Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Lucky for you, there’s a new moon tonight,” Sister Marie said. “Perfect time for this spell.”

  She picked up her cane, hobbled back to the kitchen table, and placed the envelope in front of me.

  “Mix this powder into a jar of honey. You got a lock of this boy’s hair?”

  I nodded, too embarrassed to admit I slept with it under my pillow every night.

  “Good. Take that lock of hair he gave you and seal it inside that small jar of honey with the powder mixed in. For the next fourteen nights, at the stroke of midnight, make love to that jar of honey like it was your beloved in the flesh. Pour all your passion into that jar. All your feelings of love and all your dreams for being together. At midnight exactly, I want you to kiss that jar, rub it over your bare titties and call his name three times. Then, open the jar and whisper these words into the honey from the bottom of your heart:

  As God is my witness in heaven above

  I bind you to me with the power of love

  Flesh and blood and skin and bone

  Your heart belongs to me alone.

  “When you’re done speaking, seal the jar back up and keep it under your bed. Work this spell every night for the next two weeks until the moon comes full.”

  Tapping an arthritic index finger against the envelope in front of me, Sister Marie studied me for a moment in silence.

  “Are you the one who makes the beds in this house?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “At the stroke of midnight on the night of the next full moon, you gonna put this honey pot under his mattress.”

  “But he’s not staying there,” I said. “How is my spell going to work if he’s not even sleeping in his bed?”

  The old woman smiled. “There is no distance where Spirit is concerned,” she replied. “If you do like I’m telling you, that boy is gonna feel a pull. Something is gonna trouble his sleep, make him dream of home. He won’t know exactly why, but he’ll know he needs to leave where he is and come back home. When he does, that honey pot is gonna pull him right to you, mark my word.”

  I nodded slowly. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but at that point I was pretty much out of options. I pulled my coin purse from the pocket of my dress.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “No need to pay me right now,” Sister Marie said. “When your man comes back, you can pay me whatever you think the spell was worth. Meantime, give my regards to your mamma, you hear?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By the beginning of June, I was beginning not to feel like myself at all. Slowly but surely, an outside force was taking possession of me. Even foods—the foods I used to love—made me sick to my stomach. Every night, with increasing urgency, I caressed the honey pot Sister Marie had given me.

  “Come home, Sam,” I whispered. “Your Bright Feather needs you.”

  On the night of the full moon, I feigned illness and retired to my room as soon as my chores were finished. When I reemerged at fifteen minutes before midnight, the house was still.

  I crept stealthily down the hallway toward Sam’s bedroom, praying silently that I would get into Sam’s room unobserved. Sister Marie’s instructions had been very specific. On the night of the full moon, at the stroke of midnight, I was to slip my honey pot under Sam’s mattress. As I passed the grandfather clock in the hallway, I could see that only one minute remained until the witching hour.

  Giving silent thanks for the thick Persian carpet underneath my feet, I darted along the hallway. As usual, Mr. Kerchal was out. But as bad luck would have it, Mrs. Kerchal’s door was open, and she was reading in her armchair. Fortunately, she was engrossed in her book and did not look up as I passed.

  Sam’s room was right next door. Holding my breath, I turned the doorknob to his room inch by inch until it swung open. Should I close it after me? What if it made a sound as the door latched? It was now nearly midnight. If the spell was going to be effective, I had to act immediately. Not a minute to waste.

  As the clock struck twelve, I crept across the floor toward my lover’s bed. As I turned to slip the jar of honey in place, I bumped against a glass ashtray sitting on the night table. Before I could grab it, the damn thing tumbled off the table and shattered on the floor.

  My heart leapt to my mouth as I heard Mrs. Kerchal hurry down the corridor.

  “Who is it?” she called out. “Who’s there?”

  Do something, my mind screamed, but I was paralyzed by fear. If I ran out of the room now, I would be discovered for certain. Hastily, I slid the honey jar under Sam’s pillow as Mrs. Kerchal burst into the room.

