# The Strange Experiences of Tina Malone/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
THE AUTOMATIC WRITING.
Tony was going to set up for himself as a bookseller. He was a great book-worm and wanted to buy into a small second-hand bookshop—or had had it offered to him at a certain price. I offered to lend him some money.
We arranged to meet in town one day to carry out the transaction.
It was just a fortnight after the first of these had begun and I was only waiting till I met him to tell him of them.
"When we have done this business I want to tell you something most extraordinary that has happened to me," I said.
Together we went to the Savings' Bank, where I was to draw out some money and hand it over to him to put into his own account.
While I was writing the slip I felt my hand drawn to the right in such a way that I could hardly write, and when I had written my signature I turned to Tony and said:
"That isn't my own writing at all—isn't it funny?"
He looked at it without interest and laughed. He was full of business and wished only to get the transaction over. We exchanged slips, he handing me a promissory note, I handing him my pound notes.
Then I began my story, telling him as much of my experiences as I could put into words. He hardly listened but talked fast all the time till I seized his attention with persistence.
And then he laughed.
"You have been to the Spiritualists," he said.
"I have not," I said. "I've never believed in them."
"You'll have to now, then."
"I can't and never shall. It's you who believe in the occult. You had your horoscope told."
"Yes and I wanted you to."
"No, thank you," I said. "I will not look into the future. It's quite enough to meet troubles when they come, I ​don't want to know beforehand. Tony why do you think this has happened? It makes me think that I must keep away from you and everybody who has ever believed in occultism."
"No," he said, talking very quickly. "If this has happened it is well to have someone near you who understands these things. Besides, my horoscope says that some woman is to be very good to me and you said it was you."
From the simplicity of the statement and its acceptance anyone might think we were engaged to be married but there was no thought of that—anyway on my part—I don't know what Tony felt.
The extraordinary thing was that while he was away I felt somehow as if I was in communication with him and that he was in need of money. This had seemed so real to me that I had taken my bank book in with the idea firmly fixed that I was going to offer him £600 to invest, with a view to going into partnership with him. I had been arranging with him, as I thought, all the way as I went in. He and I were to spend the rest of the day at a matinee. But when I met him there was no consciousness of this telepathy in his face and he told me that he must leave me soon after we had done our business.
"Leave me?" I stammered. "Aren't—you coming to the matinee?"
"No," he said, "I shall have to hurry home. I have some work to do before I go away to-morrow."
I was thoroughly perplexed, and had to re-adjust all my ideas while I was talking to him. There had never been any talk of marriage between us and to all appearance no thought of it. But I had so thoroughly found the idea fixed in my mind that it was he with whom I had been telepathing, that I had to seem unsurprised. He was evidently unconscious of it.
I walked along beside him holding my bank book and trying to straighten all my perplexed ideas without letting him see it.
It was not easy.
In those two weeks I had made plans for the future with him and had fancied that he was telling me all his past. That future we were to share together. I was to give him £600 to invest and he and I were to share profits.
Now I had to believe that we were just friends, that he wanted to begin life on his own, and I was lending him the wherewithal to do it.
"How much would you like me to lend you?" I asked.
"Oh, a hundred and fifty if you could spare it," he said.
"I can make it £200 if you like," I said, trying to hide the other two bank-books I had with me—I had quite expected the £600.
​"That will be all right—Yes the £200 then," he said.
I knew it was perfectly safe with him and I had always wanted him to have a start. He was the soul of honour I knew, and had never had a chance to strike out on his own.
"But what does it all mean, Tony?" I asked, for my mind could not keep off these extraordinary happenings I had been through.
"Just that you have become mediumistic," he said.
"Oh, rubbish!" I said, for I had never believed in spirits, or fairies or any of the things occultists are so fond of talking about. "But what is it for? I thought it was you."
"Don't associate me with any of these nightly visitors," he said seriously and firmly. "I tell you you have become mediumistic. You can't help it. Shut it out of your mind—don't take any notice of them. I tell you I knew a man who had these exercises—they went on for five years. He thought it was an astral visitation—a woman—they were lovers. He thought it was sent from God. It is a disembodied spirit. If you go calling spirits you must expect this sort of thing."
He was laughing now. I notice that no one can expect another to take their troubles as if they were their own. It was a troublesome thing to think I had swallowed a spirit and there seemed to be no way of getting rid of it once it was done.
"Very well, then," I said. "It's not you, so now I know it's either a spirit or someone in his astral body. I'll call him Patrick—But—I—don't—know—why it's come to me—But those exercises!" I went on, "They were so marvellously given—The most perfect massage. But I thought it was you!"
