Spell or High Water

by ReGina Welling

  We wandered towards a gazebo, erected just for the night. It was luminous, with strings of lights draped over and around it. Beneath the awning was a round table with a lace tablecloth. A narrow sideboard housed tarot cards and craft-store ravens, along with six tall brass candlesticks that Kela ceremoniously lit. There was a feeling of timelessness in the shadow of the large colonial farmhouse, and the sense that ours were just one of many sets of footprints that had touched this land.

  “Only four guests?” I asked, checking the clipboard.

  “Four plus me and you. Six is a lucky number for a séance. Besides, this is just our pilot audience,” Kela said. “And I charged them a boatload of money to be here.”

  “Five hundred dollars seems excessive.”

  My cousin snorted. “I could have charged them twice as much. They can afford it. Besides, it was Patricia’s idea. She came to me after I put up a flyer in the library. If she wants to speak to Abigail Windsor, it’s going to cost her.”

  With that, Kela began chanting the rhyme we’d all grown up with – a chant we sang while skipping rope or playing hopscotch

  Abigail Windsor in her nightgown

  Went to the lake, and there she drowned

  The laces on her neck went round and round

  But they say her strangler was never found.

  Camp leaders would often scare children with whispered tales of the missing teenage girl:

  “Have you heard the legend of Abigail Windsor? No? Well, let me tell you… One late night, long ago, she heard the call of the moon and the wild, and slipped out her bedroom window to answer it. They say she took a walk near Crystal Lake, not far from here. Just before dawn, residents near the lake heard an eerie howl coming up over the water. Later, her body washed ashore. Her mouth and eyes were wide open, her face pale and bloated as a pufferfish. Now, people say that Abigail’s spirit haunts these woods, looking for her killer….”

  It was a gruesome tale, but one that endured in Reed Hollow. Any drownings were attributed to Abigail’s ever-vengeful spirit.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t make me participate,” I said, studying the crystal ball centerpiece. “You’re not a medium. What happens if our guests want their money back?”

  “I’m studying to be a medium online,” she countered, shrugging one of her spaghetti-strapped shoulders. “I’ll make sure they get a show, Baylee. Séances are like sex. The best part is the build-up.”

  Being single as long as I had, I’d have to take her word for it.

  “Can someone take this?” Alex stepped into the light, his face covered with so much powder he could pass for a spirit himself. He was holding a smoking cauldron, bubbling over with a thick red brew. “I was inspired to look in the shed, where I found this. Thought it might spook things up a bit,” he said, handing it to me.

  He and Kela then returned to the house to greet our impending guests.

  “Guess whose idea it was for him to go to the shed?” Mother said, phasing in. “I helped!”

  “Cauldrons aren’t traditionally parts of a séance,” I reminded her. She might be a ghost, but I knew a thing or two about contacting spirits, through my studies.

  “Bah! I hope if someone ever throws me a séance they use a cauldron. It makes it more of a party.” I saw Mom’s mouth droop, followed by her eyes, and for the first time it occurred to me that she was feeling left out.

  “Would you like it if we held a séance for you, Mom?” I asked.

  “Maybe on my birthday! Do you remember when it was?”

  It was an unsettling irony that my dead mother could remember neither the day of her birth nor her death, but that was a discussion for another day. She was already off on another topic. “I hope I don’t accidentally come through,” she said, her voice strangely confident.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know… when Kela’s calling forth spirits, I hope I’m not the one who comes through.”

  “That seems like a choice,” I said, suspicious. My mother had wanted to be an actress when she was alive. It stood to reason she hadn’t given up that dream in the afterlife.

  I heard a car pulling into the front driveway, and shooed Mother away.

  “Maybe I can be the opening act?” she said wistfully as she faded. “Rattle a few chains or something? Oh, by the way, things are wonky in the kitchen… just wanted you…”

  And then her voice was no more.

