by Paul Boor
“It’s a cure for yellow fever they’re after, Mr. Sealy.”
“Ha! I’ve heard that for years. A cure? From the hellacious fumes and stench issuing from their laboratory? From caged vermin in the basement? That will get us a cure? So where is it? Most businessmen in this town would see the college gone from our island.”
“And these same Southern businessmen, do they also deal in slaves, sir?” A shadow passed over Sealy’s face. “Child slaves to work their cotton?”
“Gad, man!” Sealy groaned. “What are you talking about?” He turned and strutted down the street, with Nicolas alongside.
“It’s my suspicion, Mr. Sealy, that young boys are for sale in the South, to work the docks, perhaps even on your island.”
“You’re insane, Van Horne. I’ll not hear it.”
“Sir.”
The two men glared at each other. Restaurant Row’s eating establishments were filling with a mayhem of lunchtime patrons. Nicolas wasn’t sure how far he could go with what he knew, but he decided to venture it.
“There are those on the docks who agree with me on this,” he said. “Certain persons—”
“Certain persons?”
“One special gent who knows plenty when it comes to the docks. And for some reason that gent—your son!—suspects that because I’m from the North, I’m involved.”
Blood suffused Sealy’s face. “You . . . you,” he blustered. “My son is an honest cotton trader.”
“Your other son, sir.”
“What? You . . . you’ll excuse me, but I’ll leave you to your bizarre suppositions. I must dine.”
Sealy dashed across the street, sidestepping carriages and buckboards as he went. Nicolas was left on the curb. Then the financier seemed to have another thought; he turned and shouted over the clatter of the traffic passing between them.
“You’d best quit sticking your nose in others’ affairs, Van Horne. Get back up north, man. If you don’t, I’ll ruin you. Hear me? I’ll ruin you.”
80
An Evening Circle at Madame La Porte's
Nicolas walked the street as if it were covered in eggshells. Sealy had meant it when he said, “Tread lightly in this town.” But could Hutch Sealy know about the Russian assassin? Was he part of the slave trade?
At the flat, Nicolas found a note:
Join us again at El Malhado —Sky.
Sailortown was too frenetic, too crowded; it was bound to be dangerous after dark. Instead of venturing to El Malhado, Nicolas decided to stretch out on the divan in the flat’s west room while dusk fell and the lamplighters made their way down the street below. He planned to attend Madame La Porte’s séance at midnight. He’d best stay off the streets until then.
As midnight drew near, a stimulant and some quick sustenance seemed in order. He donned the tweed jacket he’d borrowed, found a bowler of Schuyler’s that was a bit too large but a passable fit, and hustled down the stairwell and onto the street. He took care to stay in the light of the gas lamps and steer clear of the seedy chaos of Sailortown, where an assassin’s work would be easy. The elegance of Restaurant Row should prove safe, shouldn’t it? He regretted thinking like a hunted animal, but if he wanted to stay alive to see the North Country again, he had to.
On Restaurant Row, hungry patrons rushed to and fro; those already satiated strolled and chatted under the streetlamps, patting their bellies. Nicolas chose a respectable-looking corner tavern. He stood at the end of the bar with his back to the wall and ordered a toddy to combat the damp chill of the evening. The sweetness of the liquor blunted his appetite; he called for a second toddy. The clock behind the bar showed an hour before the toll of midnight. Time enough for a third before an on-time arrival at Ball Lane for Madame La Porte’s purported activities with the unknown.
Nicolas was certainly no spiritualist, but the supernatural craze that had swept the country for more than two decades was impossible to ignore. Circles, or séances, with their supposed visitations, were commonplace, and after all, Nicolas considered himself a forward-thinker. He kept an open mind about the likelihood of life after death. After all, there were so many different ways to spend a life, surely there’d be differing paths in the world of the dead.
He wondered what he might expect at Madame La Porte’s little circle. For one, he’d heard a soul could linger for months on earth if death were sudden, unexpected, or premature. The folks in Forestport claimed that was true of the ghost of Friedrick Van Horne, his father. Ruth’s suicide was certainly unexpected.
