Born of Illusion

by Teri Brown

  “This is swell! What is all this stuff?” I breathe.

  He claps his hands in glee. “This, missy, is my life’s work. Isn’t it magnificent?”

  His arms spread out, taking in the whole room, and I nod in admiration as I carefully step over a giant coil of barbed wire. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it. I know a kindred spirit when I see one.”

  “What does everything do?”

  He crosses his arms. “First off, you have to show me one of your tricks.”

  I look around the room. “Okay. Um, can you tie me up?” I give him a mischievous smile.

  His eyebrows rise. “Pardon me? What kind of trick is that?”

  “Tie me up to a chair and I bet I can get out of it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “I can get out of almost anything.”

  I see disbelief on his face as he pulls a long, dirty rope from a toolbox. That doesn’t stop him from making a good job of it, though, as he binds me tightly to a chair. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

  I scoff. “I’ve been bound with chains before.”

  His face scrunches. “You’ve led a very odd life, missy.”

  I laugh. Escape tricks were a practical addition to my repertoire, considering how often I had to break my mother out of jail. They add an air of credibility to our séances when clients want to make sure I’m not the spirit manifestation. Of course, they don’t know that I can escape, manifest, and bind myself back up before they even bat an eye. I think my mother encouraged my efforts so I would be more like my father. I just like the challenge.

  “Now turn around.”

  “Why?” he asks belligerently.

  “Because a good magician never gives up her tricks,” I tell him. “I told you I would show you a trick, not give you my secrets.”

  The look on his face makes it clear that he thinks he’s been had, but he does what I ask. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter if he does watch, but I like to keep an air of mystery around my act. “Now count to ten. Slowly.”

  He sighs but does what I say, not knowing I’m already through half the textbook sailor knots he tied. Very few people understand that using lots of rope doesn’t necessarily mean a tight bind.

  “Turn around,” I say before he gets to eight.

  He turns, and I giggle at the bug-eyed astonishment on his face. “Well, now! That is quite a trick. Can I try it again?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No, a deal is a deal. You promised to show me one of your inventions.”

  He nods, looking none too happy. “You’re right there.” He eyes the room, considering, then he motions me to follow him. To my disappointment, he doesn’t head toward the huge machine in the corner but rather to a much smaller brass one.

  “This one is my pride and joy,” he says, stroking it. “I haven’t gotten all the kinks worked out, but when I do I’ll make a fortune, just you wait and see.”

  I eye the machine skeptically. “But what is it?”

  “I call it my ODD—it’s an Object Displacement Device.”

  “Well, it is definitely odd,” I say. “But what does it do?”

  He waves a hand impatiently. “It moves objects.”

  “What kind of objects?”

  He picks up a small gray button. “I’ll show you. Step back.”

  He looks around and then grabs a broom. He tapes the button to it and sets it in the corner. He then unwraps a long cord. “I used to use clockwork machinery for everything,” he says, nodding toward the machine. “But that was before I fully understood the potential of electricity.”

  He plugs in the machine, and it makes an almost inaudible whirring noise.

  At first nothing happens, but then my jaw drops as the broom begins wiggling back and forth in a circle all by itself. I move closer to look for transparent strings, but I see nothing. The broom dances more wildly and I jump back just as the handle dips toward my face, missing me by inches. Mr. Darby quickly turns off the machine.

  “That’s the downside,” he admits. “It’s still in the experimental stage. But once I figure out a way to control it, the sky’s the limit. Housewives everywhere can lounge about while the machine does their work for them.”

  I pick up the broom and study the button with admiration. “How does it work?”

  “Magnetics. I found a way to harness the electricity to make the magnets more powerful.” He points up to the ceiling and I see another gray button affixed to a beam.

  “That’s incredible!”

  He nods, beaming.

  I suddenly gasp, my mind whirling with possibilities. There is nothing in Houdini’s blasted book about anything like this. It is almost certainly undetectable. “Would this work anywhere?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t see why not. Why?”

  I smile at him. “Because I have an idea. How would you like to be part of a séance, Mr. Darby?”

  Thirteen

  I reach back and rub the tightrope-taut muscles in my neck. Next to me, in the backseat of her luxurious, deep-red Isotta Fraschini automobile, Cynthia Gaylord prattles away while I try to pinpoint why I’m so edgy.

  When Cynthia rang me up this afternoon, I’d jumped at the chance to attend a lecture at her church. A church that mixes science with spiritualism? Connections to a society that actually studies the supernatural? Maybe some answers to my questions regarding my abilities, my visions about my mother, and—I shudder slightly—Walter’s unexpected visit. I might even discover why my abilities are changing and how I can use them to find out who’s following me. There’s no way I could decline.

  So why so nervous? Could it be I’m not as eager to find out about my abilities as I think I am? More likely, I’m terrified of being exposed.

  I frown, staring at the driver in the front seat. He’s different from most of the drivers I’ve seen carting the rich about. His neck is thick and meaty and his nose is broken, and, if I’m not mistaken, he’s missing part of the little finger on his left hand.

  I twist a stray curl around my finger and turn to Cynthia to distract myself. “So tell me more about this guest lecturer.”

