Society for Paranormals

by Vered Ehsani

  “I’m quite all right, thank you just the same,” I said. Immediately my body made a liar of me, for I swayed slightly. “Just a bit fatigued,” I amended.

  Mr. Timmons nodded, his unruly hair fluttering about his shoulders, his sharp, grey eyes still unreadable to me. “Be careful.”

  “I usually am,” I murmured, wondering if that was still true when it came to him.

  Mr. Timmons snorted as he mounted his horse. “Your version of careful is another person’s reckless,” he said, a smile softening the tartness of his words.

  Jonas appeared at my side as I watched my two friends leave.

  “You trust him?” Jonas demanded in that very direct way he had around me that the Stewards never experienced.

  “Absolutely not,” I said.

  Jonas nodded his head approvingly and tugged Nelly out of the obliterated carnation bed.

  Wearily, I entered the house and knew instantly that Lilly was free of possession; Mrs. Cricket didn’t strike me as the type to obsess over the color of the flower arrangements.

  “What do you think I should do, Bee?” Lilly gushed the moment I stepped through the door. “I’m desperate for white petals and this horrible place hasn’t any to spare.”

  Mrs. Steward attempted to soothe her distraught daughter while I gazed out the window. In a glance, I observed that the wild patch that passed for our garden was bursting with a wide assortment of colors gracing trees and shrubs, but white was indeed absent.

  “Why not use red then?” I asked.

  “Oh Bee, you are impossible,” Lilly snapped while stamping a foot. “I need white to match my dress and the vest Mr. Elkhart will wear. And white is such a lovely contrast to his tanned skin, so we can’t change that.”

  “No, I dare say it would be a tricky business altering his skin color,” I remarked, marveling yet again how anyone could mistake naturally browned skin for a tan and wondering not for the first time at Mr. Elkhart’s bridal choice.

  I retired to my room where I remained for the afternoon. I only exited for supper, during which Bobby disgusted his family with a vivid description of a maggot-infested African Kite he’d found behind the barn.

  Night descended in its abrupt fashion, with very little after-glow once the sun had set. The darkness filled with chirps and squeaks, nothing more alarming than a cricket. I sat in bed, writing in my journal, my eyelids heavy but my mind heavier with the thoughts of the day and the question of how to bind Mrs. Cricket before she completed her plans.

  I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until I jerked awake, my quill scratching hideously across the page as my hand twitched. The candle was considerably reduced, with a puddle of solidifying wax indicating that a few hours had passed. I prepared to lie down properly and sleep when something squeaked.

  It wasn’t a cricket.

  Straightening up, I stilled my breath in time to hear a door softly shut. It was the kitchen door that led outside.

  I was up and swinging my overcoat and walking stick into my arms before I could wonder if someone was going out or coming in. I tugged on slippers while gently easing my own door open.

  I briefly wondered if this would be considered careful or reckless by Mr. Timmons. At least I wasn’t charging outside. Yet.

  Peering about, I verified the corridor and living room were devoid of any visible or audible life, normal or otherwise. Even the cricket had retired.

  With a stub of candle in one hand and walking stick in the other, I tiptoed toward the kitchen. Nothing more substantial than shadows obstructed my way and in less than a moment I was inside the small room. Without the cooking fire in the stove and Jonas’ running commentary about horrible English food, the kitchen seemed a barren little place. I stared out the window and saw Lilly walking along the path to the outhouse.

  I relaxed and decided that since I was up, I might as well use the facilities as well. Leaving the candle in the kitchen, I stepped outside and tightened my coat’s belt against the brisk breeze. Once the sun set, it was surprisingly cool in contrast to the heat of the day and the warmth of my cozy bed.

  The large tree in the courtyard was full of dangerous possibilities for assailants to hide in its shadows. But tonight, the branches scratched and rustled harmlessly against each other.

  As was my habit, I studied the environs while waiting for Lilly, seeking out potential for attack and defense. Investigating the paranormal had left me rather paranoid in even the most innocent situations.

  “Better paranoid than dead or otherwise inconvenienced,” I reminded myself. It was a useful mantra that gave me some comfort when I was confronted with my suspicious nature.

