How to Survive a Killer Seance

by Penny Warner

  I ducked out of the room before he put me to work—I had enough on my plate as it was. And that séance table wasn’t going to decorate itself either. Heading back, I must have taken a wrong turn, because I found myself at a dead end. I was about to retrace my steps when I thought I heard faint voices coming from the wall.

  Great, Presley. First you think you’re seeing ghosts, and now you think you’re hearing them.

  More indistinct mumbling. Coming from the wall.

  I followed the sound. The voices grew louder. I heard a woman’s voice.

  Coming from . . . where?

  I looked around for the source, but all I saw was an old rusted pipe on the ceiling, that ran the length of the wall. It turned down in one corner, then dead-ended halfway to the floor.

  Suddenly it dawned on me. A listening tube.

  Mia had pointed out a couple of these pipes on our tour of the house. Mrs. Winchester had had them installed throughout the house so she could call on her servants from various rooms whenever she needed them. Or listen in on their private conversations.

  I stepped over to the tube in the corner and saw an opening where it dead-ended. I put my ear up close and listened.

  “Oh yes. It will be the surprise of his life,” the female voice said. I recognized it immediately: Lyla Ellington, Jonathan’s wife. Was she planning some kind of surprise for him at the Séance Party?

  “You’re sure this is going to work?” a male voice said. This one I didn’t recognize.

  “I’d bet my life on it,” Lyla replied. “So don’t let me down.”

  The man mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

  “Here he comes!” Lyla hissed. A pause. Then louder: “Coming, darling!”

  Lyla hadn’t taken the tour with us. I had a feeling she was unaware of the listening tubes. And the discussion I’d just overheard had sounded secretive.

  What was the surprise Lyla had referred to?

  Whatever it was, I just hoped it didn’t ruin the party.

  Chapter 10

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #10

  You’ll need a medium—a person who can communicate with the spirit world—for your Séance Party. The best places to find mediums are at New Age shops, psychic fairs, or spiritualist churches. Or you can hire an actor, put her in a flowy skirt and hoop earrings, and let her channel her theatrical talent.

  By the time guests started arriving at the Winchester Mystery House, a little after eight, the grand ballroom had been transformed into an atmospheric séance room. In the middle stood a large round table, covered in a black cloth and surrounded by thirteen vintage chairs. At each place was a brass candlestick, with black unlit candles inserted. A crystal ball stood on a brass stand in the middle of the table, thanks to Lyla, who’d insisted, “It’s not a séance without a crystal ball!”

  When all but two of the thirty or so guests had arrived and were gathered in the guest-reception room with drinks labeled “Bloodred Wine” in hand, Mia, the Winchester House manager, took everyone on a modified tour of the eccentric mansion. George Lucas from ILM, Phil Tippett from his studio in Berkeley, and Spaz Cruz from CeeGee Studios on Treasure Island were the most recognizable guests. The others included their plus-ones, a few high-tech investors, and some of Jonathan’s staff—Stephanie, the VP; Violet Vassar, his administrative assistant; and Lyla, his wife. Mother, who’d already toured the house, stayed back with Stephen Ellington, who had arrived in his wheelchair via limo, thanks to Jonathan. Unfortunately, the house wasn’t wheelchair accessible. Brad, who’d been keeping a low profile around Jonathan, seemed to have completely disappeared behind the scenes.

  I hadn’t seen Levi Webster, Jonathan’s programmer, since late afternoon. He was sequestered in an adjoining room, preparing to bring Sarah Winchester “to life” when cued. He’d spent the first half of the day installing numerous tiny cameras, projectors, and other over-my-head pieces of equipment in the ballroom. Now that it was showtime, he’d made himself as invisible as a ghost.

  I checked on Delicia, tucked in another room off the ballroom, rehearsing the speech Jonathan had prepared for her. Confident there was little more I could do, I caught up with the guests touring the house, and stayed at the back of the group to make sure no one wandered off or got lost. Mia led us from room to room, sharing details of Sarah Winchester’s life and pointing out quirks and curios of the mystery house. Berk videotaped the guests as they reacted to the oddities—the doors that opened to walls, the spiderweb stained-glass windows, the number thirteen hidden throughout the unfinished construction.

