by Dani Lamia
Holgrave withdrew another eight-by-ten in black and white from the envelope. He laid it in her left hand, and she compared them. She gasped.
There was someone in the window of his attic suite.
“Who the hell is that?” she asked him, for the woman resembled no one in the house. The grainy quality of the print would have prevented an exact identification of the woman, or girl, but it was certain that no one in the house had shoulder-length black hair, stringy and matted, so it appeared. The woman was wearing what looked like a white nightie.
“I have no idea,” Holgrave answered. “There were no boarders approaching that description here at the time. These were taken the day after I arrived.”
“Alec, what do these mean?” she begged of him.
“Look here, though,” Holgrave directed her, running his finger under the strange woman’s image. “This dark area here.”
“It’s a shadow.”
“Or is it a blood stain upon her nightgown?”
She pushed the photo and the tablet back to him. “Dude. You’re freakin’ me the hell out.”
Holgrave stepped away, frustrated. He tossed the envelope back onto the table, the device on top of it.
“Hester called you a skeptic,” Phoebe said. “Why are you showing me this stuff?”
“Because I am a skeptic and I have no explanation for it,” he said. He took a breath. “Those aren’t the only photographs I can’t explain. Those are, in fact, the easiest to debunk, as you already have. You can say the bird moved and all I have to give you is my word. You can say some strange woman came into my room and looked out the window, and again, there’s only my word to say that there wasn’t.”
Phoebe sighed. She knew well what it was like to not be taken seriously. Still, there was the fact that she had discovered gimmicks in Hester’s parlor, so even if Holgrave had taken those pictures as he described, it was obvious that they had been tampered with during the development process.
She decided to change the subject. “Do you remember me thinking that maybe Mr. Onenspek was being drugged by Hester?”
“Of course.”
“I took one of the gingerbread dudes and took it to the police.”
Holgrave turned to her, surprised. At first, she couldn’t tell whether it was a positive or a negative response.
“What?”
“Well, it was certainly the right thing to do,” Holgrave said. “But if the police find some sort of drug, could Hester be placing traces of it in other things?”
“Maybe in the wine?” Phoebe suggested.
“Exactly.”
Phoebe thought of her obsession with the ginger Latina. “I’ve considered that.”
“You’re speaking of our vivid dreams?”
Phoebe nodded and looked to the clock on his mantle. It was approaching ten. She rose from the chair. “I think I’ll freshen up a bit before this farce tonight. I’ll be exhausted by the time it finishes up.”
“Of course,” he said and opened the door for her. “See you then.”
***
Phoebe opened her laptop and turned it on, hoping to find that the time it displayed was still close to accurate. As she recalled the time on the mantle clock in Holgrave’s suite, and only a couple of minutes passed, she decided that it was.
She sat at the desk and resumed her writing. In the silence, she cursed the lack of internet access, for she would have killed for some music on her headphones. Alas, there was nothing save for the breeze beyond the window and the occasional pops and groans from the structure of the house.
Phoebe sank into the world she had created, and she quite soon settled into a fast-paced part of her story. Her heroine was in danger and, as much as Phoebe tried to avoid spending words on high-speed chase scenes, she found herself throwing her character, the biker chick, into one.
Paragraph after paragraph appeared on the laptop screen, and Phoebe was in her element, with words flowing through her, from mind to word document.
Absently, she scratched an itch near her heel. She thought nothing further of it and went back to typing. She barely got through another sentence when the spot itched again.
“Damn shoes,” Phoebe muttered and reached to scratch again.
She barely touched her keys when both calves erupted in a wave of tingling. In a grunt of frustration, she pushed herself back from the writing desk and cast her eyes on her feet.
Bugs! Her borrowed boots had become covered in a deluge of ants, beetles, and what she thought were millipedes. Her chest hitched as panic overtook her, freezing her in place. She tried to sift through the reasons why these insects had come into her room, and what at that very moment had summoned them, but nothing made sense. The room was clean, free of food and anything beyond a layer of dust, yet there they were, various types of insects, working together.
