by Ami McKay
“Like what?” Beatrice had asked, intrigued, but also frightened.
“There are incantations, charms and spells in the grimoire. Look them up. Learn them well. There are even a few potions for pests of flesh and blood, but remember, no matter what magic you choose to practice, the most effective way to deter any being from your presence, ghostly or otherwise, is to let them know who you are.”
“What do they care?” Beatrice had asked, puzzled by the notion. “Who am I to them?”
At that point, Adelaide had sauntered over from her table in the back of the shop. “You are Beatrice Dunn,” she’d said. “You’re a witch. You’re not to be trifled with.” At least she and Eleanor had seen eye to eye on that.
She was glad for their advice, especially since tomorrow she’d be retuning to the hotel to assist Dr. Brody with his evening lecture for the Unknown Philosophers’ Symposium, “Communication with the Afterlife: a Scientific Approach.” The plan was for Dr. Brody to inform the audience of his research and for her to demonstrate the spiritoscope (hopefully with the scrubber girls’ cooperation). The latter seemed quite possible now that the maids had become more docile and predictable in their communications.
The change in them had come about after Mrs. Stevens had hired a stone carver to go to the cemetery and make things right on Mary Donnelly’s tombstone. “Thank heavens,” Mrs. Stevens had exclaimed upon hearing news of the ghosts’ new-found spirit of cooperation. “And thank heavens for men who think more of my money than of archaic rules about who should be buried where.”
To show their appreciation, the Marys had ushered Mr. Paran Stevens’ ghost into the salon to deliver a message to his wife.
T-H-E-R-E I-S N-O O-N-E S-O D-E-A-R A-S M-Y D-A-R-L-I-N-G M-A-R-I-E-T-T-A.
The spiritoscope had stayed put there since Beatrice’s first encounter with the maids. Adelaide had escorted her each day to the hotel to meet with Dr. Brody, the trio working diligently to document Beatrice’s connection with spirit. Several tests had been conducted, with the spiritoscope and without, and the results of their efforts had been quite encouraging.
Impressed with their efforts (and her husband’s recent communication), Mrs. Stevens had insisted on providing them with whatever they needed to further the work. She sent delicious meals from the kitchens: roast chicken with pearl onions in cream sauce, leg of lamb with honeyed carrots and mint jelly. A porter was placed on call to cater to their every request; and, after Marietta had conducted a lengthy consultation with Adelaide, a gorgeous gown was brought to the room for Beatrice to try on. The latter had come shortly after Adelaide had suggested to Beatrice that she might wish to perform under an alias, at least for this particular engagement. “Something to pique the audience’s interest. Something exotic and alluring.” Although Beatrice hadn’t cared much about being seen as exotic or alluring, she’d thought the idea practical, as it would preserve her true identity and eliminate the chance that word of her performance would get back to Stony Point. In the end they’d settled on the Egyptian Sibyl, in honour of her brief encounter with the Great Obelisk.
The gown was a beautiful creation made of layer upon layer of black crepe de chine, decorated top to bottom with gold embroidery depicting various Egyptian figures and glyphs. It came with a matching headdress bearing sphinx-like sidepieces striped in black and gold. The costume had once been worn by Mrs. Stevens’ daughter, Minnie, who’d attended the Delmonico fancy dress ball of 1875 as Cleopatra. “Are you sure she won’t mind?” Beatrice had asked, worried something awful might happen to the dress while she was wearing it. “Heavens no,” Marietta had answered. “Now that she’s become Lady Paget and moved to Belgrave Square, her ball gowns all come from Paris, encrusted with gems and jewels.”
Detecting a hint of sadness in Mrs. Stevens’ voice, Beatrice had gratefully accepted the woman’s kind offer, but insisted the dress stay at the hotel for safekeeping until the night of the symposium.
Under Adelaide’s direction, the evening was shaping up to be more spectacle than demonstration. She’d been especially excited when she’d discovered that the symposium was to fall on the same date as the Masons’ parade, figuring it might well boost the size of their audience. “If all goes well,” she’d enthused, “who knows what might come next?”