The simplicity of the statement did not strike me as being in any way peculiar.
"You little silly," said Tony. "How could I send you exercises when I was miles and miles away. I'll come and see you this evening at half-past seven if you'll be at home."
I went home feeling anything but a "little silly." I had not done any of my housework and when I went in I cleared a table of a lot of litter and sat down to write a letter to my sister.
To my suprise I found my hand pulled to the right and jerked about in a most extraordinary fashion. I couldn't make it out. It seemed as if the pen were alive. I let it have its own way for a little and then an idea came to me.
"Why! this must be automatic writing."
I hurriedly found a letter-pad and let my pen scribble and scribble and scribble in the most insane fashion, forming all sorts of scraggly lines until a word appeared by degrees. I just distinguished the word "promissory," and my pen jerked and travelled on with a lot more scribbling ​till another word appeared, "friend," and then "grieving" and then "mother," until at last, after covering about twenty sheets, the sentence appeared "The promissory note you have given to your friend is grieving your mother."
I spent nearly the whole afternoon over this, gaping and wondering at my performance.
What a thing!
Tony arrived and asked after "Patrick."
"Well, evidently he's there all right," I said. "I've done automatic writing."
Tony roared.
"But really, Tony—and it's against you," I said.
He became serious then. I knew that would pull him up. He waited, quite anxious and expectant, while I collected the papers and showed him.
He took it seriously. He always had had a belief in the occult but in all the books I had read I had impatiently "skipped" all the parts about "Life after Death" and "The Unknown."
He looked at it all carefully and in silence with a perplexed expression.
"What does it mean?" he asked. "Where's the promissory note?"
I opened my desk and took it out.
Together we examined it but could find nothing there that did not seem quite as it should be.
"Tony! When that sentence had been written I began to ask questions. I thought perhaps mother was really there—and I asked her why it was grieving her. She said to ask my brother. Then I asked her if it was you she was objecting to and she said 'no'—my pen guided the answers 'yes' or 'no'—She had nothing against you but again came the sentence about the 'promissory note.'"
We puzzled together and Tony left, far more serious than he came.
He was going away to go through people's libraries in the country and buy what books he wanted. He left his address and made me promise to let him know very often how I was.
"You leave Patrick alone," he said. "Tell him to go to the Devil. What does he know about promissory notes. Don't have anything to do with spirits, Tina—let them rest in peace."
"But I don't," I said. "They come—I don't want them."
The next day as I was going into town I met Sybil.
She was the sort of person, like all the other occultists, who liked to bow to you or not, just as she was in the mood, and I just nodded and stood away from her, waiting for the tram to come up.
​But she came up to me.
"Now, you're not going to run away from me like that," she said, tucking her arm tight into mine and coming close to me. "Come along, get in here and sit beside me."
She believed in the occult I knew, and, although I felt it was better to keep all such nonsense to myself I told her about the automatic writing, not saying what it was about, but that it was a message from my mother.
"Well, at that rate, I'd go on with it," she said, when she heard my description.
It was too interesting for me not to try again but I got no more messages.
The exercises still went on nightly, but I seemed to take less interest in them by degrees—they seemed also to be fainter—more weakly given.
Why I should have believed that anyone was there I don't know, for I have always disbelieved in spirits, fairies, and elementals, but there was a consciousness of another being than myself who gave signs to me by movements of my hands, answering "yes" or "no" by different movements.
Then one day, while I was shopping in town, I felt very faint and, as if I must get home quickly or I should faint.
The next day, in the morning, a horrible feeling of vagueness came over me as if a veil had fallen between me and the outside world, preventing my consciousness from coming through. I sat at my window talking to my landlady and hoped she did not notice the vagueness of my expression as I felt it must appear.
I felt tired and inert as if I could not pull my faculties together. I went to a restaurant for dinner and on the way there, was conscious of this Presence.
He seemed to be depressed and I questioned him as to why I could not get a true answer from him.
But as I sat at dinner a terrible feeling came over me of depression and a kind of ceasing of feeling—so that I could not enjoy my dinner. Here again I had such a feeling of vagueness that I hoped the waitress would not notice anything peculiar.
As I left the shop I could not walk properly. I kept running to one side of the pavement as if some invisible person was sharing my consciousness and interfering with my own movements by unconsciously directing them his way.
He seemed to be persuading me to go home and lie down, saying he thought I needed rest.
I found myself whispering now, moving my lips as I asked him questions and gave him answers—I found myself whispering to him all day long.