Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  I nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Now let me see your act. Get up there and show me what you got.”

  Taking a deep breath, I climbed the two steps and ascended the platform. For the next twenty minutes, I told my story, seasoning it with a large dose of minstrelsy, even bursting out in an Indian war whoop near the end. My parents would have been turning in their graves at the many lies I told. I could only hope that they’d forgive me, knowing it was all an act designed to achieve a higher purpose.

  Wilson interrupted my performance from time to time with instructions to keep my volume up and my expressions larger than was natural in real life. On the whole, however, he seemed satisfied with my performance. When I finished, we were both surprised to hear a rich contralto voice shout “brava” from the back of the auditorium. Wilson turned to look at the speaker, a large, heavily rouged middle-aged woman wearing a turban.

  “You’re late, Madame Cora,” he said crossly. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Seems that you’ve been making good use of your time,” Madame Cora said, the sarcasm in her voice unmistakable. “Who’s the Negress? Hired someone to take my spot already?”

  “No one can replace you, Cora. You know that,” Wilson said. “This is Bright Feather, the maid who was at the séance where Miss Parker died. She’s going to open for you this evening.”

  The look Madame Cora gave me reminded me of Queen Victoria surveying a scullery maid.

  “We’ll just see about that. As a favor to you, I will permit her to open for me this evening. But if the Negress does not meet my standards, she had better be gone by tomorrow.” She fixed Wilson with a challenging glare. “The people have come to see me, not some colored servant girl. Even if she was lucky enough to witness a murder.”

  Wilson sighed. “Let’s at least try, shall we? If it works, we’ll all be the richer for it.”

  Motioning for me to follow, he strode through a door just to the right of the stage that opened into a small dressing room. He pulled open a battered trunk and handed me a feathered headdress, a buckskin skirt, and a pair of moccasins.

  “Put these on,” he said. “When you’re done, dig out the makeup kit and draw some lines on your cheeks. Make ’em look like war paint. The more Indian you look, the better they’ll like it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, hoping he did not see how little the idea appealed to me. I hated the falsehood of dressing up in phony Indian garb. I’d never actually met a real Indian, but I was pretty sure they would have considered what I was doing to be an insult. Even worse, I hated the idea being dragged back to prison for a murder I did not commit.

  ~||~

  By eight o’clock, the Temple of the Oracles was filled to capacity. As I sat in the shadows to the side of the stage, I studied the audience with interest. It went without saying that all of them were white. Though there was no official segregation in Indiana, each race kept pretty much to itself, particularly in matters of religion. The Spiritualists were no exception. Standing just outside the door, Wilson’s cook and two other colored servants hovered within earshot. They were not welcome inside the sanctuary, but apparently, they had been allowed to catch what they could of the service from outside. At least someone of color will be on hand to witness my performance, I thought wryly.

  The audience chatted excitedly among themselves as they took their seats. For every man, there were at least three women, most of whom were of ample build and well attired. This crowd was definitely not wanting for the necessities of life. Thank goodness I had, by this point, acquired some experience in dealing with this sort of people. As long as I gave them what they expected, all would be well. Sitting out of sight in a dark corner to the rear of the stage, I said a silent prayer: Help me, Spirit. Help me be at my best in this gathering. And most of all, help me to find out what I need to know to clear my name and find Miss Parker’s killer.

  A few minutes later, a tiny balding man sat down at the piano and began to bang out the opening chords to “Onward Christian Soldiers.” After the third verse, Gaylord Wilson, dressed in a white tuxedo, strode onto the stage.

  “Greetings and welcome,” he said, his arms flung wide. “My name is Gaylord Wilson. In the next few minutes, you will receive the answer to life’s greatest mystery—the continued existence of life after death. Traditional churches preach of it, and Jesus promised it to us. Under the banner of Spiritualism, the existence of the immortal soul is more than just talk. Tonight, the phenomenal Madame Cora will provide you an opportunity to hear directly from your loved ones in the Spirit World. But first, I have a special treat in store for you.”

  As Wilson paused to pour himself a drink of water from a large pitcher set out on the table between the two chairs behind him, the feeling of suspense in the Temple of the Oracles was palpable.