It was also his understanding that the recently dead were most apt to communicate with the living. Come to think of it, Adam was the only one who fit the bill on both scores—unexpectedly murdered, and only days ago. He’d probably have the best chance of talking to Adam, though he really wanted most to speak with Ruth . . . to explain, to apologize for those last minutes together at the lake. To make his husbandly love known.
The stimulant effects of Nicolas’s third toddy sent a tingle down his arms and warmed his face. It also afforded him courage for the walk to the house on Ball Lane, where the streetlamps grew sparse. He glanced over his shoulder at every corner. An occasional laboring man was all he saw, a cotton jammer or two; they were so very common.
Prangoulis answered his ring at the bell and stood aside to welcome Nicolas into an empty hall. “Madame La Porte hoped you might attend.” He took Schuyler’s outsized bowler and hung it on the hat tree. “They’re just about to be seated,” he said, then scurried away.
The séance room to the left was dimly lit. Madame La Porte was speaking with two guests who stood in the elegant lady’s sitting room, where the gas lights burned brightly.
“Do come in, Mr. Van Horne,” Madame La Porte said, motioning to him. “Basil mentioned your interest in tonight’s activities, and I’m so glad you came.”
“Will there be a place at the circle?”
“As it happens, just one, for you. After all, you’ve traveled a great distance to be with us.”
The guests were introduced by Madame La Porte as Mr. Simon McCandlish and his wife, Beatrice, local citizens who had recently “suffered a great misfortune.”
The McCandlishes were somber-looking folks of modest means. The husband was bald as a billiard ball, red faced, droopy jowled, and in a disheveled suit. His wife, Beatrice, wore a dowdy brownish dress. Her face was grey and drawn; lines of dried tears tracked down her cheeks.
“These dear folks lost their lovely child just days ago,” Madame La Porte explained.
Mrs. McCandlish spoke, her voice wavering and weak. “It was ‘the strangling angel,’ they called it.”
“Diphtheria,” Madame La Porte added. “Jonathon was the boy’s name, a child of eleven years, poor dear; he was taken swiftly.”
“There was nothin’ they coulda done,” Mrs. McCandlish said, “though they tried valiant enough, the doctors did.”
Nicolas took the wife’s hand and patted it warmly. Beatrice turned to Madame La Porte. “Your daughter, Renée, the lovely girl, she was the greatest comfort to us at the hospital.”
“Well now—let’s step across the hall and begin our circle,” Madame La Porte said. “Please remember that we must all maintain strict silence, unless, of course, you are the one designated to communicate, or you’re asked a direct question by a presence that’s joined us.”
The three nodded agreement.
“Remain seated, maintain physical contact with the others at all times, and do not allow your mind to wander.” She stopped in the hallway and turned to Nicolas. “You do believe in the afterlife, don’t you, Mr. Van Horne?”
“I have an open mind about such matters.”
“Is there someone you wish to contact in particular?”
“Yes, two. For one, my dearest friend, recently murdered.”
“How dreadful. His name?”
“Adam Klock. It’s been scarcely a few days since his death on the Mississippi. I doubt his body will ever be recovered.”
“And there’s someone else?”
“My wife, deceased last fall.”
“So sorry. That’s quite some time ago. Were there unresolved issues?”
“There were indeed.”
“Shall we begin our sitting, then?”
Madame La Porte led them past the stuffed ape that beckoned at her séance room’s entryway, to the table. The room was exactly as Nicolas remembered: a small oaken table in the center; three straight chairs at the table and a fourth enclosed by curtains to form the “medium’s cabinet.” The chair of the medium, as before, sat on a large scale like those used to weigh cotton bales.
The outside shutters to the room had been closed, allowing only thin slats of moonlight through the window glass. A single gas lamp burnt dully along the wall. While the participants took seats, Madame La Porte lit a candle in the center of the table, extinguished the gas lamp, and stepped onto the scale to seat herself. Nicolas settled into the chair opposite, with Mr. and Mrs. McCandlish on either side.
