The House on Hallowed Ground

by Nancy Cole Silverman

I rounded the coffee table and sat on the chair opposite the couch. “You can put your checkbook away. I won’t take your money.”

  Crystal looked down at the floor. “Right. You want something else. A connection back to Hollywood maybe? Perhaps a late-night gig on a talk show?” Crystal put her checkbook back in her bag. “Something that might restore your former glory as a fortune teller?”

  “Fortune teller? Is that what you think I am? Well, let me set the record straight. First off, I’m not a fortune teller, and I resent being called that. I don’t read people’s fortunes. I advise them based on the energy that surrounds them. What they do with it, and what they draw into their lives, is totally up to them. And second, I didn’t seek Zoey out because she’s some Hollywood starlet. Zoey came to me because she thought I could help her. And just so you don’t have doubts about it, Zoey’s not as fragile as you may think, and I’m not feeding her any nonsense about some ghost. Zoey’s not just imagining her house is haunted. It is haunted.”

  Wilson moved into the living room and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, this is getting good.”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Crystal?”

  Crystal put her hand to her head. Poor girl. Anyone else I would have offered a cup of my lavender tea, fresh from the garden, guaranteed to soothe that annoying headache I could see was mounting between her temples.

  “You’re not serious?” Crystal said. “Why would you think I’d believe in ghosts? I’m a college-educated woman. I don’t put my faith in old ladies who make their living trying to dupe people about things that go bump in the night.”

  Wilson pulled a book from the shelf behind the couch and let it fall to the floor. Plop!

  Crystal’s head jerked in the direction of the bookshelf.

  “That doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” I said.

  Crystal picked the book up off the floor and dropped it on the coffee table. “You can try to scare me with your tricks, but it won’t work. I don’t have time for make-believe and tricksters like yourself. It’s my job to take care of Zoey’s schedule and to see there are no conflicts and that riffraff like you don’t bother her.”

  “Riffraff!” Wilson fluttered the blinds at the window.

  Crystal scoffed. “More tricks?”

  “Drafts,” I said. “It’s an old house. It’s drafty, no tricks. I don’t need them.” I shrugged my shoulders and held my hand up. A signal to Wilson to cool it.

  “I’m warning you. I’ve got a few tricks of my own. I’ll ruin you.”

  “I’m sure you’d like to try.”

  Crystal sat down. “Look, Zoey’s stressed. She’s working on a movie that’s over budget, behind schedule and living in a house she should never have bought in the first place. Not to mention she’s engaged to a man who, in my opinion, is more interested in what she can do for him than he is in her.”

  “You think he’s using her?” I had sensed tension between Chad and Zoey. As to the cause, I didn’t know. Chemistry not only clouds the vision of young lovers, but frequently those close to them as well. I made a mental note to spend more time with Chad to gauge his sincerity.

  “I think Zoey could do better,” Crystal said. “A lot better. The truth is, without her, Chad’s nothing. He calls her his muse. You ask me, it’s more like she’s his financier. She pays for everything. His band. His travel. His studio time. And don’t even get me started on his new drummer and his girlfriend.”

  “Zac and Kelsey?”

  “Zac’s an okay drummer. Kelsey sings...a little. Does backup stuff mostly and claims she’s a writer, but so far nothing’s happening. Chad needs a hit, and quick. His career’s on the skids and Zoey, well...she’s Zoey. She’ll always have something. She’s a Chamberlain, an heiress to a successful Hollywood franchise. But you know how it is in Hollywood when winners and losers hook up, it isn’t always a match made in heaven.”

  Crystal glanced at her watch. “Look, I came here to tell you to back off. Between this Detective Romero snooping around and the paparazzi following Zoey’s every move, she doesn’t need to be fantasizing about ghosts. The more word gets out about it, the crazier she looks. So, if you really want to help her, stop encouraging her.”

  I stood up. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Crystal. It’s not within my nature.”

  Crystal patted her bag and raised a brow. “Think it over. You wouldn’t be the first in Hollywood to be paid for your silence.”