  As the line of headlights lit up our driveway, I stood clutching the clipboard, feeling a bit like a cruise director waiting for embarkation. Shortly, Kela led our guests into the garden through the swinging gate. I recognized three of them: Ella, an octogenarian who owned the rival tea house down the street, and Jeb and Lilly McCormick, an aged couple who shared my doctor. The final guest deliberately kept her distance from the others, looking around the garden as if she had never seen nature before. She was as old as the others, but she stood straight, with stern, quiet dignity.

  I looked at her name on the guest list: Patricia Morton. In the notes, Kela wrote ‘old money. Widowed. No kids.’

  One by one, they found their assigned seats. Except for Ella, who pinched me on the wrist. She was several inches shorter than me, and many decades older, but she was formidable nonetheless. “It’s good to see you too, Ella,” I said, pulling away from the woman.

  “I’m not here for my health,” she said. “I’m here to make sure your cousin doesn’t do anything stupid. She shouldn’t be playing with the dead.”

  “She’s taking a mediumship course online,” I replied, somewhat defensively. .

  “Bah!” Ella waved me away and took her seat alongside the others, curling her nose at the pageantry.

  Kela joined them, performing a series of breathing and mouth exercises, like an actor getting ready to audition. Jeb and Lilly looked on with interest, Ella merely tapped her fingers on the table, and Patricia sat steely-eyed, watching without amusement.

  There was a sharp tap on my shoulder and I started. It was my friend Dave, who owned the town’s oldest and only newspaper, The Reed Hollow Sun. He grinned down at me, his leather camera bag stretched across his chest.

  “You scared me,” I confessed, happy to see him.

  “I have that effect on women,” he said, removing his expensive Nikon from its case.

  “You would think, after all this time living with my…”

  I was about to say ‘dead mother.’ But though Dave and I had known each other our entire lives, and were even engaged when we were younger, I couldn’t confess that the ghost of Vivi Bonds was haunting our house. Summoning spirits was one thing; saying you currently lived with one was quite another.

  “I believe in ghosts,” Dave confessed as he adjusted his camera lens. He took a few practice shots as Kela’s hands hovered above the crystal ball. “I saw my Uncle Joe standing at the foot of my bed when I was about ten,” Dave continued. “He was holding his fishing pole, just looking at me with a kind of sadness. Then he disappeared and that’s the last I ever saw of him. That experience is why I’m here tonight. If I can get real proof…”

  He stopped talking, nodding at the table. Kela was waving me over. It was party time.

  I carefully slid into my chair. I wasn’t fond of touching strangers, and flinched as Kela asked us to join hands. Even with gloves on, there was no assurance I wouldn’t be struck by someone’s random memory. But as Patricia and Jeb took my hands, there was no accompanying shock.

  “We are here to call forth the spirit of Abigail Windsor,” Kela announced, in a clear, haunting voice. “She was the fifteen-year-old daughter of Chester and Elizabeth Windsor. According to local legend, Abigail drowned sometime in the late 1800s. She was found floating in the lake, with purple bruises around her neck. To this day, her spirit is said to roam Reed Hollow, seeking the killer who was never found.”

  “She’s also looking for other people to drown!” Lilly chimed in. “That’s how I heard it.”

  Her husband nodded, addi
ng, “She doesn’t want to spend her afterlife alone.”

  Dave’s camera flashed. Kela managed an irritated smile before it went off, then continued her presentation. “Thank you for the clarification, Jeb and Lilly,” she said. “Now, we ask that if Abigail Windsor is nearby, she give us a sign.” Kela raised her voice, cocking an ear to the wind. “Abigail… can you hear me? We are friends and want to speak with you. Please give us a sign.”

  Before the final words dropped from Kela’s lips, the table began to shake, and I couldn’t discern if it was supernatural or a parlor trick. It continued for nearly 30 seconds, while the flash of Dave’s camera and the flickering candles created a strobe-light effect around us.

  A bright flash of orange light erupted in the kitchen window, and we all dropped hands. “Fire!” Patricia shouted, pointing to the flames inside the house. I nearly knocked over my chair disentangling myself from my seat, but before I reached the garden arch, Alex’s silhouette appeared in the kitchen door.

