by P. N. Elrod
Bumbling around in the space on the other side, I regretted not getting a sketch of the second story as well. The room was big and I sensed furniture shapes filling it. Though my hearing was muffled, I determined no one else was there and cautiously re-formed, taking it slow. An empty, dark bedroom, and laid out on the bed was a man’s dressing gown. Neatly together on the floor were his slippers. The rest of the room was in perfect order, personal items set out on a bureau, no dust anywhere, and yet it didn’t feel lived in. No one is ever this tidy when they’re actually using such things.
The hair went up on the back of my neck.
This stuff was too high quality to belong to the butler. The J. W. engraved into the back of a heavy silver hairbrush confirmed it—the room was a shrine. I concluded that Flora Weisinger was in sore need of real help to deal with her grief and guilt, not well-meaning morons with Ouija boards.
The upstairs seemed to be deserted, but I crept softly along the hall, ready to vanish again if company came. The downstairs noise was loud from several conversations going at once, the same as for any party, but no music, no laughter.
Nosy, I opened doors. The one nearest Weisinger’s room led to Flora’s, to judge by the furnishings and metaphysical reading matter. I never understood why it was that rich couples sometimes went in for separate bedrooms, even when they really liked each other.
Her closet was stuffed with dark clothing, all the cheerful print dresses and light colors shoved far to either side. Women wore dark things in the winter, but this was too much. There was an out of place-looking portable record player on a table by the bed. The only record on the spindle was Kemp’s “Gloomy Sunday.”
Enough already. I got out before I had another damn twinge.
One of the hall doors opened to a sizable linen cupboard. I stepped in and put on the light. With my vision the night is like day to me if there’s any kind of illumination, but not so much in interior rooms with no windows. This place reminded me of the hidden room under Escott’s kitchen where I slept while the sun was up. I took off my overcoat and hat, putting them out of sight in the back on an upper shelf. I wanted to be able to move around quick if required.
Sheets and towels filled other shelves, along with some white, filmy material that I figured out were spare curtains. When I was a kid my mom drafted me twice a year to help change the winter curtains to summer and back again. No matter that it was women’s work, I was the youngest and available.
I held the fabric up and it was just like what Mom used. In a lighted room you could see through it, but in a dark place with only a candle burning and imaginations at a fever pitch—yeah, I could make good use of it. The widest, longest piece folded up small, and I easily pushed it into the gap between my belt and shirt in the back.
But I wanted something more spectacular than a fun house spook. The items in Weisinger’s room would do it.
From his bureau I pocketed the hairbrush, a pipe, a comb, and some keys, and checked out a bottle of aftershave cologne. Aqua Velva was good enough for me, but rich guys had to be different. I shook some into my hands and gave myself a thorough slapping down, face, neck, hands, and lapels. Fortunately, it smelled pretty nice.
Downstairs, things suddenly went quiet. The séance must be starting.
No time for further refinements, I vanished and sank straight through the floor until I’d cleared its barrier and was sure it was now a ceiling. I hovered high, listening.
They sang “Happy Birthday.”
I could have done without that.
The mostly in-key singing ended, then a man gently urged, “Blow them out and make a wish for him, Flora.”
The soft applause that followed indicated success, then there was a general shuffling and scraping as they took seats. No one spoke, which was odd. People talked at parties.
Silence now, a long stretch of silence. I took the pause as an opportunity to explore the edges of the room. Certainly I bumped and brushed into people, and they’d shiver in reaction, because in this form I’d feel like a cold draft to them, but the silence held. Without much trouble I found a corner and determined this was where Abby hid herself. She was absent, so I gradually re-formed.
The Chinese screen—and I didn’t have much experience with them—was seven feet tall and wide enough to conceal a sizable serving area. When holding formal receptions, you didn’t have to see the servants messing with the dishes. There were spaces between the painted panels that I could peer through, though. Each sliver of space provided a different angle on things.
The large parlor was much bigger than. I expected. A long table was set up in the middle and seated eight to a side. Each chair had an occupant, and they were a motley group: some wore formal clothes, others were artistically Bohemian.
An older, more polished, more somber version of Abby sat at one end on the side opposite me: Flora Weisinger. Behind her was a framed portrait of a young man in his prime: her late husband. In front of her was a large birthday cake, its candles dead. She clutched a wadded handkerchief in one hand; in the other, pinched between thumb and forefinger and held up like an offering, was a gold ring. I could guess whose. Her posture was tense, expectant, her big dark gaze fixed on the tall man next to her.
At the head of the table, clearly in charge, stood Alistair Bradford, Having seen a few mediums in the course of my checkered life, I knew they ran to all types, from self-effacing, lace-clad ladies, to suave young lounge lizards with Vaseline-slicked hair. Bradford was lofty and distinguished, his own too-long hair swept back like that of an orchestra maestro. It suited his serious features. He was handsome, if you liked that brand of it, and his slate blue eyes did look piercing as they took in the disciples at the table.
“Now, dear friends,” he said in a startlingly soft, clear, beautiful voice, “please let us bow our heads in sincere prayer for a safe and enlightening spiritual journey on this very, very special night.”
