Psychic History: The Murder of Jack London: November 22, 1916

Psychic History is a way to attempt to answer questions that exist in the historic record by means of paranormal methods. The historic record is filled with gaps and omissions, and as such mysteries exist in the record. Psychic History attempts to answer these riddles using non-traditional elements. The answers gained by such means can not be counted as fact—merely speculation but they exist to open new lines of inquiry. This project is to examine the strange death of American writer Jack London in 1916. An examination of the records, and the séance work of psychic Debbie Christenson Senate will attempt to look back as to what happened the night of his death and the factors that lead up to his untimely death. This experiment included a visit to the Cottage where he passed away and handling artifacts used by Jack London as well as visiting his grave site and the ruins of his large stone mansion “Wolf House” in Glenn Ellen, California.

Was his death a suicide? Murder? Accidental? Or a deliberate act that ended the life of Jack London at the age of 40.

Who was Jack London?

Born John Griffith Chaney, the illegitimate son of Spiritualist Medium Flora Wellman and a traveling astrologer William Chaney. He left her, causing Flora to attempt suicide. Jack was nursed by an ex-slave woman named Virginia Prentiss. Flora went on to marry a disabled Civil War soldier, John London, young Jack would take his name. He grew up in poverty, laboring on the waterfront in Oakland, California. He started to work at a tender age to help support his family. He became an independent young man who raided oyster beds in the bay and even sailed on a windjammer at the age of seventeen. He road the rails as a hobo and even served a short term in prison. He attempted college at Berkeley working to pay his tuition by writing stories for newspapers and for the schools literary magazine. His literary careen didn't blossom until he traveled to the Yukon during the Alaskan Gold Rush at the turn of the 20th Century. He didn't find his fortune in the Yukon but came back with a stock of colorful characters and images that he turned into successful stories.

His tales of the raw frontier and driven men were well received by the American public. His style was bold and choppy, strongly influenced by the works of Kipling. He was quickly catapulted into the literary spotlight. He also became know for his outspoken radical politics that he wore like a badge of honor. He was a Socialist that blended Marxism with Darwinism. But, in the years before the bloody Russian Revolution of 1917 such views were seen in an almost academic light.
 

With the publication of his masterpiece The Call of the Wild, his success was assured,White Fang and Sea Wolf would follow. London was sought out by newspaper and magazines to cover the events of the day from the battlefields of the Russo-Japanese War of 1905 to the great San Francisco Earthquake and fire of 1906. He even covered the 1910 Mexican Revolution and the US Occupation of Vera Cruz in 1914.

In time his books started to become almost biographical with his works Martin Eden and The Valley of the Moon. The hero in Martin Eden was a thinly disguised version of London himself. In the end of that novel the hero takes his own life giving many to believe that London's death was a planned act of self destruction.

London was married twice. The first in 1900 to Elizabeth May “Bessie” Madden. They grew apart but the union produced two daughters, Joan and Becky. They divorced and in 1905 he married Charmian Kittredge whom he met doing Socialist lectures. He was passionately in love with her. They bought “Beauty Ranch” at Glen Ellen, California and began to build his great stone mansion he named “Wolf House.” Sadly, days before they were to move into the massive pile, it mysteriously caught fire and burned.
 

Charmian wrote that this loss in 1913 began a slow decline in Jack. The house was never rebuilt and she said it was deliberately burned by Jack's enemies. The cause of the fire was listed as accidental. His health was in decline, made all the faster by his lavish lifestyle and exotic diet. He made unwise business deals (the bane of many successful writers) and plans for future projects dried up. His books started to reflect Spiritualistic concepts he had rejected in the past. Still, there were movie projects, plans for future novels (Like “The Golden Man”) and trips. He had much to be optimistic about.

As one of the first modern writers, Jack London paved the way for other great American writers in the 20th Century, such as Hemingway and John Steinbeck. His easy-to-read style and the focus on individualism made him a breath of fresh air as the world moved out of the stiff formalism of the Victorian novel. His life was only forty years but in that one lifetime he compressed as many adventures as five other men. It is as he wanted it. He expressed in this quote:

“I would rather be ashes than dust. I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze, that it should be stifled by dry rot, I would rather be a meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”

A Cast of Suspects

Charmian London, his wife. Clearly she had the opportunity to poison him but what would have been her motive? London was a notorious womanizer and alcoholic. Perhaps her inability to produce a child might have caused his eye to stray? Still, in all their travels he seemed to express his love for her.