  “Just days ago,” he finally said, “an act of unspeakable violence occurred in the city of Aronsville. A peaceful séance became the scene for a murder so heinous that even the strongest of men hesitate to speak of it. And yet, the tale must be told!”

  Wilson paused again as the crowd began to mutter amongst themselves.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I know you have all read about these events, but tonight you will be among the only living beings on God’s green earth to have actually heard the hair-raising details of the event directly from the lips of someone who was there. Yes, my friends, tonight I bring to you an eyewitness account of the events of that terrible night. This account has not been told in the newspapers. Nor has it been revealed to the general public. This is a genuine eyewitness account, told by someone who actually worked in the Mason household. A simple Indian maiden whose guileless ignorance allows her to tell the story unfiltered through any theories, analysis, or predictions. From her very lips you will hear as pure a version of the events of that terrible night as is humanly possible. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Miss Bright Feather Red Cloud.”

  Dressed in a fringed buckskin skirt, a chaste white blouse, and a pair of moccasins, I made my way to the front of the stage. My hair hung down my back in two long braids; broad streaks of red and yellow paint adorned my cheeks.

  “How, Palefaces,” I intoned. “I bring you greetings from the chief of the Saskatoon Tribes and welcome you in the name of the Great Spirit. I will speak tonight of the tragic events that overtook Miss Ellen Parker in the place the white man calls Aronsville. I saw these events with my own eyes and swear on my life’s blood they are true.”

  When I stopped to take a breath, I was pleased to discover that my audience was completely absorbed, sitting on the edge of their seats and waiting for more. Encouraged, I raised my voice and continued.

  “It was a dark and stormy night,” I proclaimed, my eyes wide. “Mrs. Mason had already received a warning from the spirits that her customary circle should not be undertaken that evening. As I brought her tea in the sitting room just an hour before the tragic events were to unfold, I pleaded with her.” I dropped to my knees and folded my hands in a gesture of prayer. “‘Cancel your séance, Chieftess Mason,’ I said. ‘Me have powerful vision of medicine spirit. Plenty bad medicine tonight,’ I told her. But the chieftess is a dedicated spirit worker and vowed to carry on.”

  Using vivid gestures, eye rolling, and stilted Indian dialect, I spoke about what I had seen the night of the murder. To spice up my tale, I added mysterious flickering lights, ominous footsteps, and a black cat crossing my path outside Mrs. Mason’s door—and, of course, the dark cloud over her head. When I spoke of how Miss Parker staggered out of the séance room and fell on the floor, writhing in agony, I augmented my tale with a bloodcurdling scream. At the end of my performance, the audience leapt to their feet and applauded wildly.

  As I walked to stand at what would be Madame Cora’s right, Gaylord Wilson smiled at me. Madame Cora, glaring from the wings, however, did not. Clearly, I was going to be a tough act to follow.

  As the applause died down, the pianist played a quiet hymn
. Then Madame Cora—costumed in a sober black dress, a brilliantly colored oriental shawl, and a large hat adorned with an ostrich plume—ascended the podium, sat down in the large mahogany chair to the right, and closed her eyes. Ostentatiously meditating, she swayed gently back and forth to the music. After a minute or two, the pianist launched into “Onward Christian Soldiers” again. Madame Cora sang along to the lively tune in a resonant alto that soon inspired the audience to join in as well. By the fourth verse, the entire audience was on their feet, clapping their hands and singing.

  When the song came to an end, Cora shouted, “Praise God! Let us show our joy! Praise Him,” as she encouraged the audience to continue clapping and shouting their praises heavenward. After two or three minutes of sustained applause, she signaled the pianist to draw the music to a close and waved her hands in benediction over the crowd.

  “Doesn’t it feel good to know that death is not the end? So many people live in fear of being erased from existence altogether. So many grieve and lose their ability to function when someone they love passes on. But we know the truth, don’t we?”

  “Oh yes,” cried a slender old woman in the first row. A thin slip of a thing, she looked like she would barely fill her seat. “We know that death is not real.”

