My fellow ghost-hunter Rob Murakami is rewinding his tape recorder. A minute ago, I watched him step off the wooden walkway, walk to a cluster of trees, and stand for half a minute, his head bowed and his back to the trail, as though relieving himself amid the poplars. Murakami gives the impression of a man who enjoys life, no matter what life happens to be dishing up. His business card identifies him as the chiropractor of the Rose City Wildcats women’s football team, suggesting that life routinely dishes up pretty enjoyable material. I’m guessing the trip was the idea of his girlfriend, who frequently feels ghosts “in the back of my throat, wanting to talk.” Last night at Louis’ Basque Corner, an entity in her throat dodged prime rib and potatoes to tell us that we “should have come when the melons are in season.” (Based on the things people report them saying, ghosts strike me as quite senile, which I suppose is par for the course when you’ve been around two or three hundred years. Their tape-recorded vocalizations lean steeply in this direction. A selection from Raudive’s collection of EVP utterances: “Please interrupt,” “Might be Mary-bin,” “Industrious!”)
“Hm,” says Rob. He puts his tape recorder up to my ear. “I got some odd thuds. Maybe I hit it by mistake, but I don’t think so.” He plays it again, this time for tour leader Dave Oester. I like Dave. He’s a middle-aged minister of unspecified affiliation, with sloping shoulders and glasses that constantly slip down his nose. He has a big round torso and a head that seems to sit right on top of it, like a snowman’s.
“Someone chopping wood,” says Dave, smiling. Dave smiles every other sentence or so, not because something funny has been said, but just to keep things friendly. This morning, before we left, Dave played us a recording made from his first visit to Donner Camp. To me, it did not sound like communications of any sort, except possibly the sort exchanged between turkeys. I heard a rapid, metallic “gobba-lobba-ob.” Dave heard: “I need more milk.” One IGHS member said that, yup, she could hear it, too. Then again, during a dinner conversation earlier in the trip, this same woman heard “Siegfried and Roy” as “Sigmund Freud.” The resulting image—Sigmund Freud with flowing hair and tigers and too much men’s makeup—haunts me to this day.
Psychologists would nominate the “verbal transformation effect” as a possible explanation. B. F. Skinner once played nonsense sequences of vowels to subjects and asked them to tell him when they heard something with meaning. Not only did they hear words (with consonants), they were quite solidly convinced that their interpretations were correct.
The human mind is also adept at turning nothing at all into intelligible sounds. C. Maxwell Cede, an honorary secretary of London’s Society for Psychical Research, described for David Ellis an experiment in which a group of people were handed paper and pencil and asked to help transcribe what they were told was a faint, poor-quality recording of a lecture. The subjects offered dozens of phrases and even whole sentences they’d managed to make out—though the tape contained nothing but white noise.*
Konstantin Raudive seemed especially prone to the verbal transformation effect. At one point in Ellis’s research, he had a group of people listen to purported utterances Raudive had collected and write down what they heard. Where Raudive heard “Lenin,” others heard “glubboo,” “buduloo,” “vum vum,” a bullfrog, a sudden change in tape tension, and “a low elephant call.” Late in his career, Raudive became fixated on the vocalizations of a parakeet, which he believed to be channeling communications (in German) from the dead.
The most provocative recording to come out of Donner Camp this fine autumn day is a clear and relatively unambiguous whisper that turned up on the tape of a man named Charles. “Settings,” it says. The less far-fetched explanation would hold that Charles at one point said something under his breath about changing the settings on his tape recorder, and then forgot that he’d said it. Charles insists he didn’t say it, and while I believe him, it still seems more plausible than the alternative, which is that the soul of, say, George Donner manifested itself in Charles’s tape recorder.
In the end, I would have to agree with Ellis’s conclusions: “There is no reason to postulate anything but natural causes—indistinct fragments of radio transmissions, mechanical noises and unnoticed remarks—aided by imaginative guesswork and wishful thinking, to explain the ‘voice phenomenon.’”