Bessie Madden, his first wife. They never had a passionate relationship, their union only being described as “friendly.” She did produce two daughters that Jack did love very much. Could her jealousy have caused her dislike to become hate?

Eliza Shepard, his sister. She was staying at the ranch and it was she who called the doctor believing the violent stomach pains were ptomaine poisoning. She would have had opportunity but no motive.

George Sterling, friend who told Upton Sinclair that Jack took his own life over his love of an Hawaiian girl he met on his last trip to the islands. He was not present and what would be the motive of spreading such a tale to the California writer? Could this have provided a motive for Charmian to do something?

Dr. William Porter who was his doctor and treating him for a variety of ailments for the last three years. He signed the death certificate listing uremia and renal colic as the cause of death. But did he see something else and fail to list it?

Nakata The Japanese servant. He told people Jack told him that he had poison in his strong box to give him if he was unable to enjoy life. He had the means to kill himself quickly.

Jack London himself in an accidental overdose of Morphine to control the pain that was growing worse as his body developed a tolerance for the pain killer or in an act self destruction?

Suspicious circumstances

What killed Jack London?

The cause of his death has been disputed almost from the first and is still debated to this day. Suicide was speculated from the first and it seemed to conform to London's writings, many of the heroes were simply versions of London himself—in two novels the heroes take their own lives. Many saw this as a morbid fascination with self destruction on London's part. Suicide seemed “logical.” But, outside of the account of George Sterling, we have no evidence that he took his own life. Medical knowledge was in its infancy in the early years of the 20th Century and many have speculated that many factors could well have been a contributing factor in his death at age forty.

I Alcoholism He drank a great deal starting each day with a glass of whiskey. He used a great deal of tobacco products smoking many cigarettes and using a water pipe. The over use of the Chinese style pipe may have caused lead to have been deposited in his system. This would have rendered him infertile.

II Mercury Poisoning On his voyage to the South Seas, on his yacht, the Snark, He and Charmian contracted several topical illnesses including Yars. In those years before antibiotics the only cure for Yars was Mercury Chloride. It would settle, slowly, in the kidneys causing swelling of hands among other things. Mercury was also used as a cure for syphilis. As a notorious womanizer who frequented prostitutes (his first wife locked him out of their bedroom fearing he would bring a venereal disease to her. ) Perhaps he had contracted such an illness and Mercury was used to cure him, leaving a deposit of Mercury, his Yars would deposit more, helping to destroy his kidneys.

III Lupus Dr. Andrew Bomback M.D. Speculated that Jack London may have contracted Lupus that weakened him. A dosage of morphine would have been helpful to control pain until his body would need more and more of the narcotic to be effective.

IV Poor diet, Gout. Many sited London's poor diet as a factor. His high protein diet made worse because of his love of under cooked Wild Ducks. These were “aged” (permitted to rot) and lightly cooked causing some to speculate that this was the real cause of his death. His doctors warned him such things were bad for him. This high protein diet lead to him developing gout!

V Suicide The social stigma of suicide could very well have stimulated a cover-up. There may have been legal reasons as well. If he took his own life insurance may not have paid his wife. But, listed as “natural causes” by a respected doctor would have prevented and disputes with the will. This was not an uncommon practice at the time. This might explain why the syringes vanished and his body was burned to get rid of any evidence.

New York Times obituary describes his death.
 Jack London Dies Suddenly On Ranch

By THE NEW YORK TIMES

SANTA ROSA, Cal. Nov. 22.--Jack London, the author, died at his Glen Ellen, Cal., ranch near here at 7:45 o'clock tonight, a victim of uremic poisoning. London was taken ill last night and was found unconscious early today by a servant who went to his room to awaken him.

His sister, Mrs. Eliza Shepard, summoned physicians from this city. It was at first believed that the author was a victim of ptomaine poisoning, but later it developed he was suffering from a severe form of uremia. Dr. J. Wilson Shields of San Francisco, a close friend of the writer, was summoned during the day.

From the time London was found this morning he did not regain consciousness. About midday he seemed to rally, but later suffered a relapse and sank rapidly until the end came.

Besides his sister, Mrs. Shepard, London is survived by a daughter, who is a student at the University of California; his mother, who lives in Oakland, Cal., and his widow, Charmion London. Mrs. London was with her husband when death came.

