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POSSESSED
by
CLEVELAND MOFFETT
_Author of "Through the Wall", etc._
NEW YORK
THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY
1920
Copyright 1920 by
THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
Printed in U. S. A.
DEDICATION
Whatever the defects or limitations of this story, I can assure my
readers that it is largely based on truth. Many of the incidents,
including the dual personality phenomena, were suggested by actual
happenings known to me. The doctor who accomplishes cures by occult
methods is a friend of mine, who lives and practises in New York City.
Seraphine, the medium, is also a real person. The episode that is
explained by waves of terror passing from one apartment to another and
separately affecting three unsuspecting persons is not imaginary, but
drawn from an almost identical happening that I, myself, witnessed in
Paris, France. And the truth about women that I have tried to tell has
been largely obtained from women themselves, women in various walks of
life, who have been kind enough to give me most of the opinions and
experiences that are contained in Penelope's diary. To them I now
gratefully dedicate this book.
C. M.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
CHAPTER
I. VOICES 6
II. WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL THE DOCTOR 18
III. A BOWL OF GOLD FISH 42
IV. FIVE PURPLE MARKS 46
V. WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE STUDIO 53
VI. EARTH-BOUND 62
VII. JEWELS 70
VIII. WHITE SHAPES 80
IX. THE CONFESSIONAL CLUB 90
X. FAUVETTE 103
XI. THE EVIL SPIRIT 111
XII. X K C 115
XIII. TERROR 128
XIV. POSSESSED 142
XV. DR. LEROY 149
XVI. IRRESPONSIBLE HANDS 161
XVII. THE HOUR OF THE DREAM 169
XVIII. PLAYING WITH FIRE 179
XIX. PRIDE 192
XX. THE MIRACLE 199
XXI. THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN THAT NOBODY TELLS 210
EPILOGUE 252
"_Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues
of life._"
PROVERBS, _Chapter IV, Verse 23_.
POSSESSED
(_June, 1914_)
SCARLET LIGHTS
This story presents the fulfillment of an extraordinary prophecy made
one night, suddenly and dramatically, at a gathering of New Yorkers,
brought together for hilarious purposes, including a little supper, in
the Washington Square apartment of Bobby Vallis--her full name was
Roberta. There were soft lights and low divans and the strumming of a
painted ukulele that sang its little twisted soul out under the caress
of Penelope's white fingers. I can still see the big black opal in its
quaint setting that had replaced her wedding ring and the yellow serpent
of pliant gold coiled on her thumb with two bright rubies for its eyes.
Penelope Wells! How little we realized what sinister forces were playing
about her that pleasant evening as we smoked and jested and sipped our
glasses, gazing from time to time up the broad vista of Fifth Avenue
with its lines of receding lights.
There had been an impromptu session of the Confessional Club during
which several men, notably a poet in velveteen jacket, had vouchsafed
sentimental or matrimonial revelations in the most approved Greenwich
Village style. And the ladies, unabashed, had discussed these things.
But not a word did Penelope Wells speak of her own matrimonial troubles,
which were known vaguely to most of us, although we had never met the
drunken brute of a husband who had made her life a torment. I can see
her now in profile against the open window, her eyes dark with their
slumberous fires. I remember the green earrings she wore that night, and
how they reached down under her heavy black braids--reached down
caressingly over her white neck. She was a strangely, fiercely beautiful
creature, made to love and to be loved, fated for tragic happenings. She
was twenty-nine.
The discussion waxed warm over the eternal question--how shall a woman
satisfy her emotional nature when she has no chance or almost no chance
to marry the man she longs to marry?
Roberta Vallis put forth views that would have frozen old-fashioned
moralists into speechless disapproval--entire freedom of choice and
action for women as well as men, freedom to unite with a mate or
separate from a mate--both sexes to have exactly the same
responsibilities or lack of responsibilities in these sentimental
arrangements.
"No, no! I call that loathsome, abominable," declared Penelope, and the
poet adoringly agreed with her, although his practice had been
notoriously at variance with these professions.
"Suppose a woman finds herself married to some beast of a man," flashed
Roberta, "some worthless drunkard, do you mean to tell me it is her duty
to stick to such a husband, and spoil her whole life?"
