Short Story: The Seance

 

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

It was nearly showtime and Cassandra stood before the heavy gilt mirror putting the finishing touches to her costume. A touch of kohl beneath her eyes made them appear larger and stranger, pale powder added a touch of the ghostly, and a purple silk scarf tied around her head lent her the bohemian air she felt was fitting for a medium.

Descending the stairs she met her husband Albert the in front parlour where he was putting the usual arrangements in place for the afternoon’s séance. Lighted candles sat here and there among a distracting litter of ornaments arranged on fussy little side tables and shelves. Cassandra approached the round table in the centre of the room and smoothed the cloth.

Albert told her in a business-like tone that everything was in place; the boy was in his nook beneath the floorboards, ready to knock in response to her questions to the spirits. Albert had the bellows ready to create an uncanny billow of wind at the appropriate moment, and a long, light cane for moving small objects in the darkened room if the customers needed further evidence of a ghostly presence. They made an effective team, he with his clever props, she with her ability to handle the customers so delicately and with the timing of an experienced actor.

There was a knock at the front door and Cassandra took her place at the table, giving a sharp stamp on the floor to tell the boy it was time as Albert hid behind a heavy door curtain. Mary the maid showed in a middle-aged, respectably dressed couple who hesitated by the door and looked around the darkened room apprehensively, taking in the drawn curtains, flickering candles and pale, large eyed mystic sitting in the centre of the uncanny atmosphere.

Assuming a low, rich voice unlike her usual matter of fact tone, Cassandra said ‘Welcome Mr Simms; Mrs Simms. Please be seated.’ She indicated two carefully positioned chairs on the opposite side of the table. ‘May I offer you refreshments?’

The couple took their seats. ‘A glass of water, please.’ said Mrs Simms as she smoothed and resmoothed her skirt.

‘Nothing for me, thank you.’ Said Mr Simms with a stiff nod.

Cassandra steered the couple skilfully through a few minutes of small talk about the weather and their journey that day and, once she judged that they were beginning to relax, brought their attention to the business at hand.

‘You are here in the hope of contacting your dear son, is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Simms ‘He was so young. He died six months ago of –‘

‘Hush dear, hush; tell me no more. It helps if my mind remains clear and pure before the contact.’

‘Oh my, yes of course’. Mrs Simms fluttered with embarrassment at her faux pas.

Hmm, not quite dim enough, Cassandra thought. She extinguished three of the candles on the table. Perfect.

Her mind flickering casually to a list of errands later in the day (she must remind cook they didn’t want soup for a starter that evening, and reprimand Mary about the dusting), Cassandra ran through her familiar script:

(a) Quiet please

(b) Let us begin

(c) Solemn trance

(d) Calling out

‘Is there anybody there?’ Cassandra asked. Then again lower, each syllable dragged out in an eerie monotone. ‘Is…there…any…body…there?’

Before the boy could give his first tentative tap on the floorboards a voice spoke. A sharp male voice unfamiliar to Cassandra and definitely not part of the scheduled performance.

‘Yes. I’m here.’

Cassandra’s eyes flew open in surprise, the touch of kohl becoming suddenly superfluous. She felt sick as the air to the left of her shimmered as if in a heat haze. The image of a young man formed, faint but rapidly becoming almost solid. She stared in silent horror as he spoke again.

‘I said I’m here. What do you want?’

Mr Simms leant forward, brow furrowed. ‘I can hear something but I can’t quite make it out.’

‘Yes, just a faint whisper.’ said Mrs Simms.

The heavy door curtain twitched and Albert risked a glance at his wife. Where had this urge to improvise come from?

‘Well?’ said the impatient spirit.

‘I…I…are these your parents?’

He turned to where Cassandra’s shaking finger pointed. ‘Yes, they are.’ He looked at them softly, sadly. His face hardened as he turned back to her. ‘I know you. You’re that phoney psychic, or medium, or whatever it is you claim to be. I came to you last year with my fiancé to contact her dead sister and you reeled off all sorts of guff. You’re a cruel trickster and now you’re out to con Mother and Father.’

‘No! That is, what I say comforts people. Whether it’s real or not doesn’t matter.’

‘Tuh. It matters days later when the novelty wears off and your customer realises they’ve been diddled. Poor Victoria was heartbroken, she felt so stupid for being taken in.’