  Madame Cora beamed, bestowing a brilliant smile on her star pupil. “No, my dear, it is not,” she said firmly. “Our loved ones live on after they die. They go to Summerland, that place of infinite peace and contentment. When we gather like this, our deceased loved ones come down to visit us. Isn’t that a wonderful thing?”

  As the audience again burst into spontaneous applause, Madame Cora waved for silence.

  “And now,” she said, “it is time for them to speak to us directly. Time for them to give us the benefit of their wisdom and guidance. Are you ready?”

  After another round of enthusiastic applause, Madame Cora motioned toward the wings. Striding briskly to the back of the theater, I picked up a large wicker basket into which audience members had deposited the questions they wished to ask the Spirit World. Getting into the showbiz flavor of it all, I put the basket on the top of my head and paraded it up to the podium, swaying my hips gracefully in imitation of the way I imagined a young Indian maiden might behave. I doubted that it was very authentic, but the crowd ate it up, particularly the men. I could feel their eyes follow me hungrily the length of the center aisle. When I reached the dais, I deposited the basket at Madame Cora’s feet with a graceful bow.

  “Thank you, Bright Feather,” she said gravely. “Please place the basket on the table next to me and fetch me my blindfold.”

  As directed, I placed the basket on the small round table next to her chair and pulled a large black scarf from the pocket of my buckskin skirt. Making a great show of things, I tied the scarf tightly around Madame Cora’s head.

  “As you bear witness, friends, I am completely unable to see,” she announced. “But with the help of the Spirit World, I will discern the nature of the questions you’ve written on the slips of paper in this basket.”

  With a dramatic gesture, Madame Cora plunged her hand deep into the basket of queries. Scattering the small bits of paper willy-nilly on the table top, she extracted one and held it to her forehead.

  “I am getting a strong vibration here,” she intoned. “The spirits tell me that Francine Wiggins from Akron is asking about her brother Wilbur, who died overseas in the Great War.”

  At the mention of her name, Francine, a well-bosomed woman with a careworn face, cried out. “Oh my God. My dear Wilbur, my dearest brother. Speak to me. What does he say? Is he well?”

  “Dearest one, your brother wants you to know that he is fine, that he suffers no pain, and that he sends you all his love,” Madame Cora said in a deep, resonant voice. “As I speak to you, your brother is smiling. He loves you greatly.”

  Francine Wiggins daubed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Does he say anything else? Anything about my cousin Ellen?”

  “What’s that, Wilbur?” Madame Cora cupped her hand to her ear and leaned forward. “Wilbur? I’m losing you!” After a long pause, she shook her head sadly. “I am sorry, ma’am. His vibration has faded. Several spirits are waiting, so I will have to let him go.”

  Once again, Madame Cora plunged her hand into the basket, sending the tiny scraps of paper containing the audience’s requests flying in all directions. Something about this puzzled me. I knew she was trying to play it big for the folks at the back of the auditorium, but still. All that spilling and shuffling of papers seemed unnecessary, until I noticed that every time she plunged her arm into the basket, one piece of paper always seemed to land face up on the edge of the table next to her.

  By Madame Cora’s fifth spirit message, I had figured it out. I had tied the scarf tightly, but she could still see through the tiny gap between the edge of the blindfold and the hollow of her eye socket. While she pretended to psychically divine the question on the paper she held to her forehead, Madame Cora was actually reading the question written on the scrap of paper on the table next to her.

  In other words, the famous Madame Cora was a complete and absolute fake.

  My suspicions were confirmed by the fact that whenever an audience member asked a follow-up question, Madame Cora would suddenly declare that the spirit’s vibrations were “fading” and no longer within her reach.

  After she had delivered ten messages in this manner, Madame Cora rose and untied the blindfold. Gesturing for me to remove the basket and scraps of paper, she stepped off the stage and strode down the center aisle, stopping suddenly in front of an elderly man in a black suit. Grasping his arm, she closed her eyes and said, “The spirits tell me that you have lost someone near to you. A nephew, perhaps?”

  Dumbly, the man nodded.

  “Your nephew is here tonight,” Madame Cora said. She paused for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut, as if listening intently. “Was he killed in a forest?”

