The Boy from Tomorrow

by Camille DeAngelis

  Danny pulled out a small photograph of three girls at a round metal table on a sunny terrace, the hedge—much lower then—curving around behind them. “Dude! That’s your backyard!”

  The oldest of the three wore a hat with a bunch of tiny flowers pinned on the side. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but something in her face was tremendously appealing, as if she’d already decided to be your friend. The little girl, seated in the young woman’s lap, had a mop of dark curls and a grin missing a few baby teeth—she had to be Cassie—and her older sister stood behind the chair with her hand on the woman’s shoulder. Alec’s eyes rested on Josie’s face last. She was smiling only faintly, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.

  “That’s them,” Danny murmured. “The girls we were talking to. This is so insane.”

  Alec turned back to the magazine and found what he was looking for at the bottom of the table of contents. “The Edwardstown Sibyl: A Profile of Mrs. Lavinia Clifford, Psychic Medium.” A full-page portrait of Mrs. Clifford accompanied the article, and Alec kept glancing over at it as he read the opening paragraphs. The woman wore one of those old-fashioned puffed-up hairdos. She was beautiful by anyone’s standards, with pale eyes, a long straight nose, and a slender neck. He had a feeling, though, that he might not find her so lovely in real life. There was something icy and untouchable about Mrs. Clifford—like she was only tolerating the mere mortals who took her photograph and copied down her words.

  The boys began to read together. The article described Miss Lavinia Hare, a seventeen-year-old Broadway actress who, while playing a star in the sky, fell from her harness onto the stage thirty feet below. This, supposedly, was when the voices and visions began. As the young actress recovered from her injuries, she began giving readings to all the stagehands and chorus girls of her company. When reporters arrived, she told them all about their dead relatives, too—and that’s how she met her first patron, Horace Vandegrift, who owned a newspaper called the New York Watchman. She helped him find a lost family treasure, and her career was made.

  Mr. Vandegrift took her on a European tour, and when she returned, Lavinia Hare became first Lavinia Malcolm, then Lavinia Clifford, though the article didn’t say anything about her children. It did say, though, that when Mr. Vandegrift “passed into spirit himself” he left most of his money to Lavinia, and his “ne’er-do-well” nephew resorted to violence. Alec wondered at that. If she knew about things that hadn’t happened yet, couldn’t she have avoided it somehow?

  The next part of the article was much more fun.

  Visitors may encounter any one of four spirit controls, which speak through the medium during her trance state: Evenor, who purports to be a physician from the lost continent of Atlantis; Baldassare, a poet and alchemist of the Italian Renaissance; and Zazu, a Babylonian priest who perished in the fall of that once-great city, and has been known to lecture at length on the mystical benefits of volcanic mud baths. The fourth advisor has shown a curious reluctance to utter his name to anyone who has requested it, and declares that he has never experienced a human incarnation, though he will gladly play the piano for anyone who asks. Mrs. Clifford, it is worth noting, has never received any formal musical training.

  The next part described a reading Mrs. Clifford gave for a young woman whose fiancé, a rock climber, was killed when his rope snapped during a sudden hailstorm. The author received a letter from the dead man’s mother, who believed she had real proof of the medium’s powers:

  The spirit of Mr. Vernon (channeled, of course, by Mrs. Clifford) mentioned by name a Mr. Frederick Barnett of Manor Hill, San Francisco, a friend of Mr. Vernon’s who had accompanied him on his climbing expeditions to Inverness, Vancouver, and the “silver coast” of Argentina. Mrs. Clifford urged the ladies to warn Mr. Barnett of a man with two missing fingers on his right hand on an impending trip to Hidalgo, Mexico.

  Mr. Vernon’s fiancé dutifully wrote to Mr. Barnett and apprised him of the warning, to which she received an understandably skeptical reply shortly before his departure. They later received a cable from Mr. Barnett in Tihuana, Mexico, informing them that he had been to a local tavern and encountered just such a man, who invited him to a game of cards. Minding the warning of his departed friend, Mr. Barnett quit the establishment immediately, and has lived to tell the tale.