  “What are you doing in here?” she shouted.

  Her eyes widened as they took in the full extent of the scene. The broken ash tray. The fact that I was standing by her son’s bed. I instinctively placed my hand over my belly, and her face shifted into a glower.

  “I knew it,” she said. “I had a feeling about you, and I let Sam talk me out of it. Men are such fools, but a woman always knows.” She strode across the room and slapped me. “Get out of my house this instant!”

  She was about to hit me again when Mr. Sam Sr. walked in, still wearing his overcoat and smelling of whiskey.

  “Lucy, what the devil are you doing?” he said. “What is going on here?”

  “I caught this wench slipping into Samuel’s room. Probably trying to steal whatever she could get her filthy little hands on.”

  “I was not stealing,” I said, willing myself to look my accuser in the eye.

  Mr. Kerchal’s fat face was a study in confusion. “If you weren’t stealing, then what were you doing here?”

  Before I could answer, Mrs. Kerchal said, “Doesn’t matter why she’s here, Samuel. The girl is not supposed to be in here, and she knows it. She is not to be trusted.” Grabbing me roughly by the arm, she began to pull me toward the door. “We do not want you here. Do you hear me? Pack your clothes and leave at once.”

  We were halfway out of the room when Mrs. Kerchal spotted the tip of the honey jar sticking out from underneath Sam’s pillow. Leaving me, she picked the jar up with the tips of her fingers, as though it were a diseased rat, and thrust the jar under my nose. “What. Is. This?”

  Quick as lightning, I grabbed the jar away from her. Everything else had gone wrong, but perhaps Sister Marie’s spell would still work if I planted the jar somewhere else.

  “Give me that,” Mrs. Kerchal said.

  Holding the honey pot close to my chest, I turned to run.

  Mr. Kerchal had been standing back, not wanting to get involved in what was clearly women’s business, but when he caught sight of the honey pot, his eyes narrowed.

  “Not so fast, young lady,” Mr. Kerchal said. He grabbed the jar from my hands and studied it closely. “Just as I thought, you little witch. Bringing the devil’s work into my house.” Before I could stop him, he strode to the window, flung it open, and threw my jar into the gutter. At the tinkling sound of glass striking the hard pavement, my heart broke into a million pieces.

  “Get out of here,” he bellowed. “Now, before I call the police.”

  As his wife hurled curses at me from the hallway, Mr. Kerchal twisted my arm behind my back and marched me out of Sam’s room and down the stairs.

  “This is not what it seems,” I said. “Your son and I love each other. I am going to have his baby, and we’re going to get married.”

  To my complete surprise, the old man began to laugh. “Sam is already spoken for, you silly girl. Got engaged to Becky Fredricks a week ago.” Stopping and holding me at arm’s length, he gave me an appraising stare. “Didn’t know Junior had in him,” he said softly. “Got himself a little jungle bunny to warm his bed.”

  Could Sam have deceived me? Could I have been so foolish?

  Nearly blinded by tears, I broke free from Mr. Kerchal’s grip and ran out the front door. I was halfway to Churchtown before I realized I had no coat, no money, and no place to go.
<
br />   Fortunately, Sister Marie was home when I knocked on her door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For the next hour, the old woman held me against her bosom while I poured out my sorrows in a flood of tears. When I finally stopped crying, she fixed me a shot of hot rum. Taking a seat in a battered rocking chair next to the woodstove, she ordered me to sleep in her bed. Though I hated to impose, I was too exhausted to argue.

  I was alone when I awoke the next day. Rays of pale winter sunlight sifted through the tiny window of Sister Marie’s shack. A glass of buttermilk and a thick wedge of cornbread had been placed on the kitchen table, along with a note.

  Gone shopping. Wait here. Will bring good news soon.

  Though the cornbread was dry and at least one day old, I wolfed it down eagerly. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. The buttermilk felt thick and creamy going down my throat. Overwhelmed by the most delicious feeling of lethargy, I felt myself growing sleepy. Despite the fact that I had just gotten up, I went back to bed and fell asleep.