Such was the influence of that surprising voice that I actually followed through with the rest of them. I had to shake myself and remember he’d violated a grave to get to that ring in Flora Weisinger’s fingers. The wave of disgust snapped me out of it. The next time he spoke, saying amen, I had my guard up.
Down the whole length of that big, bare table there were only two candles burning, leaving the rest of the room—to their eyes—dark. It was as good as daylight to me.
“And now I ask that everyone remain utterly quiet, and I will attempt to make contact,” he said, smiling warmly.
I expected them to hold hands, touch fingers, or something like that. So much for how things were done in the movies.
Bradford sat, composed himself with his palms flat on the table, and shut his eyes. He drew in a deep breath, audibly releasing it. In contrast, no one else seemed able to move or breathe. Flora looked at him with an intense and heartbreaking hope that was terrible to see.
His stertorous breathing gradually got louder. The man knew how to play things to raise the suspense.
And I knew how to bust it.
His noises got thicker with more throat behind them, so I could guess he was ready to turn it into a good long groan so Frere Leon could make his entrance.
I went invisible, floated until I was exactly behind his chair, went solid while crouched down, and drew a big breath of my own. During the brief silence between his puffings I cut loose with loudest, juiciest Bronx cheer I could manage, then vanished.
In a tense, emotion-charged room it had a predictable effect. I slipped behind the screen to watch.
His rhythm abruptly shattered, Bradford looked around in confusion, as did the others. Some seemed scandalized, a couple were amused, and one guy suggested that perhaps there was a playful spirit in the room already. A more practical man got up to check my corner, which was the only hiding place, and announced it to be empty.
A few of them noticed the cologne and mentioned it. Much to their delight, Flora finally confirmed that it was James’s scent hanging in the ai
r. She sounded awful. Bradford made no comment.
After some excited discussion that didn’t go anywhere, they settled down, and Bradford started his routine again. I watched and waited.
Frere Leon eventually began to speak through Bradford, and to give him credit, it was a damned well-done French accent. His voice was rougher, deeper in pitch, very effective in the dark.
I ventured forth again, keeping low while he gave them a weather report for the other side, and went solid just long enough to call out a handy bit of French I’d learned while on leave in Paris. The loose translation was How much for an hour of love, my little cabbage?
Or something like that; it had usually been enough to get my face slapped.
Then I clocked him sharp on the back of the noggin with the hairbrush, dropped it, and vanished.
I was back to the screen, going solid in time to see things fall apart. A few in the room had understood what I’d said and were either flabbergasted or trying not to laugh. Bradford’s trance was thoroughly broken; he launched from his chair to look behind it, startled as the rest. He remembered himself, though, and flopped down again, apparently in a state of collapse. They fussed over him, and the electric chandelier was switched on.
Somewhere in the middle of it Flora spotted the hairbrush. She screamed and sat down fast, sheet white and pointing to where it lay on the floor.
It took attention away from Bradford, and I was betting he was none too pleased. The knock he’d taken bothered him—his hand kept rubbing the spot—but I’d hit to hurt, not cause permanent damage. He’d earned it.
I kept myself out of sight for the duration, going solid in the next room over, which was empty. Vanishing took it out of me. I’d have to stop at the Stockyards before dawn for some blood or I’d feel like hell tomorrow night.
Some guy who seemed to be the one in charge of the Psychical Society was for canceling the sitting, but Bradford assured everyone that he was fine. Sometimes mischievous spirits delighted in disrupting things unless, of course, there was a more earthly explanation. With Flora’s permission the ground floor was searched for uninvited guests. I had to not be there for a few minutes but didn’t mind.
Elsewhere in the house, probably the distant kitchen, I heard strident voices denying any part of the business. Abby’s was in that chorus, her outrage genuine. Good girl.
This time it took longer for everyone to settle. Though the hour inched toward ten, none showed signs of being sleepy enough to leave. The entertainment was too interesting.
The hour struck and they assembled in the parlor again. On the long table fresh candles were substituted for the ones that had expired. The chandelier was switched off.
From my vantage point at the screen I tried to get a sense of Flora’s reaction to things. She had the silver-backed hairbrush square in front of her and kept looking at it. She had to be the gracious hostess, but her nerves were showing in the way she played with that handkerchief. She’d rip it apart before too long. As she took her seat again close to Bradford, she held the wedding ring out as before, but her fingers shook.
Third time’s the charm, I thought, and waited.
Bradford did his routine without a hitch, and before too long good old Frere Leon was back and in a thick accent offered them greetings and a warning against paying mind to dark spirits who could lead them astray from the True Path.
That’s what he called it. I just shook my head, assembling my borrowed weapons on the serving table, a napkin scrounged from a stack at one end to nix the noise.
Flora gave Frere Leon a formal greeting and asked if her husband was present.
“He is, ma petit. ’E shines like the sun and speaks of ’is love for you.”
She released a shaky sigh of relief and it sounded too much like a sob. “What else does he say? James? Are you sure? Tell me what to do!”
