The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  “I’m happy enough with this one. I wouldn’t want to make us late.”

  “Nonsense,” Adelaide said. “Dr. Brody is sending a carriage for us, and the driver will wait. I know just where the ribbon is. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  Eleanor watched the pair with amazement. If someone had told her the week before that Adelaide would be so accommodating towards a shop girl (or to anyone for that matter), she wouldn’t have believed them. Miracles never cease. Leaning towards Beatrice she lowered her voice and said, “If you’re doing this just to impress her, please know you don’t have to.”

  “No, I want to,” Beatrice insisted. “I’d like to hear what Dr. Brody has to say.”

  “All right then,” Eleanor replied, “but don’t let her bully you into anything.”

  Taking her witch’s pouch from her pocket, Beatrice dangled it in the air. “No worries,” she said. “I’m prepared.”

  Perdu squawked from his perch near the window. A carriage had stopped in front of the door. Its driver sat hunched, hat tipped, collar turned against the rain.

  “I believe that’s us,” Adelaide said, as she came back down the stairs brandishing the ribbon. Taking Beatrice’s arm, she said, “We’ll change it on the way.”

  “Take care,” Eleanor said, giving Beatrice a little wave. Staring at Adelaide she added, “Be good.”

  “Be good,” said Perdu, his eye on something no one else could see.

  The aura of a medium which thus enables an immortal spirit to do within its scope things which it cannot do otherwise, appears to vary with the human being resorted to; so that only a few are so endowed with this aura as to be competent as media. Moreover, in those who are so constituted as to be competent instruments of spiritual actuation, this competency is various. There is a gradation of competency, by which the nature of the instrumentality varies from that which empowers violent loud knocking and the moving of ponderable bodies without actual contact, to the grade which confers power to make intellectual communication of the higher order without that of audible knocking. Further, the power to employ these grades of mediumship varies as the sphere of the spirit varies.

  —Professor Robert Hare, Experimental Investigation of the Spirit Manifestations

  Study.

  DR. BRODY WATCHED the skies as he waited for Adelaide and Beatrice to arrive. He’d thought he might escort the women on a walk if the weather had been agreeable, but he was glad he’d chosen to send a carriage instead, since it seemed yet another deluge was threatening to pour forth from the slate-coloured sky.

  On this particularly dreary Saturday, the sidewalk in front of Dr. Brody’s house was mostly bare, the traffic on the street slow. Even the smoke coming from the chimney pots along the rooftops seemed to be dragging its heels, eking its way into the sky in stubborn, reluctant puffs. A few sleepy-faced gentlemen strolled past, clearly on their way home after spending the night down on Sisters’ Row. The exclusive bordellos were situated on the other side of the street in seven adjacent townhouses, each one managed by a different sister from the same family. Descended from prominent New England stock, they required all of their gentlemen callers to wear formal evening attire and come bearing chocolates and flowers. The eldest sister, Miss Julia Hapgood, had knocked on Quinn’s door from time to time to deliver engraved invitations for their private parties. EVENING DRESS. INVITATION ONLY. ALL PROCEEDS GOING TO THE ORPHANED CHILDREN’S FUND. Although he’d never set foot in any of their houses, he respected the sisters’ attention to detail and discipline. Theirs were the loveliest-looking houses on the street by far.

  In an effort to put his own house in order, Dr. Brody had asked Mrs. Stutt to sort out the rooms he thought the ladies might see during their visit (the front foyer, the study, the downstairs water closet). For his part, he’d gone to the florist in search of something to brighten the house and walked away with a gaudy bouquet of chrysanthemums, marigolds and carnations in shades of yellow, orange and pink. On his way home he’d crossed paths with a desperate-looking flower girl at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, and had purchased the last blossoms from her basket—six wilted roses in a striking scarlet—in hopes that the poor child could get off the streets for the day. Once home, he’d inserted the roses one by one into the florist’s arrangement, battling their urge to droop by propping their heads on the sturdier stems. The scarlet of the blooms reminded him of the suit Miss Thom had worn when they’d first met. She, like the colour of the roses, was not for the faint of heart. Although they’d only crossed paths twice, she had already proved herself to be a woman of rare intelligence and wit. And, he had to admit, incredibly alluring—from her delicate hands to her soulful gaze, from her pouty lips to the unabashed way she spoke her mind.

