The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

The chamber became quiet. I could hear Mina’s soft, even breathing on one side of me, and on the other, the more labored breaths of Miss Ashton. She had a drowning-man grip on my hand as she gawked, looking about the chamber.

The candle flames burned straight and steady. Silence reigned. As the stillness went on, I felt a prickle of anticipation instead of my normal impatience.

Something was going to happen.

“There are nonbelievers here.” Mrs. Yingling broke the silence in her soft, quavery voice.

Mina shifted, her fingers tightening over mine. I listened to her lecture all the way over here about the mediums who’d been exposed as frauds. Even the celebrated Fox sisters from America confessed their entire career had been a sham, according to the know-it-all Miss Holmes.

“I know it is difficult for you, O Spirits, to visit when you must breach a wall of unbelief . . . but I implore you to be strong and to come to us. Make yourselves known. Make the nonbelievers into believers. Give us a sign of your presence.”

This time, Mrs. Yingling’s voice had hardly died away when there was a sharp rap.

My tingle of anticipation became a full-fledged flutter as our medium responded, “Ah! You are here. Thank you for making yourselves known to us. Is there anything you wish to say?”

Rap, rap. Rap.

Beside me, Miss Ashton was very still. On my other side, I felt Mina quivering with interest. She muttered something inaudible. No one’s hands had moved from the table during the rapping. Nor had anyone shifted in their position in order to, say, kick at the table. And the rap sounded more like bare knuckles than a slippered foot, anyway.

Did ghosts even have bare knuckles? How did they make that noise—assuming they were real?

“The spirits wish to speak,” Mrs. Yingling announced. “They have messages for us.”

Miss Ashton shifted next to me, her grip on my fingers even tighter. “Mother? Are you there? Please speak to me, Mother.”

“You must remain silent,” Mrs. Yingling said swiftly. “Only I may talk, or the spirits will wither away, dissolving back to the Other Side.”

Mina gave a derisive snort, but before I could jab her in the ribs again, the table moved.

I mean, it moved.

The whole thing jolted, as if someone large had lumbered up and bumped into it in the middle of the night.

Someone gave a little shriek and I heard a mutter from next to me: “Trick wires.” The candles hadn’t tipped because of their solid holders, but the flames danced wildly. Everything became quiet once more.

“Thus the spirits acknowledge the nonbelievers. And yet, they remain, for their messages are of utmost importance. I implore you to remain silent, and to allow me to commune with them.”

I swallowed, more than willing to allow the spirits to commune. There was no way the table had moved the way it did with any assistance on anyone’s part. That much force would have required even myself, with my unusual strength, to move violently . . . and someone would have noticed it.

“Is Marta, mother of Willa, here? Marta, if you are here, make yourself known!”

Rap!

Miss Ashton jolted and her grip tightened even more. “Mother.”

“Marta, do you wish to speak to us?”

Rap-rap!

“Ask if she is . . . if she knows where Robby is,” Miss Ashton begged.

Perhaps realizing she was fighting a losing battle requesting silence, Mrs. Yingling didn’t reprimand her. “Marta . . . do you know where your son is?”

R-r-rap.

A little shiver ran up my spine. That was a weaker knock, and even I could tell it wasn’t an optimistic response.

“Mother!” Miss Ashton released my fingers and rose, crying toward the nothingness of the ceiling. “I miss you so much, and I cannot believe Robby is gone—”

“Please! Miss Ashton, you are disturbing the spirits! Calm yourself, and take up your friends’ hands once more,” Mrs. Yingling said.

Our hostess sat back down, and I could hear her shuddering as she tried to control sobs. I found her fingers and squeezed gently, trying to offer some comfort. Even Mina seemed affected, for she hadn’t said a word.

“O, Spirits, please do not leave us,” said the medium. “We wish to communicate with you. Please do not leave us. Please give us a sign of your presence.”

Suddenly, I felt a change in the air. A vibration of sorts . . . or an energy. As if it sang or reverberated. The hair on my arms lifted. Something sharp prickled over my scalp. I turned to see Mrs. Yingling and was shocked that she was trembling violently. Her expression had gone blank and her eyes bulged even more than they had behind her magnifying lenses.

In the drassy illumination, the candle flames caused shadows to flicker eerily over the medium’s face, making it appear drawn and gaunt, even gray. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grotesque fashion.

“I am . . . here. . . .”

My body went cold and numb. The words were coming from the medium’s mouth, but the voice was not hers. It was loud, deep, and stentorous. The air in the room cooled and the tip of my nose turned icy.

The voice continued: “I am here . . . Linny-Lou.”

I couldn’t control a gasp and Mina pivoted to me. My fingers opened and my hands fell away from the ones I held. My heart was pounding.

I swallowed hard, giving myself a good, sharp shake to clear my head and ears. It couldn’t be. I’d heard wrong.

“Linny-Lou . . . it is I, old Patrick O’Gallegh. . . . I am here, little colleen. . . . I have a message for you. . . .”

The dark, deep voice continued to roll from Mrs. Yingling’s contorted mouth. And there was no mistake: he . . . she . . . it? . . . was speaking to me.

“Y-yes,” I managed to say, even as the horrific image of Mr. O’Gallegh’s bloody torso rose in my memory.

Blood . . . everywhere. Stark white bone gleaming through ravaged flesh and ragged clothing. Two telltale puncture marks on his neck . . . and a demon with glowing red eyes staring at me. With challenge and derision.

“You could not have been a-saving me, sweet colleen,” rumbled the grating voice. Even in the warped, deep tones, I heard the old man’s familiar Irish lilt. “But ye must be saving the others. Judas’s minions have returned . . . ye must—”

Amanda Norton erupted from her chair, violently beating at herself as if to brush something away. “It touched me!” she shrieked, flinging herself away from the table and dancing about. “Something touched me!”

An ugly sound burbled from the other end of the table. I whirled to see Mrs. Yingling, her face twisting wildly. She seemed to be about to vomit. Mina leapt up, but by the time she got out from between the heavy chair and table, the medium had collapsed back in her own seat.