  She stops in midsentence, and I realize I’d interrupted her. I can almost see the switching of gears in her pretty blue eyes. “Oh. Well, he’s British and very smart. I just love the Brits, don’t you?” An image of Cole pops into my head and I quickly push it out of my mind. I nod as she continues. “He’s a doctor of some sort. I forget what kind. Jack always tells me I’m as forgetful as a child. Anyhoo, he’s worked with all the premier psychical scientists in the world and will be discussing some of the studies of the Society for Psychical Research on how the dead are around us all the time, just waiting to guide us on our journey. They do experiments with electricity and things.” She waves her hand vaguely and I know I’ve come to the end of her knowledge on the subject.

  “It sounds very interesting,” I assure her.

  “You’re going to simply love it. I can’t believe your mother didn’t want to come. She’s such a good medium, though I’m pretty sure you have the gift too. What you did at that séance—”

  “No,” I put in quickly. “It was my mother’s presence the spirit was attracted to.”

  Cynthia wrinkles her nose, and for the first time I’m aware of just how young she is. Probably in her early twenties. What must it be like to be so young and so very rich? I don’t care if Mother thinks she’s rough around the edges; I bet she’s never had to worry about scraping together enough money to keep off the street at night. Tonight, she’s wearing a tailored winter ermine fur coat with a huge white fox collar that probably could have paid for a year’s worth of lodging.

  “Well, maybe you’re just now getting the gift? Maybe it runs in families.”

  I don’t mention that I’ve wondered the very same thing.

  I’m saved from having to answer her, though, as the car pulls up to a lovely Renaissance-style building constructed of light gray stone.
The wide bay windows give the façade a welcoming look, conflicting with the tall, forbidding iron fence guarding the front. Somehow, I don’t feel welcomed.

  Cynthia whisks me through the gate and up the steps, her trim silhouette a modern contrast to the classic structure. I hesitate at the door, my nerves bouncing.

  “Come on, silly.” Cynthia reaches out and catches my hand. “We want to get good seats.”

  She pulls me down the aisle, nodding here and there like a young queen to those already in the pews. Now I think I know the secret to being a socialite—make every occasion a festival.

  The walls are done in a soft, creamy plaster that gives the room a warm glow, and the graceful Italian styling continues with decorative arches and ornamental urns. In fact, the whole atmosphere of the sanctuary is so tranquil and serene that it’s hard to believe that people regularly try to conjure the dead here.

  The room continues to fill, and I’m surprised at just how many people are interested in supernatural science. There are a few men scattered here and there, but the majority are well groomed, fashionably dressed women.

  Cynthia nudges me and discreetly points to a corner of the room. “That’s the Reverend Herbert Cullen. And the man he’s with is the guest speaker.”

  The reverend is short and round and almost completely eclipsed by the tall man in front of him. I can’t see the visitor’s face, as his back is turned, but the reverend’s expression is deferential.

  The reverend nods pleasantly to the man and steps behind the pulpit. He clears his throat and the congregation falls silent.

  “Many of you heard the stunning lecture our guest gave last week on spiritualism, science, and Christianity,” the pastor says in a nasal voice. “We are blessed enough to have him return for another illuminating talk entitled ‘The Science Behind Psychical Research.’ It is my pleasure to introduce you to Dr. Finneas Bennett.”

  I clap politely with the rest of the congregation and then freeze as I see who the guest speaker is.

  The man from the bookstore.

  I watch, curiously, as Dr. Bennett takes his place behind the pulpit. At the bookstore, he’d said that spiritualism was a hobby of his. I’d say this is more than a hobby.

  “Thank you, Dr. Cullen,” Dr. Bennett says, taking over the pulpit and the room with ease.

  Next to me, Cynthia Gaylord leans forward, her eyes alight. Maybe her interest in the speaker has as much to do with the man as the subject. Dr. Bennett, with his ruddy complexion and thick, wavy hair, looks more like an English country squire than a psychical investigator, and his accent is much more pronounced than Cole’s. Of course, Cole traveled quite a bit with his parents when he was younger. Maybe he has a more European way of speaking.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, and fellow spiritualists, thank you again for inviting me to this illustrious church to share with you what little wisdom I have gleaned from my years of studying telepathy, apparitions, extrasensory perception, and the physical aspects of spiritualism.”

  His theatrical mannerisms are so different from the man I briefly met at the bookshop that I’m instantly on alert. I recognize in Dr. Finneas Bennett a snake-oil salesman of the highest caliber.

  Of course, it takes one to know one.

  His voice is almost as spellbinding as my mother’s as he explains the differences between angels and demons and spirit guides. So far, he isn’t telling me anything I haven’t come across in my own haphazard research, but then he mentions some preliminary investigations on extrasensory perception and precognition—the ability to tell what others are thinking or know something is going to occur before it actually does.

  I listen intently.

  “We vet our subjects first with simple card tests. If they pass those, we then go on to more challenging analysis. The research is not yet conclusive but looks very promising. I hope to publish my findings on the subjects in the next year or so.”

