by Dani Lamia
Phoebe watched Ms. Bankowski for a moment. The woman’s brow furrowed in concentration.
“Spirits, send forth dear David,” Hester bid.
Her coven sisters, with the additional voice of the widow, repeated her words. Again, Hester repeated the request verbatim, and it was echoed, with even Onenspek joining in. Phoebe had thought he had gone to sleep, so arched had his neck become since the lights had gone out.
Phoebe was smiling to herself, thinking just how much of a waste of time this debacle was, when she became aware of a vibration in the floor. She rolled her eyes, remembering the audio equipment in the little hidden room, the door to which was directly behind her.
The vibration in the floor grew, and she could hear a rumbling. Okay, there’s a subwoofer in the floor, Phoebe thought and wondered what was next.
“Hear us, spirits!” Hester said more loudly. The others repeated her.
Phoebe, feeling the vibrations rise to a violent level at her feet, looked to Holgrave, who looked like a kid on a merry-go-round.
Phoebe was thinking this very thing when the subwoofer, or more likely, due to the increased volume, a series of subwoofers, raised from a rumbling to a thunderous roar. Her amusement turned to discomfort as the low tones seemed to reach inside her ears and shake her psyche. She clenched her jaw and suddenly felt a stiff breeze flutter through her hair. The breeze affected everyone, she could see, as the hair and clothing of every attendee twirled about and danced to its influence, as did the candles’ flames.
Okay, where’s the fan? Phoebe asked herself as she looked about the room. She had not noticed one when she had snooped. Certainly, with so many controls mounted on that wooden board at Hester’s feet, many of which Phoebe had not been able to discover the function of, one of them must have been for the fan, wherever it was. With the thunderous roar from the audio system, the whirring of the fan motor could be easily concealed.
Holgrave’s hand squeezed Phoebe’s, so she looked over at him. His enjoyment had reached new heights, and she could swear she could hear him let out a giggle. She looked to the widow Bankowski and found the woman looking at the chandelier, her chin dropped in amazement.
Phoebe cast her eyes up, noting the candlelight reflecting in the tiny dancing crystals. The view was quite mesmerizing. Their twinkling was beautiful.
“David Bankowski, come to us!” the wiccans chanted in unison this time. This they repeated again and again.
With a great crash of thunder that startled all but the three witches, Ms. Bankowski herself uttered a shrill, short scream, and a flash of brilliant white light took over Phoebe’s sight. Even shutting her eyelids tightly in response did little to shield her pupils from it.
A woman’s scream matched the volume of the thunder coming from the floor. Phoebe dared a peek through a partially open eyelid, only to find that it was not Ms. Bankowski, nor any of the other séance attendees.
Above them all, a brilliant flare of white swirled around the room, passing just inches above their heads. Somehow, the howling woman’s voice followed the flying figure and, still convinced that this was all just special effects of some kind, Phoebe marveled at the technology of the sound system that her great-aunt Hester had installed in the room. Hester’s mistake, so Phoebe assumed, was that she’d pressed the wrong button, bringing forth a female voice to accompany the pyrotechnics.
Special effects or not, Phoebe’s anxiety grew by the second. The sound and vision of it all was overwhelming. Aunt Hester was not unaffected, as Phoebe could tell from her tight, painful grip on her left hand. Looking to her, she saw that Hester followed the movement of the white glow, as if she didn’t know what it was. If it was an act, Phoebe decided it was a damned convincing one.
Dzolali shied away from the spectacle, her facial features cloaked by her mane of black cherry hair, brightened to a pink hue under the bright light. Ned, in his perpetually drugged manner, tried feebly to follow it, but failed miserably. Glendarah, like Hester, appeared fearful but stared in one place as if trying to capture one moment of the vision as it passed the same spot on the wall. The widow had broken the circle of joined hands and had buried her face in them.
Holgrave’s amusement had melted away. He, too, had become unnerved.
The streak of white light slowed its circling, and the sound of the female scream changed to a bellow. Then, the projection, or hologram, or whatever it was, halted, suspended in the air in front of Hester.
Phoebe’s mouth opened in disbelief. The white glob of light resembled a woman in a long white gown. The part of it closest to Hester appeared to be a head with long black hair flowing behind and above it. The figure fluttered as if it were submerged in water.
Hester broke her grasp on Phoebe’s hand and swatted at the vision. “Be gone, dark spirit!” she shouted.
The image shimmered and sent out another ear-ringing cry before leaving Hester’s face and resuming its flight, a tight radius in such a small room. Phoebe watched as Hester, seeming to be legitimately riled, called again for the spirit to leave.
Phoebe was starting to get that trapped feeling and, light show or not, she wanted to bolt from the room. She must have started to move because Holgrave gave her hand a tug.
She turned her face to him, and it appeared that even he was becoming concerned.
“I’m out!” Phoebe called to him and began to get up to make her exit when the glowing projection turned on her, filling her vision. She flinched and turned away, but to her shock, something hit her, hard enough to knock her backward.
Phoebe never felt her body hit the floor.
