William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

“The soldier who was left without cover fell, mortally wounded. And before the baleful glare of the star shell died, the other soldier, crouching in the shell crater, saw his companion’s eyes fixed on him in a mute look of scorn and accusation.

“My dear friends, years passed. The survivor became a pillar of society-married, a father, respected in his community. But always, deep in his soul, was the memory of that dying boy’s face-the eyes-accusing him!”

The panama was motionless.

“This man recently became interested in Spiritual Truth. He began to attend the church of a medium who is a dear friend of mine in a city out west. He unburdened his heart to the medium. And when they finally established contact with the ‘buddy’ whose earth life was lost through his cowardice, what do you suppose were the first words the friend in spirit uttered to that guilt-ridden man? They were, ‘You are forgiven.’

“Picture to yourselves, my friends, the unutterable joy which rose in that man’s tortured heart when the crushing weight of guilt was lifted from him and for the first time in all those years he was a free man-drinking in the sun and the soft wind and the bird song of dawn and eventide.”

Grindle was leaning forward, one hand on the back of the chair in front of him. Mrs. Prescott whispered something in his ear; but he was deaf to it. He seemed caught and held by the voice of the man behind the lectern, a man in white linen with a black clerical vest, whose hair, in the shaft of summer sun, was as golden as his voice.

“My dear friends, there is no need for God to forgive us. How can we sin against the wind which blows across the fields of ripening grain, how can we injure the soft scent of lilacs in the spring twilight, the deep blue of an autumn sky or the eternal glory of the stars on a winter’s night? No, no, my friends. We can sin only against mankind. And man, in his next mansion of the soul, says to us tenderly, lovingly, ‘You are forgiven, beloved. When you join us you will know. Until then, go with our love, rejoice in our forgiveness, take strength from us who live forever in the shadow of his hand.”’

The tears had mounted to the clergyman’s eyes and now, in the light of the alcove, they glistened faintly on his cheeks as he stopped speaking, standing erect with the bearing of an emperor in his chariot.

“Let us pray.”

At the back of the room a man who had spent his life ruining competitors, bribing congressmen, breaking strikes, arming vigilantes, cheating stockholders, and endowing homes for unwed mothers, covered his eyes with his hand.

“Reverend, they tell me you bring voices out of trumpets.”

“I have heard voices from trumpets. I don’t bring them. They come. Mediumship is either a natural gift or it is acquired by devotion, by study, and by patience.”

The cigars had cost Stan twenty dollars; but he pushed the box across the desk easily and took one himself, holding his lighter for the tycoon. The Venetian blinds were drawn, the windows open, and the fan whirring comfortably.

Grindle inhaled the cigar twice, let the smoke trickle from his nostrils, approved it, and settled farther back in his chair.

As if suddenly remembering an appointment, the spiritualist said, “Excuse me,” and jotted notes on a calendar pad. He let Grindle smoke on while he made a telephone call, then turned back to him, smiling, waiting.

“I don’t care about trumpet phenomena in your house. I want to see it in my house.”

The clergyman’s face was stern. “Mr. Grindle, spirit phenomena are not a performance. They are a religious experience. We cannot say where and when they will appear. They are no respecters of houses. Those who have passed over may reveal themselves in the humble cottage of the laborer and ignore completely the homes of wealth, of culture, and of education.”

The big man nodded. “I follow you there, Carlisle. In one of your sermons you said something about Spiritualism being the only faith that offers proof of survival. I remember you said that the command ‘Show me’ is the watchword of American business. Well, you hit the nail right on the head that time. I’m just asking to be shown, that’s all. That’s fair enough.”

The minister’s smile was unworldly and benign. “I am at your service if I can strengthen your resolve to find out more for yourself.”

They smoked, Grindle eyeing the spiritualist, Carlisle seemingly deep in meditation.

At the left of Grindle’s chair stood a teakwood coffee table, a relic of the Peabody furnishings. On it sat a small Chinese gong of brass. The silence grew heavy and the industrialist seemed to be trying to force the other man to break it first; but neither broke it. The little gong suddenly spoke-a clear, challenging note.

Grindle snatched it from the table, turning it upside down and examining it. Then he picked up the table and knocked the top with his knuckles. When he looked up again he found the Rev. Carlisle smiling at him.

“You may have the gong-and the table, Mr. Grindle. It never before has rung by an exudation of psychic power-what we call the odylic force-as it did just now. Someone must be trying to get through to you. But it is difficult-your innate skepticism is the barrier.”

On the big man’s face Stan could read the conflict-the fear of being deceived against the desire to see marvels and be forgiven by Doris Mae Cadle, 19, septicemia, May 28, 1900: But I tell you, Dorrie, if we get married now it will smash everything, everything .

Grindle leaned forward, poking the air with the two fingers which gripped his cigar. “Reverend, out in my Jersey plant I’ve got an apothecary’s scale delicate enough to weigh a human hair -just one human hair! It’s in a glass case. You make that scale move and I’ll give your church ten thousand dollars!”

The Rev. Carlisle shook his head. “I’m not interested in money, Mr. Grindle. You may be rich. Perhaps I am too-in a different way.” He stood up but Grindle stayed where he was. “If you wish to arrange a séance in your own home or anywhere else, I can try to help you. But I should warn you-the place does not matter. What matters is the spiritual environment .” He had been speaking slowly, as if weighing something in his mind, but the last sentence was snapped out as if he had come to a decision.

“But God damn it-pardon me, Reverend-but I know all this! You’ll get full co-operation from me. I’ve got an open mind, Carlisle. An open mind. And the men I’ll pick for our committee will have open minds too-or they’ll hear from me later. When can you come?”

“In three weeks I shall have a free evening.”

“No good. In three weeks I’ll have to be up in Quebec. And I’ve got this bee in my bonnet. I want to find out once and for all, Carlisle. Show me one tiny speck of incontrovertible evidence and I’ll listen to anything else you have to say. Can’t you consider this an emergency and come out to the plant tonight?” Stan had moved toward the door and Grindle followed him. “Mr. Grindle, I believe you are a sincere seeker.”

They descended the carpeted stairs and stood for a moment at the front door. “Then you’ll come, Reverend? Tonight?”

Carlisle bowed.

“That’s splendid. I’ll send the car for you at six. Will that be all right? Or how about coming out earlier and having dinner at the plant? We all eat in the same cafeteria, right with the men. Democratic. But the food’s good.”

“I shall not want anything very heavy, thank you. I’ll have a bite before six.”

“Right. The car will pick you up here at the church.” Grindle smiled for the first time. It was a chilly smile, tight around the eyes, but was probably his best attempt. Stan looked at the big man closely.