by Tim McGregor
Madame Ostensky
The name had popped into her head while showering. Not so much the words but an image. A sign hanging over a door, swaying slightly in the breeze. Madame Ostensky - Spiritualist & Psychic. Underneath that, a symbol of an eye within a triangle. She had passed this sign a thousand times or more without ever paying it any mind. Part of the unchanging landscape.
Was it crazy to think Madame Ostensky (if she really existed) might have an answer to any of the questions buzzing through her head? It was no crazier than sifting through pages of nonsense on the internet. Snatching up her bag, she checked the inner pocket where she kept her cash. Lots of bills. One of the advantages to working in a bar was always having cash on hand. Locking her door, she wondered how much psychics charged for a reading.
The sign looked the same as ever. It hung on its iron hinge, motionless from the lack of any breeze on a humid day. The letters slightly faded from the sun. The curtains were drawn in the front window as if no one was home. In all the years she had passed by this door, Billie had never seen anyone go in or out of the place.
She squinted up at the sun-faded sign, reading the smaller print. Established 1973. Jesus. How old was Madame Ostensky? She’d been in business for over forty years. Billie hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorbell. Then the door swung open.
A little girl appeared behind the frayed mesh of the screen door. “Mama said come inside or move on,” the girl said. Her dark hair was cut into bangs that draped just above two impossibly grey eyes. “Don’t linger outside the door like a Jehova’s Witness.”
The girl looked no more than eight years old. She had to be Madame Ostensky’s granddaughter.
“Thank you,” Billie smiled. She opened the screen door and the little girl stepped back to let her inside.
The interior was gloomy with the window curtained. A sitting room to the left and a foyer that led to the back where the sound of a radio played.
“You can wait here.” The girl motioned to the chair before a long table that Billie assumed the Madame used for clients. She’d expected to see a cheesy crystal ball but the table was empty save for a vase of freshly cut hydrangea stems.
The girl crossed to the sitting area where she hunkered down on the floor. On the coffee table before her was a mess of drawing paper and artist-grade pencil crayons. Taking up a dark green pencil, the girl went back to her drawing.
Behind the table was a doorway strung with beads and when the beads rattled, a woman appeared. Dark-haired and grey-eyed like the little girl, the woman was stunning. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she held out one to shake. “Have a seat. I’m Marta.”
“Billie. Nice to meet you.” Billie sat clumsily, entranced by the woman’s face.
“Esme,” the woman said to the little girl. “Take your stuff into the other room, okay?”
“I don’t want to,” the girl said without looking up. “How do you spell ‘eternity’?”
“Sorry,” Marta said to Billie. “I’ll shoo her out of here.”
Billie shrugged. “She can stay.”
“Mom. How do you spell it?”
Billie waited while the woman spelt the word out. “She’s your daughter?”
“Yes. And stubborn as her father.” Marta set the hydrangeas to one side and placed her hands on the table. “What can I do for you?”
Billie hesitated. “Are you Madame Ostensky?”
“Not the original one. That was my grandmama. We shared the same gift so I decided to keep the shop open.” The woman reached into a drawer and came up with a deck of cards. “I keep meaning to get a new sign out front. So, do you like the tarot?”
“No,” Billie said, trying not to bristle at the sight of the cards. Too many bad memories. “Can I ask you something? What do you mean by gift?”
“The sight. The ability to get a sense of another person’s spirit. The past and the present of that spirit. And if I’m lucky, a hint at its possible path forward. Does that make any sense?”
“I think so. So you inherited it from your grandmother?”
“Yep. She taught me everything I know. My mom had it too but she didn’t want it.”
Billie leaned back. “She rejected it?”
“She just chose not to use it, you know?” Marta nodded at her daughter. “Same with Esme. She has a bit of it too but doesn’t like it.”
Billie turned to look at the girl. Esme’s tongue protruded as she furiously coloured in the paper. “How come?”
“It scares her. So, I don’t think she’ll continue in the family business.”
“Can you sense it in other people?”
“Most of the time,” Marta said. “You mean like you?”
For a second time, Billie was taken aback. “You can sense it in me?”
“I felt it before you came through the door. It’s strong with you.” Marta leaned back, her gaze turning cool. “Are you here scoping out the competition?”
“No.” Billie took a breath. “I’ve been seeing weird things lately. Someone told me that I have a gift too. That I can see the—”
“Wait.” Marta cut her off. She rose quickly and crossed to the little girl. “Esme, go play in the other room.”
“But I’m not finished.”
“Take it into the other room. Hurry.” The woman bundled up the paper and crayon box and shooed the little girl through the beaded doorway. When she turned her attention back to Billie, she did not look pleased.
“You let one in.”
“What?”
“I don’t allow them in here,” Marta said, returning to the table. “Not where my daughter is. Get it out of here.”
Billie still didn’t follow. “What did I do?”
“One of the dead followed you inside. I can’t feel it in here. Is this a stunt?”
Billie spun around in her chair and scanned the room. Something darker than the gloom hovered near the door. It shifted about, as if politely waiting to be invited in. “Oh God.”
“Get it out of here, please,” Marta bristled.
