woman had not long since succumbed to nervous prostration, but the Spirit could not be blamed for her illness, even indirectly. It was diagnosed as pleurisy, and of all the visitors who came to comfort the sick woman, none was so assiduous as the Spirit.

"Luce, poor Luce," it exclaimed, in tones of plaintive and touching sweetness. "I am so sorry you are sick. Don't you feel better, Luce? What can I do for you?"

"I am too sick to talk to you now," Lucy replied feebly.

The voice immediately fell silent and remained so while Lucy tried to rest. As is normal in this disease, she was most feverish and uncomfortable in the late afternoon and evening. She usually got some rest in the latter part of the night and woke refreshed in the morning. As soon as she opened her eyes, the anxious voice asked, "How do you feel this morning, Luce? Did you rest well through the night?'

Despite this concern, Mrs. Bell gradually grew worse. The family feared she was dying, and the Spirit became absolutely frantic with worry. It was particularly concerned about Lucy's appetite, or lack thereof. One day, in the same plaintive voice, it asked, "Luce, poor Luce, how do you feel now? Hold out your hands, Luce, and I will give you something."

Obediently Lucy cupped her hands. Into them fell a rain of hazelnuts, apparently originating from the empty air above the bed.

The ladies who were visiting the sick woman exclaimed in astonishment. One of them climbed on a chair to examine the ceiling, but found not even a crack through which the nuts could have been dropped.

"Say, Luce, why don't you eat the nuts?" the Spirit demanded.

"I cannot crack them."

"Well, I will crack some for you."

Cracking sounds were distinctly heard before the fragments of nuts dropped into the bed.

"Eat the nuts, they will do you good," the voice insisted.

"You are so kind," Lucy said tactfully. "But I am too sick to eat them."

So the next offering was a bunch of grapes, which appeared on her bedside table before the startled eyes of Reverend Fort and his son, who had come to pray for the sufferer. Lucy was unable to eat these either, but expressed her thanks, and from this time, twenty days after the attack began, she steadily improved until she was out of danger.

The delighted Spirit lavished praise on Dr. Hopson, the family physician; and I think that we must also give the credit for Mrs. Bell's recovery to this practitioner, for the Spirit seems to have been singularly inept in cases of sickness. Not only was it unable to help Mrs. Bell by supernatural means, but it was not very good at providing food a sick person could relish. Nuts and grapes were in season and were easily procured from the woods, but they are not necessarily what the doctor would order for an invalid.

As the wife improved, the husband grew worse. In mid-October Mr. Bell had a severe attack. He stayed in bed for almost a week, the Spirit cursing and threatening him all the while. On the morning of the twentieth he felt better, so he woke Richard
and asked the boy to accompany him to the hog pens, in order to separate the stock hogs from the animals designated to be fattened for slaughter.

They had not gone far before one of Mr. Bell's shoes was jerked off his foot. Richard put his father's shoe back on, drawing the laces as tight as possible and tying a double knot. Mr. Bell started out again. It had not rained for several days, and the ground was dry and smooth. But after a few steps Mr. Bell's other shoe flew off.

The courageous old gentleman persevered. He and his son reached the pen and did what they had come to do. No sooner had they started back to the house than the insane performance began again. Mr. Bell's shoes flew off his feet. His body jerked and twitched in frightful convulsions, while the crisp autumn air rang with the derisive laughter and vulgar songs of the Spirit.

For the first and last time Richard saw his father break down. Tears streamed from his eyes as he told his son he feared his time had come.

With Richard's help Mr. Bell finally reached the house. There they were met by John Junior, who ran to their assistance, horrified at his father's appearance.

"His shoestrings were broken, his feet had bleeding gashes on them, his face was livid in spots, as from blows. His eyes were red and watery, as though he had received punches in both eyes. His face was contorted and twitching; he still complained of pain all over his face, in his eyes and about his head."

Richard was almost incoherent with shock, but he managed to give his older brother an account of what had happened, and the two young men helped their father into bed. Then John ran out of the house. Lifting his hands to heaven, he knelt in prayer.

"Send back this demon and give me a chance to return the same cruel punishment it has given Father. As a man, unaided
by divine power, I cannot cope with this demon. Give me this aid, I beg you!"

But there was no response from the empty blue heavens, and the Spirit prudently kept silent.

Mr. Bell never left the house again. Dr. Hopson prescribed various medicines; we are not told what kind, nor do we know what other methods, if any, the physician employed. In all fairness to Dr. Hopson, we must remember that medical knowledge was extremely primitive. There was very little he could do, and by this time the doctor, the family, and John Bell himself had probably resigned themselves to the will of God—or the will of something. The Spirit claimed full responsibility; it continued to crow and congratulate itself, and revile "old Jack Bell."

Sick as he was, Mr. Bell had tried to keep up his old habit of being the first to rise in the morning. On December nineteenth he did not waken. The family was glad to see him getting some rest. His wife slipped quietly out of the room to superintend the preparation of breakfast, and John and Drewry went to feed the stock—the first order of business on a working farm, never to be neglected in spite of illness or bad weather.