And they were on their way up.
Phoebe screamed and leaped from the chair, knocking it across the tiny bedroom. She reeled backward, falling onto the springy but soft bed. Phoebe mindlessly swatted at her legs, feeling the bodies of the tiny villains on the tender skin of her fingers. Those that hadn’t been squashed attached themselves to her hands and wriggled their way up, up over the rings she had borrowed from Dzolali and through the gaps in her bracelets.
Phoebe screamed and swatted again, rubbing her hands against the green dress, smearing insect innards all over the shiny fabric in long, thin brown and yellow streaks of goo.
Every bit of skin below her knees felt as if it were on fire. She became convinced the ants were fire ants, the beetles were surely cockroaches, and the multiple-legged, snaky things were certainly full of poison, ingrained in them over millions of years of evolution.
Phoebe rolled off the bed and tore the comforter from it, determined to wipe them off her body. She bent, sobbing, making a scrubbing motion with the comforter as a washing sponge, decimating the invading horde of creatures by the hundreds with each swipe.
Then she went after her arms, for they were still there, biting, crawling, burning her flesh as they came up. She tore at the laces of Dzolali’s boots and kicked them off, sending them crashing into the far wall. She bent to wipe the insects from her burning feet once more.
As she pumped her upper body up and down, swiping the comforter over her legs she realized that the burning itching had suddenly stopped. She looked to her hands and saw the skin had reddened from the polyester comforter. Her legs and feet were similarly irritated.
No bugs were about, neither living nor dead. There was not a single detached leg, head, or body part on her or ground into the wood floor or into the fabric of the throw rug. There was not a streak of insect innards to be found, either. Relief washed over Phoebe, and she dropped onto the mattress, winded.
What the fuck just happened?
Phoebe took little time to regain herself when she thought of the dress. She rolled off the bed and checked herself over in the vanity mirror. The dress was spotless and intact. She fished through her purse, looking for her makeup brush, for some of her eyeliner had run when she’d panicked during the insect uprising.
Her eyes nervously scanned the room again. There was not a bug in sight. Phoebe looked at herself in the mirror more closely. She went as far as to duck her head under the writing desk, the place she had been sitting when it had all started, just a couple of minutes ago. Still, there was nothing.
At that moment, the sound of a manly chuckle came to her ears. It was an aged voice, not smooth, and not kind. Phoebe spun around, even though she could see in the mirror that no one was behind her. Her lack of trust in the reflection was unfounded—there was indeed no one there.
But I heard it just the same, she affirmed. Her heart was still pounding, not having the chance to recover after the hallucinated insect attack. The short laugh had happened, she was sure, but she was also sure a momen
t ago that there were bugs all over her, and now they were gone.
Phoebe jerked her door open and bolted out of the room. If anyone had been outside, she would have knocked them down. She flew up the stairs, hoping to find anyone, even Great-Aunt Hester. The sight of any other soul would have brought her immense joy in that moment.
So driven, she pushed open the master bedroom without knocking. There was no one inside. A corner reading lamp was on, as was a small lamp on the bedside table, leaving the great room looking almost cozy, if one ignored the candles, the Hecate altar, or the Onenspek originals on the walls.
Phoebe yanked the door shut and ran, this time to Dzolali’s room. Again, she burst through the door, this time finding the one she wanted. Phoebe exploded in tears and ran to Dzolali, who had no choice but to accept the tackling embrace.
“Oh!” Dzolali called and fought to keep her balance. She had been in the middle of changing her dress and had just put her arms through the sleeves when Phoebe had burst in. Now, in her clutches, Dzolali wrapped her arms around the frightened Pyncheon girl. “What’s happened?!”
In a blubbering ramble, Phoebe explained the bug attack and then tried to describe the male voice she’d heard, but by then, she could form no sounds beyond sobs. Phoebe was sleep deprived, terrified, and in hysterics.