  “I don’t need your money. However, I do have a piece of advice for you.”

  “A premonition, from a psychic? Oh, I’m so excited,” Crystal clapped her hands in mock delight. “You will forgive me if I don’t ask you what it is.”

  I feel I should warn you, you might want to watch your step.” I opened the door for her.

  “Yeah, right. Like you’d know.” Crystal brushed me, pushing me against the door, and started down the steps to the drive.

  I bowed my head down and counted silently. One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand—

  Crack!

  I didn’t need to look up. I could have predicted it, psychic or otherwise. Crystal’s heel had caught on the edge of the step. Fortunately, she had stumbled harmlessly onto the grass with nothing more than a broken heel and a bruised ego.

  “Are you okay?” I offered her my hand. She rebuffed my offer and reached for her shoe.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Crystal stood up, waved the shoe above her head, and hobbled towards her car.

  I hollered from the porch. “Just so you know, that’s not the step I wanted to warn you about.”

  “Yeah, right.” Crystal flipped me a middle finger salute and hobbled back to her car.

  “Seriously, you’ve put yourself on a mighty high perch, your next fall might not be so graceful.”

  Three hours later, Zoey was at my front door. She had come from Lacey’s memorial and was dressed in black mourning attire. Her hair pulled up beneath a large black hat and her eyes hidden behind dark saucer-shaped glasses. In her hands, she had a rolled-up tabloid.

  “Did you see this? I can’t believe it.” Zoey held the paper up for me to see. “Someone put it beneath the wiper blade on my car at the service. They think I’m a suspect!”

  Zoey rushed in, threw her hat on the floor, and collapsed on the sofa with her head between her legs. The tabloid slipped to the floor. A banner headline screamed, “Zoey Questioned in Best Friend’s Drowning. Lacey Adams dies in spa accident.”

  Beneath the headline was a photo of Zoey, her hands to her head with black mascara running down her face, her mouth wide open about to scream. She looked awful. The photo had to have been taken by one of the paparazzi the morning Lacey had died. I remembered trying to hustle Zoey back inside as members of the media hollered at her for a statement.

  I skimmed the article. Nothing I didn’t already know, but the picture it painted of Zoey was even more unflattering than the photo of her on the front page. I sat down on the sofa next to her and folded the newspaper on my lap.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Zoey shook her head, her eyes welled with tears. “I was hoping you could tell me. I can’t talk to Chad about the ghost, he gets angry with me if I bring it up. I know you don’t believe Alicia Mae’s involved, but I was thinking, maybe she knows who killed Lacey, because I sure don’t. But if you read the tabloids, they make it sound like it was me.”

  Zoey grabbed the paper from my lap and began to read. “‘According to an anonymous source close to the investigation, Zoey and Lacey had had a recent falling out.’” Zoey put the paper back in her lap, “Which is a total lie. Lacey and I loved each other.” Zoey picked up the paper again. And then it says, ‘Zoey had been stressed-out with the filming of her latest movie, A Little Romance, and the recent move with fiancé Chad Henderson into a new house, which, she believes to be
haunted.’ Shall I go on?”

  “Has Chad seen this?” I asked.

  “He’s furious, and my agent’s freaking out. She’s afraid if this isn’t settled quickly I won’t be able to leave for Italy in time to finish up filming.” Zoey bit her thumbnail.

  “That’s a lot on anyone’s plate, Zoey.”

  “I’ve been thinking, what if you did a séance? Do you think Alicia Mae might show up? Maybe she knows who killed Lacey.”

  Chapter 13

  Séances, aside from a round table, candles, and a quiet spot, require a precise order. The number of willing participants, or sitters as I like to call them, must be divisible by three. They should all possess positive energy, the ability to clear away any negative thought, and most importantly, a desire to make contact with a spirit that has crossed over. They’re slightly more complicated than asking a medium or someone like Wilson to interact with a spirit from the other side. Had I been working with a more experienced spirit guide, I might have chosen to do that. But the problem was, Wilson was still new to the game. Easily disturbed and I couldn’t depend on him not to waffle. Hence, I agreed to the idea of a séance, not only for Zoey’s sake but as a teaching moment for Wilson as well.