To which Penelope, hiding her agitation, said: "I--I am not discussing
that phase of the question. I mean that if a woman is alone in the
world, if she longs for the companionship of a man--the intimate
companionship--"
"Ha, ha, ha!" snickered the poet. I can see his close cropped yellow
beard and his red face wrinkling in merriment at this supposition.
"I hate your Greenwich Village philosophy," stormed Penelope. "You
haven't the courage, the understanding to commit one big splendid sin
that even the angels in heaven might approve, but you fritter away your
souls and spoil your bodies in cheap little sins that are
just--_disgusting!_"
The poet shrivelled under her scorn.
"But--one splendid sin?" he stammered. "That means a woman must go to
her mate, doesn't it?"
"Without marriage? Never! I'll tell you what a woman should do--I'll
tell you what I would do, just to prove that I am not conventional, I
would act on the principle that there is a sacred right God has given to
every woman who is born, a right that not even God Himself can take away
from her, I mean the right to--"
A muffled scream interrupted her, a quick catching of the breath by a
stout lady, a newcomer, who was seated on a divan, I should have judged
this woman to be a rather commonplace person except that her deeply
sunken eyes seemed to carry a far away expression as if she saw things
that were invisible to others. Now her eyes were fixed on Penelope.
"Oh, the beautiful scarlet light!" she murmured. "There! Don't you
see--moving down her arm? And another one--on her shoulder! Scarlet
lights! My poor child! My poor child!"
Ordinarily we would have laughed at this, for, of course, we saw no
scarlet lights, but somehow now we did not laugh. On the contrary we
fell into hushed and wondering attention, and, turning to Roberta, we
learned that this was Seraphine, a trance medium who had given séances
for years to scientists and occult investigators, and was now assisting
Dr. W----, of the American Occult Society.
"A séance! Magnificent! Let us have a séance!" whispered the poet. "Tell
us, madam, can you really lift the veil of the future?"
But already Seraphine had settled back on the divan and I saw that her
eyes had closed and her breathing was quieter, although her body was
shaken from time to time by little tremors as if she were recovering
from some great agitation. We watched her wonderingly, and presently she
began to speak, at first slowly and painfully, then in her natural tone.
Her message was so brief, so startling in its purport that there can be
no question of any error in this record.
"Penelope will--cross the ocean," Seraphine began dreamily. "Her husband
will die--very soon. There will be war--soon. She will go to the war and
will have honors conferred upon her--on the battlefield. She will--she
will,"--the medium's face changed startlingly to a mask of anguish and
her bosom heaved. "Oh, my poor child! I see you--I see you going down
to--_to horror--to terror_--Ah!"
She cried out in fright and stopped speaking; then, after a moment of
dazed effort, she came back to reality and looked at us as before out of
her sunken eyes, a plump little kindly faced woman resting against a
blue pillow.
* * * * *
_Now, whatever one may think of mediums, the facts are that Penelope's
husband died suddenly in an automobile accident within a month of this
memorable evening. And within two months the great war burst upon the
world. And within a year Penelope did cross the ocean as a Red Cross
Nurse, and it is a matter of record that she was decorated for valor
under fire of the enemy._
_This story has to do with the remainder of Seraphine's prophecy._
CHAPTER I
(_January, 1919_)
VOICES
Penelope moved nervously in her chair, evidently very much troubled
about something as she waited in the doctor's office. Her two years in
France had added a touch of mystery to her strange beauty. Her eyes were
more veiled in their burning, as if she had glimpsed something that had
frightened her; yet they were eyes that, even unintentionally, carried a
message to men, an alluring, appealing message to men. With her red
mouth, her fascinatingly unsymmetrical mouth, and her sinuous body
Penelope Wells at thirty-three was the kind of woman men look at twice
and remember. She was dressed in black.
When Dr. William Owen entered the front room of his Ninth Street office
he greeted her with the rough kindliness that a big man in his
profession, a big-hearted man, shows to a young woman whose case
interests him and whose personality is attractive.
"I got your note, Mrs. Wells," he began, "and I had a letter about you
from my young friend, Captain Herrick. I needn't say that I had already
read about your bravery in the newspapers. The whole country has been
sounding your praises. When did you get back to New York?"