“I didn’t know.” As her eyes adjusted to the dark form, Billie saw an old woman draped in black. A laced shawl draped over her head, like the little old Italian ladies she used to see, dressed in perpetual mourning. “I don’t know how to get rid of it.”
Marta stood up again, anger flaring hot in her eyes. “Go open the door.”
Almost idly, Billie noted how Marta’s beauty didn’t fade when her face hardened. It simply took on a different aspect, an otherworldly comeliness. Tearing her gaze from Marta to the old woman near the door, she felt her knees go wobbly. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the spooky-looking woman.
“Do it,” Marta ordered.
Billie sidled to the door, keeping as much distance from the dark figure as possible. The old woman stared at her with something like hatred in her tiny eyes. Billie pulled the front door open and stepped back.
“You are not welcome here,” Marta boomed in a clear and loud voice. “This is my house and I did not invite you in. Leave now and don’t come back.”
Billie watched in silent wonder as the old woman hobbled like a penguin toward the open door. Her wrinkled face turned to her and she spit at Billie before moving outside.
“How did you do that?”
“How do you not know how to do that?” The woman marched past Billie with a small jar in her hand. Tilting it, Marta poured a white sandy substance over the threshold of the front door.
“What is that?”
“Salt.”
“What does it do?”
“Keeps them out.” Marta screwed the lid back on and shut the door. She folded her arms. “Are you telling me you don’t know about this? How to deal with the spirits?”
“That’s why I’m here. I don’t even know if it’s real or if I’m seeing things.”
The woman shook her head. “That makes no sense. You’re like a magnet to those things. A powerful one too. How have you dealt with this so far?”
<
br /> “I haven’t. This is all new.” Billie looked at the salt sprinkled across the doorway. “Does that actually work?”
“How can this be new to you? No one just snaps their fingers and becomes a medium.”
Billie backed up. The anger flashed hot in the woman’s eyes. “Hey, a week ago everything was fine. Now I’m seeing freaky shit and this weirdo English guy shows up, tells me I can see the dead—”
Marta cut her off a second time. “What English guy?”
“His name’s Gantry.”
“John Gantry?” The medium flapped the dishtowel in her hand, shooing Billie out the door. “Time for you leave. Goodbye.”
“Wait. You know him.”
Marta sighed impatiently. “He’s dangerous. Stay away from him.”
“How is he dangerous?”
“Goodbye.”
The dishtowel kept flapping at her. Billie snatched it from the woman’s hand. “Please. The guy’s stalking me.”
“John Gantry is a manipulator. He has no power himself, you see, so he uses people. Those with power. Keep your distance.”
“Power? For what?”
Marta Ostensky narrowed her eyes in cold scrutiny. “There is a network of people who work in this realm, outside the norm. An economy of outsiders. And this economy is run on power or manipulation. Gantry falls into the latter. He’ll use you up and chuck you in the trash, all the while making you think it was your idea.”
Billie stammered for a moment, trying to parse the woman’s words but none of them made much sense.
Marta ushered Billie out and closed the door. “Don’t come back here.”
The door thumped closed, leaving Billie stranded on the broken concrete stoop with a dumbstruck slant to her mouth.
14
Marta Ostensky made it look so easy. She told the spook to go away and it did.
Was it that simple? She didn’t understand the salt trick but maybe she didn’t need to, as long as it worked. Jen was still in danger with that thing in the cellar. How long before it crept up the stairs to find her? She would just go back to the little shop on James Street and do what Marta had done.
Madame Ostensky’s harsh ejection still stung. But Marta knew things. While Billie groped in the dark, the medium down the block had flipped on a light to guide the way. Only to take it away when she learnt of Gantry’s involvement. How did Marta know the slippery Englishman? The woman’s anger was hot and Billie wondered if there wasn’t some history between them. A jilted lover?
Returning home, she scurried into the kitchen for the salt and pepper shakers, an old old rooster and a hen set that she had scored at a flea market. Both were empty. Scrounging the cupboards turned up a box. Sea salt. She shook the box, wondering if the type of salt mattered. Nothing sifted inside the box, nothing spilling from the little metal pour spout. The contents had hardened into concrete. Tearing the top of the box away, she took a knife and stabbed the hard salt to break it up.
White clumps spilt over the floor as she stabbed at it. Could she really go through with this? The last place she wanted to go was back down to that creepy basement but the thought of Jen being alone with that thing spurred her on. What if she pleaded with Marta to come with her? To help get rid of the thing.
A noise from behind her broke the train of thought. Holding the knife, Billie stopped to listen but the sound was gone. Crossing back into the living room, she clenched the knife tighter in her fist. Like that would help if that disturbing crab-boy returned, she mused. Something caught her eye on the floor near the entrance. A manila envelope had been slipped under the door.
The fish-eye perspective of the peephole revealed nothing. An empty hallway. Shaking the envelope, two pieces of paper slipped out. Both newspaper clippings. One was dated three years ago. Victim found in bizarre scenario, read the headline. Police had been called to an abandoned tenement building where the remains of a young woman had been found. According to a local man who had made the discovery, the scene had been decorated with candles and symbols of witchcraft. Police would not comment on any questions about a ritualistic murder but rumours of a devil-worshipping cult spread quickly.