  I scheduled the séance for the following evening and asked Zoey to pick two close friends who she believed might best help her in our attempt to contact Alicia Mae. I chose Denise and her client, Heather Jefferies. As a psychic-junkie, Denise had attended a number of my séances in the past and I knew I could depend on her for positive energy. Heather, because she knew Alicia Mae. The two had played together and shared a bedroom, and I felt Heather’s presence around the table would help Alicia know our table was a safe place.

  Zoey asked Chad, and Chad asked Zac. I was concerned about Chad, but Zoey said she told him she needed a chance to prove once and for all there really was a ghost in the house. Chad acquiesced, but only if his friend Zac could come. I had worked with mixed groups of believers before, and told Zoey as long as they promised to remain open-minded I was fine with their presence. In fact, the additional male energy around the table would be a good idea. The men’s presence would add a nice blend of male and female energies. In total, we had six people: Zoey, Chad, Zac, Denise, Heather, and me. The requisite number. I didn’t count Wilson as he would serve as our spirit guide and would not need a seat at the table.

  However, Wilson’s presence brought with it one small problem: Denise. Wilson’s sister had no idea of her brother’s limboed state, and Wilson wanted to keep it that way. So, for the purpose of the séance, I asked Wilson to adopt a pseudonym. Another name his sister would not know. Wilson insisted upon Thornton, a name he chose based on his appreciation of Thornton Wilder, author of Our Town, the first stage play Wilson had ever worked on. Which, in a bizarre sort of way, worked. The play was about a ghost returning to a small town, and a stage manager who directed the audience’s attention to the action on the stage. Not too dissimilar to the role Wilson would play as our spirit guide for our séance.

  It helped that Wilson was a former set designer. In no time at all he transformed the dining room with its gently filtered light that streamed through the home’s stained glass windows, into a dark, mysterious candlelit sanctuary. To do this, he hung green velvet drapes from the walls. Items he claimed to have rescued from the prop department when they auctioned off the set for Gone with the Wind. On the table, he placed a lace tablecloth from the set of Arsenic and Old Lace, and in the center of the table a tiered candelabra with six slim tapers from the set of The Addams Family. Next to the candelabra, I placed a dish of shortbread cookies I made along with a glass of milk. Bait for Alicia.

  The pièce de résistance arrived when Denise and Heather rang the front bell. Much to my surprise, Heather presented me with a vintage Madame Alexander doll with rosy cheeks, dressed in a frilly pink and white frock with a matching hat. Exactly like she had been when Heather and Alicia Mae had their tea parties all those years ago beneath the tree in the backyard. The doll was the perfect addition to our little group, and I placed her on the table next to the plate of cookies.

  Zoey, Chad, and Zac arrived moments later, and I made brief introductions. It wasn’t necessary for them to exchange anything more than the minimum of formalities. In fact, in most cases, less is more. What was important was that each of the sitters knew they were here to help Zoey make contact with the ghost.

  There’s a pattern to a séance. A definite beginning where I light the candles and ask my sitters to hold hands and repeat a welcome chant or prayer, calling for our spirit guide to join us. A middle where our spirit guide introduces the visiting spirit or spirits and they make themselves known. And a very definitive end where I thank the spirits for their visit. It’s important the pattern be followed lest a spirit feel slighted or as though a door has been slammed in their face. In all my years of doing séances, I had never had a problem, but I had heard of unhappy spirits following people home who hadn’t followed instructions. And when they did, things got messy. Lives got complicated, personal effects went missing, and accidents happened.

  I began by asking for everyone to take a seat around the table and hold hands. I then asked them to bow their heads and observe a moment of silence. When the room had settled and the only sound was that of our own breathing, I introduced Wilson, or Thornton as I would refer to him throughout the séance, as our spirit guide.

