Darkhouse

As Related by Alva Rogers

from

The Lighthouse, No. 5, February 1962

New York, New York

(pages 35-40)

"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law."

This hedonistic injunction formed the basic creed of an obscure occult organization referred to by its members as the "O.T.O.," which were the initials of the French name for "The Order of Oriental Templars". The O.T.O. professed to believe in and practice black magic and claimed descent from ancient Egypt. Actually, it was organized by the notorious and brilliant occultist, Aleister Crowley, around the time of the First World War. I was amused to read in Daniel P. Mannix's short biography of Crowley, The Beast (Ballantyne Books No. 302K, 1959, 35¢), that Crowley "tried to organize another society called 'the Order of Oriental Templars' more or less in imitation of the Shriners. That also failed." My amusement was caused by the fact that some thirty years after its supposed failure a very active chapter of the society was operating as a black magic cult in Pasadena, a wealthy and staidly respectable suburb of Los Angeles. To give Mannix his due, however, the Pasadena chapter of the O.T.O. was the only one in existence, as far as I know.

I became acquainted with the O.T.O. (but not a member) in the summer of 1945 when Lou Goldstone arranged for a few LA fans to spend a pleasant Sunday afternoon and evening visiting Jack Parsons at his home in Pasadena. Few of us had ever heard of Parsons until Lou, who had been going with a girl who lived there, started regaling us with intriguing stories of the goings-on out in the suburbs. Parsons, it seemed, was a fringe fan, friend of a number of well known science fiction authors, holder of a graduate degree in chemistry, an avowed believer in black magic, and a devoted disciple of "The Great Beast," Aleister Crowley. Parsons lived in a magnificent old three story mansion on Orange Grove Avenue, one of the better streets in Pasadena, which he had inherited from his mother and promptly turned into a cooperative rooming house in order to hold on to it. In the ads placed in the local paper Jack specified that only bohemians, artists, musicians, atheists, anarchists, or other exotic types need apply for rooms—any mundane soul would be unceremoniously rejected. This ad, needless to say, created quite a flap in Pasadena when it appeared. In addition to his girl, Betty [Sara Northrup], who had been living with him for several years (to the constant distress of her socially prominent Pasadena parents), there was a fine selection of hand picked tenants, characters all. A few examples: The professional fortune teller and seer who always wore appropriate dresses and decorated her apartment with symbols and artifacts of arcane lore; a lady, well past middle age but still strikingly beautiful, who claimed to have been at various times the mistress of half the famous men of France; a man who had been a renowned organist for most of the great movie palaces of the silent era; and a young girl artist named Margo (not her real name, which isn't important, although she was.)

As a result of this evening spent at Parsons' I became intimately acquainted with Margo and soon became a frequent visitor—and eventually a semi-permanent resident. It was during these months subsequent to the first visit that I got to know Jack and Betty quite well, and became an interested observer to certain aspects of the O.T.O.—and a fascinated observer as well to an interesting bit of human drama.

Although the actual proceedings of the society were restricted to the members, one couldn't help being aware of its influence on the lives of Jack and Betty. Jack's library (a large wood paneled room graced with a comfortable leather covered couch and a couple of leather chairs) was lined with books devoted almost exclusively to the occult, and to the published works of Aleister Crowley. Dominating the room was a large photo-portrait of Crowley affectionately inscribed to Jack. He also had a voluminous correspondence with Crowley in the library, some of which he showed to me. I remember in particular one letter from Crowley which praised and encouraged him for the fine work he was doing in America, and also casually thanked him for his latest donation and intimated that more would shortly be needed. Jack admitted that he was one of Crowley's main sources of money in America. Jack was not wealthy (although his parents had been at one time), and his income was largely derived from his work as a chemical engineer specializing in explosives; his other major sources were the rent from his tenants and money contributed to the O.T.O. by its members, many of whom seemed to me to be fairly well off.