Bradford’s old monk tortured her a little longer, not answering. He said he could not hear well for the dark spirits trying to come between, then: “Ah! ’E is clear at last. ’E says ’is love is deep, and ’e wants you to be a’ppy on this plane. You are to open your ’eart to new love. Ah—the ’appiness that awaits you is great. ’E smiles! Such joy for you, sweet child, such joy!”
Flora shook her head a little. Some part of her must have known this was all wrong.
Time to confirm it.
I’d pulled out the curtain material and draped it over my head, tying one of the napkins kerchief-like around my neck to keep the stuff from slipping off. It looked phony as hell, I was sure, but in the darkness with this crowd it would lay ’em in the aisles.
Picking up Weisinger’s things, I eased from behind the screen. Everyone was looking at Bradford. He might have seen me in the shadows beyond the candle glow, but his eyes were shut.
Made to order, I thought, and accurately bounced the keys off his skull. It was a damned good throw, and I followed quickly with the other things. The comb landed square in the cake, the pipe skidded along the table and slid into Flora’s lap. She shrieked and jumped up.
If Frere Leon had a good entrance, that was nothing to compare to that of Jack Fleming, fake ghost-for-hire.
I vanished and reappeared but only just, holding to a mostly transparent state—standing smack-dab in the middle of the table. The top half of my body was visible, beautifully obscured by the pale curtain. The bottom half went right into the wood.
It didn’t feel good but was pretty spectacular. Their screaming helped.
With some effort I pressed forward, moving right through the table, candles and all, down its remaining length, working steadily toward Bradford. His eyes were now wide open, and it was a treat to see him shed the trance to see some real supernatural trouble. When I raised a pale, curtain-swathed hand to point at him, I thought he’d swallow his tongue.
Then I willed myself higher, rising until I was clear of the table and floating free. I made one swimming circuit of the room, then dove toward Bradford, letting myself go solid as I dropped.
I took in enough breath to fill the room with a wordless and hopefully terrifying bellow and hit him like bowling ball taking out one last stubborn pin. It was a nasty impact for us both, but I had the advantage of being able to vanish again. So far as I could tell he was sprawled flat and screaming with the rest.
Remaining invisible was uphill work for me now, but necessary. I clung close to Bradford so he could enjoy my unique kind of cold. I’d been told it was like death’s own breath from the Arctic. Through chattering teeth he babbled nonsense about dark spirits being gathered against him and that he had to leave before they manifested again. He got some argument and a suggestion they all pray to dispel the negative influences, but he was already barreling out the door.
I stuck with him until he got in his car, then slipped into the backseat and went solid. He screeched like a woman when I snaked one arm around his neck in a half-nelson. I’m damned strong. He couldn’t break free. When he stopped making noise, I noticed him staring at the rearview mirror. It was empty, of course.
Leaning in, my mouth close to his ear, in my best imitation of the Shadow, I whispered, “Game’s over, Svengali. Digging up that grave pissed off the wrong kind of things. We’re on to you and we’re hungry. You want to see another dawn?”
He whimpered, and the sound of his racing heart filled the car. I took that as a yes.
“Get out of town. Get out of the racket. Go back to the stage. Better a live magician than a dead medium. Got that? Got that?”
Not waiting for a reply, I vanished, exiting fast. He gunned the motor to life and shot away like Barney Oldfield looking to make a new speed record.
* * *
As the wrecked evening played itself out to the survivors in the parlor, I made it back to the linen closet, killed the light, and parked my duff on an overturned bucket to wait in the dark. I needed the rest.
The house grew quiet. The last guests departed with enough copy from tonight to fill their monthly pamphlets for year
s to come. Escort would have some interesting reading to share. I got the impression Flora was not planning another sitting, though a few people assured her that tonight’s events should be continued.
The residents finished and came upstairs one by one. Flora Weisinger went into James’s room and stayed there for a long time, crying. Abby found her, they talked in low voices for a time, and Flora cried some more. I wasn’t sorry. Better now than later, married to a leech. Apparently things worked out. The sisters emerged, each going to her own room. Some servant made a last round, checking the windows, then things fell silent.
I’d taken off the spook coverings, folding the curtain and napkin, slipping them in with similar ones on a shelf. Retrieving my coat and hat I was ready to make a quiet exit until catching the faint sound of “Gloomy Sunday” seeping through the walls.
Damn.
This night had been a flying rout for Bradford, but Flora was still stuck in her pit. She might dig it even deeper until it was a match for her husband’s grave.
Someone needed to talk sense into her. I felt the least qualified for the job, but soon as I recognized the music I got that twinge again.
I did my vanishing act and went across to Flora’s room.
The music grew louder as I floated toward it, just solid enough to check the lay of the land. The lights were out, only a little glow from around her heavy curtains, enough to navigate and not be seen.
Quick as I could I re-formed, flicked the phonograph’s needle arm clear, and pulled out the record. It made a hell of a crunch when I broke it to pieces.
There was a feminine gasp from the bed, and she fumbled the light on. By then I was gone, but sensed her coming over. Another gasp, then—
“James?” Her voice quavered with that heartbreaking hope, now tinged with anguish. “James? Oh, please, darling, talk to me. I know you’re here.”