Ellis’s conclusions are supported by the experiments of University of Western Ontario psychology professor Imants Baruss, published in the Journal of Scientific Exploration. Baruss is not a skeptic; quite the contrary. He told me he believes science has amassed solid evidence for life after death—in the form of research by Gary Schwartz (see Chapter 6) and Ian Stevenson (see Chapter 1)—but he does not consider EVP part of it. In eighty-one forty-five-minute tape recordings of radio static, he picked up the following: a low whistle, an occasional radio station breaking through, a squawking noise that “with imagination” might be a “hello,” a truncated sound that one technician interpreted as her name (Gail), the sound of a kiss after Gail the technician said “hello,” and a “Tell Peter,” which Gail claimed sounded like a deceased woman she had known whose husband was named Peter. “While we have replicated EVP in the weak sense of finding voices on audiotapes,” concluded Baruss, “none of the phenomena found…was clearly anomalous, let alone attributable to discarnate beings.”
I’d buy that (and I might not employ Gail next time around), but I’m not surprised the EVP community took umbrage with the study: If the source of those few voices wasn’t spirits, then what was it? I know it wasn’t the task of the study to answer that question. Still, it does rather leave one twisting in the wind.
Are there other explanations for these odd snippets of voice? I contacted the German electronics giant Telefunken, because I’d read that they investigated EVP in the 1980s. I got a reply from Jürgen Graaff, who recently retired from the company after forty years as an engineer and, later, a managing director. He said he had heard of EVP, but did not know of any Telefunken-sponsored research. Then he told me about something called the ducting effect. Every now and then, strange goings-on in the electronic layers of the ionosphere create small “ducts” that enable fragments of radio broadcasts or walkie-talkie communications to travel thousands of miles. “A taxi driver communication in New York could suddenly be monitored for a couple of minutes in Europe,” wrote Graaff in an e-mail. “From a classical engineering point of view, this ought not to be possible, as the power of a taxi transmitter is very small.” Yet it happens. “After a few minutes, the ducts collapse and the phenomenon disappears. You can guess what I want to express about EVP!”
Talking with Graaff, it began to seem that the world of electronic broadcasting could serve up all manner of seemingly paranormal goings-on. Sometimes a gap between two pieces of metal, or a piece of metal and the ground, can set up a sparking that serves to demodulate a radio signal if a transmission is especially powerful or the tower close by. Graaff recalls a hysterical East German woman whose roasting oven, she said, would speak to her whenever she opened the door. A man who lived in the same neighborhood was being addressed nightly by his heating system. Engineers dispatched to look into the reports identified the words as segments of the nightly Broadcasting in the American Sector broadcast and reassured the shaken citizens.
Graaff thereby confirmed something I’d long assumed was an urban myth: that dental fillings can pick up radio transmissions. Perhaps you recall the episode of The Partridge Family wherein Susan Dey announces that she can hear the Rolling Stones in her mouth. The show implied that the music is so clear that if David Cassidy were to put his ear right up to your mouth—close to but not quite my sixth-grade fantasy—he could name the song. Graaff explained that if two metals are used side by side—say, an old amalgam covered by a gold cap (or, in Miss Dey’s case, braces and a filling)—a small gap between them can foster what’s called a semiconductivity effect. A jumble of low tones could indeed be heard, though probably only as far as your own inner ea
r, meaning that Mr. Cassidy would have to work his head clear inside your eustachian tube.
I asked Graaff whether any of the Germans had interpreted their appliances’ words as dispatches from the Beyond. He told the tale of a farmer who owned the fields around the mighty Elmshorn transmitting station where Graaff used to work, just north of Hamburg. “He’d been walking the fields, checking the fences, when all of a sudden he came running to the station manager, deadly pale, saying, ‘Sir, I heard the Holy Ghost speaking to me! It came from a piece of wire sticking out of the ground!’” The Ghost spoke in the same cryptic, truncated manner effected by Raudive’s and Jürgenson’s ghosts. Graaff and the manager followed the farmer out to the wire, which was whispering and hissing when they arrived, and every now and again issuing an intelligible phrase. The manager leaned down and pulled the wire from the earth, silencing the Holy Ghost and leaving the farmer to more pedestrian concerns, like the effects of two-hundred-thousand-watt radio towers on farm animals.
You can see and hear your own Holy Ghost if you visit the grounds of an exceptionally robust transmitter, such as the ones operated by Voice of America. Wander up to the metal fencing around the facility after dark, Graaff says, and you might be able to see pale glimmering sparks here and there along the metal. Lean in close and you may hear the sparks singing—or talking, depending on what’s being broadcast.