  “Dr. Brody,” Mrs. Stutt said, entering the study. “Would you like me to prepare tea now, or wait until your guests arrive?”

  “Let’s wait,” the doctor answered, half lost in his thoughts.

  “And will you be wanting luncheon as well?”

  He pondered the housekeeper’s question, wishing he’d thought of it himself. If the meeting went as he hoped, then his guests might well be in need of refreshment. “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Where will it be served?” Against her wishes, he’d asked her to leave the dining room in its perpetual state of messiness. He hadn’t the heart to remove his father’s experiments from the table just yet.

  “If it comes to that, we’ll take lunch in the study,” Dr. Brody replied.

  “And will it?” Mrs. Stutt pressed.

  “I suppose it might.”

  “I’ll assume it will.”

  “Very well then,” Dr. Brody said, checking his watch for the time.

  Mrs. Stutt cocked her head in thought. “It’s two for tea?” she asked, as if she’d forgotten.

  “Two,” Dr. Brody answered with a nod.

  “Two, besides you, correct?”

  “Yes. Three altogether.”

  “Two gents, two ladies, or one of each?” Mrs. Stutt fished.

  “Two ladies,” Dr. Brody answered, wondering what the word for “subtle” was in the German language. His housekeeper wasn’t. “Miss Thom, who you’ve already met, and her companion, Miss Dunn.”

  Plucking a bruised petal off one of the roses before it could fall, Mrs. Stutt grumbled, “Miss Thom.”

  “Is there anything else?” Dr. Brody asked, feeling as if he’d already provided her with more than enough information.

  “Nein,” Mrs. Stutt said, stuffing the rose petal into her pocket. “Just ring when you’d like your tea.”

  When the carriage arrived, Dr. Brody went out to meet his guests at the curb. Umbrella in hand, he greeted them both then ushered Adelaide and Beatrice up the steps and into the house.

  Once they were in the study, Beatrice found it difficult to know where to look first. Every book and object that lined the shelves was of immense interest. It was all she could do not to pick each one up for closer inspection. When she came across an old bottle with a scroll of paper inside, she paused to peer at it. Covered in dust and sealed with wax, the bottle looked as though it might’ve been used to conceal a pirate’s treasure map. As she reached to touch it, the scroll began to spin. When she withdrew her hand, the scroll went still. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure neither Adelaide nor the doctor had noticed, she decided she’d better leave well enough alone for now.

  Dr. Brody was seated at his desk on the other side of the room, arranging pen and paper. Meeting Beatrice’s eyes, he tried a little small talk. “Miss Thom says you’re new to the city?”

  Adelaide, who was gracefully reclining on a nearby couch, gave Beatrice a supportive smile.

  “Yes and no,” Beatrice answered. “I spent much of my youth in Stony Point, but made occasional trips to Manhattan with my aunt. This is the first time that I’ve chosen to stay.”

  “I thought we might begin with a few questions,” Dr. Brody said, picking up his pen.

 
“Should I sit or stand?” Beatrice asked, her mouth suddenly dry.

  “Whichever you find most comfortable,” Adelaide offered.

  “Yes, of course,” Dr. Brody agreed. “Do as you please.”

  “Then I’d just as soon stand. If you don’t mind.” She preferred to stay where she was, near the bookshelves, comforted by the musty scent of old books and leather bindings.

  “Why don’t we start with something simple,” Dr. Brody suggested. “If you wouldn’t mind, please state your age.”

  “Seventeen,” Beatrice replied, gazing at the gilding that graced the books’ spines.

  “Place of birth?”

  “Albany, New York.”

  “Have you suffered any grave illnesses in your lifetime?”

  “No.”

  “Any mental deficiencies diagnosed in yourself or your family?”

  “No, and not that I know of.”

  “Any tragedies or traumas to yourself or those close to you? Accidents? Fire? Thievery? Near drownings or the like?”

  Beatrice thought of her mother and father, pale and sickly, lying in their beds as she stood in the doorway with tears streaming down her face. Where had her parents’ spirits gone after they’d passed? Why hadn’t they appeared to her yet? Was there any chance she’d see them again? “My parents died when I was ten.”

  “What caused their passing?”

