The Séance
Written by Kenneth Gerleve
Installation created by Margot McMahon
“May I have your name, sir?” asked the mousy young woman who stood just beyond the threshold of the concave wooden door.
“Yes. It is Edward Irving,” I replied.
Having been dispatched by S.P.O.O.K. to investigate the Weill family and Summerland, their “institute for psychical research,” I gave a pseudonym, wishing to keep my identity a secret for obvious reasons. The girl’s expression subtly changed; her left brow arched while she drew her lips into a thin line, betraying suspicion, but she continued her duties without pause. She gestured for me to enter, then turned inside the foyer, checking for the name in a book laid out on the hall table.
“Ah. Here it is, Mr. Irving,” she said upon finding it. “Welcome to Summerland.” She took my overcoat, which she placed into a hall closet, and then gestured for me to follow her into a parlor to the left of the entrance hall.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” I asked.
“Margaret, sir,” she responded. “Margaret Weill. I’m Mr. Weill’s daughter. From his first wife, Amelia,” she added. She glanced nervously about the room as if she were being watched. I smiled, pretending not to notice her awkward manner.
Whenever I have made investigations in the past, I have usually been sent to some heap of an old building that could double as a setting for a gothic novel. Thus, I was pleased to find Summerland to be a handsome Italianate building of curious design, constructed from yellow brick, with the four corners of the building rounded off. The Weill’s have claimed this was done in order for the house to be “more attractive to spirits.” Topped with a mansard roof and a cupola, the house also sports a welcoming front porch and, above, a Juliette balcony where visitors are invited to relax on wicker furniture between séances.
“Would you care for refreshment while we wait for the others?” Margaret asked.
“Might I have a bourbon please? Neat.”
“I’m afraid the only spirits to be raised this evening are the dead,” she said, laughing at her own joke, and instead she handed me a dainty china teacup filled with a weak amber liquid.
“What do ghosts prefer to drink?” I asked, seeing an opportunity to make pleasantries.
“I don’t know,” she replied dully.
“BOO-ZE!” I blurted. She feigned an amused smile. Clearly she had heard that one before.
Dejected, I balanced the cup on the saucer and crossed the room, sitting upon the edge of a divan. The girl resumed her station at the entrance to the parlor. After a few minutes of awkward silence, I tried again to make conversation. “May I smoke?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Tobacco smoke is a powerful spiritual tool, and its use at Summerland is reserved for the séance parlor.” Just then, the doorbell rang, and Margaret excused herself.
While she was gone, I scanned the room, looking for any suspicious device that might aid the Weill’s during their séances. As previous reports suggested, all of the interior corners were rounded, as were junctures between all floors to walls and walls to ceilings.
I crossed the room to a portrait of Sylvia Weill which hung over the mantelpiece. In the soft light of the gas fixtures, I regarded the features of this woman who claimed to commune with the spirits.
We began hearing murmurs from far afield of the activities of Sylvia Weill in 1898. Her séances were alleged by witnesses to produce all manner of phenomena, including disembodied voices, automatic writing, odors, rapping on tables, object levitations, and ectoplasmic manifestations. These reports attracted the attention of the authorities and the Weills were investigated by various police detectives and amateur sleuths and found on several occasions to have staged these happenings. Yet, even with damning evidence against them, the Weills suffered little, for their supporters were many and credulous.
Later, it was with some bemusement that we at S.P.O.O.K. began to hear fresh rumors from the Weill clan, this time focused on their young son, Astor, who was seven at the time of this report. It was claimed that his séances were so accurate that he had supplied local law enforcement with credible and detailed information on several cases. Reports also suggested this young prophet to be rather precocious and temperamental, often refusing to appear before sitters at the slightest provocation.
Thus, I made my way to this rural outpost to investigate the Weills, their son Astor, and Summerland, to determine whether they were engaged in a new type of deception, or whether, in fact, their claims were to be believed.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wood.” Margaret returned, leading a frail, elderly woman dressed in a black mourning costume of wool bombazine. “I do not believe Astor will be sitting this evening. My brother has been very poorly of late. I’m afraid the spirits feed off of his vitality and leave him quite feeble.” A younger woman—likely a daughter or niece—trailed in their wake. She too was dressed for mourning. “Mr. Irving, this is Mrs. Evelyn Wood, wife of the late Reginald Wood, and their daughter Constance Wilson, wife of Mr. Theodore Wilson.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said. I crossed back to the divan and grabbed my teacup, then moved over to an armchair, leaving the divan for the two women.
“I must apologize,” Margaret continued. “We are still waiting on Mr. Dickinson. Would you care for refreshments?” She offered a teacup and saucer to each lady. The doorbell rang again and Margaret left the room.