A photograph in the article showed a number of police officers, both uniformed and plainclothes, outside of the tenement. Billie squinted at the grainy newsprint image. She couldn’t be sure but one of them looked like Detective Mockler. A much younger version of him anyway. If it was him, he appeared to have aged a lot in the intervening three years.
She opened the second article. A page torn from the Weekly World News. Buried under a story about alien abductions was a small piece claiming that British police were covering up evidence of a devil-worshipping cult operating within London’s east end. The article pointed out police denials about the murder of a young woman in Hackney having anything to do with Satanic rituals. The article conjectured that the death was the result of a botched exorcism. Police refused to comment. The date on the article was nine months prior to the first newspaper clipping.
Both articles pointed back to John Gantry. The local incident must have been what got detective Mockler on Gantry’s tail in the first place. The other incident was in England, where Gantry was clearly from. Was this meant to be proof of Gantry’s guilt? She leaned into the peephole again but the hallway remained as empty as before.
Madame Ostensky, she thought. Who else would have slipped this under her door? How the hell did the psychic even know where she lived? Maybe that was a silly question. She was, after all, a psychic.
She’d have to puzzle it out later. The thought of Jen alone with that thing in the basement was unbearable.
~
“What happened to you?”
Jen was surprised to see her friend return after such an abrupt exit. Marching back along James, Billie sweated out an excuse to explain both her mad dash out and sudden return. It was lame but it was the best she could come up with.
“Sorry. I needed to run home and get some things.” Billie adjusted the bag slung on her shoulder.
“What things? What’s wrong with the basement?”
Billie crossed her fingers. “Electrical problem. Loose wires. I had to go get some tape. I’ll fix it.”
“Since when are you an electrician?” Jen asked, scepticism writ large in her eyes. “And why didn’t my dad see it?”
“I knocked something loose when I was moving the boxes down there. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. It’s just dangerous to leave it as is.”
Jen took out her phone. “Should I call Dad? Maybe he should do it.”
“Don’t bother. He doesn’t need to drive in for this.”
“Oh,” Jen said, lowering her phone. “Thanks. I guess that explains the lights flicking off.”
“The lights?”
“They’ve been flickering on and off since you left. The laptop’s been acting screwy too. Would bad wiring affect that?”
Something cold slithered down Billie’s spine hearing about inexplicable problems in the store after she ran out. After she had encountered the thing in the boiler. Had she angered it?
“I guess so,” she lied. “You never know with these old buildings.”
“Let me see if it’s working now.” Jen crossed the floor of the narrow shop to the desk. Lacking a proper cash register, Jen used her laptop as a stand-in.
Billie chewed her lip. She had no way of getting Jen out of the shop to seal the doorway with salt. With Jen busy at the desk, this might be her only chance. She quickly dug the box of salt from her bag and started pouring a line of it across the threshold of the open door. Halfway through, she stopped. She was doing this too soon. Didn’t she have to get the ghost out first, then seal the doorway? Putting salt down now might trap it inside. Did it work that way?
“Damn it.”
“What did you say?” Jen called from the back.
“Nothing.” Billie kicked the salt away but it had settled up against the rubber weather seal. Shoving the box back into the bag, she hustled
past Jen for the basement door. “I’m gonna get started, okay? Back in a flash.”
Jen looked up from the laptop. “Do you want some help?”
“Nah. You mind the shop.”
The bell over the door chimed. Two women stepped inside, scanning the racks. That would keep Jen occupied. Billie headed down, closing the door after her.
The single bulb brightened when she hit the switch. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Billie peered into the darkness of the far corner. The old boiler hunkered there in the shadow like some rusty octopus.
Her foot crunched something on the concrete floor. Looking down she saw a mess of pennynails and glass shards strewn across the grit floor. Had she knocked it from the windowsill when she ran out of here? She didn’t remember doing so.
Overhead, the old hardwood floor creaked with every step taken. Billie could track exactly where Jen and the two customers were by the squeaks above. A little dust drifted down, filtered by the light of the bulb. She heard Jen’s voice, wondering about the mess spilt all over the front entrance.
Shit.
A trace of smoke lingered over the damp smell of the basement. Nothing moved. Billie inched closer to the dark corner and then stopped. The boiler door was shut, the grated vent closed. What now, she wondered. Call the thing out? Wait for it to appear again? Give the boiler a kick to wake it up?
She waited long enough to feel silly standing there under the light of the dusty bulb. The straw broom stood against the wall and she took it up in both hands and moved into the dark corner. The straw end was frayed and bent and she whacked it against the hull of the boiler. The cast iron boomed in a low rumble.
Nothing moved, nothing happened.
“Hey.”
She felt silly addressing an old hunk of metal.
“You don’t belong here. You are not wanted.”
Taking a step back, she expected the little door to fling open or a valve to pop off but nothing happened. Had it moved on already, knowing it wasn’t wanted?
“Hey! This place belongs to my friend. Her name is Jen and this is her place now. You are not welcome here. You need to leave.”
