Strange Cults And Secret Societies, by Elliott O'Donnell

as promised back in january (apologies) i have a book for you this time round. enjoy. endure?

i'll start with the boring stuff. open the cover of this book and you'll discover that the last part of the title has been omitted from the somewhat-beaten-up spine there, actually being called Strange Cults and Secret Societies of Modern London. i believe it to be the first reprint (although i can't be sure) and first editions were printed in 1934, both published by Philip Allan & Co.
interestingly (for me anyway), on the inside cover of the book is pasted a large piece of paper stating that "This book is the property of The Electra Lending Library, 68 Bedford Street, Stepney, E.1" and the latest date stamp on there is for 16 Nov 1936; i LOVE that! it's part of the history of the book, this one being 75 years old now and a little worse off for it, spine battered as you can see, and the cover so badly creased it may as well be snapped upon open (which should never happen to a hardback, grr). what i also love about this quirky little fact is that it's also the only date stamp in there, meaning that the first person the take it out never returned it, the dirty, fine avoiding bastard.
but let's move on shall we? i've not read the whole lot (as a matter of fact, i've not picked it up since the coach ride home from london, when i bought it) but from what i have read, i gather that around the time it was written, it would have been seen as a series of chilling tales that the middle classes would have used to give their children the willies, or themselves, i'm not that old so i'm not sure what they did to get their kicks. what i had to take into account when reading this is that way back when, writers at this time were usually quite well off (and hence middle class, upper middle class or whatever), gentlemen, well educated, experts in their chosen fields and well received and respected in the literary world and so on, and this is extremely obvious in the style in which the book has been written, the introduction to the stories, the settings... all of which leading me to the conclusion that the main target audience was the middle classes who would read it for thrills and chills.
the way Mr O'Donnell has written this book implies that he wants it to be seen as factual, but whether or not it's factual, based on stories, old wives' tales he'd heard, old superstitions i've yet to discover. this is probably one of the factors that made it appeal to the target audience.
yet again, i'm rambling. i'll type up a passage of my choosing and you can decide for yourselves whether or not what i'm going on and on about is clearly evident or my own demented misconception. give it all a good read and let me know what you think

Chapter III

The Black Brothers

When I was living in St John's Wood I went to dine one night with a Mr Vogel, who rented a house in Hampstead, not far from Well Walk. I had met Mr Vogel in Paris and, like myself, he took a very deep interest in haunted houses and criminology. So when he wrote to me, asking me to dine with him, I anticiapted renewing some of our discussions, and hearing, very possibly, of some fresh cases of hauntings.

The moment I opened the heavy iron gate and stepped on to the gravel path, leading to the front door, I experienced a feeling of intense depression and loneliness, and this feeling increased when a small, white faced, bald headed man-serveant opened the door to me and I entered the house. It was as still as death. In a quiet timid voice the little bald headed man inquired my name and, with noiseless steps, escorted me to the drawing-room, where I found my friend, Jacques Vogel, seated in front of a blazing fire.

Although it was only a few years since I had last seen him, he was so changed that I barely recognised him. In Paris he had struck me as a man of possibly fifty, or a little more, but still youthful, active, alert and full of life. Now all his youthfulness had gone. His hair was white, his cheeks were pale, lined and sunken, his naturally upright figure was bent, and his expression, once frank and genial, was now entirely the reverse.

He was, in short, quite another person. At dinner he recovered something of his old self, and talked with enthusiasm of his experiences in South America. He had been exploring some of the lesser-known parts of the Amazon Valley and had many interesting things to tell me.

It was after dinner, when we were sitting in his study, that he lapsed into his altered self.

"We often used to discuss haunted houses" he observed, after a long pause, during which he constantly looked behind him, in a manner in which was very trying to my nerves, "and criminals, and regarding the latter, in cases where criminality could be traced from the very cradle, we agreed that it might often be due to some disease of the brain or some malformation of the brain-case. We discussed, too, hallucinations, illusions and madness. Now I have asked you here to-night to tell me whether you think I am haunted, or merely the victim of delusions, which may well be the preliminary stage of insanity. I want you to listen and watch. Are you ready?" I replied in the affirmative, and he switched off the electric light. We were not, however, plunged in total darkness, as the fire was still burning brightly and the embers emitted a ruddy glow that threw into strong relief, on the yellow tinted walls, the shadows of our two selves and the various large pieces of furnitue in the room.
"It always begins now" Vogel said suddenly, after a prolonged silence, broken only by the ticking of a marble clock on the mantleshelf. "Hush, do you hear anything?"

I did hear something. I heard a door being opened, rather gently and, as gently, closed again. Then I heard footsteps, moving softly and stealthily accross the hall, in our direction. I glanced at Vogel. The firelight seemed to be concentrated on him' and it revealed, with a clearness that was startling, unmitigated terror in every feature of his face. My attention was, however, speedily absorbed by the footsteps, which halted immediately outside the study door. I became aware of someone listening there with extraordinary intentness. I expted the door would open and someone would enter, but this did not happen.