  “Smallpox.”

  “Is that when you started encountering spirits?”

  “No, not then.”

  “You had no visions of your parents, heard no voices after their deaths?”

  Beatrice shook her head.

  “When did you have your first experience with the spirit world?”

  “A little over a week ago—the day I arrived in New York.”

  “The day you communicated with Mrs. Dashley’s deceased son?”

  “No, I saw a different ghost the day before Billy appeared, a woman dressed in Gypsy garb. She was sitting at a table in the back of the teashop.”

  A chill went up Adelaide’s spine.

  “She seemed quite real to me at first, but then I saw she wasn’t made of flesh. She turned into a ghoulish spectre right before my eyes. I thought she meant to kill me.”

  Head down, Dr. Brody penned line after line. “Did you believe in ghosts before that day?”

  “I suppose I did,” Beatrice said, pulling a book from the shelf. Experimental Investigation of the Spirit Manifestations. “At least I hoped they were real.”

  “Had you ever tried to communicate with spirits, say, through pendulum or planchette?”

  “No, I’ve never done anything like that.”

  “Ever attend a table-tipping or séance?”

  “No.”

  “Ever heard knockings or rappings that might be construed as ghostly transmissions?”

  “No,” Beatrice said, “but I know Mr. Morse’s code for communicating by telegraph.”

  “How resourceful!” Dr. Brody said with a chuckle. “May I ask how you came to learn it?”

  Thumbing through the book’s pages Beatrice replied, “I’m self-taught. I thought I might find employment as a telegrapher, but Miss St. Clair and Miss Thom took me on, so I didn’t pursue it.”

  Adelaide gave the girl an encouraging nod.

  “How many times have you made contact with a spirit?”

  “Just twice,” Beatrice answered, careful not to mention the dumb supper. Closing her eyes, she hoped he wouldn’t press further. She’d never been good at lying.

  “And how did the spirits make contact with you?”

  “Mostly through my mind.”

  “In a familiar language, I take it?”

  “Yes, although it was more thought than conversation. As if a sense of knowing suddenly sprang up between me and them.”

  After a few minutes of hasty scribbling, Dr. Brody laid down his pen. “Thank you, Miss Dunn, this has been most enlightening.”

  “Are we finished?” she asked, still clutching the book.

  “Not quite,” he answered. “I was hoping you might be willing to submit to a test using the spiritoscope?”

  Beatrice looked at Adelaide.

  “It’s the device I mentioned to you,” Adelaide said. “It translates messages as they pass from a spirit through your hands. You’ll be acting much like a telegraph operator does when she sends messages over the wires.”

  Reassured, Beatrice turned to Dr. Brody. “Do you have a particular ghost you wish to contact?”

  Thinking of his father, the doctor glanced towards the bottle on the shelf. He’d fetched it from the attic earlier that morning. He’d purposely not mentioned it to Adelaide so there’d be no chance she could tell Beatrice what it was (either on purpose or by mistake). “I’d rather not say,” Dr. Brody replied. “I wouldn’t want to taint the experiment with my expectations.”

  Adelaide went to the spiritoscope, pulled out the chair behind it and gently urged Beatrice to sit. “I imagine you’ll find it a more reliable and pleasant form of communication with the spirit world than you’ve experienced thus far. If it doesn’t feel right, then just say the word. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “All right,” Beatrice said. “I’ll try.”

  Once she was comfortably seated, Dr. Brody explained the procedure she was to follow while using the machine. “Place your fingertips ever so lightly on the transmitter board and wait for a spirit to guide your hands. You’ll be blindfolded for the duration of the test so as to lessen any chance of distraction. I ask that you not speak while the test is in progress, unless you feel it’s absolutely necessary. Miss Thom and I will be nearby, recording any activity on the dial, and observing your progress.”

  Adelaide placed a reassuring hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Beatrice said with a smile.

  “Are you ready, then?” Dr. Brody asked, holding a silk scarf in his hands.

  Beatrice nodded.

  After securing the scarf over Beatrice’s eyes, Dr. Brody motioned for Adelaide to sit at his desk. “If you’d be so kind, I’d like you to record whatever the needle dictates so I can be free to observe both the machine and Miss Dunn.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Adelaide said, settling behind the desk.

