by Alan Finn
The remaining visitors were strangers. One was a squat, pink-faced man who, despite the cool temperature of the room, had broken out into a sweat. The other two were an elderly couple seated on a floral love seat against the wall, their hands clasped in solidarity.
“Is this your first time sitting with Mrs. Collins?” the husband asked me by way of greeting.
“It is,” I replied. “I hope I’m not disappointed.”
The man offered a nod of understanding. “It’s our first sitting, too, but we’ve heard nothing but excellent things about Mrs. Collins. The name’s Rowland. Pierce and Millicent Rowland.”
“I’m—” I fumbled for a name, trying to yank one from thin air. Inspiration struck when I noticed that Mr. Rowland was wearing a silk necktie the color of a grassy meadow. “Green. Mr. Carlton Green.”
As we shook hands, Mrs. Rowland asked, “Who are you trying to contact, sir? We’re here to speak to our daughter, Mary.”
“I’m hoping to hear from my sister—” I again struggled to conjure up a fictitious name. “Daisy.”
Mr. Rowland turned to the pink-faced gentleman, now sweating more profusely. “And you, sir? Who are you trying to contact?”
The man mopped his brow with a handkerchief before saying, “I long to speak to my late wife, Katherine. Today would have been her birthday.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” said Mr. Rowland.
“Thank you,” the gentleman replied, extending his hand to Mr. Rowland. “I’m Mr. Peter Spencer.”
Mrs. Rowland offered him a warm smile and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spencer.”
While the three of them chatted among themselves, I roamed the parlor, examining the décor. The room was tastefully appointed, with enough subtle flourishes to make it comfortable. Evenly spaced gaslights flickered from the walls, surrounded by wallpaper striped a soothing shade of yellow. Potted palms sat in the corners and lace curtains hung at the windows.
Pushed against the wall opposite the Rowlands was a narrow mahogany table, upon which sat a small lamp and an elaborate arrangement of daffodils and other spring blooms. The vibrant yellows of the daffodils contrasted nicely with a single ivory lily at the front of the arrangement. Half opened, the lily’s petals had a shine to them, as if they had been coated by fresh dew.
Hanging above the table was an oil painting of a stern-looking man with shifty eyes and a disgruntled mouth. He stared at those of us in the parlor with disdain, the black-eyed Susan painted onto his lapel doing nothing to lighten his apparent mood.
As I leaned in to further examine the painting, the door to the adjacent sitting room suddenly opened. A voice floated from the room, announcing, “Please, come in.”
The five of us entered a room as dim and stark as the parlor was bright and comforting. Heavy curtains covered the windows, blocking out whatever moonlight there might have been outside. Situated along one wall was a small side table. Against the opposite wall sat a massive wooden cabinet into which strange symbols and odd faces had been carved. The center of the room was dominated by a round table covered with a black cloth that brushed the floor. Sitting like a centerpiece on the table were four glass domes. Inside each dome was a small bell that dangled from a miniature tripod made of wood.
Mrs. Lucy Collins herself stood beside the table, wearing a purple dress and white elbow-length gloves. She looked very much like the image on the leaflet, only the illustration hadn’t fully captured her beauty. The face—narrow cheeks, sharp chin—was the same, of course. So was her hair, styled in a similar waterfall of curls.
Yet there was a glow to her that the image just couldn’t convey. It was centered in her green eyes, which sparkled with an intensity that I had never seen before or since. They looked like emeralds, those eyes, bright and mesmerizing. It was as if Mrs. Collins had arrived in Philadelphia after stepping out of a Vermeer painting, the delicate lightness of his brushstrokes still intact.
At first glance, I found myself utterly transfixed. Which was her aim, I had to remind myself. She was, after all, just like the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.
When she spoke, I detected a hint of Virginia in her voice. “Welcome and good evening to you all. Once you make your payment, we can begin.”
She gestured to a silver tray on the side table. Above the tray was another oil painting, a pastoral scene of trees and a pond with a flock of geese in the distance.