  Two hours later, I felt a sharp pain my stomach. As I staggered out of bed, blood rolled down my leg. Though the sight should have upset me, all I could feel was a dull relief. I fetched a bucket of water from the pump out back, washed myself off, and crawled back into bed. When I woke up again, the sun had set.

  “Feelin’ better, ain’t cha?” Illuminated only by the eerie glow of the fire in the pot-bellied stove, the old woman watched me from the rocking chair on the other side of the room.

  I sat up, rubbing my eyes sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry for taking over your bed for so long. I don’t know what came over me. I never sleep like this.”

  “You must-a needed the rest,” she said, taking another toke on the clay pipe she clenched between her stained teeth.

  “I had a pain in my belly earlier today,” I said slowly. “I may have lost my baby.”

  “Maybe so,” Sister Marie said blandly. “Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we plan, chile. My own mama useta say, ‘Man proposes, but God disposes.’”

  For a while we both sat silent, each deep in our own thoughts.

  “Look, Sister Marie,” I finally said, “I got no money to repay you for puttin’ me up like this. Got money coming from Mrs. Kerchal, but somehow I don’t think she is gonna give it to me.” I laughed bitterly. “She’s probably put my few shreds of clothing in the refuse bin by now.”

  “I don’t want your money, chile.” Sister Marie’s snaggle-toothed smile reminded me of the jack-o’-lanterns we used to carve at Halloween. “Truth is, I’m gettin’ too old to handle all the work I’ve got. The Lord must-a knowed I needed a helper, so He sent you here. I’ll give you two meals a day and a place to sleep. What do you say?”

  “I’d be mighty grateful,” I said. “But just until my mama sends for me. I expect to hear from her soon.”

  “Stay as long as you need to and leave whenever you like.” With a cryptic smile, she squeezed my hand. “But since the Lord has seen fit to throw us together for the moment, let’s get busy. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Over the next few weeks, Sister Marie taught me how to clean, prepare, and mix the herbs she used in her potions. To my own surprise, I proved to be a quick student. By the end of the month, she trusted me enough to prepare treatments for many common conditions: wormwort and honey with a slice of lemongrass for a cold; powder from a stag’s antler mixed with John the Conqueror root to make a man virile; a salve of honey, olive oil, and cinnamon to prevent baldness. But the preparation at which I excelled was the honey pot. Whether this was because of or in spite of my own bitter experience, I could not say. Somehow, I just knew which herbs were right for attracting lovers. If the lover was already involved with another person, one combination was called for. To insure a lover’s fidelity, different herbs would be used. It was as though the herbs themselves spoke to me, advising me as I worked.

  Despite the fact that Sister Marie’s shack was tucked into an obscure corner of a dark and filthy street, people of all classes and colors came to her for help. Women seeking husbands. Women looking to get rid of husbands. Men seeking satisfaction in love or hoping to make a big score in one of the many gambling houses in Churchtown.

  I’d wanted Sam’s baby more than anything else in the world. Now, it felt as though my time with the Kerchals had been some kind of mirage, a fading dream that I could barely recall.

  I was cooking up a fresh batch of rose hips on a rainy morning in late June when Sister Marie came home with an envelope in her hands.

  “The postman was looking for you,” she said. “I said I’d pass it on.”

  As she handed me the letter, neither one of us said a word. From the sudden ache in my heart, I already suspected what was written inside. Collapsing into the old rocking chair next to the stove, I tore open the envelope, hoping against hope that my intuition was wrong.

  Dearest Carrie,

  I’ve sent this letter General Delivery in the hopes that you are still in Aronsville.

  It pains me beyond words to tell you that your dear Mama has been killed in an accident. It was late at night and very dark, as the street lamps in our part of town do not work like they should. As she was running across Prairie Avenue, a streetcar rounded the corner and hit her dead on. She was killed on the spot. Jim and I tried to reach you at your employer’s home but our letter was returned “addressee unknown.” When we didn’t hear from you, we went ahead and buried your mother in Lincoln Cemetery. I have your mama’s wedding ring and will give it to you when I see you next.