WILSON VAN DUSEN was the chief psychologist at the Mendocino State Hospital in northern California for many years. This was an inpatient facility for the severely mentally ill—chronic schizophrenics and alcoholics, the brain-damaged, the senile—so he spent a lot of time listening to his patients talk about their “others”: the voices in their heads who cussed at them and threatened them and needled and harassed them—or, very occasionally, encouraged and inspired them. At one point, he decided to try to talk to the voices themselves. “I would question these other persons directly,” he wrote in a pamphlet entitled The Presence of Spirits in Madness, “and instructed the patient to give a word-for-word account of what the voices answered. In this way, I could hold long dialogues with a patient’s hallucinations.” At one point, he was administering Rorschach inkblot tests to the voices. I began to picture the hallucinations as actual inpatients, scowling men in ratty slippers, muttering in the corridors and disrupting bingo games. After interviewing twenty such patients, he decided that he agreed with the patients that their “others” were not hallucinations but inhabitants of a different order of beings.
Dr. Van Dusen is a Swedenborgian—a follower of the teachings of Emanuel Swedenborg, an eighteenth-century mining engineer/inventor/anatomist who began having religious visions in his forties. Swedenborg gained renown as a philosopher and wrote at length about the heaven of his visions, a dream realm inhabited by wingless angels and demons, which, he held, had once been mortal humans. Van Dusen began to notice that his patients’ “others” fell into similar camps of good and evil, with the evil well outnumbering the good, and that they shared numerous traits with Swedenborg’s opposing spirit entities.
You might be thinking, and I could not blame you, that it is more plausible that Emanuel Swedenborg was having schizophrenic episodes than that the schizophrenics were having Swedenborgian episodes. However, by all measures, Swedenborg was not psychotic. He maintained a productive existence as a statesman and theologian, and enough people took—and take—him seriously for the Swedenborgian Church to have become, and to remain, a thriving international denomination.
I was introduced to Van Dusen’s theories by an EVP enthusiast who was thinking of investigating the possibility that the voices schizophrenics hear are the same voices that wind up on EVP tapes, i.e., voices of discarnate entities. I ran this by the folks at England’s Hearing Voices Network, a support organization for people with auditory hallucinations. My e-mail was answered by a helpful and forthcoming staffer and “voice-hearer” named Mickey who said that although it is network policy to accept all members’ explanations for their voices, and although he didn’t know much about EVP, it was his personal opinion that the notion was nonsense. However, he did know quite a few people whose voices seemed so real to them that they tried to tape-record them. The voice-hearers inhabit the opposite conundrum of the EVP people: The voices are audible (to them) at the time, but the tapes are always blank.
Thomas Watson, coinventor of the telephone, describes in his autobiography being contacted on several occasions by schizophrenics who believed that the words in their heads were being secretly broadcast from distant individuals. Most sought his advice on how to block the signals, but one enterprising psychotic offered—for a fee of fifteen dollars a week—to let Watson “take off the top of his skull and study the mechanism at work”:
He told me in a matter-of-fact tone that two prominent New York men…had managed surreptitiously to get his brain so connected with their circuit that they could talk with him at any hour of the day or night wherever he was and make all sorts of fiendish suggestions…. He didn’t know just how they did it, but their whole apparatus was inside his head…. I excused myself from starting to dissect him at once on the grounds of a pressing engagement.
Mickey directed me to the research section of the Hearing Voices Network website, where it said that if a brain scan is done on a schizophrenic as he or she is hearing voices, the scan will show activity in the part of the brain involved in speech production. Meaning that the voices are the “inner speech” of the person who hears them.
BOTH JÜRGENSON AND Raudive have long since moved on to the other side of the tape recorder.* (David Ellis wrote Raudive’s obituary in the Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, noting, in a classic JSPR moment, that the “strain of a conference on the parakeet voices…proved too much for him.”) Their deaths did not extinguish the worldwide enthusiasm for EVP, nor did David Ellis’s fellowship findings. In skimming the newsletters of EVP groups, I find the phenomenon treated ipso facto as communication with the dead. Why, given the negative findings of respectable, open-minded academics, are these folks so certain?