  “I have never in all my days met a man who was missing his first and second fingers—or any fingers at all, for that matter,” wrote Mrs. Vernon. “It is simply too unlikely a coincidence.” We suspect that Mr. Barnett runs in considerably rougher circles than does Mrs. Vernon; but if it is a coincidence, it is a very curious one indeed.

  “Coincidence, my butt,” said Danny, and Alec agreed. If Josie could talk to them across a hundred years, then why couldn’t her mother do all the fantastic things people claimed of her?

  It has recently come to the author’s attention that Mrs. Clifford has agreed to a period of scientific study by Dr. Henry Jennings, head of the New York branch of the American Society for Psychical Research. The editors of The Night Side will eagerly await the results of this research, and will, of course, share those findings with our readership as soon as the good doctor has made them available.

  Bernice appeared suddenly in the doorway, and both boys started in their chairs. “How you guys doing? You need any help?”

  “We’re okay, thanks,” Danny said.

  Alec, pencil in hand, noticed that Bernice was looking at his open notebook. “I love how stoked you are about living in Lavinia Clifford’s house. Taking notes and everything!” The librarian smiled as she walked out again.

  There was one more thing in the archive left to look at: a cache of letters inside a faded blue folio fastened with twine. Alec carefully undid the knot, and the boys flipped through the envelopes, all of which were addressed to Lavinia Clifford at 444 Sparrow Street, without the zip code. They opened a couple, but the letters were relatively short and not that interesting—the sender was just thanking Mrs. Clifford for putting them in touch with their dearly departed loved one, and explaining how much comfort it had given them.

  But the last letter in the stack was not addressed to Lavinia Clifford, and it did not have a postage stamp. It was addressed, in the quaint penmanship of a century gone, to Mr. Alec Frost.

  Alec stared at the envelope in his hand, his mouth hanging wide open. “Take it,” Danny whispered. “Hide it in your notebook.”

  Alec shook his head. “Are you crazy?”

  “Are you crazy? It’s got your name on it!” Danny whisked the rest of the letters back into the folio, retied the knot, and hurriedly replaced the magazines and photograph file in the box. “Don’t think about it as we’re saying goodbye to Bernice, or it’ll show on your face,” Danny said under his breath. “Think about pizza or Star Wars or something.”

  The boys were on their way out of the library when Danny’s cellphone buzzed, the word MOM flashing on the screen. Alec could hear Mrs. Penhallow’s voice when Danny put the phone to his ear. “I think I had a son once. His name was Danny . . .”

  “Aww, Mom! Can’t I come home in an hour?”

  “Nope. You promised your dad you’d dust the clocks this afternoon.”

  “Boo,” Danny said as he ended the call. “Things were really getting interesting. I guess I can’t make you promise to hold off reading it ’til I come back?”

  Alec grinned. “Not a chance.”

  * * *

  He closed his bedroom door and drew the folded pages out of the envelope. The paper was sturdy, but he was still a little afraid the pages would fall to dust between his fingers. The letter was dated November 3, 1915.

  Dear Alec,

  It is quite strange that I should be writing to someone I have never met. But then, I never expected the talking board to live up to its name, so I suppose I must believe you when you tell me you have already read the letter I am about to write. The next tim
e we communicate you must tell me the last number; we received 2, 0, and 1, but were interrupted before the pointer could settle on the final digit. Am I to understand that you live in the twenty-first century? Or are you a spirit playing a trick on me? I assure you I will not believe a thing simply because someone is determined to convince me!

  I understand this is to be a one-way correspondence, which is a pity, as no one has ever sent me a letter. I must ask Emily to write me the next time she goes to New York, though of course she will be back again by the time I receive it.