  God bless you and keep you safe until then.

  Your loving Aunt Dee

  I was useless for the few days, barely able to get out of bed. I did what I could to help Sister Marie with her preparations, but after I wept copiously while preparing a “mood elevating potion” for one of our best customers, Sister Marie told me to take the rest of the day off.

  “Go outside and get some air,” she said gently. “Go down to the river and sit for a while. Watch the waters flow. Let them carry your troubles away.”

  “It’s raining,” I said sulkily. “I’ll get wet.”

  “So much the better,” she said firmly. “Wash you clean. I want you to do this every day until you feel like your normal self again.”

  For the next week, I went to the Riverwalk first thing every morning, walking along the path overlooking the Ohio River until my feet hurt. In some strange way, I felt that the water knew and understood my sorrow. When the wind sighed through the leaves of the oak trees lining the riverbank, I could almost hear my mother’s voice singing to me:

  Fear not, my love

  I have left this body

  But I will never, ever desert you.

  Seek me in the river and I will answer.

  ~||~

  As the month of June turned to July, the sun rose earlier every day, and the birds once again sang their songs of love and courtship. Girls dressed in their Sunday finest flirted with boys sporting straw hats cocked at stylish angles. Older couples strolled hand in hand down Lincoln Avenue on their way to the Bijou Theater or a night of dancing at the Rhum Boogie Club. Love was in the air for most folks, but not for me. After my disastrous affair with Sam Kerchal, I was determined to avoid the opposite sex altogether.

  Perhaps that was why I was so unprepared for the emotions that overwhelmed me when Teo appeared at Sister Marie’s door a week later. In an instant, my mind was flooded with memories I thought I had successfully subdued: Sam holding me in his arms; Sam reading me his poetry; Mr. Kerchal dragging me down the stairs and out of the house.

  When Teo showed up at the front door, I stood rooted to the floor in a welter of confusion.

  “Don’t just stand there gawping, Carrie,” Sister Marie said and nudged me in the ribs. “Let the woman in.”

  As I prepared the ingredients for a fresh batch of Sister Marie’s Stomach Tonic, the two women sipped tea and chatted at the kitchen table.

&
nbsp; “Gotten pretty handy with them herbs, Carrie,” Teo said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, blushing only a little at her unexpected compliment.

  “It’s definitely best you’ve moved on,” she continued. “Mrs. Kerchal never did take much of a liking to you.”

  I kept silent, grinding up a batch of fresh lavender a good deal more vigorously than the job required.

  “Now that Sam’s getting married, the woman’s been a right she-devil. The fits she’s been having, you’d think the Queen of England herself was coming instead of Sam’s new bride and her family. I can’t wait till the damn thing is finished.”

  Sister Marie’s laugh was an infectious, deep-throated cackle. “You know how those people are, Teo. Got to put on as many airs as possible—impress their fancy friends while the rest of us starve. Can I pour you another cup of tea?”

  Teo shook her head. “I shouldn’t stay too long. I need to get back before she misses me. That damn woman is running me ragged. Hired a new girl last week and there’s still too much work for everybody.”

  Sister Marie nodded. “In that case, I’ll get right to it. Tell me what herbs you need.”

  “In point of fact, I come for the missus,” Teo said. “She thinks I pick up her headache powder at Mr. Widener’s pharmacy, but you can make me something that works better and costs half as much. Just whip me up the same thing you brought me last Christmas, remember?”

  Sister Marie smiled. “Of course I remember. And because you’re my friend, I will continue to keep the cost low so you can pocket the difference.”

  “Body’s gotta take care-a herself and her family,” Teo said with a wink. “Don’t know how much longer these old knees can take this kinda work, scrubbin’ and sloppin’ out dirty dishes fourteen hours a day.”