***
She was flat on her back and had landed hard. The impact reminded her of falling out of bed the previous night, and Phoebe could barely move. She called out for help, but no one answered. At first, she didn’t recognize the ceiling above her, so she lifted her head and looked around. It was certainly not the parlor anymore. It looked like the basement, but the laundry machines were gone, and so was the wood paneling. The light in the ceiling was nothing more than a single lamp. She focused on it as it flickered oddly. The long neon fixtures were missing, replaced by this dim one that might have been fueled by gas.
Movement against the stone wall caught her attention. It was the black-haired woman in white. Her hair hung in her face, keeping Phoebe from seeing her features. She had been walking when she caught Phoebe’s eye but had stopped, standing still by the far wall, near the place where the washing machines once stood.
For a long time, Phoebe didn’t try to move. She stared at the woman, afraid to do or say anything. Her head reeled, and she was convinced that Hester had slipped something to her, maybe the same junk she was using in the gingerbread dudes and feeding to Onenspek.
Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut and reopened them, but nothing changed. She worked herself into a sitting position, not taking her sight from the strange brunette.
At least I still have clothes on this time, Phoebe thought. The green dress appeared to be in good condition, and everything was accounted for, including the ankle-high boots. It was then she realized the floor was not cement, but dirt.
Slowly, painfully, Phoebe got to her feet. She brushed the dust from her back and butt. Still, the brunette said and did nothing.
Phoebe turned and saw that the stairs were still there, and she thought to back out of there and flee, but she realized that, despite the bizarre display in the parlor and the sudden switch of venue, she did not feel threatened. Any fear she had at that moment was born of the situation.
Phoebe decided to speak instead of run away. “Hello? Umm, I’m Phoebe.”
The brunette took a sidestep to her left and pointed to the floor with a porcelain white finger.
“I don’t know what’s happening, or how I got down here,” Phoebe said.
The brunette said nothing. Her finger remained pointed to the floor.
“So what? Something’s buried there?” Phoebe asked and shrugged. She was losing patience with this hallucination, or nightmare, whatever it was.
“A key,” the brunette said. She moved her finger away from the spot on the floor and lifted her hair from her face. It was a pleasant face, but a desperately sad one. Her flesh was deadly white, almost as white as the nightgown.
“A key to what?” asked Phoebe.
“A key to everything,” the woman expanded. “It begins with me.”
“Okay . . . what—Jesus!”
The brunette’s chest flowered in bright red blood and it began spraying Phoebe. The fresh blood ran darker as it fountained, and in seconds, Phoebe was covered in the hot liquid, and she could see nothing beyond the red. It quickly became so thick that her vision went dark.
Phoebe tried to move, to turn and run, but something had taken hold of her, keeping her in place. Horrified, she screamed.
***
“Phoebe!” someone called.
She stopped screaming and called out instead, “Help me!”
“Phoebe! Come on, wake up!”
The feeling that she was falling yet again took her over, and in the dark, light could finally be seen. The voice was familiar, but it took her a moment to recognize it. It was Alec Holgrave. She opened her eyes, slightly at first. Wherever she was now, it was bright.
“What’s going on?” Phoebe asked before she could even see. She blinked his face into focus. It was floating above her, and she tried to recognize her surroundings.
“To be truthful,” he began, “no one’s entirely sure.”
“Oh, wonderful,” she said dryly. After another moment, she realized that she was in the bed of the second-floor turret room. It was still dark outside, the windows were open, and Holgrave was sitting on the mattress next to her. The sheet and comforter were drawn up to her neck.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked.
Phoebe stared at the ceiling, trying to recall. The last thing she remembered was the dream, so the brunette with the white nightie and the spontaneously exploding chest problem didn’t count. The parlor came flooding into her mind. She saw herself sitting at the round table, holding hands with Hester and Alec, then a light show.
“The séance,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I think I was hit with a short or something,” Phoebe supposed. “That goddamned electrical nightmare Hester has wired up to her table must have zapped me.”
“I suppose that’s a possible explanation,” Holgrave said.
“What else?” Phoebe asked with irritation and shrugged her shoulders.
“Well—”
“Hey!” she shouted. Her movement had brought the fact that she was wearing very little underneath the comforter to her attention. “What? What the—” She passed her right hand over her body, taking inventory. She was a little light in the clothes department.
Seeing the flash of anger on Phoebe’s face, Holgrave popped to his feet. “Now, wait a minute,” he said, holding up his index finger. “Before you jump to conclusions—”
“What did you do?” she cried and buried her head under the covers.
“And there we are. Jumping to a conclusion,” Holgrave commented.
Phoebe peeked over the top of the comforter. Her deep brown eyes glaring hotly at the man next to her bed.
“I’ll have you know that I carried you up here, without help, I might add,” Holgrave informed her, not backing down. “And then, like the gentleman that I am, I removed myself from your quarters and allowed Dzolali and Glendarah to attend to you.”
Phoebe blinked. Her eyes softened, but she remained staring at him, unsure.
“Well, look,” he went on and placed his hand on the doorknob, “it’s after two in the morning and I’m knackered . . . from heavy lifting, I’ve no doubt.” He returned her stare.
Insulted, Phoebe gasped and slapped the blanket away from her face. “No doubt, indeed!” she mocked, though not playfully as before.