Mr. and Mrs. London recently returned from a sojourn of several months in the Hawaiian Islands, and have been living in their Glen Ellen ranch, one of the most elaborately equipped in Northern California.

Questions that need to be answered

The trip to Glen Ellen Jack London Park

For this part of the psychic quest my wife, Debbie Christenson Senate and I made the long trek to Northern California to see the places listed in the death of Jack London. My wife of many years is a gifted psychic with great insights that have helped to unravel many psychic mysteries in the past. Her help was invaluable to unmasking the real killer in the The Psychic Search: The Lizzie Borden Case (No, Lizzie Borden didn't use an ax to slay her father and foster mother, but she knew who did and was in on the plot.) Her help would be invaluable in the quest to unravel the mystery behind the death of the author Jack London.

We made the way to the beautiful wine country to investigate the site to determine if reports of a ghost wandering the ruins of Wolf House were true. Over the years many reports have listed that site as haunted, with stories of supernatural events dating back over seventy years. Now it is a popular California State Historic Park with tourists coming from all over the world to marvel at the impressive ruins and walk the ranch where Jack London spent the last years of his life.

Wolf House, his dream mansion, burned to the ground mysteriously just before it was completed. His widow told that perfect strangers were moved to tears upon seeing the shattered stone walls and lofty brick chimneys. Legends say that phantom footfalls echo here, and dark shadows move among the lonely roofless rooms. It burned one hot August night in 1913 as Jack watched. Workmen cried as London kept the flames from setting the nearby trees on fire. Though he vowed to rebuild the place, he never did, and he would pass out of this world three years later.

Is it haunted? Could the spirit, shade or essence of London walk these ruins? Might it be possible to discover the truth behind mystery of his death by simply asking him via a séance? Debbie was an accomplished medium and not beyond the possibility. Was something supernatural wandering the windswept pile?

We toured the museum established in the stone house Jack London's widow build after his death. We had planned to bypass the museum, but, at the last minute, we stepped in and toured the rooms and examined the artifacts they contained. Many of the artifacts were from their travels to Hawaii and the south seas, on their yacht Snark. We gave a donation and left the air conditioned house to proceed up the narrow trail to the site of Wolf House. It was hot that morning as we joined other tourists the quarter mile to the remains of London's dream. People spoke many languages as they walked, some pushed strollers, some clutched plastic water bottles, many had large floppy hats against the hot sun.

Debbie was strangely quiet and introspective on the odd trek. There seemed a spirit of melancholy that clung to her the moment we set foot on the grounds. We saw a sign and followed another path that lead to the grave of Jack London and his wife Charmian. Up a slight incline we found the burial site marked by a large bolder. Under this stone rests the ashes of London and his wife. They lie side by side, as was her wish. Perhaps when he selected this as his final resting place he had a premonition of his coming end. We paused here for a long moment. “He isn't here,” Debbie said, shaking her head. There was peace here at the grave, but I had to agree it lacked the feeling that I have felt at places known to be haunted. We turned and walked on to the Wolf House site.

We turned a corner, and there it was, looking ancient and moss-covered, like the remains of a thousand-year-old castle. It was huge. This was no mountain-top lodge; it was a palace with massive walls and large rooms. There was to have been a reflective pool in the center, like some misplaced Roman Villa, great stone fireplaces and tall chimneys. It was rustic, yes, but still a palace. It felt absolutely Medieval.

Our first target was the sunken manuscript vault. It was built to hold Jack London's books, notes and papers, and, over the years, it has been pointed out as the focal point of supernatural activity. We walked to peer into the cement-lined roofless chamber. Perhaps one of the most remarkable accounts linked to Wolf House is centered on the vault. Some have speculated that the chamber is haunted by the fictional characters created by London.

As many of his creations were thinly disguised versions of himself, it would be hard to imagine them existing as separate entities. Jack never lived in the house. He never did his writings there, and the huge vault was never used to hold any of his books. Still, the rumors, colorful and imaginative as they are, may have some root in fact, so Debbie and I spent many minutes gazing into the sunken bunker. At last Debbie shook her head.

“There is nothing here,” she said. “I don't feel anything except an overwhelming sadness.” I too had felt the aura of the place but was unable to give it a name. The stories of the vault holding the ghostly Captain Wolf Larsen and Buck the dog were, so it seems, just wishful thinking on the part of London's many fans.