  The man’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “That’s right. He was killed in France.”

  Madame Cora patted him gently on the arm and nodded. “He wants you to know he loves you and that he is at peace.”

  Madame Cora continued up the aisle, stopping before a young woman in a bright flowered dress. “Adelle is here with me,” she said. “She tells me you have been fighting with your sister.”

  The woman dissolved into tears. “Oh yes, Mother. You are right. I will stop at once.”

  As the audience broke out in spontaneous applause, Madame Cora returned to the stage and took a bow.

  “Our loved ones do not die,” she said. “They walk among us, bringing messages of love. But greater miracles await!” She flung her arms open and announced in a dramatic voice, “I am ready, Mr. Wilson. Bring me my cabinet.”

  Right on cue, Wilson trundled out what looked like a large wardrobe mounted on wheels. Opening its doors, he invited the audience to inspect the cabinet.

  “Come close, now. Take a look for yourselves. Touch it—handle it. There are no trap doors here, and no hidden compartments.”

  A few of the braver men seated near the front dutifully came forward. After poking and prodding at the wardrobe for a few minutes, they returned to their seats.

  “Are you satisfied with your inspection, gentlemen?” Wilson asked, his voice pitched to reach even a half-deaf elderly lady in the back row.

  “That we are,” cried out a stout man from the second row. “The cabinet is just as you say, a plain wooden box with no extra features.”

  “So it is,” Wilson agreed genially.

  Producing a length of thick rope from his jacket pocket, he tied Madame Cora’s hands securely behind her back. After resecuring the blindfold around her head, he gestured for me to bring a small three-legged stool from the wings onto the stage.

  “Hold up the stool, Bright Feather, so that all may see.”

  As I held the stool high over my head, Wilson directed me to turn in a slow circle. “As you can see, ladies and g
entlemen, this is a plain wooden stool. Nothing special. Place the stool in the center of the cabinet, please.”

  After I had placed the stool inside the cabinet, Wilson took Madame Cora solicitously by the arm and seated her on it. Then he closed the cabinet door with Madame Cora inside.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I shall ask Mr. Jones to dim the lights, in order to help Madame Cora focus her spiritual energies. Watch and marvel as the wonders of the Spirit World are revealed.”

  An eerie silence reigned as the auditorium was plunged into near darkness. Suddenly, the sound of a trumpet could be heard coming from inside the cabinet. As the audience whispered among themselves, the trumpet was replaced by the sound of a tom-tom beating out a muffled rhythm. From my position near the wings off to the side of the stage, I could also hear sounds of something moving inside the cabinet. Could it be that some spirit entity had joined Madame Cora inside? Maybe she wasn’t a fraud after all.

  As the tom-tom died away, Mr. Wilson called for Mr. Jones to turn on the house lights. Striding briskly to the front of the stage, he flung open the doors of the cabinet to reveal Madame Cora sitting in what appeared to be a deep trance with her hands still tied behind her back, no musical instruments in sight.

  As the audience oohed and aahhed, Wilson said softly, “As you see, this is not the work of man, but of the spirits. Dim the lights again, Mr. Jones.”

  Once again, the lights went out, but the faintest of illuminations shone down on the stage. Though the room was silent, the air of excitement and anticipation was palpable. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, a thin white cloud of vaporous substance began to flow from the top of the cabinet. As the white haze continued to billow forth, it soon encompassed almost the entire stage.

  “My God,” a startled man gasped from the front row. “It’s ectoplasm.”

  Caught up in the excitement, I was ready to believe the white fog was a manifestation from the Spirit World. That is, until I felt the distinct presence of something far more human running past me onto the stage. Squinting in the dim light, I could just barely make out the presence of a young girl. She wore gauzy white robes that fluttered in the breeze. Most surprising of all, she was wearing an Indian headdress and full war paint. As she stood among the swirling cloud of phony ectoplasm, she waved an arm in silent blessing over the astonished crowd. After a moment, she appeared to vanish into thin air. As the audience gasped in wonder, the mysterious white cloud began to dissipate, returning to the cabinet from which it had come.