Houdini’s ghost ‘haunts’ mysterious magic membership – however can we converse to useless icon

Daily Star’s very own paranormal expert, Brocarde, ventures into Hollywood’s mysterious Magic Castle to hunt for Harry Houdini’s ghost who promised to contact the living from beyond the grave

When Houdini died, he made a promise: if an afterlife existed, he’d reach out from the other side. Well, Harry, I’m here. The ball’s in your court!

Houdini made the pact with his wife, Bess. Whoever died first would attempt to contact the other using a secret code spelling out “BELIEVE”. Harry died on October 31, 1926. Halloween! Dramatic timing, even for a man who made a living escaping death.

I’ve always been fascinated by magic. The deception, distraction and sleight of hand are intriguing, although, as a little rebel, I can’t resist trying to debunk the trick. So, when I was invited to explore Hollywood’s legendary Magic Castle Hotel and Magic Castle Club, naturally, I jumped at the chance.

The club opened in 1963, long after Houdini’s death, but his spirit seems very much alive within its walls. The Houdini Séance Room houses some of his personal treasures, including his metamorphosis trunk, straight jacket, magic wand and the handcuffs he famously failed to open during one stunt.

The collection exists thanks to founder William Larsen Sr., who was Bess Houdini’s attorney and welcomed her into his family circle.

But the real mystery lies in the séance itself. After Harry’s death, Bess continued their pact, holding annual Halloween séances on the roof of Hollywood’s Knickerbocker Hotel. Hundreds gathered, including mediums and reporters, hoping to witness a message from beyond. Year after year, nothing.

On the tenth anniversary, Bess finally called time, declaring ten years was long enough to wait for any man. Frankly, I’d have given him a stern talking-to by year two.

Ironically, Houdini spent much of his life exposing fraudulent mediums. After losing his beloved mother, he desperately sought to contact her, only to discover the lies and tricks used by supposed spiritualists. One claimed his mother had written him a letter headed with a Christian cross. Houdini immediately spotted the scam: his mother was Jewish and didn’t speak English.

He subsequently made it his mission to expose fake mediums. So, isn’t it deliciously ironic that the Magic Castle continues the very séance tradition its namesake spent years fighting?

Perhaps Houdini’s preferred method of communication isn’t a séance at all. Maybe he prefers setting things alight! In 2011, a fire tore through the Magic Castle, with some attributing the blaze to Houdini’s ghost. Spookily, his séance room reportedly escaped fire and water damage. Coincidence? Or a supernatural protest from a man who never liked playing by the rules? Naturally, I had to investigate.

Entry is by invitation only, unless you’re a member or staying at the Magic Castle Hotel. I checked into my two-bedroom suite at the hotel, surrounded by a flamboyant yellow courtyard, blue-and-white swirling parasols and enough retro Hollywood kitsch to make you feel you’ve stepped onto a film set.

The hotel has its own resident magician, but the real magic lies in the finishing touches. Enter the World Famous Popsicle Hotline: a phone line to the other side that delivers free ice lollies around the clock. By the other side, I mean reception!

At 4am, I declared a popsicle emergency. A staff member duly came racing across the courtyard with a tray of ice lollies and, unexpectedly, champagne. Apparently, I’d earned a personal reward for being the only person awake at that ungodly hour. Even the paranormal world could learn a thing or two about customer service.

But enough about frozen treats. I was here for the dead. The Magic Castle takes its secrecy seriously: no phones, photos or videos. Inside, behind enormous stained-glass doors, the club feels like a collision between old Hollywood glamour and a Disneyland castle. To enter, you must whisper “Open Sesame” into the ear of a stone owl, which activates a secret sliding bookshelf. And just when you think things can’t get any stranger, my first ghost makes an appearance.

I headed to the bar, convinced a Corpse Reviver was essential for successful spirit communication. The regular bar seemed far too normal, so, drink in hand, I went exploring. That’s when Irma introduced herself. Hidden behind the bar is a piano that plays all by itself, supposedly performed by Irma, the castle’s resident ghost. An invisible bird even sings from an empty cage, because apparently one paranormal party trick simply isn’t enough. Whisper “Hey Irma, play…” and music magically echoes through the room.

The piano is a theatrical illusion, of course, but Irma is said to be one of the club’s genuine ghosts. Legend has it she was the daughter of Rollin Lane, who lived at the property when it was a private residence in 1910. Obsessed with playing piano, Irma was supposedly banished to the attic and remained there until her death in 1932. Folklore insists she never really left.

As someone who considers herself sensitive to paranormal energy, I have to admit the Magic Castle has an unusual atmosphere. It feels like exactly the sort of place that could harbour a ghost or two, although, conveniently, that’s precisely the atmosphere the club is designed to create. Without mobile phones, you genuinely feel transported to another era. The evening revolves around magic shows in different rooms, making it a wonderful experience but a potentially disastrous location for a ghost hunter. Here, illusion is the business, and believing your own eyes is practically a rookie mistake.

So, did Houdini show up? Sadly, no. Perhaps he remains as sceptical in death as he was in life. Or perhaps he’s simply waiting for the perfect moment to pull off one final escape. One hundred years on, I’m still waiting for him to say the magic word: Believe.

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