We walked to view the remains of the house from a wooden platform. A large group of German tourists were talking and snapping dozens of photographs.

“I feel like we are intruding,” whispered Debbie.

“I don't think the Germans mind,” I answered, taking a few pictures of my own.

“No, I don't mean them,” Debbie replied. “The man there, in the house, the ghost.”

“Who? What?” I stammered, “Is it Jack London?”

“I don't know,” she answered, as she stared into the archways. It was as if, by squinting and concentrating, the image might become clearer. I too focused on the area where she was looking, and tried to spot anything out of the ordinary. There did seem to be a mist, faint, almost like the dew rising off the meadow at the first rays of dawn. I snapped a picture, half knowing that nothing so translucent would, or could, be captured in a picture.

Debbie has taken a step backward, leaning on a stonewall, her hands to her temples. I had seen this before. It was the persistent headache she developed when she was attempting to make a psychic link with the figure she had seen. I knew she needed time, so I let her focus on what ever impressions she might be picking up.

“Some Socialist!” the large German said to me in his thick Bavarian accent. His nose peeling red from the sun, his San Francisco baseball cap ill fitting on his large head. “This is a palace!” he continued with a defiant gesture towards the ruins.

I nodded my head in agreement, this was no farmhouse. This was a structure built by ego, for ego. This was a mansion built to impress and humble visitors.

“I guess he wasn't much of a Socialist,” I answered, as he took more pictures. I glanced at Debbie. She was sitting down on a nearby bench, her eyes closed, he hands folded in deep meditation.

I stepped off the platform as the group of tourists wandered on, laughing and speaking in German. I followed them wanting to find a lonely spot and gauge my own psychic feelings. I half hopped to see something in the ruins. I felt as if I was being watched by unseen eyes. I was unable to pinpoint anything out of the ordinary. I took more pictures then when back to where Debbie was sitting. She was gone!

A chill raced up my spine as a feeling of panic came over me. In a trance state she might do anything! I had seen her stumble into all sorts of places in the past, unmindful of dangers. The ruins were fenced because they presented all sorts of hazards to anyone who might walk about in them. I quickly walked, half ran, the full circle around the pile of brick and stone. I almost expected to see her walking on top of the crumbling walls. I felt remiss in leaving her alone. At last I saw her, sitting on another bench, some distance from the house, under a tree. I ran up to her.

“There is someone here,” she said, as I walked up, “and its not Jack. People see him and they think its Jack London, but he isn't. Its someone who knew him.”

“Who is it?” I asked clicking on my small tape recorder.

“Its a man who felt that he betrayed him somehow. He is in limbo. I think he's Italian; at least that's his nationality. He is a staunch Roman Catholic.”

“Do you get a name?” I asked, taking a seat next to her in the cool shade.

“He built this place, and he now blames himself for its destruction,” Debbie whispered. “This was his greatest defeat. He has the soul of an artist; an artist in stone and wood.”

“Did he burn Wolf House?” I asked. “Is that why he is still here?”

“No, he wasn't where he should have been that night. I feel that he knew something; something about the destruction of this place. He left early that night. He trusted others to do what he should have done himself. He oversaw men. He had something that he needed to do that night, so the place burned.”

Debbie's eyes closed, her head moving from side to side. She was communicating with the spirit. “It can not burn! It couldn't burn. The house, the house, its all gone. Like the great unsinkable ship Titanic that sank the year before, Wolf House was believed to be fireproof.” I could see tear's in Debbie's eyes.

“He was with Jack that night; that awful, hot night. Jack never said a word, never hinted that the fault might be the builder's. But from that moment on he blamed himself. That is why he is still here.”

____________________________________________________

Footnote: Checking the records I discovered there was an Italian named Forni who oversaw the building of Wolf House and who was with Jack London the night the house burned.

The Visit to the Cottage

The ruins of Wolf House behind us, we made our way to Beauty Ranch where Jack London lived and died. The property was a winery when Jack London bought the place. Having no interests in viticulture, he had the vines removed and used the land for animal husbandry. Now the vines are back and a decedent of London grows grapes here. We walked past the picturesque ruins of the old stone winery and not far from them stood a small house where Jack and Charmian lived and where he passed out of this life. If there were answers to the questions that surround London's death, it was hoped that the answers might be found here.