  I must tell you about Emily, who is our tutor. She lives with us and teaches me arithmetic, history, grammar and literature, Latin, and French, among other subjects. She is twenty-two years of age, and came to us soon after receiving her Bachelor of Arts from Vassar College. Emily is as dear to us as an older sister. Do you have any siblings, Alec? Cassie drives me to the brink at times with her instigating, but for the most part I am glad to be stuck with her. Now that I think of it, I suppose I am most content when we are at our school desk, and Cass is busy practicing her letters while Emily helps me to conjugate irregular verbs. Her room adjoins ours, and she reads aloud to us every evening. To my recollection that is something our mother has never done.

  You have told me through the board that you already know something of our mother. It is marvelous to think you have read about her at the public library! Mother has always sent away for our books, so I have only been to the library once or twice, but the next time I go there I shall think of you.

  I am very curious to know the things you have learned about her. I cannot say I believe in her abilities, though, of course, I must acknowledge her skill at perceiving what a person most desires, and giving it to them through a sort of performance. You have told me she used to be an actress. I never knew this because Mother never speaks of the past. She must have her secrets, as I imagine all grown-ups do, but I do not think it is the secrets that have sealed her lips. Something terrible happened to her once, something I saw with my own eyes, but that is a subject for another letter.

  Now that I know she once was an actress, of course, I cannot see how I never suspected as much. I can say she is a skilled performer because I sometimes hide myself in the back hall to hear all I can of her séances. Emily believes Mother truly does converse with spirits, or allows them to speak through her. I never argue too vehemently, for Emily is otherwise a very intelligent person, and I love her dearly.

  Here is why I believe my mother is only a very skilled actress, and I write you this because you told me I should tell you this story. One day a young man walked by our house. He was running a stick along the slats in the fence, and he had a blue tabby-cat riding in the crook of his other arm. I was standing on the front walk, and when he reached the gate he turned, held up the puss, and declared, “Your mother can no more commune with the dead than this cat is the king of Norway.” Once he had spoken, he disappeared around the corner of Hemlock Street.

  I do not remember how I came to be outside on my own, as Mother has always been so careful to keep us in. This was the first time I heard anyone contradict the praise which came so frequently—that my mother was the greatest medium in the state of New York—and it set me thinking. Our fathers are dead and never return to comfort us through the lips of our mother. Why should everyone else’s loved ones come back to offer words of solace, when ours do not?

  A week later the blue tabby appeared on the back porch. It had no collar, and when it lingered I thought it might be a stray. I begged Mother to let us keep her, feeding the puss with milk and kitchen scraps over a period of three days while I wore her down, and she did eventually agree, however unwillingly. I named her Selkie and for weeks she slept with me, purring softly through the night.

  The household staff—Merritt, my mother’s guard, and Mrs. Dowd, the cook, and Mrs. Pike, the housekeeper—were none too kind to my little blue tabby. Once in the kitchen I even saw Mrs. Dowd kick her out of the way. In time we discovered Selkie was to have kittens, and Mother threw up her hands and said she never should have allowed “that furry demon” into the house in the first place. (Mind you, Selkie was always a gentle puss and had never done anything to warrant such slander.)

  The kittens were born on the back porch, but before they could suckle Merritt dropped them one by one into a potato sack and brought them down to the rain barrel. I tugged on his arm, begging him not to do it, but it was no use. Mother told him to, of course. Merritt does not even put a morsel in his mouth unless she permits it.

  I couldn’t blame Selkie for distrusting me after that. She went away that night, and I did not see her again. I tell you this story so you understand why I sometimes feel, excepting the presence of Emily and my sister, as if this house is not truly my home. It is magical beyond words to think of you living here, too, in some happy time well into the future. When I think of it now, I feel as if I might belong here after all—you and me, both—provided, of course, that you are not some trickster of the ether.