“My daughter and I attend Sylvia’s séances regularly,” Mrs. Evelyn Wood said with the careful diction and proud air befitting the nouveau riche. “My late husband has become quite the investment advisor since he crossed over.”
“Is that so?” I sipped the tea and grimaced at the bitter liquid, now gone cold. “Have you also sat with the young boy Astor? I’ve heard that his talents surpass Mrs. Weill’s by degrees.”
“Only once,” the daughter Constance chimed in conspiratorially. “He is a strange boy, to be sure. Such big eyes. He is surrounded by a veritable miasma of death.” She shivered with excitement.
Mr. Archibald Dickinson, our final sitter, arrived shortly thereafter. He was young and seemed rather wistful and melancholy, clutching a photograph to his breast.
“Good evening, Mr. Dickinson. How have you been since our last séance?” Constance asked sympathetically.
“Not well, I must confess,” he replied, crumpling into a high-backed wing chair. “I miss my poor Daisy so much. I’m afraid my loneliness will consume me.” To this, Constance pursed her lips like a woman consoling a spoilt child. Mrs. Evelyn Wood, however, rolled her eyes and focused her attention on a hang nail on her left ring finger, which she nibbled at discreetly.
“Good Evening!” announced a husky voice, accented with Teutonic syllables. There before us stood the rather stout looking Sylvia Weill—a sight to behold—dripping in black crepe and jet beads. Though her face was partially obscured by a thin black veil, her trademark, she appeared homelier than her portrait would have anyone believe.
“Please. Follow me up to the ballroom,” she commanded. “We are ready to begin.”
With much dramatic flair, we were ushered out of the parlor and up a flight of stairs to a landing that opened into a large room which was used for the séances as well as lectures.
The windows were draped in black silk brocade. A large round mahogany table surrounded by chairs dominated the center of the room. Along the walls, gaslight flickered behind frosted glass sconces. We were each, in turn, led to our seats by Margaret, our chairs placed at intervals to create a pentagram. With the Medium forming the first point, I was to her right, next was Mrs. Wilson, then Mr. Archibald, and finally Mrs. Wood. Margaret silently dimmed the lamps until the room was almost completely dark.
“Welcome to Summerland. I trust that Margaret has made you most welcome and comfortable as you were waiting.” The Medium turned toward Margaret who stood near the doorway. Even in the dim light, I could see a look of reproach on Sylvia’s face.
“Trance mediumship,” she said, “is an ancient art which shamans of old used to communicate with the spirit world. Their efforts, while sometimes producing results, were often inefficient and unreliable. When we built Summerland, we set out to incorporate the knowledge of the ancients with the latest in technological advances.” Here she gestured to various peculiar looking devices which were arranged upon the table.
“We know and understand that there are forces invisible to the naked eye which nonetheless exist—electricity and radio waves, for example. The Medium therefore acts like the conductive wire carrying spiritual energy from the Elysian Fields to our plane of existence. Now, does anyone have a loved one they wish for me to summon?”
Mrs. Evelyn Wood spoke up. “My husband, Mr. Reginald Wood.”
“My wife, Daisy,” said Mr. Archibald Dickinson.
“My younger brother, Quincy,” I said. Naturally, this relation and his death were a fiction, part of my assumed identity.
“Thank you,” said the Medium. “Please join hands and let them rest on the table. I must warn you that no matter what you see, you must not break the circle at any time. Do not attempt to touch the spirits, and do not address them directly. These actions will usually only result in a break in communication, but sometimes they can be deadly. Spirits have been known to possess sitters at séances who do not follow the rules. Margaret, please help me with the apparatus.”
In the dim light, Margaret silently retrieved a queerly shaped object, not unlike a samovar, from a side table and brought it over to the Medium, carefully placing it on her head.
“This new instrument—one of our own design—will help to amplify the nether-signals,” the Medium explained. With the audible flick of a switch, the object began to quietly hum and glow an ethereal green, casting strange shadows upon the wall. Next, Margaret handed the Medium a bell, which she rang three times, then set upon the table.
By the tolling of this bell, we call the spirits home
From corners dark, where spirits dwell, wherever they may roam
We call across the Stygian sea, come in and join our mourners
Be merry, be light, fly free inside this house devoid of corners
The Medium leaned forward and rested her chin on her chest, a sign that she had entered a deep trance. After several minutes, I could almost hear the silvery ringing of a tiny bell as if from a great distance. Then, the scent of roses filled the room, and from above us, a disembodied voice—no more than a whisper—broke the silence.
