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Nightmare Tales
by H. P. Blavatsky
Nightmare Tales
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Nightmare Tales
by H. P. Blavatsky
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
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Nightmare Tales
1
  Nightmare Tales
CAN THE DOUBLE MURDER?
By H. P. Blavatsky
To the Editor of The Sun.
Sir, −− One morning in 1867 Eastern Europe was startled by news of the most horrifying description.
Michael Obrenovitch, reigning Prince of Serbia, his aunt, the Princess Catherine or Katinka, and her daughter
had been murdered in broad daylight, near Belgrade, in their own garden, assassin or assassins remaining
unknown. The Prince had received several bullet−shots, and stabs, and his body was actually butchered; the
Princess was killed on the spot, her head smashed, and her young daughter, though still alive, was not
expected to survive. The circumstances are too recent to have been forgotten, but in that part of the world, at
the time, the case created a delirium of excitement.
In the Austrian dominions and in those under the doubtful protectorate of Turkey, from Bucharest down to
Trieste, no high family felt secure. In those half Oriental countries every Montecchi has its Capuletti, and it
was rumoured that the bloody deed was perpetrated by the Prince Kara−Gueorguevitch, or
"Tzerno−Gueorgey," as he is usually called in those parts. Several persons innocent of the act were, as is
usual in such cases imprisoned, and the real murderers escaped justice. A young relative of the victim, greatly
beloved by his people, a mere child, taken for the purpose from a school in Paris, was brought over in
ceremony to Belgrade and proclaimed Hospodar of Serbia. In the turmoil of political excitement the tragedy
of Belgrade was forgotten by all but an old Serbian matron who had been attached to the Obrenovitch family,
and who, like Rachel, would not be comforted for the death of her children. After the proclamation of the
young Obrenovitch, nephew of the murdered man, she had sold out her property and disappeared; but not
before taking a solemn vow on the tombs of the victims to avenge their deaths.
The writer of this truthful narrative had passed a few days at Belgrade, about three months before the horrid
deed was perpetrated, and knew the Princess Katinka. She was a kind, gentle, and lazy creature at home;
abroad she seemed a Parisienne in manners and education. As nearly all the personages who will figure in
this true story are still living, it is but decent that I should withhold their names, and give only initials.
The old Serbian lady seldom left her house, going but to see the Princess occasionally. Crouched on a pile of
pillows and carpeting, clad in the picturesque national dress
,
she looked like the Cumaean sibyl in her days of
calm repose. Strange stories were whispered about her Occult knowledge, and thrilling accounts circulated
sometimes among the guests assembled round the fireside of the modest inn. Our fat landlord's maiden aunt's
cousin had been troubled for some time past by a wandering vampire, and had been bled nearly to death by
the nocturnal visitor, and while the efforts and exorcisms of the parish pope had been of no avail, the victim
was luckily delivered by Gospoja P−−−, who had put to flight the disturbing ghost by merely shaking her fist
at him, and shaming him in his own language. It was in Belgrade that I learned for the first time this highly
interesting fact in philology, namely, that spooks have a language of their own. The old lady, whom I will
call Gospoja P−−− , was generally attended by another personage destined to be the principal actress in our
tale of horror. It was a young gipsy girl from some part of Roumania, about fourteen years of age. Where she
was born, and who she was, she seemed to know as little as anyone else. I was told she had been brought one
day by a party of strolling gipsies, and left in the yard of the old lady, from which moment she became an
inmate of the house. She was nicknamed "the sleeping girl," as she was said to be gifted with the faculty of
apparently dropping asleep wherever she stood, and speaking her dreams aloud. The girl's heathen name was
Frosya.
About eighteen months after the news of the murder had reached Italy, where I was at the time, I travelled
over the Banat in a small waggon of my own, hiring a horse whenever I needed one. I met on my way an old
CAN THE DOUBLE MURDER?
2
 Nightmare Tales
Frenchman, a scientist, travelling alone after my own fashion, but with the difference that while he was a
pedestrian, I dominated the road from the eminence of a throne of dry hay in a jolting waggon. I discovered
him one fine morning slumbering in a wilderness of shrubs and flowers, and had nearly passed over him,
absorbed as I was in the contemplation of the surrounding glorious scenery. The acquaintance was soon
made, no great ceremony of mutual introduction being needed. I had heard his name mentioned in circles
interested in mesmerism, and knew him to be a powerful adept of the school of Dupotet.
"I have found," he remarked, in the course of the conversation after I had made him share my seat of hay,
"one of the most wonderful subjects in this lovely Thebaide. I have an appointment to−night with the family.
They are seeking to unravel the mystery of a murder by means of the clairvoyance of the girl . . . she is
wonderful!"
"Who is she?" I asked.
"A Roumanian gipsy. She was brought up, it appears, in the family of the Serbian reigning Prince, who reigns
no more, for he was very mysteriously mur−−− Halloo, take care!
Diable
, you will upset us over the
precipice!" he hurriedly exclaimed, unceremoniously snatching from me the reins, and giving the horse a
violent pull.
"You do not mean Prince Obrenovitch? " I asked aghast.
"Yes, I do; and him precisely. To−night I have to be there, hoping to close a series of
seances
by finally
developing a most marvellous manifestation of the hidden power of the human spirit; and you may come with
me. I will introduce you; and besides, you can help me as an interpreter, for they do not speak French."
As I was pretty sure that if the somnambule was Frosya, the rest of the family must be Gospoja P−−−, I
readily accepted. At sunset we were at the foot of the mountain, leading to the old castle, as the Frenchman
called the place. It fully deserved the poetical name given it. There was a rought bench in the depths of one of
the shadowy retreats, and as we stopped at the entrance of this poetical place, and the Frenchman was
gallantly busying himself with my horse on the suspicious−looking bridge which led across the water to the
entrance gate, I saw a tall figure slowly rise from the bench and come towards us.
It was my old friend Gospoja P−−−, looking more pale and more mysterious than ever. She exhibited no
surprise at seeing me, but simply greeting me after the Serbian fashion, with a triple kiss on both cheeks, she
took hold of my hand and led me straight to the nest of ivy. Half reclining on a small carpet spread on the tall
grass, with her back leaning against the wall, I recognized our Frosya.
She was dressed in the national costume of the Wallachian women, a sort of gauze turban intermingled with
various gilt medals and bands on her head, white shirt with opened sleeves, and petticoats of variegated
colours. Her face looked deadly pale, her eyes were closed, and her countenance presented that stony,
sphinx−like look which characterizes in such a peculiar way the entranced clairvoyant somnambule. If it were
not for the heaving motion of her chest and bosom, ornamented by rows of medals and bead necklaces which
feebly tinkled at every breath, one might have thought her dead, so, lifeless and corpse−like was her face. The
Frenchman informed me that he had sent her to sleep just as we were approaching the house, and that she
now was as he had left her the previous night; he then began busying himself with the
sujet,
as he called
Frosya. Paying no further attention to us, he shook her by the hand, and then making a few rapid passes
stretched out her arm and stiffened it. The arm as rigid as iron, remained in that position. He then closed all
her fingers but one −− the middle finger −− which he caused to point at the evening star, which twinkled in
the deep blue sky. Then he turned round and went over from right to left, throwing on some of his fluids here,
again discharging them at another place; busying himself with his invisible but potent fluids, like a painter
with his brush when giving the last touches to a picture.
CAN THE DOUBLE MURDER?
3
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