Dzolali held her, listened, and consoled Phoebe, and the two stood in the middle of the room in each other’s arms for several minutes. Dzolali was able to talk Phoebe down enough to get her to sit on the bed. Her sobs continued, however, so the redhead sat next to Phoebe and they resumed the embrace for a time.
Phoebe’s left hand slipped up Dzolali’s back, finding bare skin. It was then she discovered that Dzolali had not yet zipped up her dress, another Victorian era-inspired garment in satiny black. Phoebe’s sobs quieted and her breathing came to her in halting fits.
Dzolali looked into her eyes and smiled. Phoebe’s mascara and eyeliner were ruined, running down her cheeks and staining the blush. Dzolali kissed Phoebe, taking her face in her hands. She released a moment later and got up from the bed, retrieving tissues. She returned and began cleaning Phoebe’s face.
As Dzolali sat there, wiping away the mess, Phoebe’s hand dropped onto Dzolali’s stockinged thigh and began a gentle caress. Their eyes met again. An urgent kiss was shared again, and this time, neither would be denied the pleasures of the other.
Without Phoebe noticing, Dzolali waved her hand and her bedroom door closed, latching quietly. She twirled her index finger, and the key spun in the lock.
12
The Séance
With little time left to spare, Phoebe hurriedly reapplied her makeup as Dzolali had done earlier that day. She was not as talented with the art as her redheaded lover, but it would have to do. In the mirror, she could see Dzolali’s lovely midriff as she rearranged Phoebe’s hair, so tousled had it become in the time they had taken to play.
“There. Good as new,” Dzolali declared and stood back, admiring her work and watching Phoebe recreate herself.
“I’ll never be new again after that,” Phoebe said and giggled. “My God,” she added and fanned herself.
Dzolali grunted playfully. “Just wait until we have more time.” She stepped back and began brushing her own hair, equally as mistreated.
“Oh, please don’t even tease right now,” Phoebe purred. “We’ll end up right back in bed.”
“Oh, no,” Dzolali corrected. “I don’t dare show up late for this. Hester needs me there, and you’re expected.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes, deciding that Dzolali’s obsession with the witchcraft thing could be overlooked, considering her other sensual talents.
Dzolali appeared behind her in the mirror again and inspected Phoebe’s work. “You’re good, you’re good. Scoot!” she demanded.
Smiling, Phoebe launched from the vanity’s bench and let Dzolali have her turn.
Quickly, and with much deftness, Dzolali wiped away the smeared work and skillfully reapplied it. In less than half the time it had taken Phoebe to fumble about her recreation, Dzolali had perfected herself.
Zipping each other’s dresses, and speedily putting on jewelry, they were ready to go. Phoebe approached the bedroom door and gave the knob a turn.
“Huh,” she exerted and turned the key. “I don’t remember locking that.”
Dzolali chuckled. “Oh, it just does that sometimes.”
Phoebe stopped by her room to retrieve her boots and put them on, then the pair went down to the first floor, where, upon entering the parlor, they discovered they were the last to arrive. Phoebe was aware of Holgrave’s appreciative eyes, as well as those of Onenspek, who was ogling Dzolali lustfully.
Back off, dude. She’s mine now. Or am I hers?
“It’s about time you two arrived,” Hester admonished. “Sit.”
Phoebe took the first available place, the chair in between Hester and Holgrave. Glendarah was seated on his right. A strange woman, the client, no doubt, to her right, then Onenspek. Dzolali sat to Hester’s left and gave Phoebe a wink.
Phoebe’s heart soared. That wink meant so much more now.
“Jennifer Bankowski, this is my grandniece, Phoebe Pyncheon,” Hester said.
“Nice to meet you,” said Bankowski. The woman appeared to be in her fifties, slightly plump, but not unattractive. Her hair was an obvious black dye job and cut short, its strands stylized to sweep leftward over her forehead, framing her smallish face in dagger-like wisps. Her smile was genuine, touching her eyes and revealing teeth that had either been well-maintained since the cradle or professionally installed.