“And how much,” I said, “are we to pay for the privilege of your company, madam?”
“Ten dollars, sir.”
Ten dollars! I was stunned, and for a moment considered leaving. That was a half-week’s pay, with no guarantee the Bulletin would compensate me for it later. Yet the others placed their hard-earned money on the tray without hesitation, Mr. Rowland leading the charge. Despite wanting more than anything to storm out, my conscience wouldn’t let me watch them waste their money without doing the same. I was supposed to be doing this, after all, for their benefit.
With great reluctance, I paid the sitting fee. As soon as my money hit the silver tray, Mrs. Collins closed the door. “Now,” she said, “let’s all have a seat. Anywhere you prefer.”
She sat opposite the door, directly in front of a small side table topped with an oil lamp. I took a seat directly to her right. My thinking was that the closer I sat to her, the more likely I’d notice the tricks she most certainly had planned. Mrs. Rowland sat next to me, followed by her husband. The woman in black—since I never did catch her name, I mentally referred to her as Stephen’s mother—took a seat beside Mr. Rowland. Mr. Spencer sat between her and Mrs. Collins.
Once everyone was settled, Mrs. Collins said, “Before we begin, I’d like everyone to take a moment to study the bells on the table. Each one represents the loved one you’re trying to reach. If their spirit is present, the bell closest to you will ring.”
All of us did as we were told, staring dumbly at our respective glass-encased bells.
“Now, please direct your attention to this cabinet,” Mrs. Collins said, pointing to the wooden monstrosity against the wall. Twice the size of an average armoire, it loomed in the darkness like a crypt. The curious symbols etched into it—moons and stars, mostly, but others I couldn’t identify—alternately brightened and faded in the flickering of the room’s single lamp. The faint, shifting light transformed the cabinet’s carved faces into open-mouthed demons, then benevolent angels, then back again.
“My spirit cabinet was passed on to me by my grandmother, who also possessed the gift of conversing with the dead. Carved by Italian monks during the Renaissance, it holds special powers. I mention this only because if a spirit intends to manifest itself this evening, it will do so in that cabinet.” Mrs. Collins offered a slight smile. “But I offer no guarantees that such an event will occur.”
She set her hands palms down on the table and instructed Mr. Spencer and me to each place a hand on top of her wrists. Beneath her silk gloves, her arm felt small and delicate, like a child’s.
“I trust you both will be honest gentlemen,” she said. “Speak up if you feel my hands or arms move at any point in the séance. I don’t want anyone to think there’s trickery involved in whatever may happen here this evening.”
At this, I suppressed a smile of my own. Of course there’d be trickery involved, and I was certain I’d be able to see right through it.
Mrs. Collins next told everyone to hold hands, forming a chain around the table. Beside me, Mrs. Rowland removed her gloves and placed them on the table before linking hands with me and her husband.
“Circles are powerful, yet soothing,” Mrs. Collins informed us. “Those in the spirit realm are drawn to them. But, in order for spirits to appear, I must have absolute silence, stillness, and near darkness.”
Her arm wriggled beneath my hand as she said, “Pardon me for a moment, gentlemen, as I dim this lamp.”
She turned to the table behind her and lowered the lamp until only the faintest of glows r
emained. The table became invisible, as did the room around us. Everyone at the table had been turned into shadows, barely perceptible. The only things that could clearly be seen were the bells at the table’s center, their glass domes reflecting what remained of the lamplight.
Mrs. Collins returned her hands to the table and Mr. Spencer and I placed our palms on top of her wrists once more.
“Now,” she said, “if we’re all ready, let’s begin.”
For something that allegedly required silence, the séance began with an absurd amount of talking. Mrs. Collins proceeded to spout hokum about the spirit realm and how we were summoning them in friendship and curiosity. She mentioned someone by the name of White Sparrow, a long-dead Cherokee woman who served as her guide between this world and the spirit one. She told us to think good thoughts so that our vibrations would be felt by White Sparrow on the other side. Never before had I heard so much rubbish in such a short period of time, and it took all means of willpower to keep from laughing uncontrollably in the darkness.