  By the time we reached Sarah’s séance room, the crowd was duly impressed, and immersed in the heavy atmosphere.

  So far, so good.

  “We’re now entering the original séance room,” Mia intoned, “where Mrs. Winchester made contact with the spirits through her medium . . .”

  As Mia narrated her story, the guests gathered shoulder to shoulder in the small room, oohing and ahhing.

  Suddenly, the lights flickered.

  “Uh-oh,” she said, a split second before the room was plunged into complete darkness.

  Feet shuffled. A couple of women gasped. A few whispered. Someone giggled.

  A glow began to emanate from the middle of the room. A swirl of white light, like wispy curtains, fluttered and grew in intensity, until an image the size of a child slowly took shape.

  Mrs. Sarah Winchester had arrived.

  Not quite in the flesh, but very lifelike, albeit nearly transparent. She stood in the middle of the room, dressed in a long black skirt and a puffy white blouse, with a dark knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a netted veil over her face. She looked just like her picture on the wall in Mia’s office.

  Before we could blink—or scream—the apparition disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared.

  More gasps and giggles as the lights came up, softly illuminating the room.

  “That was awesome!” someone said.

  “Where’d she go?” whispered another.

  “Oh, she’ll be back,” Mia said with a secretive smile, right on cue. “Now if you’ll follow me . . .” She opened a secret door to the next room and led the group onward as they buzzed with growing excitement.

  Act One, the preview of Sarah Winchester’s ghost, had been a great success, whetting the ghost-hungry appetites of the guests.

  On to Act Two.

  Shortly thereafter the guests found themselves in the ballroom turned séance room, where Jonathan awaited us, flanked by his father on one side and his wife on the other. He looked undeniably handsome in his tux and shiny black loafers—I was used to seeing him dressed more casually—and he seemed eager to get on with the show. Lyla wore a low-cut blue-sequined gown and matching sequined shoes with lethal-looking heels. She was so striking and drop-dead gorgeous, I wondered if even a ghost could keep the men away from her.

  “Welcome, everyone!” Jonathan said, opening his arms grandly. “Thank you all for coming tonight! We have quite an evening planned for you, an evening you’re not likely to forget. We’ll be starting the séance in a few minutes. But first, enjoy some appetizers by Chef Rodney and wine from the Napa Valley.”

  The waiter I’d spotted earlier appeared with a tray of puffy-looking things, skewers of fishy-looking things, and lettuce cups filled with meaty-looking things. His tray wobbled in his hands, and he approached the guests without smiling or lowering the tray. At one point he nearly dropped a platter, and it made me wonder where he’d worked before. In spite of his awkwardness, still, the appetizers were gobbled up quickly and the wine flowed easily.

  While Jonathan worked the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs, I checked on Delicia, hidden in the small room off the ballroom, to make sure she was in her costume and ready for her close-up.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, as she dotted on a beauty spot just above her upper lip. Her eyes were thickly lined in black and contrasted with her bright red lips. The heavy jewelry, bright head sc
arf, and multicolored outfit only added to her exotic appearance. The truth was, she looked fabulous no matter what she did. But then she could wear a housecoat and hairnet and still look amazing.

  “Great, so far. I just hope that Levi guy is ready with his bag of tricks. I heard him cursing to himself in the other room.”

  I heard the ring-tap of a wineglass coming from the ballroom and left Dee to finish her toilette.

  Jonathan was already speaking to the crowd as I sneaked back into the festive room.

  “. . . and I’ve selected twelve of you to participate at the table. Please look for your place card and take your seat. The rest of you may stand behind and observe quietly. I only have one request—please leave your cell phones on, but silence them.”

  The guests circled the round table, searching for their spots. One by one, members of Jonathan’s A-list sat down in the twelve seats, leaving the thirteenth open. They included the media stars Lucas, Tippett, and Cruz; two investors; Jonathan’s wife, Lyla; his VP, Stephanie Bryson; and his admin, Violet Vassar. To my surprise, Mia was invited to join the group, as was another of Jonathan’s staff, his driver, another young, beautiful blonde. One of the expected investors and his wife were no-shows, so Jonathan gave the last seats to his father and my mother, removing a chair for Stephen Ellington and wheeling him in. The one remaining seat stood ominously empty.