Madame La Porte drew the curtains around her cabinet. Except for her hands, arms, and eyes she was obscured from view. The large dial of the scale behind and above her head was in plain sight. As she settled, the needle of the dial bounced, then registered at the 130-pound mark.
“Let’s join hands, shall we?” Madame La Porte said. “Gaze into the light of the candle for some moments. I have a sense of ease this evening. We’re among friends, and there’s joy in the room at the return of a sympathetic visitor to the island.”
“How kind,” Nicolas said softly.
“Please . . . silence until a spirit makes itself known . . .”
Madame La Porte went still, her eyes blank. To Nicolas, it seemed like hours. His mind wandered, the happenings of the past days too intense, no matter how he stared at the candle. Perhaps the toddies didn’t help.
Mrs. McCandlish began to snuffle, then quietly weep. The poor woman’s misfortune was bringing Nicolas’s mood low. He considered excusing himself from the circle. This folderol seemed unlikely to produce much.
Madame La Porte, her eyes dreamy and calm, broke the long silence. “My friends,” she said, “I sense a gentle presence in the room. Let me tell you how we’d best reach out. It’s called the alphabet method.”
She explained that one member of the group would recite the alphabet, awaiting a “sign” at the correct letter, and thus, letter by letter, a message would be transmitted. This rather cumbersome method was effective for “first communications” with newly dead souls. “Please recite slowly,” she said. “We must give our visitant time.”
Madame La Porte then drew her cabinet tighter around herself, leaving only her arms extended. “I’m sensing the presence wishes to speak with you, Beatrice. Please state a simple question, then start the alphabet.”
Mrs. McCandlish’s voice faltered. “Are you . . . are you Jonathon? Is it my son?” She ran through the alphabet quickly, then stalled at the Y.
“Y? Y?”
“Go slowly, Beatrice,” Madame La Porte said. “Spirits have all the time in the world.”
Good heavens, Nicolas thought. At this rate we’ll take all night to get results.
After several runs through the alphabet, a current of air passed through the room at Mrs. McCandlish’s “Y.” Nicolas gave a start and looked around to see if someone had lifted a window.
“Excellent, Beatrice,” Madame La Porte said. “It appears you’ve established a connection.”
At the next “E,” the table trembled ever so slightly. Mrs. McCandlish gasped and squeezed Nicolas’s hand.
“Take care not to break the circle, Beatrice,” Madame La Porte warned. “Please continue.”
A definite “Yes” was established by a powerful shake of the table at the “S.” Mrs. McCandlish cried, “Jonathon! Are you all right?”
“Simple questions, Beatrice,” Madame La Porte said.
“When did you die?”
Slowly, laboriously, the spirit spelt “Two weeks,” which Mr. and Mrs. McCandlish enthusiastically confirmed as correct.
“Can you speak to us?”
At this, a rumble coursed through the parlour. The table legs rattled.
“I see something!” Mrs. McCandlish cried out. She began to rise from her chair; Nicolas and her husband pulled her back to prevent her breaking the circle.
All eyes went to the medium’s cabinet, where the curtains parted slightly and Madame La Porte’s face shone with serenity and peace. A faint, fluorescent blue cloud floated high over her head. The needle of the scale wavered and dipped downward a pound or two.
To the participants’ astonishment, this blue vapour grew larger and brighter, and the face of a child materialized.
“Momma, I’m here,” a child cried in a high-pitched voice that seemed to come through the ceiling. “I’m not lost.”
Now the husband, Mr. McCandlish, leaned forward in his chair. “Come back to us, Son!” he cried, his bald pate shining in the blue glow. “Oh, good Lord, that damnable hospital . . . how I hated the place. I should’ve got ya there sooner, Son, but the cost . . . the cost. And now you’re gone.”
“Don’t worry, Poppa,” said the child. “It’s fine here. It’s warm and I like it. I wanted you to know . . . it’s fine . . . it’s fine.”
The vapour dissipated and the boy’s cries of “It’s fine . . . It’s fine” receded into the distance.
Madame La Porte peered out from her cabinet and glanced around the circle. She looked groggy, as if awakened from a deep sleep. Once calm was restored, she shut her curtains and joined hands with the others.