“I am Daisy, Archie’s wife.” A girlish voice announced. Mr. Dickinson moaned from his chair. “I bear tidings of happiness and peace. I am now with Mama and Papa in Heaven. Remember me, Archibald but do not forget our son, Charlie. You both deserve happiness. Farewell. Farewell…” her voice trailed off into silence.
Next, the room was filled with the scent of a cigar followed by the voice of a man which seemed to hover over my left shoulder. “I am Mr. Reginald Wood. Greetings to my wife and daughter. I have watched over recent events from on high, and advise thus: buy low, sell high!
His voice echoed and disappeared. The room again became eerily quiet, save for the hum of the apparatus. It was then, while peering about in the darkness, that I noticed the shadow of two small feet standing just outside the door. It quickly moved out of the way, as if caught in the act of spying.
“We wish to speak with Quincy Irving,” the Medium called out. “Quincy Irving?” After a few moments of silence, the Medium perked up in response to something the rest of us could not hear. The whispering became louder and the voice said:
“There is no one of that name amongst us! There is, however, a skeptic in our midst—none other than Clancy Brown, investigator for the Society for Paranormal, Occult and Otherworldly Knowledge! The spirits have seen through his dastardly plan and have rendered him exposed.”
“Heavens!” Mrs. Constance Wilson cried out. “I feel as if I might faint!”
“Such treachery!” hissed Mr. Archibald Dickinson. “May the Devil take your soul!”
“How do you respond to these accusations, sir?” demanded Mrs. Evelyn Wood.
“Interloper!” growled a husky voice in my ear. Suddenly, and with great force, I was gripped from behind by two meaty arms and raised to my feet.
“There is no need for such hostilities!” I protested. I struggled but could not free myself.
“Silence!” commanded the Medium as she jerked from her trance. She slowly raised her head and sat back in her chair. She rang a small bell, and the door to the parlor opened. Margaret stepped in with a lamp which she placed on a side table. “Explain yourself, Mr. Irving, or should I say Mr. Brown. Gustav, let him go.” I was suddenly released back into my chair.
“It is true. I am Clancy Brown. It is also true that I have no brother named Quincy. I am an investigator for S.P.O.O.K, but like all of you, I seek the truth. If what we have experienced tonight is indeed genuine, then there is nothing to fear. But if instead we are in the presence of nothing more than a troupe of talented theatricals, then let Science and Reason shine their light upon us.”
“That sounds like a threat,” said Mr. Weill as he squeezed my shoulders again.
“We have nothing to hide, Mr. Brown,” the Medium said diplomatically. Then, addressing the other sitters, she added, “While the Spirits see all, the living are often blind. It is our duty to enlighten all mankind, to share with them the tidings of joy beyond the veil. Therefore, we must extend an olive branch of forgiveness to all those who wrong us. However, you are not to be trusted, Mr. Brown, and therefore I must ask Gustav to escort you out.”
Without ceremony, I was led back down the stairs into the foyer, where Margaret handed me my overcoat with an unexpectedly apologetic look. “In the future, never forget to empty your pockets before handing over your coat in the house of a Medium,” she said, handing me a small bit of paper which I recognized immediately as my own calling card. Gustav then ushered me out the front door, signaled to my driver to collect me, and left me on the stoop. He firmly shut the door behind him.
As I walked toward the awaiting carriage, I noticed the figure of a boy lurking in the shadows. His eyes were large and his gaze penetrating, as if he was looking through me. He emerged into the moonlight and motioned for me to approach him. I recognized the face of Astor Weill from my research. He was, as Mrs. Constance Wilson had suggested, very strange and surrounded by a miasma of death, and I felt goose-pimples rise on my flesh. He motioned for me to lean in close.
“I have a message from your Mother,” he whispered. As he relayed it, my smile instantly vanished. In detail, the message was eerily accurate and its content was something that neither the boy nor anyone else could possibly know. I was shocked, but did my best to hide this from him. He disappeared back into the darkness, and silently, I turned and climbed into my carriage.
Now, as I collect my thoughts on the events at Summerland and weigh them up with past investigations into the Weills’ claims of psychic phenomena, I must report that nothing I experienced tonight would confirm the existence of spirits in Mrs. Weill’s parlor. In fact, I would go further and charge her with fraud, using those techniques common to others of her craft including cold reading, hidden devices for the transmission of odors and voices, and collecting information on her sitters prior to their appointments.
However, there is some merit to the claims of psychic abilities in the young boy Astor. His message to me, which was both alarmingly accurate and deeply private, could not have been prepared in advance through any methods I am aware of. Therefore, I urge the Society to further research the boy.