"About a week ago, doctor. I came on a troop ship with several other
nurses. I--I wish I had never come."
There was a note of pathetic, ominous sadness in her voice. Even in his
first study of this lovely face, the doctor's experienced eye told him
that here was a case of complicated nervous breakdown. He wondered if
she could have had a slight touch of shell shock. What a ghastly thing
for a high spirited, sensitive young woman to be out on those battle
fields in France!
"You mustn't say that, Mrs. Wells. We are all very proud of you. Think
of having the _croix de guerre_ pinned on your dress by the commanding
general before a whole regiment! Pretty fine for an American woman!"
Penelope Wells sat quite still, playing with the flexible serpent ring
on her thumb, and looked at the doctor out of her wonderful deep eyes
that seemed to burn with a mysterious fire. Could there be something
Oriental about her--or--or Indian, the physician wondered.
"Doctor," she said, in a low tone, "I have come to tell you the truth
about myself, and the truth is that I deserve no credit for what I did
that day, because I--I did not want to live. I wanted them to kill me, I
took every chance so that they would kill me; but God willed it
differently, the shells and bullets swept all around me, cut through my
dress, through my hair, but did not harm me."
"Tell me a little more about it, just quietly. How did you happen to go
out there? Was it because you heard that Captain Herrick was wounded?
That's the way the papers cabled the story. Was that true?" Then, seeing
her face darken, he added: "Perhaps I ought not to ask that question?"
"Oh, yes, I want you to. I want you to know everything about
me--everything. That's why I am here. Captain Herrick says you are a
great specialist in nervous troubles, and I have a feeling that unless
you can help me nobody can."
"Well, I have helped some people who felt pretty blue about
life--perhaps I can help you. Now, then, what is the immediate trouble?
Any aches or pains? I must say you seem to be in splendid health," he
smiled at her with cheery admiration.
"It isn't my body. I have no physical suffering. I eat well enough, I
sleep well, except--my dreams. I have horrible, torturing dreams,
doctor. I'm afraid to go to sleep. I have the same dreams over and over
again, especially two dreams that haunt me."
"How long have you had these dreams?"
"Ever since I went out that dreadful day from Montidier--when the
Germans almost broke through. They told me Captain Herrick was lying
there helpless, out beyond our lines. So I went to him. I don't know how
I got there, but--I found him. He was wounded in the thigh and a German
beast was standing over him when I came up. He was going to run him
through with a bayonet. And somehow, I--I don't know how I did it, but
I caught up a pistol from a dead soldier and I shot the German."
"Good Lord! You don't say! They didn't have that in the papers! What a
woman! No wonder you've had bad dreams!"
Penelope passed a slender hand over her eyes as if to brush away evil
memories, then she said wearily: "It isn't that, they are not ordinary
dreams."
"Well, what kind of dreams are they? You say there are two dreams?"
"There are two that I have had over and over again, but there are
others, all part of a sequence with the same person in them."
The doctor looked at her sharply. "The same person? A person that you
recognize?"
"Yes."
"A person you have really seen? A man?"
"Yes, the man I killed."
"Oh!"
"I told you he was a beast. I saw that in his face, but I _know_ it now
because I dream of things that he did as a conqueror--in the villages."
"I see--brutal things?"
"Worse than that. In one dream I see him--Oh!" she shuddered and the
agony in her eyes was more eloquent than words.
"My dear lady, you are naturally wrought up by these dreadful
experiences, you need rest, quiet surroundings, good food, a little
relaxation----"
"No, no, no," Mrs. Wells interrupted impatiently.
"Don't tell me those old things. I am a trained nurse. I _know_ my case
is entirely different."
"How is it different? We all have dreams. I have dreams myself. One
night I dreamed that I was dissecting the janitor downstairs; sometimes
I wish I had."
Penelope brushed aside this effort at humor. "You haven't dreamed that
twenty times with every detail the same, have you? That's how I dream. I
see these faces, real faces, again and again. I hear the same cries, the
same words, vile words. Oh, I can't tell you how horrible it is!"
"But we are not responsible for our dreams," the doctor insisted.
