nothing to do with the other assaults, and had drawn a knife only in this one case, which had been a quarrel. His lawyer pleaded not guilty, but insane. He was found insane, and was sent to the asylum for insane criminals, at Auburn, N.Y.
The outrages in New York stopped. Brooklyn Eagle, March 12, 1892—dispatch from Vienna, Austria—“This city continues to be shocked by mysterious murders. The latest victim is Leopold Buchinger, who was stabbed to the heart by an undetected assassin, in one of the most public places in Vienna. This makes the list of such tragedies five in number, and there is a growing feeling of terror among the public.”
Say that it’s an old castle, hidden away in a Balkan forest—and somebody was wounded, at night—but, as if lulled by a vampire’s wings, felt no pain. This would be only an ordinarily incredible story.
In November, 1901, a woman told a policeman of Kiel, Germany, that, while walking in a street in Kiel, she learned that she had been unaccountably wounded. She had felt no pain. She could not explain.
The police probably explained. If a doctor was consulted, he probably explained learnedly.
Another woman—about thirty women—“curious and inexplicable attacks.” Then men were similarly injured. About eighty persons, openly, in the streets, were stabbed by an uncatchable—an invisible—or it may be the most fitting description to say that, upon the bodies of people of Kiel, wounds appeared. See the London Daily Mail, Dec. 7, 1901—“The extraordinary thing about the mystery is that some marvelously sharp instrument must have been used, because the victims do not seem to know that they are wounded, until several minutes after an attack.”
And yet I think that something of an explanation of these Jacks is findable in every male’s recollections of his own boyhood—the ringing of doorbells, just to torment people—stretching a string over sidewalks, to knock off hats—other, pestiferous tricks. It is not only “just for fun”; there is an engagement of the imagination in these pranks. It will be my expression that, when the more powerful and more definite imagination of an adult human similarly engages and concentrates, phenomena that will be considered beyond belief, or acceptance, by readers who do not realize of what common occurrence they are, develop.
We have had stories of series of accidents, and perhaps my suspicion that they were not mere coincidences has been regarded at least tolerantly. I have data of three automobile accidents that occurred at times not far apart; and, as to this series, I note a seeming association with minor attacks upon other automobiles, and upon people that suggests the doings of one criminal. If so, he will have to be called occult, whether we take readily to, or are much repelled by, that term.
Upon the night of April 9, 1927, Alexander Nemko and Pearl Devon were motoring through Hyde Park, London, when their car dashed down an incline, and plunged into the Serpentine. The car sank in fifteen feet of water. Though terrified and drowning, Nemko had his wits with him, so that he opened the door of the car, and dragged his companion to the surface, and, with her, swam ashore.
There was nothing in the lay of the land by which to explain. The newspapers noted that there had never been an accident here before. “The steering gear apparently failed,” was Nemko’s attempt to explain. Perhaps it is queer that right at this point, so near a body of water, the steering gear failed: but, considered by itself, as mysteries usually are considered, there is little that can be said against Nemko’s way of explaining.
Two nights later, a taxicab plunged into the Thames, at Walton. The passenger swam ashore, but the driver was, it seems, drowned. His body was dredged for but was not found. The passenger, who must have been jostled past having any clear remembrance of what occurred, explained that, at the brink of the river, the rear
The outrages in New York stopped. Brooklyn Eagle, March 12, 1892—dispatch from Vienna, Austria—“This city continues to be shocked by mysterious murders. The latest victim is Leopold Buchinger, who was stabbed to the heart by an undetected assassin, in one of the most public places in Vienna. This makes the list of such tragedies five in number, and there is a growing feeling of terror among the public.”
Say that it’s an old castle, hidden away in a Balkan forest—and somebody was wounded, at night—but, as if lulled by a vampire’s wings, felt no pain. This would be only an ordinarily incredible story.
In November, 1901, a woman told a policeman of Kiel, Germany, that, while walking in a street in Kiel, she learned that she had been unaccountably wounded. She had felt no pain. She could not explain.
The police probably explained. If a doctor was consulted, he probably explained learnedly.
Another woman—about thirty women—“curious and inexplicable attacks.” Then men were similarly injured. About eighty persons, openly, in the streets, were stabbed by an uncatchable—an invisible—or it may be the most fitting description to say that, upon the bodies of people of Kiel, wounds appeared. See the London Daily Mail, Dec. 7, 1901—“The extraordinary thing about the mystery is that some marvelously sharp instrument must have been used, because the victims do not seem to know that they are wounded, until several minutes after an attack.”
And yet I think that something of an explanation of these Jacks is findable in every male’s recollections of his own boyhood—the ringing of doorbells, just to torment people—stretching a string over sidewalks, to knock off hats—other, pestiferous tricks. It is not only “just for fun”; there is an engagement of the imagination in these pranks. It will be my expression that, when the more powerful and more definite imagination of an adult human similarly engages and concentrates, phenomena that will be considered beyond belief, or acceptance, by readers who do not realize of what common occurrence they are, develop.
We have had stories of series of accidents, and perhaps my suspicion that they were not mere coincidences has been regarded at least tolerantly. I have data of three automobile accidents that occurred at times not far apart; and, as to this series, I note a seeming association with minor attacks upon other automobiles, and upon people that suggests the doings of one criminal. If so, he will have to be called occult, whether we take readily to, or are much repelled by, that term.
Upon the night of April 9, 1927, Alexander Nemko and Pearl Devon were motoring through Hyde Park, London, when their car dashed down an incline, and plunged into the Serpentine. The car sank in fifteen feet of water. Though terrified and drowning, Nemko had his wits with him, so that he opened the door of the car, and dragged his companion to the surface, and, with her, swam ashore.
There was nothing in the lay of the land by which to explain. The newspapers noted that there had never been an accident here before. “The steering gear apparently failed,” was Nemko’s attempt to explain. Perhaps it is queer that right at this point, so near a body of water, the steering gear failed: but, considered by itself, as mysteries usually are considered, there is little that can be said against Nemko’s way of explaining.
Two nights later, a taxicab plunged into the Thames, at Walton. The passenger swam ashore, but the driver was, it seems, drowned. His body was dredged for but was not found. The passenger, who must have been jostled past having any clear remembrance of what occurred, explained that, at the brink of the river, the rear
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