After that came a long period of silence, five excruciating minutes at least, in which we all waited for our vibrations to be received. Just when it seemed as if I’d fall asleep from sheer boredom, Mrs. Collins broke the quiet with a sudden, half-gasped, “I sense something. A presence. A familiar presence.”
She moved slightly beside me, and I saw the barest shadow of her face tilting upward as she called into the room. “Is there a visitor from the spirit realm present? Please, signal to us that you are here.”
Somewhere in the darkness—from which direction, I couldn’t tell—a light rapping noise was heard. To my right, Mrs. Rowland inhaled slightly. Across from me, Mr. Spencer’s breathing grew more rapid.
“Spirit,” Mrs. Collins said, “is it possible for you to answer questions for those of us gathered here? Rap once for no, twice for yes.”
One rap emerged from the gloom. After a dutiful pause, another one arrived.
“Thank you, spirit,” Mrs. Collins replied. “Is your name White Sparrow?”
Two raps, this time in quick succession.
“I welcome your presence once more, my old friend. Are you again here to serve as a guide between this place and the other side?”
Another two raps followed.
“Wonderful! Are there other spirits with you? Ones who know and wish to contact those of us present?”
This time, instead of two raps, we heard an elaborate stream of them, like a rapid drumbeat.
“I believe that’s a resounding yes,” Mrs. Collins told us. Then she said to the ether, “Please ask one of the spirits with you to make their presence known by indicating who they wish to contact.”
Another lengthy silence followed, filled with anticipation. At last, the bell nearest Mr. and Mrs. Rowland began to move of its own accord inside its glass dome. Mrs. Rowland gasped again as the bell rang—a quiet tinkling in the darkness.
“Does that mean someone wants to speak to us?” she asked.
“Are you Mr. and Mrs. Pierce Rowland?”
“We are.”
“White Sparrow has ushered in a spirit that wishes to communicate through me,” Mrs. Collins said. “I see a girl. So pretty . . . yet she died so young. I sense . . . an illness of some sort. And this girl, she’s a relation to you, no?”
I felt Mrs. Rowland’s hand trembling in my own. “Our daughter.”
“Mary is her name, yes?”
“That’s right. Is she here?”
“Yes. She’s here,” Mrs. Collins said. “She can feel your presence. Your warmth. Your love. She says that . . . while her illness tormented her when she was alive, she is now at peace and happy. She wants you to know that, so you may no longer worry if she suffered during her last days. She says . . . that your care comforted her greatly and that she loves both of you very much.”
Mrs. Rowland began to weep in the darkness next to me. Her husband whispered to her, “You see, Millicent. She’s at peace at last. Our dear girl has found peace.”
The evening progressed in a similar manner for half an hour or so. The bell next rang in front of Mr. Spencer, who was informed that the spirit of his beloved wife was present. She, of course, knew he came to wish her a happy birthday and that she was patiently waiting for him in heaven, which made him, too, break into tears. Stephen’s mother also wept when the spirit of her son inevitably rang the bell in front of her. Mrs. Collins told her that even though he died on the battlefield, Stephen had no regrets about joining the Union Army. He willingly gave his life for his country and his parents should feel proud of what he did, not sad that he is gone.
“But I miss you so much, darling,” Stephen’s mother said, her tear-wracked voice filling the room. “You can’t fathom the depths of my grief.”
Mrs. Collins paused, as if listening to a response no one else could hear. “Stephen says he does know,” she said, “for he is with you always. You might not see him or hear him, but he is there . . . keeping watch over your husband and yourself.”
At long last, the bell in front of me rang, prompting Mrs. Collins to ask, “Is there a Mr. Green present?”
I was thankful that the darkness obscured my face, because at that moment I was grinning from ear to ear. Although her show had been surprisingly convincing throughout, I now had tangible proof that Mrs. Collins was nothing more than a scam artist. Surely, if a legitimate spirit were trying to contact me, it would have used my real name.