She shook her head wearily. "That's just the point, it seems to me that
I am responsible. I feel as if I _enjoy_ these horrible dreams--while I
am dreaming them. When I am awake, the very thought of them makes me
shudder, but while I am dreaming I seem to be an entirely different
person--a low, vulgar creature proud of the brutal strength and
coarseness of her man. I seem to be a part of this human beast! When I
wake up I feel as if my soul had been stained, dragged in the mire,
almost lost. It seems as if I could never again feel any self-respect.
Oh, doctor," Penelope's voice broke and the tears filled her eyes, "you
must help me! I cannot bear this torture any longer! What can I do to
escape from such a curse?"
Seldom, in his years of practice, had the specialist been so moved by a
patient's confession as was Dr. Owen during Penelope's revelation of her
suffering. As a kindly human soul he longed to help this agonized
mortal; as a scientific expert he was eager to solve the mystery of this
nervous disorder. He leaned toward her with a look of compassion.
"Be assured, my dear Mrs. Wells, I shall do everything in my power to
help you. And in order to accomplish what we want, I must understand a
great many things about your past life." He drew a letter from his
pocket. "Let me look over what Captain Herrick wrote me about you. Hm!
He refers to your married life?"
"Yes."
The doctor studied the letter in silence. "I see. Your husband died
about four years ago?"
"Four years and a half."
"I judge that your married life was not very happy?"
"That is true, it was very unhappy."
"Is there anything in your memory of your husband, any details regarding
your married life, that may have a bearing on your present state of
mind?"
"I--I think perhaps there is," she answered hesitatingly.
"Is it something of an intimate nature that--er--you find it difficult
to tell me about?"
"I will tell you about it, doctor, but, if you don't mind," she made a
pathetic little gesture, "I would rather tell you at some other time. It
has no bearing upon my immediate trouble, that is, I don't think it
has."
"Good. We'll take that up later on. Now I want to ask another question.
I understood you to say that when you did that brave act on the battle
field you really wanted to--to have the whole thing over with?"
"Yes, I did."
"You did not go out to rescue Captain Herrick simply because you--let us
say, cared for him?"
For the first time Penelope's face lighted in an amused smile. "I
haven't said that I care for Captain Herrick, have I? I don't mind
telling you, though, that I should not have gone into that danger if I
had not known that Chris was wounded. I cared for him enough to want to
help him."
"But not enough to go on living?"
"No, I did not want to go on living."
He eyed her with the business-like tenderness that an old doctor feels
for a beautiful young patient. "Of course, you realize, Mrs. Wells, that
it will be impossible for me to help you or relieve your distressing
symptoms unless you tell me what is behind them. I must know clearly why
it was that you did not wish to go on living."
"I understand, doctor, I am perfectly willing to tell you. It is because
I was convinced that my mind was affected."
"Oh!" He smiled at her indulgently. "I can tell you, my dear lady, that
I never saw a young woman who, as far as outward appearances go, struck
me as being more sane and healthy than yourself. What gives you this
idea that your mind is affected? Not those dreams? You are surely too
intelligent to give such importance to mere dreams?"
Penelope bit her red lips in perplexed indecision, then she leaned
nearer the doctor and spoke in a low tone, glancing nervously over her
shoulder. Fear was plainly written on her face.
"No--it's not just the dreams. They are horrible enough, but I have
faith that you will help me get rid of them. There's something else,
something more serious, more uncanny. It terrifies me. I feel that I'm
in the power of some supernatural being who takes a fiendish delight in
torturing me. I'm not a coward, Dr. Owen," Penelope lifted her head
proudly, "for I truly have no fear of real danger that I can see and
face squarely, but the unseen, the unknown----" She broke off suddenly,
a strained, listening look on her face. Then she shivered though the
glowing fire in the grate was making the room almost uncomfortably warm.
"Do you mind giving me some details?" Dr. Owen spoke in his gentlest
manner, for he realized that he must gain her confidence.
Penelope continued with an effort:
"For several months I have heard voices about me, sometimes when no one
is present, sometimes in crowds on the street, at church, anywhere. But
the voices that I hear are not the voices of real persons."
"What kind of voices are they? Are they loud? Are they distinct? Or are
they only vague whispers?"