  There was no moon, so the sky was cluttered with stars, their light creating more shadows. A sweet perfume filled all spaces: the angel trumpets near the outhouse. During the day, the poisonous petals held onto their perfume, only to release the heady scent into the coolness of night.

  They’re white, I thought, remembering Lilly’s complaint about the lack of white petals. Then again, it may not be the best omen for a bride to carry venomous flowers at her wedding.

  I turned to face the cluster of small trees with their large, bell-shaped flowers hanging heavily at the end of every limb. Their pale petals glowed. And that’s not all that did.

  Tucked between the trees stood Liam.

  Chapter 27

  Prof. Runal’s instructions on the art and science of paranormal investigations included this pithy advice: when in doubt, walk.

  This implied that if you were very sure of the situation, you could run — either toward or away.

  This obscure instruction didn’t explain what to do if you were caught in the middle. Case in point: I was certain that Lilly was in great danger. I was equally unsure just how powerful Mrs. Cricket was, and if my own abilities and walking stick could fend her off.

  But Lilly was in the outhouse and in peril from more than the fumes and the flies found therein. As I circled around the tree in the courtyard, allowing its thick trunk to screen me, I pressed the two fingernails on the metal fist to release the blade at the end of my stick. If need be, I was prepared to chop off Liam’s arms to stop him.

  As stealthily as I could manage in nightclothes and slippers, I snuck up behind Liam. Of course, Mrs. Cricket would be able to see me if she looked about; she wasn’t limited to using the automaton’s eyes. But I felt a tad more confident without the glassy gaze watching me approach.

  I ducked slightly under the branches of an angel trumpet; the sweet perfume and white bells momentarily covered me and when I emerged, Liam was a sword’s length away, as fixed and rigid as the outhouse. I squinted and could see only one glowing form inside.

  “Gideon,” I hissed, “Where’s Mrs. Cricket?”

  Gideon peered wearily about, his energy much diminished, the spark gone from his eyes. “Good to see you too, Bee.”

  I stared toward the outhouse, but couldn’t detect any energy within. Where was Lilly?

  “She’s even more foul dead than she was alive,” Gideon muttered.

  “To whom do you refer?” I asked, peering around the narrow, wooden structure.

  “Mrs. Cricket, of course,” he whispered, his voice fainter than usual.

  “You knew her?” I asked, turning to face him. It didn’t surprise me that he did, for while alive, Gideon had known half of London.

  “Don’t mind me at all,” Gideon continued glumly. “Despite my horrendous ordeal and my voice being brutally suppressed by that creature, I’m quite all right. I may even survive.”

  “Well, of course you will,” I snapped. “You’re already dead.”

  “There’s no need to rub it in,” he sulked.

  I hadn’t ever appreciated how whiny Gideon could be, and I found it thoroughly unappealing and distracting, and I told him so.

  Leaving him to his misery, I tiptoed up to the outhouse, a shadowy wooden hut not much bigger than a coffin; in the middle of the earthen floor, a hole opened up to the bow
els of the earth. I wondered if Lilly had fallen down, for the silence was as ominous and deep as the smelly hole. That would explain why I couldn’t see any energy.

  And if Lilly was in that hole but already possessed, I was quite prepared to bop her on the head.

  Gripping my walking stick, I raised it up in one hand while brushing my other hand over the thin planks that passed for a door. I could feel the gaps and cracks and splintery wood. My fingers alighted on the door’s wooden latch. I twisted it; it squeaked on its nail. The thin door quivered as I yanked it open, almost pulling it off the small structure.

  The outhouse was empty.

  Chapter 28

  “They’ve already left,” Gideon whispered.

  I abhor statements of the obvious.

  On the off chance, I glanced down the hole but saw no one down there. I retreated and studied the ground. Gideon floated in a limping fashion to my side. He was haggard and disheveled, which was vivid proof of his ordeal. In my experience, ghosts’ appearances don’t alter substantially, if at all, from their pre-death form. But Gideon seemed to have been pummeled heartily and his hair pulled out of shape.