—
That was the question on Beatrice’s mind as she watched the fire spark and crack. Like the stray bursts of flame that occasionally sprang forth from the dying embers, odd surges of magic had been occurring now and again in her daily life. Along with her encounters with spirits, other strange things had happened, some of her own making, some completely unexpected. She’d managed to execute a number of simple spells from Eleanor’s grimoire—making a candle’s flame increase or diminish with her mind, calling creatures to her side as she sat on a bench in the park (birds, bees, the odd squirrel, a stray dog), willing Perdu to say specific words without her speaking them aloud—but she’d also woken up in the middle of the night speaking a second language as if it were her mother tongue. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard, and although the meanings hadn’t stuck in her mind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that one day, with a bit of patience, they would.
She’d written a few of the words on scraps of paper, spelling them as they had sounded. Then she’d pinned them to the wall alongside several newspaper clippings she’d collected since she’d arrived in the city. Like her room in Stony Point, the walls of her garret had quickly become papered with strange and curious ephemera.
Haunted by Dead Wife: Husband Dies of Shock after the Ghost’s Visits. A House to Let.
Faith in Ghosts: Mrs. Stymus Sues Mr. Howell for the Rent of her Haunted House.
Is it a Resort for Ghosts? Some Things That Have Excited the Residents of a Staten Island Village.
Woman Accuses Neighbour of Witchcraft.
The Brooklyn Ghost—The Proprietor of the Ghostelrey Determines That it is Old Nick.
Mrs. Lahey’s Dreams of a Stranger’s Death. Her Premonitions Are Proved True.
A Considerate Ghost Throws Stones About a House for a Year but Injures No One.
Children Witness Their Delancey Street Teacher Face her Doppelgänger at School.
Sorting through the stories day after day, she’d begun to wonder if she should do more than just collect them, but investigate their meaning. Perhaps one day she’d make a Census of Astonishments, much like Mr. Pratchett’s Compendium of Miracles.
Gazing into the fire, she held that thought in her mind, not as a question but as a desire. Such things would have to wait, though. She’d have to get through tomorrow first. She could hardly believe the symposium was only one sleep away. Eyes heavy, she watched the fire’s flames undulate amongst the hot embers in waves of blue, orange and gold. Perhaps she was too tired for her scrying to prove fruitful tonight.
Just as she was about to shut the door on the stove, the coals shifted and hissed. From between them, a glowing face looked out, more beast than man. It wore a twisted smirk, its lips ragged at the edges.
“Who are you?” Beatrice asked in a frightened whisper.
Staring at her, the beast refused to answer.
“Be gone!” she ordered, thrusting an iron poker into the stove to stir the coals.
With a burst of sparks the fire surged, and the face disappeared.
God is therefore pleased to suffer Devils sometimes to do such things in the World as shall test the mettle of His followers. Evil is therefore placed in the paths of the faithful so that we might overcome it. It is to His glory that these Devils be cast out by the hands of the righteous.
—from An Attempt to Cure Witchcraft: The Story of Mercy Wylde
The Devils Also Believe and Tremble.
THREE PROSTITUTES IN frilly skirts stood under a street lamp near Madison Square Park. Teasing each other and every man who walked by, the trio traded puffs on a cigarillo and passed a half-empty bottle of schnapps hand to hand to hand. Their reedy laughter bounced off the bric
k buildings behind them while the tacky remains of stale beer stuck to the sidewalk beneath their boots.
A few feet away, a gang of guttersnipes occupied themselves with tossing dice against the curb.
“Double sixes!” one boy exclaimed, bull’s eye lantern dangling from his grimy hand.
“Again?” another boy groused.
“Them dice is for sure loaded,” a third complained.
The youngest whore, Jenny Greene, rubbed the rabbit’s foot that was hanging around her neck, then stuck her hand in her pocket and counted the coins sunk deep within it. Ten quarters, six dimes and an assortment of nickels and pennies. It’d been a good night so far, but ooh-boy that bottle of schnapps was almost empty and she sure could use more booze.