“I’m Mr. Green,” I said, continuing the ruse.
“A young woman is present,” Mrs. Collins said. “She left this earth too soon. She says . . . her name is Daisy and that you were siblings.”
“Yes. Daisy was my sister. How I long to see her again.”
Mrs. Collins continued, saying, “Daisy wants you to know that her illness didn’t darken her spirit.”
I was forced to make an immediate decision. Did I go along with what Mrs. Collins was telling me and pretend it was all true? Or should I attempt to trip her up a bit, hoping this séance of hers tumbled like the house of cards it really was?
I chose the latter.
“Illness?” I asked. “Daisy was killed in a carriage accident.”
“But she was ill, too,” Mrs. Collins said, not skipping a step in the faux waltz the two of us were dancing. “Terribly ill. She didn’t have the heart to tell you. She says . . . the carriage accident was actually a blessing in disguise, because it prevented her from suffering due to her illness.”
“I’m so relieved,” I said, attempting to sound as emotional as, say, Mr. Spencer or Stephen’s mother. “The last thing I wanted was for my sweet sister to suffer.”
“She knows that and she thanks you. She says . . . that you were the most kind-hearted brother anyone could ask for and that she cherishes the time you had together.”
Once again, Mrs. Collins covered herself well. She seemed quite unflappable, which is why I decided to test her further and have a bit of fun in the process.
“And what about Reginald?” I asked. “Is there news of him?”
“Daisy says that Reginald is with her,” Mrs. Collins replied, “and that he sends his regards.”
“Reginald was her beloved horse,” I said. “Can animals really speak in the afterlife?”
Instead of a response from Mrs. Collins, I heard a shriek from Mrs. Rowland. “Something just touched me!”
“What was it?” her husband asked.
“I can’t say with certainty—”
I heard a second shriek, this time from Stephen’s mother. “I felt something as well! It just brushed past me!”
Soon I, too, felt it. It was a rush of air blowing past my ear. A second followed, traveling in the opposite direction and brushing the back of my neck so closely that the hairs there stood on end.
“A brave spirit has come closer,” Mrs. Collins announced. “Spirit, make your presence known to us.”
Mrs. Rowland shrieked again. She gripped my right hand tightly, her fingernails diggin
g into my flesh. At first, I wondered if she was suffering from an attack of some kind, but then I saw what caused her to cry out. The others did, too, and reacted in a similar fashion.
The focus of our attention was Mrs. Rowland’s gloves, which had started to rise off the table. They stayed clasped together a moment, fingers pointed upward as if they were in prayer. But soon they separated, floating off in opposite directions, barely visible in the faint glow of the lamp.
“The spirit is attempting to manifest itself,” Mrs. Collins said as the gloves twisted and twirled in midair. “So that we might see its ghostly form.”
Just then, the table began to rock back and forth. Jostled by the movement, the bells rang wildly within their glass domes. The gloves dropped back in front of Mrs. Rowland as the table pitched violently. Those of us seated at it began to inch backward in our chairs, but Mrs. Collins stopped us.
“Keep holding hands!” she ordered. “We mustn’t break the chain!”
The table lifted off the ground. My hands—one remaining on Mrs. Collins’s wrist, the other still clutching Mrs. Rowland—rode with it, stopping until they were about chest high. The table simply floated there, rising and lowering at random. Then it fell to the floor with a hearty thunk, the bells clanging in disharmony.
That was immediately followed by a noise coming from the cabinet on the other side of the room. Rustling, it sounded like. Or perhaps a hoarse whisper. The cabinet door flew open, setting off another cry from Mrs. Rowland. But in the gloom I saw no one inside it, despite the whispers that were only growing louder.
The noise spurred Mrs. Collins to say, “Spirit, is that you?”
The response, which we all heard quite clearly, was a drawn-out hiss. “Yessssssssssssss.”
“Spirit,” Mrs. Collins said. “If you are able, show yourself!”
Mrs. Rowland let out another shriek, more shrill and terrified than the previous ones. “Look!” she gasped. “Everyone look!”
