Professor Alexander Erskine - A Hypnotist’s Case Book – Out of body to catch a drug dealer red handed
Type of Spiritual Experience
A description of the experience
A Hypnotist’s Case Book – Professor Alexander Erskine
There carne into my rooms one day a man who, for the purpose of this story, we will call Jones.
"I've come about my wife," he said.
It was some time before he could continue, and I waited till he mastered himself.
He was a man well known in society, and I knew that his wife, who had been famous for her entertaining and her beauty, had for long been an invalid.
At length he went on : "She's paralysed, you know. It's incurable. She had a hunting accident, and this is the result. I've had the best men in Europe to her, and they can do nothing ; she's in Dr. -'s hands now" (the name was that of one of the best-known physicians of the day).
"Then what do you want me to do?" I queried. "I'm a neurologist, not a magician."
"That's just it," he said; "it's her mind I want cured. She's so desperately miserable. If only she could find a little peace - a little happiness, don't you see?"
It was not far from the Jones's home, and within half an hour I was at the bedside of the wife. Even her illness had not robbed her of her beauty. Her eyes were closed, but not in repose. Every shadow, every line proclaimed desperate unhappiness.
I leaned forward, touching the thin, transparent hands that lay nervously twitching on the coverlet.
"Why do you take this stuff?" I asked abruptly.
"What stuff? "
"You know what I mean," I retorted. "This cocaine or whatever it is. It's killing you."
"Oh, you're mistaken," she said. "Doctor doesn't give me anything like cocaine. I wish he would. I don't want to live. I want to die, and I do so want to be happy again - just a little."
I felt she was lying, but I could not prove it. The signs I read were not sufficiently definite for me to push the matter further. Perhaps if I had not seen her there for the first time I should not have had the suspicion.
Yet I felt I was right. And there was something so immeasurably tragic in her pathetic confession that the utter futility of it roused in me all my professional desire to show her the truth.
"Let me put you to sleep," I begged. "There is something in you that knows how to be happy without drugs- something which will make you want to live. If you will let me, I will find it for you while you are asleep."
But she refused; nor, though I called next dry and on many other days, would she ever consent.
Then one day Dr. xx called on me. He had heard my theory of drugs, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Impossible," he protested. "Where could she get the stuff?"
"That I can't say," I told him. "But I do believe she's killing herself."
For some time we discussed the problem, and it ended in my sending for one of my favourite subjects. Quickly he was asleep.
"We will see," I said. Then, turning to the sleeping man: "Go," I ordered, "to Mrs. Jones's bedroom in her house and tell me what you see."
Straight came the answer: "She is not there. The bed is empty."
The doctor and I looked at each other without speaking.
Finally I said to the subject, "'Where is she ? Find her."
"She is next door, in her boudoir."
"What is she doing there? Tell us all you see."
"She is lying on a couch. A man is with her. He is standing over - her, giving her something from a little green bottle. ."
Ten minutes later we were ringing the bell at the Jones's home, and without ceremony we passed up to Mrs. Jones's bedroom.
She was in bed, asleep.
For a moment I was nonplussed.
The doctor smiled. "Your intelligence service has gone somewhat awry," he said.
- His tone nettled- me. "Wait," I said, and, turning to the patient, who was now waking up, or pretending to do so, "Have you been here long ?" I asked.
"Why, yes. I was asleep."
"And how about the other room? "
"Oh, yes ; I've been there. My masseur came. He's gone now."
Going to the telephone, I summoned him back to the house. - He was quite composed when he entered the room, but I was in no mood for prevarication.
"Come," I said, guarding the door, "for how long have you been giving this lady cocaine ?"
- He hesitated, and looked at Mrs. Jones, whose horrified stare fixed him without quivering.
"No." I interpreted his thoughts for him. "No, she's told me nothing. But .I know. Less than half an hour ago you were standing over her in her boudoir there, while she lay on the couch, giving her cocaine out of a green bottle. You were seen."