  “Thornton’s job is to bring together the spirits who want to speak to us tonight. You won’t see or hear him. He’ll speak to me, and whatever he says, I’ll relay to you.” Zoey sat next to me and looked up from her bowed head and squeezed my hand. Her palms felt damp. I could tell she was nervous. I squeezed back. “We’ve had a bit of luck because I happen to know Thornton has already made contact with your ghost. For those here tonight who don’t know, her name’s Alicia Mae, and she’s four years old.”

  My sitters, even Chad and Zac, responded with a communal, “Awe.” It’s hard not to when told of the presence of a child ghost. Even the most hardened critic can find something dear about a small child so willing to help.

  I paused long enough to recognize each sitter’s willing connection with a child-ghost, then began with an opening prayer asking for the light of guidance and safety, and for everyone around the table to join with me in summoning Alicia Mae’s spirit.

  “Repeat after me,” I said, and the sitters all followed in unison. “Alicia Mae, we’re here tonight to welcome you. We bring gifts. Cookies and milk to refresh yourself. Come, join us in this celebration.”

  There was silence followed by a stillness in the room, so quiet I could hear the pulsing of my heart in my ears. I held tight to both Zoey and Chad’s hands, reassuring them. The candle flickered. I squeezed their hands again, and in moments I heard the light sound of small feet—little hard-soled shoes—running across the dining room’s wooden floor. The lilting sound of a child’s laughter. I opened my eyes. Everyone at the table exchanged nervous glances. The six of us weren’t alone.

  Heather was the first to speak. “Does anyone else smell lemons? I smell lemons.”

  “I do.” Zoey’s eyes locked with mine, searching for some sign of confirmation. “I’ve smelled lemons before around my dressing table. I thought it was just my hand cream, but it’s her, isn’t it? It’s Alicia Mae.”

  “It must be,” Heather said. “She told me her mother used to rinse her hair with fresh lemons from their trees. Can you see her, Misty? Is she here with us?”

  I nodded. For the first time, I saw Alicia Mae, peeking out from behind Heather’s chair. She looked exactly like the photo I had seen of her in the book Wilson had shown me. Small, with blonde ringlets down to her waist. She was dressed in a pale pink chiffon pinafore with matching eyelet laced socks and saddle shoes. “She’s standing right behind you, Heather.”

  Heather looked around, a look of happy expectancy on her face. “Why can’t I see her?�
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  “She’s shy,” I said. “And she’s playing hide-and-seek with Thornton. She won’t reveal herself to you. Not now. Maybe when she’s more comfortable.”

  Wilson, who had been standing in the doorway, walked around to Heather’s chair, leaned down, and picked Alicia up. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, like a favorite uncle, and pressed her face against his. Then, spotting Heather’s doll on the table, she stretched out her small hands. “Mira, Mira.” she cried.

  “Heather,” I said. “She’s seen your doll, and she’s saying something. Mira, I think but I can’t understand it. Does it mean something?”

  “Mirabella!” Heather cried out breathlessly. “That’s my doll’s name. She remembers.”

  Wilson whispered the doll’s name into Alicia’s ear, and she giggled.

  “She had a doll named Mariposa,” Heather added. “I remember she’d bring her to tea.”

  Wilson nodded at the doll. “May I?”

  “Please,” I said.

  Carefully, so as not to shock those around the table, Wilson picked up the doll and handed it to Alicia.

  “Whoa!” Chad and Zac sat back in their seat. Gobsmacked.

  “Shush!” Zoey hissed under her breath.

  With their mouths open, Heather and Denise followed the doll’s movement with their eyes as Mirabella appeared to float through the air and come to rest in Alicia’s arms above their heads.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Thornton is showing the doll to Alicia. You needn’t worry. This is all very normal.” I paused while Wilson asked Alicia about the doll, then relayed, “Heather, Thornton says Alicia remembers the tea parties you used to have. But then you moved away, and she was very sad when you left.”

  Zoey interrupted. “Ask her about the dolls in my guestroom. Does she like them, too?”

  “You can ask her yourself, Zoey. She can hear you. But remember, you’re talking to a four-year-old, and she may not answer you directly.”