Hmmm. I wouldn’t say that history is my best subject in school. But I know the basics, of course. I tried to think of the important events that had happened since 1926. I remembered learning that the big stock market crash was in 1929, just three years after Houdini died.
“There was the Great Depression,” I tapped, “and after that was over we had a world war.”
“WE ALREADY HAD A WORLD WAR,” came the reply. “IN 1914. IT WAS THE WAR TO END ALL WARS.”
“Well, we had another one,” I tapped. “We’ve had a few more, actually—Korea, Vietnam, Iraq—but they weren’t world wars. Let me see. They invented jet planes that could fly really fast, and atomic bombs that could wipe out entire cities. Oh, and we landed some guys on the moon.”
“YOU ARE JOKING, RIGHT?”
“No, it happened for real,” I tapped, “back in 1969. Then there was terrorism and lots of school shootings after the turn of the century. And the World Trade Center attack on 9/11.”
“WHAT IS A WORLD TRADE CENTER?”
Of course. The World Trade Center hadn’t been built when Houdini was alive. The Empire State Building didn’t even exist yet. It must have been a completely different New York a hundred years ago.
“The World Trade Center was two really tall office buildings in New York City,” I tapped, trying to make things as simple as possible. “Somebody flew planes into them and knocked them down.”
“HOW IS MY HOUSE?” he replied, changing the subject. He remembered from our last conversation that I live in his house on 113th Street. At least I knew I was texting with the same person.
“Fine,” I tapped. “My mother takes good care of it.”
“NOT YOUR FATHER?”
“He died when I was a baby,” I tapped.
“I AM SORRY. MY FATHER ALSO DIED WHEN I WAS YOUNG. TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOUR MOTHER. SHE IS ALL YOU HAVE.”
I knew all about Houdini’s mother. He worshipped her. After she died, he got interested in spiritualism. He desperately wanted to communicate with his mother. But when he held séances with people who claimed to be mediums, he realized they were all con artists. That’s when he started denouncing spiritualism.
“Have you reached your mother?” I tapped. “I mean, since you’re both dead and everything?”
“NO. BUT HERE I AM COMMUNICATING WITH YOU. LIFE IS FUNNY THAT WAY. SO IS DEATH.”
“I’m sorry,” I tapped, not knowing what else to say.
“I MISS MY HOUSE,” he replied.
He went on to describe specific things he missed about the house. Like the eight-foot mirror in the bathroom where he would rehearse his magic tricks, and the oversize sunken bathtub where he would practice holding his breath for long periods of time.
“I REMEMBER THE FLOORBOARD NEXT TO THE BED ON THE THIRD FLOOR,” he texted. “EVERY TIME I PUT MY FOOT DOWN, IT MADE A CREAKY NOISE.”
What?! That’s my room! It finally dawned on me. For the first time, I believed that he was telling the truth. It was real. Harry Houdini was actually texting me from the afterlife.
“It’s really you, isn’t it?” I tapped.
“YES. I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU THAT.”
I noticed that the hairs on my forearms were standing up. I was actually exchanging texts with a dead guy.
“What does it feel like…to be dead?” I tapped.
“IT IS HARD TO EXPLAIN,” Houdini replied, “THERE ARE SOME GOOD THINGS.”
Houdini went on to tell me a few of the advantages of no longer being alive. Like, when you’re dead, you don’t get sick or hurt. You don’t have to brush your teeth or wash your hands or think about your hair turning gray and falling out as you get older. You don’t have to deal with the inconveniences of life. Paying bills. Shoveling snow. Deciding what to eat for dinner. You just exist.
“IT IS SOMEWHAT LIBERATING TO BE FREE OF THE HUMAN BODY,” he explained.
“Do you feel cold?” I tapped. “I mean, with your body being underground and everything.”
I knew that Houdini was buried in a cemetery in Queens, just a subway ride away. I had been meaning to go out there sometime to see his gravesite, but I never got around to it.
“ONLY MY PHYSICAL BODY IS BURIED,” he replied. “IT IS JUST A BUNCH OF BONES. MY SPIRIT IS EVERYWHERE.”
“If your spirit is everywhere, then it must be in my room,” I tapped. “Are you watching me right now?”
There was a pause, as if he was thinking it over. And then…
“YES.”
It was a little creepy, I must admit, knowing that Harry Houdini—and maybe other dead people—were able to see me when I couldn’t see them. I looked around my room for something that nobody in the world would be able to see. I opened the junk drawer at my bedside and pulled out a ruler.
“What am I holding in my hand?” I tapped.
“A RULER.”
That clinched it. It was Houdini. It had to be Houdini.
The hairs on my arm stood up again. It was thrilling to know that the spirit of the great Harry Houdini was right there with me in my room.
“Can I touch you?” I tapped, as I waved a hand in the air over my bed.
“NO,” Houdini replied. “IT DOESN’T WORK THAT WAY.”
I thought I heard my mom walking down the hall from her bedroom, but it was just some noise outside.
I was having fun swapping texts with Houdini. I didn’t want it to end. I sensed that Houdini was in no rush to leave either.
“Can you tell me more secrets of your magic?” I tapped.
“SURE. IT DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE. DO YOU WANT TO BE A MAGICIAN WHEN YOU GROW UP?”
It had crossed my mind. I had also thought about becoming a scientist, or maybe a video-game designer. But being a magician could be pretty cool.
“Maybe,” I tapped.
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Houdini gave me a text tutorial on what he called “escapology”—the science of escape. It was like he needed to get something off his chest. Maybe he was looking for somebody to follow in his footsteps.
He