“Hey there, sweetie-pie,” she called to one of the boys, “if you fetch me a growler, I’ll let you keep the change.” Even if he made off with what she gave him, or drank down half the bottle before handing it over, she still wouldn’t have lost as much as she stood to lose by missing out on the next john if she went for the booze herself. She was next in the pecking order. It was her turn to score. She considered herself quite smart when it came to the arithmetic of want.
“Shut your trap, you dirty slut,” the boy hollered as his gang mates showered him with elbow jabs and guffaws.
“Stubby-fingered little pecker,” Jenny grumbled, flicking a stone to the street with the toe of her boot. Once upon a time, any beast with a cock between its legs—man, boy, dog, horse—would prance at her slightest look. With a haughty shrug and a fuck-you chin, she withdrew her offer. These boys were uppity. The boys downtown might be rougher around the edges, but at least they understood the value of tit for tat.
Jenny usually spent her evenings trolling for johns by the docks on the East River, but she’d heard from a reliable source that the saloons surrounding the square would be crawling with out-of-town gentlemen who were there to march in a big parade in honour of a new monument or statue or some such nonsense. So many things got “erected” these days—bronze giants with wreaths on their heads, tall steeples on stone churches, towering buildings with flags flying at attention on sturdy poles. How could she be expected to keep track of it all? She didn’t give a hang why the men were coming, only that their pockets would be jangling with silver and their heads muddled with drink. Tying her lucky rabbit’s foot around her neck, she’d convened a meeting with the two other girls who boarded in the house where she lived to see if they might be interested in trying their luck at the park.
“Who’s up for cruising Madison Square?” she’d asked. “I heard tell the place will be crawling with johns.”
“I’m in,” Elsie Trew had replied while cleaning her teeth with an orange stick.
“Me too,” Mae Blum had chimed in, pinning her hat atop her head.
When Jenny had first met them, she’d thought the two were sisters. In low light, they could easily be mistaken for twins. “We get that a lot,” they’d confessed. “And we don’t mind it a bit. It has its advantages in certain situations.” They weren’t exactly fast friends of Jenny’s, but more friendly competitors who were willing to loan her a couple of dollars when she was short on rent. In fact, she was currently in debt to Elsie, and she hoped that by inviting her along for the evening some of what she owed might be forgiven. She’d grown tired of the way the girl stared at her during suppers at the boarding house, as if every morsel she put in her mouth had been stolen off someone else’s plate. She’d also figured if there were as many men around the park as she’d been told there’d be, she wouldn’t be out anything by having them come along. (She certainly couldn’t service them all, now could she?) Besides, there was safety in numbers. It’d be a mighty long trek back to the boarding house if she had to walk alone.
Swigging the last of the schnapps from the bottle, Jenny spotted a gentleman walking towards them. Sizing him up, she announced to her companions, “He’s mine.”
“I say we let the gent choose for himself,” Mae announced.
“I thought we agreed to take turns.”
Elsie shook her head. “And I thought you were good for your rent money, but seeing as how it’s getting late and you still haven’t made right on your debt, I’d say he’s fair game.”
Jenny didn’t want to bicker. She guessed if the man heard them arguing, he’d just as soon move along. He was only a few blocks from the Tenderloin where he could get anything he wanted. She had to seem easy, right and ready, if she wanted him to bite.
Squinting in the man’s direction Mae sneered, “He looks like a preacher.”
“How can you tell?” Jenny asked.
“The wide-brimmed hat, the long frock coat, the cross hanging around his neck, the arrogant, uptight gait.”
Elsie gave an indifferent shrug. “You can have him, then.”
Mae smiled and teased: “I’d like to see her try.”
Spurred by the dare, Jenny pulled up the hem of her skirts to reveal a good portion of her leg as the man drew near. “A quarter for a suck, two for a fuck,” she teased. Why should she be coy? Preachers had cocks too.
The man stopped in front of her.