“I’ll inform your benefactors of your recently reacquired consciousness,” he added and opened the door.
“Good night, sir!” she called after him in an offended tone.
Holgrave left and closed the door behind him. Phoebe scooted up to a sitting position and, noticing the full glass of water that had been placed on her bedside table, grabbed it and downed half.
She adjusted her strapless bra, which had gone slightly askew while she was out, and pulled the comforter back up. Her door opened and Dzolali sailed in with her kimono flailing behind her.
“Hi!” she called and sat on the mattress, sending the frame screeching. “Are you okay?”
Phoebe gladly accepted Dzolali’s hug and kiss greeting and looked into her eyes dreamily. “I’m okay. I think.”
“We almost called the medics on you,” Dzolali said.
“Why didn’t you?” Phoebe asked, a bit surprised.
“You seemed fine once the spirit was gone,” she explained as if it was obvious.
“Spirit, my ass!” Phoebe shouted, for the first time becoming annoyed in Dzolali’s presence. “I got zapped! That was a short circuit in Aunt Hester’s crappy wiring.”
Dzolali’s expression turned to patient confusion. “I don’t know a thing about that. But the spirit that came forward wasn’t Mr. Bankowski at all. It took a liking to you, though,” she finished, smiling.
Phoebe opened her mouth to speak, but Hester and Glendarah entered the room. They had not yet dressed for bed as Dzolali had.
“Ah,” Hester said, “I see you are no worse for wear.” She said this with a grin that, to Phoebe, appeared guardedly kind.
“She seems to think she was electrocuted,” Dzolali said over her shoulder.
To Phoebe’s surprise and disappointment, Hester and Glendarah laughed, and Phoebe wished for a baseball bat.
“My, oh my, no!” Hester insisted.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes at Hester. The lamp flickered.
“Ah! You see?” Glendarah blurted, gesturing to the light as if it proved something.
Dzolali giggled. “I think she doesn’t.”
Great-Aunt Hester folded her hands and adopted an expression of knowledge that Phoebe didn’t care for. She had seen such stances before from people who thought they were about to enlighten the listener with wisdom.
Phoebe sighed. Uh-oh, get ready for some witch-splaining. Phoebe looked to Dzolali, but from the smile on the gorgeous Latina’s face, there was going to be no help there.
“You were chosen by the spirit that erroneously, or through its own chosen will, borrowed our little doorway between the spirit world and our own,” Hester lectured. Glendarah grinned knowingly.
“You don’t say,” said Phoebe.
Dzolali’s face lit up and she nodded excitedly.
“Oh, I do,” Hester continued. “The spirit was not the one we summoned, but it did gravitate to you, possessing you for a period of time.”
“Do you remember anything?” Dzolali interjected.
Phoebe was about to tell them both about the dream, about appearing in the basement from the past, and all about the brunette and her key and the explosion of blood, but something told her to keep that to herself.
A key to everything, the woman in the nightie had said.
“Um, no. Nothing,” Phoebe lied, hoping that it was convincing enough.
It begins with me.
“How odd,” Glendarah commented.
“I still think I was zapped,” Phoebe insisted. “It felt like an electric shock.”
The blonde wiccan nodded and til
ted her head in sympathy. “It often does.”
Oh, my God, shut uuuup!
Hester moved to the bed and placed her hand on her grandniece’s shoulder. “Phoebe, tonight, you’ve witnessed your wiccan powers,” she said. “Your true potential is yet to be unleashed. Here, with us,” Hester continued, gesturing in a wide circle, “you can embrace your heritage as a Pyncheon woman.”
“Um, okay,” Phoebe muttered, not knowing what else to say. Her eyes flicked from one face to the other, seeing hints of positivity on their expressions but feeling dread from all but Dzolali.
“You have your doubts,” Hester stated, her smile fading. “In time, I hope you can dispose of them.”
Without a word exchanged, Glendarah opened the bedroom door, and the two of them exited. Phoebe stared at the closed portal for a moment, feeling bewildered, lost.
“You look like you have a headache,” said Dzolali, noticing Phoebe cringe and thinking it to be from pain and not annoyance.
“Yes, that’s it exactly,” agreed Phoebe.
“Come here,” Dzolali said, taking Phoebe’s temples in her fingertips.
Phoebe groaned pleasurably. Like Hester’s back massage some twenty-or-so hours earlier, Dzolali’s fingers felt magical. Her tension was lifting and, though she had exaggerated the headache, she began to feel carefree, elated, in fact, to be with her love.
“Better?”
“Hell, yesss.”
“Good,” said Dzolali. “Now shove over,” she directed and reached up for the light, turning it off.
Phoebe didn’t argue. She complied gladly and felt Dzolali get under the covers with her.
13
The Depths of Secrets
Phoebe awoke bathed in warmth, both of body and sun, soaked in the familiar scents of water lily, vanilla, and at the moment, whatever Dzolali used in her hair, as the woman’s head was resting on Phoebe’s right arm, which was as asleep as Dzolali.
Phoebe couldn’t resist. She inhaled deeply. The motion stirred Dzolali, who turned her face up to her lover.