Sorry I'm a little bit late! I was shopping in the United States to try and find my older sister a prom dress. Fun stuff! Anyways, I hope you enjoy these chapters. Currently I'm having a fair bit of trouble with the continuation of this book, but with some luck I'll be able to figure it out soon.
I waited in a mournful silence as the hour of the wedding drew closer. To comfort myself, I thought over another of my stories. Wishing, perhaps even pretending, that she was there to hear it.
. . .
Skip ahead one hundred years from the 17th century to 1874. Harry Houdini, (whose name was neither Harry nor Houdini, but rather Erich Weiss) was born in the city of Budapest in Hungary. His family, consisting of three boys, one girl, and the two parents, were always very poor. They moved to Wisconsin in the USA in hopes of a better life, but things did not improve much for them.
Erich, in an effort to help his struggling family, took to begging in the streets. He did many odd jobs in his youth and eventually became a circus acrobat where he picked up the hobby of lock-picking. This lock-picking habit of his is what launched him into the career of show business. He took the name Harry Houdini, after the French magician Robert Houdin, in order to appeal to the American audience. He married a girl named Beatrice who became his stage partner.
Success was slow to come for Harry. He and his wife tried comedy, mind reading, daredevil stunts and basic magic, but nothing seemed to work. Eventually he discovered that escaping from handcuffs was by far his most popular trick. Houdini would get arrested on purpose just so he could escape, which gave him free publicity. By this time his name was becoming wide-spread, and his fan base was growing.
His tricks evolved into magnificent stunts, complete with water tanks and padlocked chains and straightjackets. During these dangerous performances I found it quite amusing to watch him. And once or twice he came very close to death, but he never fell into my hands. I remember one such occasion when he was locked in a large iron milk can filled to the brim with water.
The crowd waited with baited breath in the enormous auditorium. Ladies and gentlemen sat on the edge of their seats, craning their necks to see if Houdini was still alive. I must confess, I was nervous to know if he was going to die or not myself. He was great entertainment, especially for me, and it would have been sad for it to end.
It appeared that the trick had somehow gone wrong. The iron milk can, wrapped in chains and locked tight, was shifting back in forth. I could hear Harry struggling from my close-up seat. He himself was handcuffed, shackled, and sitting fully immersed in cold water. His wife, at the side of the stage, looked very frightened. But she didn't dare go let him out; he told her never to do it, lest she should ruin the show.
I could feel his presence fading from the physical world into my own. Perhaps he was drowning? I sure believed he was. With a sigh I stood up, ready to take his soul away. The crowd could feel my presence, and those nearest to me shivered involuntarily. The can slowly stopped shaking, and a few cries rose into the air. I walked up onto the stage, expecting no surprise, but then a loud crash was heard as the can tipped on it's side.
With a thud it hit the stage floor, and the chains fell down, the lid popped off, and water came pouring out. Houdini emerged; drenched, pale like the moon, breathing heavily, but alive nonetheless. A few seconds of silence and then the whole auditorium burst into applause; clapping, cheering, shouting. Beatrice ran to her husband and helped him to stand. He waved and smiled as if nothing had gone wrong, as if it had all been a part of the act. And indeed many thought it had been, but I knew that he had come close to dying.
Satisfied that he was not going to die, I left the theatre. And there were many more encounters with Mr. Harry Houdini, but none so thrilling as that one had been. I must say it was rather anti-climactic how he actually died. Not on stage, not in some great feat, but from an infected appendix. The rumour was that Harry Houdini had conditioned himself to be impervious to any punch in the stomach. One young university student, wanting to test this theory, asked if he could punch Mr. Houdini before a show one night.
Harry agreed, but the man swung at him before he could properly brace himself. The blow resulted in a ruptured appendix. Harry was rushed to the hospital after collapsing mid-show, where he died a few days later. Meeting him was very amusing, as you might expect.
"You are Death, then?"
I nodded. "Yes, and you are the Great Harry Houdini."
"You know my name? How splendid!" he replied cheerily.
"Yes I do, for you have evaded me many times. I always found it entertaining, and I did enjoy watching your shows. The one last summer where you nearly drowned in the milk can was quite thrilling."
"You think so? I was a little panicked after the whole ordeal, but as we all say; the show must go on!"
"Indeed it must, and you must move on to the afterlife now."
"Yes, right, of course." Harry took one last look at his wife, who was sitting crying next to the hospital bed, before he turned back to me. "She'll be alright then. Bess is a tough girl, I'm sure she'll manage. And now to bid the world adieu, from the Great Harry Houdini!"
I chuckled at the flamboyant farewell speech. I pointed him in the right direction, and within a minute he was gone. The man who evaded Death so many times.