  He noticed me eyeing him. “She’s a vicious monster,” he said, his eyes dull and drained.

  I tried for a sympathetic expression but I’m sure I failed, for that vicious monster was now in possession of Lilly. The thought of what could happen suffocated me with a rare emotion: terror. Tremors alien to me gripped my legs, and my lungs struggled with the air. I felt a drowning sensation.

  “Beatrice,” Gideon whispered, his face a finger’s width from mine, “Beatrice, focus.”

  I breathed deeply and the moment passed. “Thank you, Gids,” I said, my voice almost as faint as his.

  He smiled and some of his usual energy sparkled in his eyes. “You can do this. Lilly needs you.”

  I straightened up. How many precious moments had I squandered? I could afford no more. I ran back to the courtyard and banged on the door of the small hut across from the kitchen.

  A moment and a curse later, Jonas stood at the door. He eyed me with a mixture of disbelief and irritation.

  “Jonas, I need you to go directly to Mr. Elkhart and tell him that Lilly has been kidnapped by Mrs. Cricket,” I said, a hand gripping his arm so he’d know I was serious.

  Jonas’ eyes widened and the white of them popped out of the darkness. “Lilly been kidnapped? I didn’t know Dr. Cricket was married.”

  “Yes, but she’s dead,” I said.

  “Huh,” Jonas said, and he glanced about as if expecting the dead wife to suddenly appear before him.

  I turned to my dead spouse. “Gideon, do you have enough energy to go to Mr. Timmons?”

  He pursed his lips, quickly discerning my intention. “Do you really need his help?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, although I still wasn’t sure if I wanted it.

  He frowned. “So let me guess. You want me to wake up the brute in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes.”

  His smile widened. “My pleasure.”

  Jonas’ confusion deepened. “Miss Knight, who…?”

  “It’s all right, Jonas,” I said, realizing that I was breaking one of the rules of the Society. “It’s just my dead husband who decided to follow me to Africa.”

  To his credit, Jonas didn’t overly react to my bizarre answer. Perhaps he was accustomed to dead spouses being sent to deliver messages.

  Whatever the case, I was most impressed when he limited his comments to: “I knew there was something strange about you. Apart from being European, that is.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “Now tell Mr. Elkhart that I believe Mrs. Cricket has gone to a cave near the entrance to the forest; I’d seen Liam’s footprints there not long ago. The cave is a short flight from the one Mr. Elkhart was kind enough to show me. He’ll know what I mean. Gideon, Mr. Timmons can meet me on the way. Time is of the essence, for the longer Mrs. Cricket has, the more she can tie herself to Lilly’s body.”

  Jonas shrugged wordlessly, seemingly not too concerned about Lilly’s welfare, and stole out into the night, barefoot and as silent as Gideon’s departure.

  While I wanted to dash off to the barn, I could hardly do so in slippers and a nightgown. With my heart ticking off precious seconds — each delay allowing Mrs. Cricket more opportunity – I dashed into my room, my candle almost guttering into extinction. I yanked on clothes, stuffed pillows under my quilt (in case Mrs. Steward should think to peep in on me), closed my door and did the same for Lilly’s room.

  As I closed the door to her room, I spun to go and bumped into Bobby.

  “Why were you in Lilly’s room?” he demanded, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  Curses.

  “She had a nightmare,” I said, which wasn’t too far from the truth.

  Bobby snorted. “What about? She couldn’t find any white flowers?”

  I forced a chuckle but cut it short. If I was too congenial, Bobby might suspect something wasn’t quite right. If I was too short with him, he would take it as a sign to harass me further.

  “Yes, that’s about it. Now off to bed,” I said, trying to sound as unconcerned with the passage of time — kids are obstinate in direct proportion to the urgency of the situation — and pushed aside the image of Mrs. Cricket’s face-cracking grin as she took full possession of Lilly’s body.

  “I have to pee,” he whined.

  For the first time, I resented Jonas’ refusal to handle the emptying of chamber pots. If we’d had the chamber pots, all the drama of this night could have been avoided: no kidnapping by demented spirits, no nagging by demented children, no standing in the hall and wishing to be back in bed asleep.