  “Oops! My bad!” he called, waving at us with his oven-mitted hand. “They should put warning labels on baking soda. Nothing to worry about. Go back to ghosting!” He retreated inside while everyone snickered with relief. Only Patricia frowned.

  “Rejoin hands everyone,” Kela said. “Quickly. If Abigail heard our call, she could be very close. We don’t want to lose her.”

  Patricia reached for my hand, but instead grabbed my arm just above my glove. A strong shock momentarily paralyzed my body as our minds connected. I was watching Patricia now, lying in her bed. She was very young. It was dark, except for the moonlight in the window. Another presence entered the scene, its face hidden at first.

  “Who are you?” Patricia pulled the blankets up to her chin, feeling a bit like Scrooge during his visit from Jacob Marley. She was scared, but not terrified, of the bloated girl in the white Victorian nightgown standing near the foot of her bed. The hem of her dress was torn and her hair was wet, matted against her face. There were red marks around her neck, and she was missing both her shoes.

  “Are you… Are you Abigail?”

  Patricia knew the legend by heart. The story was told to keep children in line, especially those prone to wanderlust.

  The girl opened her mouth but nothing came out. Not even a ghostly moan.

  “I have your lace,” Patricia said, sitting upright and opening her hand. It was still creamy white, as if new. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  But the ghost-girl was already fading away.

  I jerked away from Patricia’s touch. She obviously hadn’t been affected by our contact, for she gave me only a vacant stare. But Kela openly glared at me from across the table. I offered up a sheepish smile and resumed the holding of hands. In that moment, as I reached for Patricia’s hand, I noticed a swatch of exquisite white lace protruding from the front pocket of her gothic-style dress. It looked old, but was in pristine condition.

  “Perhaps we need the crystal ball,” Kela said. Before she could reach for it, the twinkle lights draped around the gazebo flashed on and off in quick succession before going out altogether. One of the bulbs burst, sending a series of sparks into the darkness. The other bulbs followed, exploding one by one. The only illumination now came from the candles, the kitchen window across the garden, and the constant flash of Dave’s camera.

  Had Kela arranged for all this?

  “Abigail!” My cousin’s dark eyes flashed as she looked upward. “We want to help you solve the mystery of your murder so that you are free to cross over. How does that sound?”

  The air suddenly smelled like stagnant water and moss. It lasted only a moment but the scent was unmistakable. Mr. B, our semi-feral feline, had been quietly resting beside a rose bush. He arched his back, hissing as he raced across the garden.

  Patricia released my hand and pointed a trembling finger across the table, beyond Kela. “Abigail is here! Can you see her?”

  I strained my eyes to make out a shadow in the darkness. Maybe Patricia and our cat had seen something, but I wasn’t as perceptive. I chastised myself for not bringing my EMF reader, which could detect rogue energies. But in my defense, I never actually thought Kela could summon a spirit.

  “Describe her please, Patricia,” Kela calmly encouraged the woman.

  Patricia’s pale lashes fluttered thoughtfully as she lifted herself halfway up from her chair. She braced on hand against the table for support while pointing steadfastly with the other. “She’s wearing a… a white nightgown. Her face is swollen and covered with grass or weeds. And she has these marks… these terrible marks.” Patricia lifted her hand to her neck to demonstrate where the marks were.

  The girl she’s describing is exactly the one I saw in our shared memory!

  Was Patricia seeing the same spirit that had haunted her childhood? Or was she reliving an old memory? Mr. B had reacted, which led me to believe there was something there, even if I wasn’t seeing it.

  A swift wind swept through, stirring our hair and dousing the candles. “She’s gone,” Patricia announced, crumpling back into her chair. “And I never got to…” She didn’t finish her thought, but I noticed her hand momentarily reaching for the lace in her pocket before quickly lowering again.