Some of the books used by the O.T.O., particularly The Book of the Law, were to be found lying around the house and provided several hours of entertaining reading. (A good, concise description of The Book of the Law is to be found in the Mannix biography, pp. 55-58.) Jack, always faunching for acolytes, was quite willing to explain the beliefs and laws of the cult to me, and did so with apparent sincerity and seriousness. They believed, he said, in the actual powers of black magic, in the existence of Satan, in their ability to conjure up demons, evil spirits, etc., and in the efficacy of spells in dealing with enemies, love, business, and so on. Supplementing The Book of the Law, which was of course their main "bible," there was a set of lesser laws—some ten or twelve, as I remember—which they were expected to observe religiously. One of these is peculiarly significant and an important factor in the events which were soon to transpire. This was the law which enjoined the disciplined Crowleyite from expressing jealousy under any circumstance. This was an emotion fit only for peasants, not for the enlightened. This law was diligently observed by Jack and Betty in their own relationship; and Jack, in particular, was serene in the belief that he was incapable of experiencing this base emotion, no matter what the provocation.

Jack was the antithesis of the common image of the Black Magician one encounters in history or fiction; in fact, he bore little resemblance to his revered Master, Aleister Crowley, either in looks or in his personal conduct. He was a good looking man in his early or mid thirties, urbane and sophisticated, and possessed a fine sense of humor. He never, as far as I ever saw, indulged in any of the public scatological crudities which characterized Crowley; nor did he make a career of fathering countless bastards as "The Great Beast" is reputed to have done. He did have the Crowley-approved attitude toward sex, which was really a fine old fannish one, although he didn't realize it. Seriously, though, the O.T.O. was obsessed with sex to the same degree that most demonological cults of this nature were; whether or not they actually practiced orgiastic sex during their Black Masses is another matter entirely—I never attended one. I always found Jack's insistence that he believed in and practiced magic hard to reconcile with his educational and cultural background. At first I thought it was all fun and games, a kick he was on for its shock value to his respectable friends; but after seeing his correspondence with Crowley, and the evidence of his frequent remittances to Crowley, I had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Betty, who had been living with Jack for a number of years, complemented him admirably. She was young, blonds, very attractive, full of joie de vivre, thoughtful, humorous, generous, and all that. She assisted Jack in the O.T.O. and seemed to possess the same devotion to it and to Crowley as did Jack. At least that was the impression she gave. The rapport between Jack and Betty, the strong affection, if not love, they had for each other despite their frequent separate sextracurricular activities (wholly in keeping with the teachings of the Master), seemed pretty permanent and shatterproof. However, this tranquil relationship was soon to be exposed to pressures, from a most surprising source, that would lead to its disintegration; and additionally, this would in turn cause the break-up of the O.T.O. and disillusion Jack in his faith in the powers of black magic to deal effectively with his personal problems.

It all began on an otherwise undistinguished day in the late fall of 1945 when we got word that L. Ron Hubbard was planning to wait out his terminal leave from the Navy as "The Parsonage". I was, perhaps, more excited (being a true fan) by this news than anyone else around the house. Short visits by such pro-authors as Jack Williamson, Edmond Hamilton, Tony Boucher, and others were fairly frequent; but Ron was planning on an extended stay.

Ron arrived on a Sunday driving an oldish Packard and hauling a house trailer which he parked on the grounds behind the house. He originally intended staying in the trailer, but within a few days someone moved out of the house and he moved in.

I like Ron from the first. He was of medium build, red headed, wore horn-rim glasses, and had a tremendously engaging personality. For several weeks he dominated the scene with his wit and inexhaustible fund of anecdotes. About the only thing he seemed to take seriously and be prideful of was his membership in the Explorers Club (of which he was the youngest member) which he had received after leading an expedition into the wilds of South America, or some such godforsaken place. Ron showed us several scars on his body which he claimed were made by aboriginal arrows on this expedition, from which, according to him, he was lucky to have returned alive. Unfortunately, Ron's reputation for spinning tall tales (both off and on the printed page) made for a certain degree of skepticism in the minds of his audience. At any rate, he told one hell of a good story.