  And if Bobby saw Liam…

  “Can’t you pee out your window?” I snapped. “You’re a boy. You can do things like that.”

  Bobby gaped at me and then laughed, still the boyish high-pitched sound of a child relishing a good joke.

  “Seriously,” I added, not in the least amused.

  Bobby eyed me, his face scrunched up in concentration. “Why are you dressed in day clothes?”

  I gritted my teeth. Had Gideon reached Mr. Timmons yet? Jonas would take longer to reach Mr. Elkhart, and how was Lilly faring?

  “I was cold,” I said.

  “And I still have to pee,” Bobby retorted in the tone of voice that left me with no doubt that he was going to the outhouse where he would see Liam. And most probably he’d wake his parents, who would discover much sooner than necessary that their daughter had vanished.

  “The rosebush needs watering,” I suggested, referring to Mrs. Steward’s struggling plant near the front door, close to the demolished carnation bed. Nelly hadn’t yet devoured it yet.

  Bobby made a face. “Mama said I should never pee in the outdoors like Jonas does. It’s not what English gentlemen do.”

  “And so you shouldn’t,” I said sternly. “I’m so glad you always listen to your mother.”

  The boy’s expression altered from defiance to enlightenment. With nary a backward glance, he hurried to the front door and eased it open gently. I could hear a thin stream of water hitting the ground, followed by a stifled giggle.

  “Good night, Bobby,” I said as he returned to his room. I waited a few breaths. A bed creaked. A contented sigh. Silence.

  When I was reasonably certain he wouldn’t remember my odd night attire and want to question me further, I hurried out to the barn and woke my horse.

  “Nelly, settle down,” I ordered as I tugged on the saddle.

  The horse’s eyes glowed, casting skeletal shadows about us. I squinted at her. No serpent spirit revealed itself; there was only a high-powered equestrian energy.

  I led Nelly out of the barn and paused. Into the silence tiptoed a rustle of leaves as something small scurried past. Crickets and cicadas sang shrill songs. Further away, a bigger beast coughed — a lion.

  I swung up, settled myself and my walking stick, wishing that my o
nly concern was a mere lion. Now I had to contend with a psychopathic, possessive poltergeist while riding a paranormally enhanced, belching nag.

  With a quiver of trepidation, I directed a prayer at the powers that be to protect me from the humiliation of falling out of the saddle.

  “All right, Nelly, try not to unseat me,” I said, turned her in the right direction, imagining the cave’s entrance, and leaned forward.

  That was all the urging she needed. With a final bodily eruption, she leaped forward and the world melted into a dark blur. It was all I could do to hold on while still breathing. Any other task and I would surely have failed at one of the first two.

  Just as I wondered how I would halt the beast, she slowed to a leisurely canter. Somehow she’d discerned our destination, for we were inside the forest, forging the small river and approaching the ground-level cave. A flickering glow lit the edges of the cave entrance. There was no indication my approach had been detected.

  Nelly snorted, swiveled her neck and peered back the way we’d come. She nickered at whatever was galloping toward us. Mr. Timmons appeared shortly thereafter.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said when he pulled his horse to a halt beside Nelly.

  He grinned, far too enthusiastically for my liking, given the circumstances. “There’s nothing like being awakened by a damsel’s dead husband to invigorate the senses. I must say he enjoyed the task far too much.”

  “I’ll have a word with Gideon about that,” I assured him, hiding my smile.

  We dismounted and made our way across the soft, damp ground. As we neared the cave, I heard loud arguing, the words indistinguishable but all in the same voice: Lilly’s.

  “Seems the girl is putting up a fight,” Mr. Timmons murmured, his tone surprised and impressed.

  “My thoughts exactly,” and I was equally amazed. “Perhaps permanent possession is a more challenging undertaking than the temporary kind.”

  This led to an idea of sorts, not a particularly brilliant one and certainly an unsavory one, but an idea nonetheless. I cleared my throat and laid a hand on Mr. Timmons’ arm. He stopped, his eyebrows raised, his expression unreadable.