Today the house is restored as a monument to London but, though the structure has been saved, it is still unfinished. Debbie and I walked up the stairs into the open building. Debbie was, again quiet and introspective. As we went to the door there was a slight hesitation. She looked to the window for a long moment, she saw something, something not of this world.

An elderly volunteer tour guide greeted us at the door and ushered us into the Nineteenth Century home. The ceilings were high, the floors hardwood that echoed with our steps. The guide explained a short history of Jack London and his many accomplishments as he took us down a hall. Debbie ignored him, exploring the space with both her physical and psychic senses.

When we entered the large study and I saw Debbie react with an unexpected shudder. A strange look crossed her face, and she began to pace the floor. The room did seem colder than the rest of the house. The room was lined with wooden bookshelves, now empty of volumes. Debbie was staring at something by the window as the guide droned on about how Jack London would write a thousand words a day in this very room. At last, the guide took us out of the room to tour the rest of the house, Debbie seemed reluctant to leave the room. We next went into the bathroom, where an old style ball-and-claw bathtub rested. It was a modern looking bathroom to my eye.

Debbie stopped and looked at me with wide eyes.

“Do you smell it?” She asked.

“What?” answered the guide.

“A perfume or cologne, something exotic.”

“What is it like?” I inquired, sniffing the guide to see if he might be the source of the scent. He wasn't.

“Its like something I smelled before, in the Hawaiian Islands. White Ginger, I think. Don't you smell it too?”

I had to admit that I didn't smell anything out of the ordinary. The guide appeared shocked and a bit bewildered, but he asked her to describe the scent. From the look on his face others may have had the same experience in the house. He did say that the bathroom was used by Charmian, and, months before his death they had spent many weeks in Hawaii.

The he escorted us to the porch were Jack London died. This was Charmian's glassed in porch she used as a bedroom, separate from Jack (a common practice at that time). When he was found in a comatose state, she had him carried into her room, and it was here on November 22, 1916 that he passed away. Today it is a bright, sunny room, with beautiful vistas of the gardens and hillside. I remarked that the view must have been much the same as it was in the days when Jack and Charian lived here.

Debbie was quiet, slowly pacing the room, head down, features set in a determined expression. I had seen this look before, and it meant that she had found something.

Though she looked grim, I knew she was excited, I could almost feel the rapid beat of her heart. The guide was now looking at us with more than a little suspicion. He gave us a brief account of the death of London, and quickly concluded the tour. I guess he may have thought we were demented, and wanted to wrap things up so he could start another tour with 'normal folks.' Debbie slowly shook her head as we left the porch and I took two quick photographs.

As we left, there was a desk with some printed information and a place for donation. I put a twenty dollar bill in the slot and I noticed they were selling small squares of wood from the floor of the original floor of the porch. It seems that the original wood had rotted and they were forced to remove and replace it. This was the floor of the place Jack London had died. The sale was a fund raiser for the restoration of the cottage so I purchased the square of wood that would be helpful for our next experiment. Perhaps it would help us to understand what happened on the night he passed out of this life. I was curious about what Debbie had felt inside the house.

We walked a short distance from the home and sat on a bench in the shade. I turned on my tape recorder and asked her the expected question.

“What did you see or feel in the house?”

“The moment I crossed the threshold of the study, I saw him sitting at a desk. He was looking right at me, with a bothered look on his face. He wasn't very tall. He was dressed all in tan. He had this thing on his forehead, like part of a green hat, an eye shade. He looked at me as if I was intruding on his work.”

“What was he doing?” I asked.

“Writing a novel, I believe. He had this large pad of paper he was working on. I caught the impression it was something about a Golden Man. It was as if he could see me but he couldn't see or hear the rest of you. It was like he wanted to say something to me but, before he could he changed his mind, and went back to his pad of paper. He didn't want to be bothered.”

“Did he seem at all surprised that you were in his study?”

“Only that I shouldn't be there, and if he just ignored me, I would go away and leave him in peace. I had the distinct impression he thought I was just another crazy friend of his wife.”

“What about the smell?” I inquired.

“Didn't you smell it? It was overpowering. It is her scent, and I believe she is there, too.”

“Charmian?” I asked.