One of the less frequently evident facts of this multi-faceted character was his kindness and thoughtfulness. On two well-remembered occasions he demonstrated these rare qualities for me.

One night before dinner Margo and I were in the fortune teller's room, stretched out on the floor listening to Debussy's "La Mer" and "The Engulfed Cathedral" on her phonograph—real romantic; while Madam _____ was trying to prepare my ephemeris on reluctantly given information by me. All of a sudden Betty burst into the room, shattering the romantic mood Margo and I had been wafted into by the melodic strains of Debussy's fantasies, and announced that dinner was ready. Laughingly impatient with my lack of interest in eating at this time, she grabbed me by the hand and started running down the hall with me in tow. She headed for the back stairway (formerly used by the servants to get from the pantry to the upper stories) and plunged straight down this dark well without slowing—still holding on to my hand. About halfway down I missed a step and went the rest of the way, ass-over-appetite, without any further assistance from Betty. I hit the bottom with a godawful crash and a horribly painful ankle that I was sure had been broken. As I lay there moaning manfully, with Betty standing helplessly over me, crying and blaming herself for crippling me, Ron, Jack and the rest came pouring in from the dining room. Ron, sizing up the situation at a glance, knelt down and with professional aplomb diagnosed my painfully broken ankle as a mere sprain. He then half-carried me into the dining room, placed me carefully in my chair, went into the kitchen and filled a large pot with scalding water, and then gently placed my throbbing and swollen ankle into this seething cauldron. After dinner, which was punctuated with much hilarity at my expense, he bandaged my ankle with the skill of a doctor, and for several days thereafter he checked it regularly and changed the bandage when needed—he couldn't have been more considerate if he had been my personal physician.

The second incident occurred on the night Margo and I were to leave the LA area for good to return to San Diego (which was also Margo's home town) to attend San Diego State College. It was a miserable night with heavy rain and vicious gusts of wind. We were a little depressed at leaving and kept putting off the inter-urban train ride from Pasadena to the Union Depot in LA until the last possible moment. In spite of the tensions existing in the house by this time, Ron put on a virtuoso performance in an attempt to keep our spirits up. Then, looking at the hour and the steady rain, he insisted that he drive us to the depot.

What a ride! Personally I couldn't see much beyond the hood of the car, the rain was coming down in such wind-driven sheets; but Ron drove like an amiable madman, apparently oblivious to the storm he was driving through at a terrifying 60 miles an hour or so. Margo and I sat there petrified, saying silent prayers to our personal gods, as Ron continued to favor us with a steady stream of funny anecdotes and light chitter-chatter.

The last I saw of him was as we dashed for the protection of the depot and glanced back to see this grinning redhead wave and shout something at us which was caught up and smothered by the howling wind, wave again and drive off into the stormy night.

Ron was a persuasive and unscrupulous charmer not only in a social group, but with the ladies. He was so persuasive and charmingly unscrupulous that within a matter of a few weeks he brought the entire House of Parsons down around poor Jack's ears. He did this by the simple expedient of taking over Jack's girl for extended periods of time; Jack had never boggled at any of Betty's previous amorous adventurings, but this time it seemed somehow different to him inasmuch as Ron was supposedly his best friend, and this was more than Jack was willing to tolerate. Jack was unable to disguise the fact that Betty and Ron's betrayal of him was deeply felt, and although the three of them continued to maintain a surface show of unchanged amicability, it was obvious that Jack was feeling the pangs of a hitherto unfelt passion, jealousy.

As events progressed Jack found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on anything but the torrid affair going on between Ron and Betty and the atmosphere around the house became supercharged with tension; Jack began to show more and more strain, and the effort to disguise his metamorphosis from an emotionless Crowleyite "superman" to a jealousy-ridden human being became hopeless. In the end Jack reacted as any ordinary man would under similar circumstances.