  Sincerely yours,

  Josie Clifford

  She’d signed her name with a flourish, as if the letter were intended for some important head of state. There was nothing to hear, yet the air hummed all around him. She might’ve written the letter in this very spot. Through the open door to the spare room he could see the locked cupboard—so that had been Emily’s room, and his bedroom had belonged to the girls. The walls might have changed colors a dozen times, but it was the same room, the same window bench, the same leafy view over Sparrow Street. Alec could imagine the girl in the portrait moving through this room, reading and laughing and daydreaming, as if she’d only been here yesterday. A ghost can’t write a letter, after all.

  More Impossible Things

  9.

  Sometimes communion with the spirits left Mrs. Clifford thoroughly exhausted, and she took to her bed for two or three days. During these periods the entire household went into hibernation, even in the summertime. The cook did no cooking, and the household subsisted on whatever remained of meals served earlier in the week.

  Josie reveled in these periods when her mother wasn’t around to cast her disapproving glances (for it often seemed she cast no other kind); nor did the children care if they fed on bean stew or ham salad that had been sitting for two days in the icebox. These invalid days meant Emily and the girls could do as they liked—to go for longer walks by the river or up to the graveyard, have their lessons on the terrace, and best of all: to use the talking board. When Mrs. Clifford spent the day in bed, the servants went up to their attic rooms directly after supper, and there was no one to catch them in the reading room.

  Emily, of course, made the most feeble of protests. “All right, then,” she sighed. “But we mustn’t make any noise.”

  Once again their tutor appointed herself secretary. Josie had become quite proficient at mentally stringing the letters into words while the pointer was still in motion, and she would announce the message to her companions. Cass laid the glass piece on the board and it took off, bound for HELLO, before any of them could even open their mouths to speak. Then it asked,

  is this josie?

  “How do you know my name?”

  your name is josie clifford—ive seen your picture—they found it in the walls—

  “My picture? In the walls!? Are you the same sp—I mean, person we have spoken to twice before?”

  The pointer moved to YES.

  there were 3 of us the first 2 times we talked to you—now its just me and danny—

  “And you . . . you said your name is Alec?”

  yes its alec—i live here—

  “Where is ‘here’?” said Emily as she took down this line. “Do you mean to say you dwell in this house?”

  Immediately the pointer moved to YES. Then it glided to the row of numbers, where it made a quick series of sidesteps on and off the number four. “Four, four, four,” Emily breath
ed. Then it moved, as they knew it would, to the letter S, then P, then A. Sparrow.

  “But you can’t live here!” Josie said. “That’s our address.”

  “I told you,” Cass whined. “I told you what Mrs. Gubbins said!”

  Josie ignored her. “It doesn’t make sense. The house was only built two years ago.”

  it isnt new when im living in it—

  Emily took a moment to make sense of these letters, then looked up at Josie, open mouthed.

  do you remember what you told us the last time we talked to you—something about mrs gubbins saying we hadnt been born yet?

  “What is it?” the little girl said in a loud whisper. “What did they say?”

  “They’re reminding us of what you said the last time we used the board. You said Mrs. Gubbins said they hadn’t been born yet.”

  “I told you, Josie! Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

  well, the planchette spelled out. i think shes right—

  “Mrs. Gubbins can’t be right about anything, Alec, and I’ll tell you why,” Josie replied tartly—as if there were another person in the room with them, as real as Cass or Emily. “Mrs. Gubbins is only a doll.” She paid no attention to the indignant look her little sister shot her across the board, and waited while the glass spelled out Alec’s answer.

  you see josie—we thought you were ghosts—who else is there to talk to with a ouija board?

  “You didn’t answer me the first time: how do you know my name?”

  your name is on your portrait—and then you wrote me a letter—i found it in a box at the library—

  “How could I have written you a letter? That’s . . . that’s . . .”

  impossible? asked the pointer. i wouldve said so too—but its a real letter you addressed it to me and its dated november 3—1915—

  Emily’s eyes went wide. “Why, that’s tomorrow!”