  Raj, Brad, and I stood in the background to keep an eye on things, while Berk continued to videotape the event.

  Moments later I dimmed the room lights, leaving the room in a soft, shadowy glow. A door a few feet behind the empty place opened and Delicia entered with a swish of her skirt, a jangle of jewelry, and a regal turn of her head. She swept into the available thirteenth seat with an air of majesty and mystique, and rested her multiringed hands on the table. The guests grinned at both her dramatic arrival and her theatrical appearance. I could tell they were enjoying every minute of this exotic event. My butterflies were starting to subside.

  “I am Madam Delicia . . .” Dee began, dragging out the syllables of her name—Dee-lee-cee-ah—in a low, heavily accented voice that sounded Transylvanian. “Velcome to ze Vinchester Mystery Houze. Ve’re here tonight to contact ze spirit of Zarah Vinchester, because ve believe she has zomezing important to zay. But first, you must light ze candles in front of you.”

  Dee lit a match that had been placed next to her candlestick, and touched it to the wick. An eerie glow from the candlelight danced on her creamy face. She removed the lit candle from the brass candlestick and passed it to the person on her left—Jonathan. He took Dee’s candle, lit his own with hers, then passed it on to his wife, Lyla. Everyone waited quietly as the candle was ceremoniously passed around the table. When it arrived back at Dee’s spot, she replaced it in her own candlestick. That was my cue to turn off the ballroom lights completely. I was just about to turn the dimmer when I caught a glimpse of the waiter standing in a far corner, watching.

  Brad elbowed me, reminding me to finish the task at hand, and I turned off the light, leaving only the flicker of candlelight in the semidarkened room.

  “Now, free your minds,” she continued in her bizarre accent, “relax your bodies, and join hands to form a continuous, unbroken spirit circle.”

  Grinning at her entertaining persona, the guests joined hands and rested them on the table. I was impressed with Dee’s acting chops. I almost believed Sarah Winchester—the real Sarah Winchester—might surprise us with a visit.

  Candlelight flickered on the table.

  Floorboards creaked beneath the feet of the observers.

  Dee closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and began to chant: “O spirit of Zarah Vinchester, ve zummon you to our table. Please join us now.”

  Nothing happened.

  Great.

  What was Levi doing in his hidden room? Sleeping?

  A few minutes passed. Dee repeated her incantation, but the guests began to stir, and murmurs grew in the room. I decided to slip out and check on Levi, but before I could move, a light suddenly appeared inside the crystal ball that sat in the middle of the table. It began as a tiny three-dimensional wisp of light, then quickly grew in size and began to take shape, slowly morphing into the ghostly apparition of an old woman.

  Sarah Winchester was back from the dead.

  I relaxed as delighted gasps and hushed murmurs swirled through the room. The faint figure filled the space. Sarah Winchester hovered in the center of the table, all four feet ten inches of her, semitransparent but fully formed.

  “Oh my God!” someone whispered.

  “She looks so real,” said another.

  It was true. Jonathan’s new 4-D Projection technology proved to be incredible. I wanted to reach out and touch the figure.

  Sarah’s image slowly turned around. She looked down at each person at the table, pausing for a moment. When she arrived at Dee, she stopped—and began speaking.

  “Why have you summoned me, Madame Delicia?” Although somewhat scratchy and high-pitched, the voice was familiar. Dee had tape-recorded Sarah’s “voice” using one of her many theatrical dialects. This one was a cross between Glinda the Good Witch and Granny from the Tweety Bird cartoons.

  I noticed the hand-holders tighten their grips as they witnessed the “spirit” come to life. They seemed to be especially impressed by Sarah’s ability to focus on Delicia and address her by name.

  “Zarah, ve believe you have zomething to share vith us.” Dee said this as if she talked to spirits every day.

  “Why, yes, indeed. I’ve come here to tell you about an amazing new discovery that has brought me back to life,” the image said. She turned and faced Jonathan, gesturing toward him with a lace-covered arm. “Jonathan Ellington has created a new dimension in 3-D, which he calls 4-D Projection. As you can plainly see, he’s gone way beyond 3-D of the past, and without the aid of cumbersome glasses.”