The final, desperate act on Jack's part to reverse events and salvage something of the past from the ruin that stared him in the face occurred in the still, early hours of a bleak morning in December. Our room was just across the hall from Jack's apartment, the largest in the house, which also doubled as the temple, or whatever, of the O.T.O. We were brought out of a sound sleep by some weird and disturbing noises seemingly coming from Jack's room which sounded for all the world as though someone were dying or at least were deathly ill. We went out into the hall to investigate the source of the noises and found that they came from Jack's partially open door. Perhaps we should have turned around and gone back to bed at this point, but we didn't. The noise—which by this time, we could tell was a sort of chant—drew us inexorably to the door which we pushed open a little further in order to better see what was going on. What we saw I'll never forget, although I find it hard to describe in any detail. The room, in which I had been before, was decorated in a manner typical to an occultist's lair, with all the symbols and appurtenances essential to the proper practice of black magic. It was dimly lit and smoky from a pungent incense; Jack was draped in a black robe and stood with his back to us, his arms outstretched, in the center of a pentagram before some sort of altar affair on which several indistinguishable items stood. His voice—which was actually not very loud—rose and fell in a rhythmic chant of gibberish which was delivered with such passionate intensity that its meaning was frighteningly obvious. After this brief and uninvited glimpse into the blackest and most secret center of a tortured man's soul, we quietly withdrew and returned to our room where we spent the balance of the night discussing in whispers what we had just witnessed.

The failure of Jack's desperate resort to the black magician's seldom-attempted conjuring up of a demon to dispatch his rival was bitterly disillusioning and seemed to sour him on Crowley, black magic, and the O.T.O. With Jack's diminishing interest in the O.T.O. that organization soon folded, and as far as I know is as dead today as its founder and spiritual mentor, Aleister Crowley.

It was shortly after this that Margo and I left for San Diego, with the situation still in a condition of stasis, and I never saw any of the principals again.

*   *   *   *   *

A few months later (I believe it was during the Pacificon) when I was back in LA for a brief visit I had occasion to call the Parsonage to check with Betty about a bookplate I had drawn for her; I wanted to find out if she had received them from the printers, and also to see if it would be all right to stop by for a quick visit. The phone was answered by Jack who, with obviously false casualness, informed me that Betty wasn't there—she and Ron had gone to Yosemite for a short vacation. I didn't press for any details, and after a few moments of friendly but strained conversation we hung up. I learned later that Ron and Betty went instead to the east coast where they bought a boat with money that had belonged jointly to Jack and Betty, with the intention of cruising around the world. How far they got on this venture, I don't recall; but they did get married and maintained this conjugal relationship until some time after Ron flipped into Dianetics, and Betty got fed up with him and precipitated a messy divorce case that made a splash on the front pages of the LA papers.

In 1947 I was again in LA and drove out to Pasadena with a friend to pay a short call on Jack. I had been extolling the architectural grandeur of this fine Victorian house as we drove out there, and as we drove down Orange Grove Avenue I eagerly awaited my first glimpse of this house which, in spite of everything, still held many pleasant memories for me. We finally reached the addressed and stopped. I sat there stunned. Where once had stood an elegant and prideful reminder of the Victorian Age of leisure and graceful living, a reminder as well of dark goings-on that would have been paralysingly shocking to its original residents, there remained only a vacant lot with the usual bits of depressing debris scattered over it, and a leaning real estate agent's sign offering this fine lot for sale.

The final curtain was drawn some time later when Jack was found dead under mysterious circumstances. I don't have all the details, but it seems that at first there was some question as to whether he was dead of natural causes, suicide, or whether he might indeed have been murdered. I believe it was finally settled that his death had been due to natural causes, but I can imagine that Jack would have been amusedly appreciative of the final mystery surrounding his departure into whatever hereafter he still might have believed in.