  Later, while everyone devoured the cucumber sandwiches at the after-party, Jeb confessed he saw the girl too, though not as clearly as Patricia had. “She was kinda blurry,” he said, to one of the many college students who had wandered into The Aunt-Tea-Query, mainly because we were the only place still open after midnight. Lilly agreed that something otherworldly had occurred, claiming that someone touched the top of her head right after the lights went out. And Kela declared that – although she didn’t say anything during the séance out of fear of scaring everyone further – a woman had whispered in her ear, “There is no rest for the dead.”

  When I woke the next morning, it was like nothing had happened at all. I could smell the fresh-cut grass outside, and the muffins baking in the oven downstairs. Morning has a way of erasing the fears of night, and I was glad that particular night was over. I tended to agree with Ella - you shouldn’t mess with the dead. I dressed quickly, in a 1950s polka dot sundress and red sandals, then hurried downstairs to the café on the main floor. Alex had already raised all the blinds, inviting the sun to flood in through every window, warming the wooden floors and wicker chairs.

  I noticed the café was strangely quiet this morning, which was unusual for a Saturday. Though we were never rolling in customers, we did have several regulars - those who had been loyal to my mother, come rain or shine.

  I waved hello to Alex, who was in the kitchen shaking crumbs out of the toaster over the sink. “It’s fried,” he said, curling his nose. “Microwave too. I have no idea what happened last night, but we’re not going to turn a profit if we keep blowing up our moneymakers.”

  “Noted,” I said. I made myself an espresso and joined Kela at the coffee counter. She was sitting cross-legged on a stool. Her hair was in a short ponytail at the nape of her neck and she wasn’t wearing shoes. I knew she had stayed up well past me, but there were no signs of fatigue on her face.

  “Great party last night, huh?” she purred, spinning her stool to face me. “I even sold a few of those old hats from your antique shop after you went to bed. You know, the vibrating table was my doing… but everything else… just happened! I must be improving!”

  Mother floated in from my adjoining office. “Bay Leaf! I’ve been up all night thinking of more ways to help! Maybe we could do some reorganizing. Are you opposed to Tupperware?”

  I quietly checked the weather on my phone, ducking out of sight. It wasn’t even mid-morning yet and it was already 92 degrees.

  “I also heard through the ghost-vine…” Mom paused to chuckle at her own joke, “that Willy Simms is back from the Coast Guard. He lost most of his hair in his divorce, and one of his toes in a shark attack, but he’s single and it might do you some good to…”

  I opened the front d
oor, preferring to take my chances in the heat.

  As I stepped out onto the front porch of The Aunt-Tea-Query, I was surprised to find Dave sitting on the front steps, just as he did when we were kids on Saturday mornings.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, sitting beside him. I felt a tinge of nostalgia as I recalled how many times the two of us had sat on these very steps, from childhood all the way up until our engagement. The conversations changed over the years, but the feelings of friendship never did. I pinched my knee to bring me back to the present before I started recalling things that shouldn’t be dredged back up. In my experience, people who spent too much time in the past never got to fully experience the present, let alone dream of the future.

  “I want to show you something,” Dave said. He was wearing a baseball cap turned backwards, just as he did when we were kids.

  “This sounds important,” I said. “You sure you don’t want to go someplace more private?”

  His furrowed brow let me know he hadn’t heard me. “I developed the pictures from last night. I planned to run a story on the event this morning. Obviously, I didn’t publish them.”

  He opened his camera bag and produced a set of pictures. Most were of me and the others sitting around the séance table, watching Kela. But as I continued through them I noticed a shape – an outline - begin to develop in the series of photos, almost like a flipbook. Soon, it was a fully formed silhouette hovering behind Kela. There were no details or features in the shape, but it had the proportions of a head and shoulders atop a thin torso.

  That alone was frightening enough, but there was more. Stripes of green and black ‘slime’ were splashed across both the silhouette and the side of Kela’s head. “Ectoplasm,” I said. In the days of Victorian and Edwardian Spiritualism, it was common for ectoplasm to appear in photos as ‘proof’ of a message from the other side. Most were thought to be hoaxes.