“Yes, but I don't think they are together. They exist on different planes of existence. Now, I don't believe he took his own life. Now I am sure of it. I just didn't get the feeling that he had taken his own life deliberately. I have been to a number of places where people have committed suicide. There is a distinct feeling with them, and this house, that porch, didn't have that impression. This man left too many things undone. He wasn't ready to die, and that's why he is still here.”

I had to admit that I did feel odd in the house, but was her vision a true one? Did the phantom of London wander the old cottage, forever working on some new novel? Could it be that his devoted wife also haunt this place? We walked the grounds, arm in arm, trying to relax. Debbie was still trembling, and I could feel each shake come down her arm. Doing psychic work isn't easy and most don't realize that it can be exhausting.

The Seance

We drove over to the Jack London Saloon in Glen Ellen, and ordered a tasty dinner. Debbie sipped wine and looked over the many photographs of Jack London that adorned the walls. We talked again of what she saw and felt. We resolved to answer the questions of his death, we must hold a séance and delve deeper into the mystery. We would do it at our nearby hotel room using the artifacts a collector had loaned to us; signed first editions, letter in London's own handwriting and other objects linked to Jack London. These would help Debbie to focus and, it was hoped, establish a link to the writer himself. The bit of wood from the cottage floor would be the greatest help.

With the fragment of the floor from the cottage held in her hand, Debbie relaxed on the couch and began to sink deeper into a self induced trance. I was ready with the tape recorder and a notebook and pen to jot down any facts. She would try to will herself into another time and place. Having visited the cottage when Jack London had passed out of this life. This was a distinct advantage.

It was hoped that this experiment might answer some of the many riddles linked to his death. Next to her was a signed copy of London's book, Martin Eden, that had been signed days before his passing in 1916. The floor sample and book were hoped to enable her to establish a link to London and what happened so long ago. She slipped into the trance state in twenty minutes.

“Where are you now?” I asked. It is best to start with a question.

“On the porch, I am on the porch.”

“What is it like?”

“Dark out, dim lights, very cluttered with papers and magazines. Things clipped and there are packages in brown paper. There is a table with a light.. There are many bottles.”

“Is this Charmian's porch?”

“No, it's Jack's.”

“Can you see Jack London?”

“Yes, but it is dim. There is a light, but it casts poor light. The shade is turned to the wall, and only reflected light covers the small room.”

“What is Jack doing?”

“Tossing and turning. His eyes are closed in pain. He looks so wan and pale. I believe he is in great pain. He drank tonight. He knows he shouldn't have drank tonight.”

“He is in pain?”

“Yes, a great deal of pain. There is pain in his upper arm too—he is holding his arm.”

“What is he wearing?”

“A dressing gown. It is tied with a cord. He is staggering up from his bed. He holds his side and goes to the table. He finds the case under some papers, he has done this before many times.”

“What?”

“The needle, he is taking out the hypodermic needle. He shakes as he mixes the medication. It will ease the pain. Then he can sleep.”

“Is he planning to kill himself?”

“He mixes the drug carefully, just so much and no more. He has trouble finding a vein. He uses a cord around his arm. His hand tingles. Then there is a look of relief on his face.”

“He is giving himself pain killers?”

“Yes, he has done this before. His treatments always helped him in the past, but not now.”

“He needs it?” I asked.

“It isn't easy. The Salvarsan doesn't help now. He needs the morphine.”

“Who is Sal?”

“ It isn't a person, its a treatment. It doesn't help now.”

“What sort of treatment?”

“Salvarsan, the wonder drug, the European wonder. Jack is convinced it will cure him. It always did in the past.”

“This drug—Salvarsan--he has used it in the past?”

“Yes, and it cured him and made him whole once after the South Seas.”

“He injected himself with this?”

“Yes, but no more, it failed to stop the condition in his kidneys, he must flush his system.”

“Why is he taking the morphine? Will that help him?”

“Pain, he takes it for the pain. Each night, as the attacks grow worse, he increases the dose slightly to get to sleep.”

“What about when he wakes up?”

“He has pills and coffee to wake him up and get him going, for the ranch and his writings.”

“Writings?”

“Yes, he is starting a new book, a new novel.”

“Has the injections helped him?”

“Yes, the burning has stopped, there is a doziness that comes with the drug.”

“Did he take too much?”

“No he was wary, almost too careful about his medications. He knew the dangers, but he did increase the amount to deal with the intense pain. Tonight he took more than ever before.”

“So it was an accidental overdose of morphine?”