There was absolute silence, and stillness, till Vogel suddenly gripped me by the arm and pointed at the wall, opposite the fire-place.

On it, in bolder and blacker relief than any of the other shadows, was a new shadow. It was the shadow of a person, whether man or woman it was impossible to say, cloaked and wearing a slouch hat, drawn so low over the face that only a large, hooked and parrot-shaped nose and nut-cracker chin were visible. The arms were extended and the fingers crooked, as if in the act of choking someone. Although nothing but a shadow, it seemed alive and full of murderous instinct.

Never had I seen a shadow so horribly sinister and suggestive.

"Do you see it?" Vogel whispered.

"I certainly do," I responded.

"Then it is visible to other besides myself," he replied, obviously relieved. "It is not a delusion; I am not mad, as yet."
"No," I said. "I believe you see what appears to be a shadow, but shadows usually have some material counterpart. Let us test this one."
I got up, stretched out first one han and then another, and moved every article of furniture in the room, but the strange shadow on the wall was unaffected. It remained stationary and intact. Then, suddenly, as we both stood staring at it, silent and fascinated, it moved.

Still maintaining the same crouching, murderous attitude, it crept, slowly and furtively, along the wall, till it came in line with the chair Vogel had just vacated. There, it halted for a few seconds, and then it abruptly vanished.

Vogel was about to make some comment, when, from a remote empty corner of the room there came a chuckling laugh, so full of malice that I sprang back in alarm.

"You heard it?" Vogel whispered. His voice shook and I could see him trembling.

"Yes," I said. "None too pleasant, was it For how long has this kind of thing been going on?"
"Oh, for weeks, months," Vogel replied, "and until to-night it has always happened when I'm alone. I was terribly afraid it wouldn't come to-night because you are here. But, thank goodness, you have seen and heard it, and, so far, I am sane. I must have a drink, O'Donnell, and then i'll explain it all."
He pressed a button in the wall and the little bald-headed servant, looking more scared than ever, brought us whisky and soda. I didn't smoke; but after Voel had puffed away for a few minutes in silence and refilled my glass, he commenced his story.

"Exactly two years ago," he said, "I wandered one night into a cafe on the principal streets of Rio de Janeiro. For months I had been travelling through the vallet of the Amazon, sometimes by boat and sometimes on foot, roasted by the sun, which is terribly fierce in that part of the world, and plagued to death by mosquitos and other insects, If you want a foretaste of Hell, you can't do better than spending a few weeks exploring the Amazon Valley.

"You can imagine, therefore, what a treat it was to me, after such an experience, to find myself once again in civilised surroundings.

"Prior to sailing for New York I put up at an hotel near the docks. A few evenings before I embarked I was walking along d'Esterre Street when I saw a man, apparently a gentleman, a little way ahead of me, on the opposite side of the street, suddenly attacked by two swarthy ruffians, who had been hiding in a doorway. I instantly tan to his assistance when the ruffians, on seeing me, speedily decamped.

"The man I rescued was profuse in his thanks and invited me to dine with him at one of the best hotels in town. On the way there in a taxi he informed me that he was Gilbert de Costava, a Portuguese aristocrat by birth, at present earning his living, or trying to earn it, as a poster painter in Rio de Janeiro. He was very affable, and later on, after we had had several rinks in the hotel lounge, proved extremely communicative. Indeed, we chatted together so long that it was not until the early hours of the morning that I left the hotel and made my way, none too sober I admit, to my own quarters.

"Early in the evening we had dropped all formality, calling eachother by our Christian names, and, on saying good-bye, he had given me the address of his sister, Marcelle de Costava, in Brooklyn, asking me to be sure to look her up."

Here Mr Vogel paused and bade me help myself to whisky. Then he went on:
"When I was back in New York I lost no time in calling on Miss de Costava. Her brother had told me she was remarkably pretty, and I wondered if dhr trslly were, or if partiality had led him to exaggerate. It had not. She was quite the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, but there was something about her, in her large dark eyes and expression generally, that was disquieting. I could not define it at the time, but I think I understood it later on. All the same, despite this strange something I saw in her, we became geat friends, and I was contemplating asking her to marry me when i got a cablegram from Paris telling me my mother was very ill and I must return at once, if I wanted to see her again alive. Consequently, I booked my passage on a French liner, that was sailing for France almost immediately, and I had no time to see Marcelle before embarking. However, I sent her a radiogram within a few hours of my departure.  ..."

blah blah blah, it's taking too long, my neck hurts and there's loads more to go. might finish it if anyone gives a shit. long story short, Gilbert de Costava is in cahoots with these Portuguese guys who call themselves the Black Brothers, who hire shadows as assassins to kill those who have wronged them, Vogel wronging Marcelle by more or less gilting her so Gilbert takes revenge. they can't be called off and Vogel talks O'Donnell into staying the night and watching to make sure he doesn't get killed, fails, Vogel dies.

i fear i've written too much.

pray tell, where did you acquire it? Upstairs of the Stable Market, Camden, London, UK

cost: i can't remember, £1? may have been less...