“Very nice to meet you, Ms. Bankowski,” Phoebe replied. It dawned on her, just as she spoke the words, that the woman was a widow. She had used ‘miss’ without thinking about it, feeling that it was the truth.
Three large white candles sat on the table, which, Phoebe noticed, had been altered since she had sneaked in for a peek. The crystal ball had been removed, and the tablecloth had been changed. This one was purple with gold tasseling along the edges.
Aunt Hester was in the same black dress from dinner, but she had added a necklace with a pentagram pendant, changed her rings, and arranged her hair in one long braid in the back, which accentuated her bangs, the longer of which came down in strands over her temples.
Glendarah was similarly adorned, though she had her long, blonde hair gathered in a bun that revealed her ears but left the balance spilling down her back.
Like the three witches, Onenspek and Holgrave wore black suits, though Holgrave broke up the monotony with a deep blue dress shirt and a gray ascot. Phoebe smiled, noticing that Holgrave had freed his hair from the ponytail. It was thicker and longer than she had presumed, coming down in swooping brown waves and slightly beyond shoulder length.
“Friends, we gather together here for our sister, Jennifer,” Hester announced. “She has come to us to make contact with her dearly departed husband, David.”
Oh, brother.
Hester took a long-nosed lighter in hand, lit it with a pull of its plastic trigger, and set the flame to the wick of the candle closest to her. She then handed it to Dzolali, who did the same, before having Onenspek pass it to Glendarah, who lit the last candle.
“Dear sister Jennifer,” Hester said to her client. “Do you have a personal item of David’s?”
“I do,” said Bankowski. She bent to pick her purse from the floor and opened it. A moment later, she retrieved an expensive-looking watch and set it on the table.
“Very good,” granted Hester. “Now, do you have something that David liked to eat?”
“I do,” the client repeated, though this elicited a smile. She dug through the purse again, this time pulling a sealed package of beef jerky from within. She set it next to the watch.
At least now we know what killed him, Phoebe thought and bit her tongue
to keep from smiling.
Hester gave Glendarah a nod, and the blonde wiccan turned in her seat and shut off the lights in the chandelier, then bent to the window to douse the green and red neon sign. The room around them darkened, leaving the light of the three candles to wash over the faces of those seated at the table.
In that flickering glow, Phoebe and Dzolali shared a long gaze. Phoebe was grateful for Dzolali’s attentions, for the woman had calmed her. After the hallucinations in her bedroom, Phoebe was sure she could not have stayed in the house, let alone the parlor, during Hester’s tricks without Dzolali’s loving aid.
“Very well,” continued Hester. “Let’s join hands and begin.”
Inwardly sighing, Phoebe took her great-aunt’s cool, bony hand in hers. Holgrave’s left hand, large, warm, and strong, arrived in her right. The others around her did likewise, and the circle was complete.
“Now, for those that have not participated in a séance before,” Hester began, “it’s important to be calm during the process. Any negative feelings will hinder the spirits and warn them away. It’s also possible that the spirit may not wish to be contacted, so expect nothing. Trepidations within oneself can contribute to failure.”
Phoebe watched in amusement as Hester closed her eyes and lowered her head. Her grin faded a bit when she noticed Dzolali do the same, as did Glendarah, Onenspek, and the client, Ms. Bankowski. Only she and Holgrave did not follow suit, as Phoebe confirmed with a glance to her right.
Holgrave passed his eyes over the other attendees with keen interest. Noticing Phoebe’s attention, he smiled, showing his teeth. To Phoebe, the strange photographer appeared almost giddy with excitement.
“Oh, spirits, hear us,” Hester called out.
Dzolali and Glendarah repeated the demand.
“Hear our sister Jennifer’s plea,” Hester went on, solo this time. “Spirits, bring forth David Bankowski, dearly beloved spouse of Jennifer, who is here with us.”