“It’s one thing to get enough evidence to convince yourself, but it’s a whole other matter to produce a demonstration that would be acceptable to a community of scientists,” says Imants Baruss. Dean Radin, a former electrical engineer and the senior scientist at the Institute of Noetic Sciences in Petaluma, California, agrees. “EVP researchers may be genuinely sincere, but insufficiently critical to assess their own results.” They’re convinced by what they’ve heard, and that is enough.
The sun is packing to leave when Dave Oester joins me on the walkway. I tell him I’m not getting anything. He asks me if I introduced myself to the entities before I started taping. “That’s important,” he says. “I always say, ‘I’m Dave Oester of the IGHS, and I’d like to document the existence of life after death. I’d like to get your permission.’”
I clear my throat. “HI, I’M MARY ROACH…” You can’t see where these guys are, so it’s hard to know how loud to talk. “I’M WITH THE IGHS, THOUGH NOT ACTUALLY A MEMBER AS SUCH.”
“You can say it to yourself, Mary. They read your thoughts.”
“They do?”
Dave nods his head. “Sure they do.”
Well, no wonder they’re ignoring me.
THROUGHOUT HISTORY, each new breakthrough in the science of communications is inevitably recruited by someone with a shining for things spiritual. As magicians like Houdini and Britain’s Harry Price began exposing the elaborate parlor tricks of the spiritualist mediums, promoters of the afterlife began incorporating gadgetry into their routines. Machines lent an air of scientific respectability to their claims. They promised a purer, seemingly less corruptible connection with the dead. You can’t trust a human not to fake ectoplasm out of sheep lungs, but you ought to be able to trust a machine.
So instead of a medium speaking in a trance, you had a medium operating a “psychic” typewriter or Morse code console or Vandermeulen Spirit Indicator. You hadn’t el
iminated the middlemen, you’d simply outfitted them with impressive-looking machines. Séances were more technically complicated, but fundamentally unchanged.
Recording devices proved immediately popular with the spiritualist mediums—not to pick up otherwise inaudible communications, but to bolster believability. For what is a recording but a means of capturing and preserving something otherwise fleeting and unprovable? I think Dr. Neville Whymant put it best. An eminent—and eminently corruptible—scholar of the Orient, Dr. Whymant had been called upon by his friend Judge Cannon to speak for the authenticity of a phonograph recording of Confucius, speaking through the voice of medium George Valiantine, at a séance in Cannon’s home in 1926. Valiantine was said by Whymant to be speaking in a (conveniently) “extinct” Chinese dialect. “I think you will agree,” observed Whymant, “that though it is possible that you might hallucinate people, you could not hallucinate a gramophone.”
Phonograph historian D. H. Mason spent weeks trying to track down a copy of the Confucius sessions. He did not succeed, though he did manage to find an itemized description of a boxed set of Valiantine recordings. Highlights included a war whoop by Valiantine’s main spirit guide Kokoan, and “a pathetic song” sung in a shrill falsetto by Bert Everett, another Valiantine guide.*
Mason published a three-part article, including discography, on the topic of séance recording sessions. While the early efforts were merely recorded documents of the sittings—one particularly vigorous medium held forth sufficiently long to fill nine twelve-inch double-sided 78s—very soon the mediums took to singing while in trance, in the persona and voice of the spirit guide. Not surprisingly, given the preponderance of female mediums, the spirit guides (most of them male) tended to be tenors. It was an odd coupling: the high, sweet tones of the tenor register issuing from entities with hypermasculine handles like Power or Hotep. Perhaps this explains the appearance, in 1930, of an Italian spirit guide. Sabbatini, the Italian tenor, began turning up at the séances of prominent Cape Town medium Mrs. T. H. Butters. Mason quotes a description of a Sabbatini performance in a 1931 issue of The Two Worlds, the newspaper of the Spiritualists’ National Union: “While Mrs. Butters was under the control of the spirit, he delighted the sitters by singing Italian songs in a ringing tenor voice, and so powerful were the manifestations that in March this year the friends of Mrs. Butters decided to make a gramophone record of the voice.” The recording quality was diminished somewhat by Mrs. Butters’s tendency to stray from the microphone and move about the room “making operatic gestures,” but was otherwise deemed to be of excellent quality.