"They are perfectly distinct voices, just as clear as ordinary voices.
And they are voices of different persons. I can tell them apart; but
none of them are voices of persons that I have ever seen or known."
"Hm! I suppose you have heard, as a trained nurse, of what we call
clairaudient hallucinations?"
"Yes, doctor, and I know that those hallucinations often appear in the
early stages of insanity. That is what distresses me."
"How often do you hear these voices--not all the time? Do you hear them
in the night?"
"I hear them at any time--day or night. I have tried not to notice them,
I pretend that I do not hear them. I do my best to forget them. I have
prayed to God that He will make these voices cease troubling me, that He
will make them go away; but nothing seems to do any good."
"What kind of things do these voices say? Do they seem to be talking to
you directly?"
"Sometimes they do, sometimes they seem to be talking about me, as if
two or three persons were discussing me, criticizing me. They say very
unkind things. It seems as if they read my thoughts and make
mischievous, wicked comments on them. Sometimes they say horrid things,
disgusting things. Sometimes they give me orders. I am to do this or
that; or I am not to do this or that. Sometimes they say the same word
over and over again, many times. It was that way when I went out on the
battlefield to help Captain Herrick. As I ran along, stumbling over the
dead and wounded, I heard these voices crying out: 'Fool! Fool! Don't do
it! You mustn't do it! You're a coward! You know you're a coward! You're
going to be killed! You're a little fool to get yourself killed!'"
"And yet you went on? You did not obey these voices?"
"I went on because I was desperate. I tell you I wanted to die. What is
the use of living if one is persecuted like this? There is nothing to
live for, is there?"
He met her pathetic look with confidence.
"I think there is, Mrs. Wells. There is a lot to live for. Those
hallucinations and dreams are not as uncommon as you think. I could give
you cases of shell shock patients who have suffered in this way and come
back to normal health. You have been through enough, my young friend, to
bring about a somewhat hysterical condition that is susceptible of cure,
if you will put yourself in favorable conditions. Do you mind if I ask
you straight out whether you have any objections to marrying a second
time?"
"N--no, that is to say I--er----" The color burned in her cheeks and
Owen took note of this under his grizzled brows.
"As an old friend of the family--I mean Herrick's family--may I ask you
if you would have any objection to Captain Herrick as a
husband--assuming that you are willing to accept any husband?"
"I like Captain Herrick very much, I--I think I care for him more than
any man I know, but----"
"Well? If you love Herrick and he loves you----" Owen broke off here
with a new thought, "Ah, perhaps that is the trouble, perhaps Captain
Herrick has not told you that he loves you? I hope, dear lady, I am not
forcing your confidence?"
"No, doctor, I want you to know. Captain Herrick cares for me, he loves
me, he has asked me to marry him, but--I have refused him."
"But why--if you love him? Why refuse him?"
"Oh, can't you see? Can't you understand? How could I think of such a
thing, knowing, as I do, that something is wrong with my mind? It is
quite impossible. Besides, there is another reason."
"Another reason?" he repeated.
"It has to do with my married life. As I said I would rather tell you
about that some other time--if you don't mind?"
He saw that she could go no farther.
"Exactly, some other time. Let us say in about two weeks. During that
time my prescription for you is a rest down at Atlantic City with long
walks and a dip in the pool every morning. Come back then and tell me
how you feel, and don't think about those dreams and voices. But think
about your past life--about those things that you find it hard to tell
me. It may not be necessary to tell me provided you know the truth
yourself. Will you promise that?" He smiled at her encouragingly as she
nodded. "Good! Now be cheerful. I am not deceiving you, Mrs. Wells, I am
too sensible an old timer to do that. I give you my word that these
troubles can be easily handled. I really do not consider you in a
serious condition. Now then, until two weeks from today. I'll make you a
friendly little bet that when I see you again you'll be dreaming about
flower gardens and blue skies and pretty sunsets. Good morning."
He watched her closely as she turned with a sad yet hopeful smile to
leave the room.
"Thank you very much, doctor. I'll come back two weeks from today."
Then she was gone.
For some minutes Owen sat drumming on his desk, lost in thought. "By
George, that's a queer case. _Her other reason is the real one. I wonder
what it is?_"