“There’s more about this evening,” she said. “I sense a more sinister presence, as if wrongs were done. Mr. Van Horne—begin, if you please.”
“Who are you?” Nicolas asked. “Who’s there?” He began reciting the alphabet, pronouncing each letter with care while holding tight to hands on both sides. No presence made itself known.
“Try a different tack,” Madame La Porte said. “A direct question, but be forewarned. I’m sensing anger, or actual violence, in the room.”
“Are you Adam?” Nicolas asked. “I’m sure you are, with your violent end.”
A faint mist formed over the medium’s cabinet, this time colorless, like a pale summer cloud . . . the cloud darkened until it was blood red. Mrs. McCandlish gasped. The red cloud dripped like a fresh, bleeding wound around Madame La Porte’s curtained enclosure.
They heard mumbling in a foreign tongue, then a face took form in the cloud. Gradually, the face became more distinct—a man, young and robust—and straightaway the young man’s face cleaved in two, gruesomely distorted, the two halves floating in air.
“I know him!” Nicolas cried, staring at the cleaved head of the murdered Canadian lumberjack, struck asunder by a vengeful woodsman’s axe.
Mrs. McCandlish screamed and put her hands to her mouth, and the circle was broken. The appalling vision faded, its lips moving soundlessly.
“A sad case,” Nicolas explained. “An evil man who was murdered for a heinous deed and . . . my daughter retrieved the body. I brought him here.”
Madame La Porte pulled her curtains open. “He’s on the island?”
“Yes.”
“You seem to be trailed by a number of souls, Mr. Van Horne. How many have you brought?”
“Two dozen . . . more, counting Saint Louis.”
“Oh, heavens. We may have a long night ahead.” Madame La Porte withdrew into her cabinet. “Allow me to rest for a few moments.”
81
A Second Revenant, This One Uninvited
Once Madame La Porte had recovered, she agreed to resume the circle and drew her cabinet shut. “I sense another presence,” she said. “Quite distant at the moment. You may start, Mr. Van Horne. Let’s hope for a better outcome.”
“Are you Adam?” Nicolas asked. “Are you?” After repeated runs of the alphabet, a low, painful groan rumbled through the room at the letter “N.�
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“Then you’re Ruth!”
A louder grumble at “N,” then the alphabet went unanswered through several repetitions.
“You are Ruth. You must be. When did you die?”
The spirit spelt out “F-A-L-L.”
“Then you are Ruth.”
“N-O.”
“Nonsense, spirit. It was in November that Ruth took her life.”
“Simple questions, if you please,” Madame La Porte said firmly.
“Tell me this, then,” Nicolas said. “How many letters in your name?”
As Nicolas counted, a breeze passed through the room like a sigh at the number five and before Nicolas could say it, there was a whispered “Six.”
“Six? It must be four. Adam. Ruth. No matter which, it’s four letters.”
A vaporous apparition appeared over Madame La Porte’s cabinet, but this visitant gave off a greenish tinge and the séance room filled with an abominable odor like that of rotted, maggot-infested flesh. A jolt of electricity shot from hand to hand around the table, but they all held firm.
“Dammit, we must see you,” Nicolas said. “Who are you?”
A reply came in a deep, ear-splitting “Thomas!”—and the lone candle on the table flickered out.
“I am Thomas Chubb” echoed off the walls, which now shone an uncanny green from the aura the spirit threw out. A second massive electrical current pulsed round the table, Madame La Porte cried out behind her curtain, and the needle of her scale trembled and plummeted twenty pounds.
“Why you, Thomas?” Nicolas asked. “Why are you here?”
“To tell the truth,” Thomas Chubb replied. His booming bass shook the ceiling. “To get the truth out—all of it. Tonight.”
“I know the truth about you, Thomas.”
“No you don’t, Nicolas.” The undertaker’s voice seemed filled with uncharacteristic remorse. “You don’t know. It’s about the boys, Nicolas. Over the years, so many years, I’ve been a haunted man.”