  I slump back down in my seat. Well, that was less than helpful. Aside from suggesting that there are others out there who may have gifts like mine, I got nothing new. Maybe if I speak to him personally I can learn more, though something inside me hesitates at becoming more involved with Dr. Bennett.

  Beside me, Cynthia sways slightly from side to side, like a slender reed in the breeze. I frown and glance around at the others in the congregation, all of whom seem utterly transfixed by Dr. Bennett.

  “So, my good people, you all understand the importance of my work. I’m very excited to announce that I am looking into buying a piece of property in New York with the intent of building an American branch of the Society for Psychical Research and Laboratory.”

  He holds up his hand as if to forestall clapping. “But, my dear fellow believers, such a project takes money, and I . . .” His voice drops. “. . . am but a poor man of science.”

  The congregation sits motionless, scarcely breathing. Narrowing my eyes, I scrutinize the faces of those nearest to me. Most are relaxed, pleasant, bemused. Some, like Cynthia, are swaying slightly.

  Dr. Bennett continues. “Your good pastor has generously offered to pass around the proverbial hat to give the new laboratory a good start.”

  My mouth falls open as the plate is passed around. I have no doubt it’ll be brimming with cash by the time it returns to the front. I’ve seen trances performed on large groups by stage hypnotists, but in those instances, the members of the audience have been willing participants. Somehow I don’t think that’s the case here.

  Dr. Bennett’s eyes scan the crowd, a smile playing about his lips. They sweep past me and then back, the smile slipping. I cross my arms and raise my brows at him. He gives me a slight nod, and the corners of his lips curl slightly. If he’s at all nervous at being caught out, he doesn’t show it. Maybe I’m wrong. Then I see Cynthia slip a one-hundred-dollar bill out of her purse and onto the plate.

  Or maybe not.

  After the plate is passed, we gather for coffee and dessert. The crowd shakes the remaining cobwebs from their minds and hurries off to claim their oatmeal-drop cookies and ginger creams. Cynthia volunteers to serve coffee, and, after getting a cup and refusing the cookies, I edge up to a small crowd surrounding Dr. Bennett.

  Though I didn’t actually see Dr. Bennett hypnotize the crowd, I recognized some of the signs, which could mean the congregation had been previously entranced and Dr. Bennett used a key word. People in a trancelike state are very open to suggestions—like filling up collection plates.

  “I think automatic writing is a clear view into the spirit world, but there are very few people who can actually do it,” Dr. Bennett is saying.

  “Are you a medium yourself, Doctor?” A man with a thick mustache and equally thick German accent asks.

  Dr. Bennett laughs. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Huber. My talents lie elsewhere.”

  “Indeed,” I murmur.

  His head turns in my direction. “And you are?”

  “Anna Van Housen.”

  “And you are interested in spiritualism and mediums, Miss Van Housen?”

  So he does recognize me from the bookstore. “Yes, among other things.” I give him an innocent smile. “Such as hypnotism.”

  Dr. Bennett clears his throat. “Ah yes, hypnotism. A fascinating subject, that.”

  “I find it so. Especially Gustave Le Bon’s studies on crowd psychology and suggestibility.” That’ll teach him to try to charm a charmer.

  Surprise flickers across Dr. Bennett’s face but is soon replaced by a wry grin. “You’re very well read, Miss Van Housen.”

  I smile. “As I said, I am interested in the supernatural. I’m afraid I’ve missed your previous lectures. Could you tell me a little more about the Society for Psychical Research?”

  “Of course. The Society for Psychical Research is comprised of researchers, writers, and others who are interested in the supernatural. At first we only studied spirit manifestations and appearances, but then we made some remarkable discoveries with regard to other psychical powers.”<
br />
  I take a casual sip of my coffee. “And what other psychical powers would you be speaking of?”

  He smiles. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that in a public setting, but I wouldn’t mind going over some of this privately. You are a fellow aficionado, after all. Perhaps you and your acquaintance—it is Cynthia, isn’t it?—would like to meet with me sometime.”

  Cynthia appears beside me and I can practically see dollar signs in his eyes.

  I stiffen. Please don’t let her tell this man what my mother and I do, I think. The first rule in getting information from someone is to not give them too much information about yourself in return.

  She links her arm in mine. “Thank you for the invitation. Anna is quite young, you know. I do think it would be better if I attended this meeting with her. I’m sure it would ease her mother’s mind.”

  Truthfully, I’m happy to have her tag along. Dr. Bennett may be a psychical researcher, but he may also be a swindler. I can’t judge him, but I can be careful. And maybe I’ll be able to encourage Cynthia to keep a tighter grip on her purse strings.

  “That would be a delight. Just let me check my schedule. You can get in touch with me through the church later this week.” He gives Cynthia a patronizing pat on her arm and moves away.

  “Isn’t he handsome?” Cynthia asks, watching Dr. Bennett conversing with Mr. Huber. “Not as handsome as Jack, of course, but still distinguished.”

  Cynthia and I walk toward the door, my mind spinning with possibilities. After years with no information about my abilities, could I really be close to getting some answers? It’s too bad I didn’t get a chance to touch his hand. I would like to have known how he was feeling. Before walking out the door, I glance back through the crowded room one more time, only to find Dr. Bennett staring back at me.