  “Miss Dunn,” Dr. Brody said, “please place your hands on the board.”

  Beatrice nodded. No sooner had her fingertips touched the wood than she felt a ghostly pair of hands gently come to rest on hers. Although she was blindfolded, she could see the hands in her mind’s eye—spotted, wrinkled, twisted by time, unmistakably masculine. Any fear she had was soon replaced by an overwhelming sense of wonder. With a gentle push, the board began to glide and move across the table.

  I A-M T-O-B-I-A-S B-R-O-D-Y.

  I T-E-L-L N-O L-I-E-S.

  I B-R-I-N-G Y-O-U A M-E-S-S-A-G-E F-R-O-M T-H-E O-T-H-E-R S-I-D-E.

  As the needle nervously edged around the dial, it paused and hovered over each letter Mr. Brody’s spirit wished to indicate.

  Dr. Brody shook his head in disbelief.

  Adelaide did her best to keep her amazement in check as she faithfully transcribed each letter of the message.

  Beatrice swayed forward and back with the board’s movement, as if she were a child on a swing, being pushed ever higher into the air.

  W-H-A-T Y-O-U S-E-E-K

  Y-O-U S-H-A-L-L F-I-N-D

  I-F Y-O-U U-S-E Y-O-U-R W-I-T.

  E-V-E-R-Y P-R-O-B-L-E-M

  C-A-N B-E S-O-L-V-E-D

  I-F Y-O-U D-W-E-L-L W-I-T-H-I-N I-T.

  After several minutes of this ethereal push and pull, Beatrice felt the spirit’s hands come to a stop. “Is that all you wish to say?” she whispered under her breath, waiting for the ghost to respond.

  Y-E-S, the spirit replied before leaving the needle to rest on the phrase “MUST GO.”

  With that, Mr. Brody’s bottle tumbled from the shelf and shattered on the floor.

  Plucking the scroll from th
e broken glass, Dr. Brody pulled loose the ribbon with his teeth and broke the wax seal. “The messages are the same,” he said, clutching the paper like a prize. “Word for word.”

  Adelaide rushed to his side to see for herself.

  Beatrice was still seated at the spiritoscope. As she listened to their exclamations of wonder, she felt another presence draw near. A second pair of hands placed themselves on hers—feminine and familiar, thumbnails marked by little moons, a wedding band shining on a ring finger. The board tentatively danced and floated beneath their touch, a mother guiding her daughter in a message that was long overdue.

  Sadly, no one saw it.

  HOW a WITCH SAVED our DREAMS

  Long ago, the First Witch came face to face with a Demon who meant to do the World great harm. This Demon, whose name we shall not mention (because to do so would cause him to feel flattered and smug), wished to rid the World of all dreams, good and bad. He knew, as all witches know, that dreams are the surest way for beings of flesh and blood to discover the Mysteries of Life. This knowledge made him terribly jealous, because Demons cannot dream.

  The Demon was further upset, in his boorish way, over the way dreams provide hope to people in troubled times. (Something else that Demons cannot abide.)

  To destroy this precious boon of mankind, the Demon knew he would need to rid the World of the source of all dreams—a race of otherworldly beings whose sole responsibility is to make and deliver dreams to humans as they sleep. Throughout the ages they have been called by various names—angels, memunim, oneiroi, sandmen, Dearlies—but their true name is known only to themselves, a precious secret keenly guarded and strictly kept, for if a human were to utter it, they would never be allowed to dream again. (Perhaps you might be tempted to cry, “How sad, how unjust, how unfair!” but I beg you to hold your tongue. It is the prerogative of the Fay to do as they see fit. If there were no consequences for mis-behaviour in our dealings with them, there could be no magic between us. We witches do not question their punishments, so long as they do not question our curses.)

  The Demon, wishing to discover the Dearlies’ secret name, hid in the branches of a Hemlock tree on the edge of their sacred grove at Twilight on the night of their Great Gathering. What he didn’t know was that the First Witch had also come to the outskirts of the grove, her ears plugged with cotton flowers and dandelion fluff. She’d come there to leave an offering of thanks for the Dearlies, a few trinkets she’d gathered together in hopes of adding to their delight—a thimble filled with salt, nine buttons made from brass, a spool of silver thread, and a needle dipped in gold.