After breakfast the boys looked in on their father again. He was still asleep. But alarm replaced their relief as they looked closer. Mr. Bell was not sleeping, he was in a coma, and all attempts to rouse him failed.

The doctor was sent for, and John, who had been in charge of administering his father's medicine, went running to the cupboard. When he opened it, "The three bottles of medicine which I had been giving him were gone. In their place was a dark bottle containing a brown smoky fluid which I had never seen before."

By this time the family's closest neighbors and friends had arrived, Frank Miles and John Johnson among them. John called
them to look at the mysterious bottle. None of them had seen it before.

"The damned witch did this," Frank exclaimed with his customary bluntness.

The Spirit promptly confirmed the accusations. "I did it. Old Jack will never get up from that bed again. I have got him this time!"

Dr. Hopson arrived and joined the others at Mr. Bell's bedside. He shook his head gravely. John showed him the bottle. As he examined it, the Spirit cried out, "I put it there, and gave Old Jack a big dose out of it last night while he was fast asleep, which fixed him."

"I certainly did not leave it here," the doctor muttered. "Nor can I tell what it contains. Perhaps we should test it."

The test was unfortunately typical of the medical procedures of that day and that remote region. One of the barn cats was caught, and a straw was dipped into the brown liquid and wiped across its tongue.

The cat jumped and whirled over a few times, stretched out, kicked, and died.

In a passion of anger and frustration, John threw the fatal bottle into the fire. A flash of light and a blue flame marked its destruction.

As the sun declined, John Bell's family sat by his bed watching helplessly as he sank deeper into unconsciousness. Their sad vigil was enlivened by the loathsome voice singing vulgar songs and preening itself on its crime. Early in the morning of December twentieth, two months to the day since the attack at the hog pen, John Bell breathed his last.

His funeral drew the largest crowd ever seen at such occasions in Robertson County. The air was bright and crisp that morning, only a few days before Christmas. John Bell's grave had
been dug on the hill under the tall cedars, beside the resting place of his son Benjamin. Mrs. Bell's somber black gown and muffling widow's veil absorbed the chilly sunlight. As the mourners turned away, the clods of earth falling onto the coffin rang hard as stones. Then, from the empty air, came the Spirit's epitaph on the man it had murdered.

"Row me up some brandy, O!" it sang, and continued with the raucous drinking song until the family had entered the house.

"Row me up some brandy, 0

Row, row, row

Row me up some brandy, 0.

Row me up some more."

The Bells' Christmas that year cannot have been merry.

As the bleak winter days passed, Mrs. Bell found a few rays of light in the gloom of her bereavement. She had strong sons to carry on her husband's work, and many loyal friends. The Spirit's worst malice had apparently been expended on John Bell; it had never been rude or unpleasant to Lucy, and that winter it was even kind to Betsy, bringing her exotic delicacies to tempt her failing appetite, and telling her amusing stories about social events in the outside world. As might have been expected of so shallow a personality, most of these tales concerned the doings of the wealthy and socially prominent, in Europe and in America. The newspapers took some time to reach that remote region, but when they arrived Betsy found the Spirit's descriptions of balls and parades—and scandals—completely accurate.

In those salubrious climes spring comes early. The first wild-flowers bloom amid the snows of February, and April sees the forest floor carpeted with violets. Betsy's young heart bloomed as
well. She was now seventeen years old—the tenderest, most beautiful age of a woman's life. Handsome gray-eyed Joshua was at her side, and it was spring. But when Joshua proposed marriage she held back. Her forebodings were justified. The Spirit had not abandoned its unexplained opposition to the young man, and one day, when Josh pleaded his suit in passionate language, he was interrupted by the old refrain: "Betsy, don't marry Joshua Gardner!"

Once again brother John was consulted—at least, that is what John claimed. The Spirit demanded that he intervene to prevent the marriage. As before, it refused to give reasons, but John took Betsy aside for a private talk. Neither of them ever divulged what he said (indeed, Betsy never mentioned it at all), but evidently John warned his sister of the peril she was facing. That same day Betsy told Joshua she could never be his.

Many years later, after a long and happy life, Betsy looked back on this decision and expressed considerable resentment— not of the Spirit, but of friends who had criticized her for not defying the eerie voice. She claimed they had no right to judge her, for they had never been in her position—and indeed, few women have. Over and over the Spirit had proved its power to hurt and harm, Should she have exposed her lover to the malice that had already destroyed her father? It would not have been fair to Joshua.

This last concession satisfied the Spirit. Though it lingered on for several months, its tricks gradually decreased in frequency. One night as the family sat around the fire, an object like a cannonball rolled down the chimney and out into the room, bursting into a great cloud of smoke.

"I am going," the odiously familiar voice announced. "I will be gone for seven years. Goodbye to all."