“No, no it wasn't that. He didn't take too much.”

“Then it wasn't suicide?”

“No, he was wary, he had too much he wanted to do with the ranch, with his daughters, with his wife, not counting his new novel ideas. He had too much pride to take his own life.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is something wrong. He is leaning back in pain. His eyes close and he bites his lip. He is in great pain. The burning in his arm now, Its a blinding pain in his head. Flashes of white hot light.”

“What is it?”

“He is scared now. He never had a pain like this before in his life. It's as if his head is bursting. He is blinded by the pain . He is twitching. His face is stiff in a grim mask.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, he is grasping at the little morphine bottle. He is going for the needle. No, he is going to take another injection.”

“What is happening?”

“He is shaking all over now. It is hard to handle the hypodermic.

He knows this is bad but he doesn't call out.”

“Whats he doing now?”

“ He is on the bed, on his side. He can't speak. It's getting dark.”

“Stay with him.”

“I am losing it, its fading.”

“Stay on the image. What is he wearing?”

“I can't”

“Hold on, tell me what color is is dressing gown?”

“Dull gray, I think.”

“Please hold on, what is the room like?”

“He is still twitching, the pain is so great... The room is dim. I can't hold on to the image.”

“Try, focus on the room. What does he look like now?”

“Pale worn, swollen. His eyes half closed. He is sinking into a coma. Its getting dark.”

“Keep on focus. Do you see the needle, the injection kit?”

“It is getting dark. I am losing it.”

“Try to stay, help is coming for Jack.”

“It's gone. The image is all black.”

“Try to return to the room.”

“No, the link is broken.” Debbie said sitting up.

She looked at her hand, she has clutched the wooden fragment so hard she cut her palm and it was bleeding. She was covered in a thin layer of perspiration and trembling all over. She had come out of the trance too quickly.

“I have the mother of all headaches.” she said as I got some tissue for her hand. Shaken she could not sleep that night and paced the floor on and off til dawn.

I thought about doing another session, but this was too much for Debbie and I concluded the experiment. We had gained some valuable insights into the death of Jack London.

A Conversation with Debbie

We returned home from our trip to Jack London land in Northern California. All the way back she didn't want to talk about what had transpired. When we got home, after dinner, we settle down to talk about our trip over a bottle of Jack London wine we had purchased.

“Well, what do you think of Jack London now?” I asked Debbie.

“When I first started this project I thought he was a terrible man; a genius, a great writer and all; but not a man I would have liked to have known. After all he did leave his wife and two children. I believe he was a very selfish person.”

“He seems to have really loved his second wife, Charmian.” I said, sipping the rich wine.

“I don't know about that,” Debbie answered. “Yes, there was passion and all that, but I really wonder if they would have stayed together if he hadn't taken sick.”

“So, what do you think of Charmian?”

“I think she was a strong person, and she loved being Mrs. Jack London a great deal. She became the partner in his writings and plans and, after he passed away, the keeper of the flame.”

“That proves she loved him, right?”

:Not always—it was in her best interests to keep his memory alive and his name before the public. The sale of his books, and hers too, kept a roof over her head. Did you ever wonder why she never remarried? She was a dynamic woman. Why did she remain faithful to the memory of Jack all the rest of her life?”

“She must have loved him. That is the only thing I could imagine.”

“If conditions were reversed, and she had died, do you think he would have remarried? I am sure he would have mourned for a while then there would have been a third Mrs. London.”

“I'm sure he wouldn't have become a monk.” I remarked.

“Not Jack London. He would have had a string of women. He was a bit like President Bill Clinton in that regard. He couldn't leave women alone.”

“But I heard Charmian had lovers after his death, I read something about having something going on with Harry Houdini.”

“I can't believe that one. She may have known Houdini but no. I would guess that she may have had relationships, but she was deeply committed to the memory of Jack London.”

“So love was a factor here?”

“ You are such a romantic. I didn't say that. They had a complex relationship, and one that was always changing. I feel the two of them were two peas in the same pod. They were much alike and deserved each other.”

“What was Jack like?” I asked, pouring her another glass of wine.

“He was, at his core, a very simple man. He had all these layers of stuff he used to mask himself. But, down deep, he was a boy who never grew up. To understand him you have to look at his past and realize that everything he had, he earned. He was a man who invented himself. His world was a selfish and lonely place, haunted by bitter memories and failures.”

