The Man Who Cheated Death

Chapter 25 Rosabelle, Believe

“We’re live in thirty seconds,” the cameraman announced. “Everybody take your places.”

The actors scurried around the Houdini Séance room and took their seats. As a make-up artist dabbed pancake on his upper lip, Hardare took a deep breath. He had only one hand to play, and this was it. On the other side of the room stood Action 10 news reporter Jayne Hunter, clutching a mike. She shot him a smile.

“Are you ready?” Hunter asked.

“As ready as I’m ever going to be,” Hardare replied.

“Five seconds,” the cameraman said. Then, “We’re on...”

“Good day,” Hunter said to the camera. “This is Jayne Hunter, coming to you live from the Magic Castle in Hollywood. I’m in the famous Houdini Séance room with magician Vincent Hardare. As many of our viewers know, Hardare has been helping the LAPD hunt for a serial killer who calls himself Death. Today, Hardare is going to attempt to track Death down by speaking to the spirits. Hardare... are you ready?”

The segment was being shot with a single camera. The cameraman shifted, and focused on the magician sitting at the table with the actors he’d hired.

“Death is not the end, nor the last word for human experience,” Hardare began. “Death is another dimension, another universe, and another time. We enter this dimension only at great risk.”

Everyone at the table joined hands.

“We are gathered in a special place,” he went on. “This room is dedicated to my uncle, Erich Weiss, known to the world as Harry Houdini. During his lifetime, Houdini sought proof of the existence of the hereafter. To his wife Bess he promised that if it were possible, he would return from the next world.

“It is recorded that Houdini’s ghost spoke during a séance conducted by the Reverend Arthur Ford. During that séance, Reverend Ford revealed the secret code Houdini promised to use if he did return. Those words were, ‘Rosabelle, believe’.

“Tonight, with the aid of Houdini’s ghost, we will attempt to contact the spirt world, and ask them to help us find a serial killer who calls himself Death.”

Off camera, a bell rang three times. Hardare began to recite.

The séance table eerily rose in the air. Then, the stained glass window directly behind them opened with a terrific bang, and a gush of wind blew into the room, causing the candle to flicker.

It was the perfect distraction. The actress sitting to Hardare’s right rose from her place, and silently stole away. She was replaced by Sophie Nichols, who slipped into the empty chair, and began to softly moan. Under the candle’s flickering light, she bore a strong resemblance to Elaine Osbourne.

“I hear your voice,” Hardare said. “You are so close...” His face suddenly stiffened. “Don’t cry, please. I know you are hurting inside, I know. Just talk to me... let us try to help.”

An anguished cry escaped the actress’s lips.

“Who are you?” Hardare asked her.

Sophie lowered her chin, hiding her face from the camera. The voice of Alice Harvey, the Woman of a Thousand Voices, came over the room’s hidden speaker.

“My name is Elaine Osbourne,” the voice said. “I am Death’s mother. I have a message for my son.”

“Is your son the serial killer who calls himself Death?”

“Yes.”

“What is your son’s name?”

“Eugene Osbourne.”

“What is your message to Eugene,” Hardare said.

“My son must stop killing. He’s hurting me!”

“How is he hurting you?”

“Every victim he kills, an invisible knife is stabbed into my heart! Eugene — you must stop!”

A ghostly hand clutching a butcher knife appeared above the séance table and plunged down into the actress’s head, then disappeared. Hardare had not told the other actors about this little touch. Just as he’d hoped, they recoiled in horror.

“Is there anything else?” Hardare asked.

“Tell Eugene that I love him.”

“Even after he’s hurt you.”

“He’s still my son. Goodbye.”

The séance table rose into the air, and the stained glass window banged open. Sophie Nichols invisibly left the room, her seat replaced by the first actress.

The lights came up, and the cameraman panned the faces of everyone at the table, stopping last at Hardare.

“The dead have spoken,” the magician said.

Death lay on the bare floor in a fetal curl, his head buried in his hands, the crotch of his jeans soiled by his own urine. With each pitiful sob, his shoulders gently rocked, the motion reminding Jan of a baby in a cradle.

Jan sat transfixed, watching her abductor teeter on the brink of madness. How had Vince found out who Death’s mother was? And how had he found someone who looked exactly like her, and gotten her to appear at a séance? Being married to a magician had always been full of surprises, and this ranked right up there with the very best.

Death shrieked a primal scream, the sound tearing through the abandoned tenement. Pulling himself to his feet, he walked around the room, his fists pounding holes into the crumbling walls.

“Why did he do that?” he sobbed. “Why couldn’t he leave my mommy alone?”

Jan stared straight ahead. Eugene had snapped, and sounded like a ten-year-old-boy.

“I’m going to make him pay for that. Just you wait.”

From the paper bag he pulled out a string of sausages. He stuck one into his mouth and chewed viciously. Something about him had changed, although Jan wasn’t entirely sure what.

“Can I have one?” she asked.

“What did you say?”

“I’m hungry. Can I have one of your sausages.”

Death tore off a sausage and stuck it in her mouth.

“Your husband is a prick. He could have brought my father back, and wouldn’t have said those bad things about me.”

Jan chewed the uncooked sausage. As it hit her stomach, her gastronomical juices went off like fireworks.

“Can I have something to drink?”

“Only if you say please.”

“Please.”

He put a can of soda to her lips. Jan downed it in one gulp. She’d never tasted anything more delicious in her life.

“That should keep you alive for a little while,” he said. “I’m granting you a temporary reprieve, but the sentence remains the same.”

He made a feeble effort to laugh and instead started to cry again, his shoulders visibly shaking. It was impossible, yet Jan actually found herself feeling sorry for him.

“Let me help you, Eugene.”

“No!”

“Please. Untie me from this chair. You’re a sick man; you need a doctor. I’ll help you find a good one.”

“Nobody can help me. I have a worm in my brain. Now give me your husband’s cell phone number.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he wants me to contact him. I’m not stupid. Now, give it to me.”

Jan recited her husband’s cell number from memory. Death repeated it to her, then gathered up his things and left the apartment. She felt herself shudder as he locked the door behind him.