‘But I’m helping!’ said Cassandra, knowing it was a lie but desperate to keep up the pretence.

‘Helping yourself, more like.’

During the awkward pause that followed, in which Cassandra’s world quickly disintegrated, the ghost studied his parents as they watched the medium with obvious fear.

‘Can they hear me?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’ll have to do then. Tell them Simon’s here.’

It was at this point that Cassandra usually made a show of drawing the spirit closer and asking it’s name, usually a mixture of guess work and assistance from customers who were egar to believe. Instead, she said simply ‘Simon’s here.’

‘Describe what I look like, so they know it’s me.’

‘He’s wearing old tweeds, quite worn, and round horn-rimmed glasses. He has curly brown hair, short. Grey eyes I think?’

‘Light blue.’ Said Simon.

‘Sorry, light blue. And he has a signet ring on his left little finger.’

‘With my initials on. Mother and Father gave it to me for my 21^st birthday.’

‘With his initials on. From you.’ Cassandra fell silent and watched Mr and Mrs Simms. They looked more startled with every fresh detail; neither had expected the medium to divine so much.

Simon continued, ‘Tell them I…tell them I love them, and that I’m happy though I’d jolly well rather not be dead.’

Cassandra repeated this to the Simms, who absorbed it in silence.

‘Anything else?’ she asked Simon.

‘Um, no, not really. Gosh, you’d think there would be more to say after six months, wouldn’t you? It’s like visiting time in a hospital.’ He thought for a moment then added, ‘There is one thing.’

Cassandra leaned towards him, wondering what wisdom from the afterlife he was about to impart.

‘Tell them to please, please take town the terrible watercolour of the geraniums from beside the drawing room window, it’s really not my best. They should frame the one of Kirkstall Abbey instead, that’s my favourite.’

 After Cassandra passed this on, Mrs Simms asked where to find the painting of the abbey. Ten minutes of back-and-forth questions and confusing answers followed until the living and the dead agreed thar the painting might be in Simon’s small portfolio but was probably in his large one. Or it might be behind the spare room wardrobe. But it could be under his parent’s bed. If it wasn’t there it would definitely be in the attic, rolled up in the old trunk Uncle Archibald once took to Spain and back, unless it wasn’t, in which case he might have given it to Victoria last year on her birthday. He couldn’t be sure. Cassandra had no idea that communion with the spirit world could be so tedious and infuriating. Humans apparently kept a tight grip on boring details even in death. If this is what real psychic powers mean, I’ve had enough of them, she thought.

‘Well,’ said Simon, swinging his arms back and forth, ‘That’s everything, I think. I may as well head off.’ After one last long look at his parents he gave a small, wistful smile and said ‘I do love them, but they aren’t half annoying at times. Anyway, good bye, and behave yourself Cassandra.’

He vanished.

To give herself some comfort Cassandra reassumed the voice of the dusky voiced mystic and told the Simms that the beloved soul of Simon bid them farewell, said they would always be held close in his heart and had departed.

Mr Simms sat back in his chair looking relieved. ‘Well, well. That was Simon alright wasn’t it dear? We loved him more than anything of course, and we always will, but he was always a terribly disorganised boy, so lax about things.’

‘We shall have to turn the house upside down looking for that painting. If only he’d kept things tidy like I told him to, the dear, silly boy.’

Mary opened the curtains and brought in the tea tray. Cassandra loaded her tea with sugar, the tremor in her hand making her teacup tinkle like a bell ringing in a new day. She sipped it in silence whilst Mr and Mrs Simms debated their strategy for finding the painting of Kirkstall Abbey, giving the occasional nod or murmur when required. The Simms prepared to leave.

‘Thank you so much for your time. I shall certainly recommend you to my friends.’ said Mrs Simms.

‘No!’ Said Cassandra, coming out of her daze. ‘I mean no, really, I did so little, it was an honour to be a –‘ she paused, searching for the right word in the florid vocabulary she’s used a lifetime ago, or so it seemed, when she pretended to talk to the dead. ‘ – to be a conduit for you. I don’t want payment. And I appreciate your recommendation, but regretfully this was my final performance, ah, séance. I am retiring as of today.

‘What a shame. You have such a gift.’ Said Mrs Simms.