“So Jack was what we call a driven man?”

“Very much so. He was bright, intelligent who could retain a great deal of facts and knowledge, but he was cursed with a deep inferiority complex. He was constantly battling his past and humble origins. The socialism, psychology stuff all that was a mask. He was, like most people, not to hard to understand. “

“What about the questions of his death?” I asked, refilling my glass of wine.

“He was poisoned. Murdered.”

“What! Who did it? Charmian? His first wife?”

“He was murdered all right but the person who killed him was –Jack London himself!”

“So it was suicide after all?”

“No, Jack would never take his own life. That was a thing his own ego wouldn't permit. He killed himself by talking all those drugs, drinking, eating what he wanted, and all the while trying to play his own doctor.”

“So it was accidental overdose that was his end?”

“Did you see the medical kit they have in the museum? The drug, Salvarsan? Look it up, it was thought to be a “magic bullet” what would cure almost everything. Its full of arsenic and other bad stuff. If he was using that it could have accumulated in his body and caused kidney failure.”

“How could you prove such a thing?” I inquired.

“A lock of his hair would be enough. I wonder if any exists. They burned his body really quickly—maybe to cover something up?”

“So that is why they were in such a hurry?”

“I think Jack London did an Elvis.”

“As in Elvis Presley?
  “Yes, Drugs, drugs, and drugs, along with booze and high times. He destroyed his body inside and out.”

“So his diet wasn't to blame. Lots of people at the time thought that played a part?”

“It played a minor role,. All those under cooked wild ducks—I don't want to think about that-- but in the end it was the morphine acting with other drugs accumulated in his body that ended his life.”

“And there was nothing that could be done?”

“No, if he had lived though that terrible night, he would have died in a few weeks anyway. Deep down I think that he would have preferred it that way. He wouldn't want to linger like Howard Hughes did. No, he would like to go out like this.”

“You may well be right.”

“ I believe , in the last months of his life he began to embrace the ancient concept of re-birth, reincarnation. It was his mother's long held belief.”

“You find it in his last books but he always poo pooed the ideas of Spiritualism and his mother's metaphysical beliefs.”

“Yes, but in the end, he embraced them. They were his heritage.”

“That's a strange way to put it.”

“I think to really understand Jack London you must understand his mother.”

“Do you believe he is a ghost, or spirit, today?”

“Yes, very much so. I saw him, I looked him in the eye. He is working on a new novel. The Golden Man don't ask me what its about, all I got was the title. I believe he is waiting for someone.”

“Who?” I asked.

“I don't know? Charmian? His Mother? His daughter, Joan? I have no idea., but I believe that, in time they will come and his essence will leave the place for good.”

“Where will he go?”

“I guess that is the greatest question of the all. The Spiritualists say Summerland, The Reincarnationists say rebirth, Christians say Heaven, Muslims say Paradise. Take your pick.”

“I guess that's the greatest question of them all. I don't know if we will ever find an answer to that one.”

“Yes we will—when we die,” commented Debbie. “Maybe then you can read London's latest novel.” Debbie went to the bookcase and withdrew a book. It was The Star Rover by Jack London. She opened it to the last page.

“I think this tells it all, and I think its a good way to end, too. Its from the last last page of the book. Jack could have cribbed it from Andrew Jackson Davis, the founder of American Spiritualism, the author of many books. I'm sure he had access to them as a child or young man.”

She looked down and started to read.

“Here I close. I can only repeat myself. There is no death. Life is spirit, and spirit can not die. Only the flesh dies and passes,...spirit alone endures and continues to build upon itself, through successive and endless incarnations, as it works upward toward the light. What shall I be when I live again? I wonder, I wonder...”

Debbie was right—it was a good quote to end with.

Conclusion

Debbie's version of the fate of Jack London was mirrored by Jack's own daughter, Joan, an author in her own right. When asked about her father's death she stated in an interview; “He had taken a lethal dose, but who can say whether it had been with suicidal intentions, or merely an overdose miscalculated in the midst of his agony”

As Debbie said, Jack London had done an “Elvis” and his success and ego spelled his doom. Such things have taken creative people for centuries, the fate of singer Michael Jackson for one. We must conclude that Jack London was murdered—he was murdered by himself. Perhaps if a lock of his hair could be found and tested, the questions of his death could be at long last resolved.

2022 Ventura, CA by Richard Senate