  The speech Jonathan had written for Sarah sounded more like an infomercial, I thought. Sarah Winchester would no doubt be turning over in her grave at the showmanship.

  “How is this possible?” Dee asked.

  Sarah Winchester slowly turned in a circle as she spoke, gesturing as naturally as a real human being. “Thanks to Jonathan’s group of engineers, Hella-Graphics has broken through a technological barrier and has moved three-dimensional holographic displays light-years ahead. Simply stated, a special plastic film is used, along with laser beams, transparent electrodes, and an electric field. The exact formula is top secret, of course, but you can see the results as I stand here talking to you.”

  Sarah kept spinning as she talked, seemingly making eye contact with each guest in turn. “In other words, this isn’t your grandmother’s credit card hologram. Hella-Graphics’s 4-D Projection offers ‘situational awareness’—like I’m using now—that can track the progress of microscopic surgeries, show pilots upcoming hazards in their airspace, or give emergency response teams nearly real-time views of disasters in progress.”

  Even in simple terms, most of this went over my head. I was still in the mind-set of the kind of 3-D where giant hands lunged out from the movie screen to grab the audience and make them toss the popcorn. I hoped those seated were a little savvier than I.

  Sarah’s image turned and focused on one of the investors at the table. “Think about the possibilities beyond the movie business. 4-D Projection could eventually replace MRIs and CAT scan monitors, improve military intelligence, and sell products on a whole new level. Imagine going into a store and seeing Matt Damon open a can of Coke, pour it into a glass, and drink it—all while standing right there in front of you. Now, instead of limited viewing angles, we can view three hundred sixty degrees in all directions. And I’m, well, ‘living’ proof, as you can see.” Sarah’s image actually formed air quotes around the word “living.” Jonathan’s input, no doubt.

  Even without fully understanding this new technology, I was blown away. If Sarah were really alive, I had a feeling she would be blown awa
y too. I knew that the eccentric woman was one of the first to get an electric elevator, indoor plumbing, and other “new-age” technology.

  I glanced over at Brad to see his reaction. Instead of raised eyebrows or wide eyes, he was frowning at the image. I glanced back at Sarah and noticed a glitch in the image, as if there had been a split-second interruption in the transmission.

  Sarah turned again. I wondered who she’d address next? But instead of stopping, she kept circling, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Her arms began flapping up and down, frantically. Dee’s mouth dropped open and she, too, looked at Jonathan, who was frowning deeply, obviously alarmed.

  Suddenly, Sarah began to speak again, but this time her voice was distorted, as if she were a talking doll low on batteries. This voice didn’t sound like anyone in Delicia’s repertoire of characters.

  “Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan,” the voice repeated in a singsong tone as the image twirled madly on the tabletop.

  Even in the dim candlelight, I could see the color fade from Jonathan’s face as Sarah chanted his name.

  “Jonathan, I have a message from George Wells. You remember George? He killed himself in his office last month.”

  Jonathan jerked his hands from Lyla’s and Violet’s grips. He glared at Dee. “What are you doing?”

  Dee let go of the hands she was holding and held hers up. “Nothing! I swear—”

  Jonathan rose up, knocking back his chair. He turned and faced me. “Stop this at once!”

  I stood frozen to my spot.

  “Jonathan . . .” came the distorted voice again. “Jonathan . . . did he kill himself because you were having an affair with his wife?”

  Lyla gasped and looked at Jonathan.

  He shook his head. “No! No—”

  “Was it even suicide?” the voice continued. “Maybe you made it look that way when George found out about all your affairs . . . You’re up to about a dozen now, aren’t you? Almost as many as Tiger Woods. Let’s see—there’s your secretary, Violet”—at this point, Sarah Winchester’s image turned to Violet and pointed a finger at her—“your receptionist, Maile, your personal trainer, Gina, your driver, Courtney, your accountant, Melissa, the barista, Jennifer. Even your latest conquest”—the image turned again—“Mia, the manager of this very mansion.”