Sidling closer, Jenny flashed a flirtatious smile, working hard to turn his disdain to desire. She’d fried much bigger fish when she was still a child. Back then, she’d had a place in a house that specialized in providing “fresh maids” for its clients, and her favourite caller had been a young priest named Father Whitby. He’d especially liked it when she’d fluttered her lashes and said, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” She’d especially liked it when he’d called her his angel and referred to her quim as his “holy vessel.” Those were the days! Too bad the woman who ran the place had decided it was time for her to move on. She missed the wine that’d flowed freely there and the feather bed where she’d slept each night. Perhaps if this gent was truly a man of God he’d pity her enough to take her home with him. Perhaps he had a feather bed just waiting for her to slink between its covers. Rubbing her shoulder against his she whispered, “It won’t take long. You’ll be glad for it, I promise.”
With a nod he grabbed Jenny by the arm and led her down the street. The large silver cross fastened at his collar glinted in the lamplight.
“You like it rough?” Jenny asked. She wasn’t averse to a spanking now and then, but he’d have to pay extra if he wanted it like that. “I’ll let you leave a mark for a dollar, so long as it’s below the neck.” For two, he could have someone else watch, so long as they didn’t touch her. For three they could both have a turn. For five, she’d take it in the ass, but she made a point of never offering that up front. The man had to ask. She’d once been told by a very wise whore (who also happened to be her mother), everything has a price.
Looking over his shoulder, the man pushed Jenny into a dark alley. Tossing a silver dollar to the grimy cobblestones he said, “Pick it up.”
She did as she was told, then shoved the coin between her breasts. Back turned, she stroked her rabbit’s foot three times for luck.
Arms folded, the man stared at her, waiting.
Spotting a low stack of wooden crates, Jenny bent over them, bracing herself with one hand while pulling her skirts up with the other. In her experience, men who didn’t talk much didn’t have a sense of humour, didn’t want the trouble of kissing, didn’t wish to see her face when they fucked. That was fine by her—she’d already gotten paid.
As she waited for the sudden thrust of his cock, she could hear his ragged, excited breathing behind her. Suddenly, she felt his hand take hold of the hair at the back of her neck. Before she could sense anything was wrong or let out a scream, a blade slashed across her throat. Falling to the ground, she reached for the hem of his coat. With the shudder of her last breath she heard him say, “Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the Devil and his angels.”
—
Watching the life fade from the whore’s face Reverend Townsend thought he might weep for joy.<
br />
He’d gone to the park to get some fresh air and to search for whatever foul presences might be lurking about. He’d prayed to the Lord that he might be allowed to see things more clearly, be shown the working of devils, bold and unabashed, and it seemed his prayers had been heard and answered. Sinners, devils, witches walked the crowded streets everywhere he went.
He’d been tempted (ever so briefly) by the whore’s pale skin and rouged lips, but after he’d kissed his cross and recited a psalm, he’d seen her for what she was, eyes flashing with brimstone, lips wet and thirsting for blood, cloven hooves peeking out from under her skirts. What else could he have done but put the malignant wretch to rest?
God was testing him. Waiting for him to prove his worth. One day soon he, too, might be tasked to save a soul in the form of his own Mercy Wylde.
The Final Fitting.
BEATRICE WAS STANDING, dressed in Minnie Stevens’ ball gown, on a low wooden stool in the middle of Judith Dashley’s suite. She held her body still and straight while a nimble-fingered seamstress circled her, pins stuck in a cushion strapped to her wrist, a half-dozen more pinched between her lips. Although Beatrice appreciated the woman’s efforts, she wished she’d finish the job so she could be free to go downstairs to the hotel lobby and take in the lectures and displays on offer at the symposium.
Earlier that morning, Alden Dashley had delivered a stack of programmes to the teashop and it hadn’t taken Beatrice long to find several things that piqued her interest. Pencil in hand, she’d starred the items that most appealed to her—a lecture titled “Women as Inventors”; a presentation by a group called the Followers of the Obelisk; and a travelling bookseller touting an outstanding selection of antiquarian tomes dealing with the occult. Eleanor had chosen to stay behind and mind the shop. Adelaide was taking care of any and all last-minute preparations for their evening presentation. Beatrice had agreed to meet her at the base of Lady Liberty’s torch at three o’clock so they could distribute notices for the lecture to interested bystanders who were waiting for the Masons’ grand parade. Until then, she was free to do as she pleased, so long as Judith approved of the dress’s fit.
