In the Shadow of Blackbirds(5)

Julius’s words from the moment before he captured the image crept into my ears: Stay still. Smile. And summon the dead.

Beside me in the developed photograph knelt a hulking, transparent figure draped in a pale cloak that concealed every inch of its head and body. The creature clung to my chair and leaned its forehead against the armrest, as if it were either in immense pain or bowing to me in worship.

“What do you think of your photograph?” The floorboards behind me creaked from Aunt Eva’s work boots. “We told you something amazing would emerge if you posed for him.”

A shiver snaked down my spine. Instead of responding, I read the text below the photograph aloud: “‘Miss Mary Shelley Black and an admiring spirit. Beauty resides within the sacred studio of Mr. Julius Embers, Spiritualist Photographer.’” I spun around to face my aunt. “Julius used me as an advertisement?”

“That advertisement has led a great deal of grieving individuals to solace in his studio. You look absolutely beautiful in that photograph. Look at the way he almost captured the chestnut hue of your hair.”

“Who cares how I look? I’m sitting next to a fake spirit! That’s probably a transposed image of Julius covered in a white sheet.”

“That’s not a fake, Mary Shelley. Julius thinks your visitor may be proof that you possess clairvoyance. I told him you always seem to be channeling your mother’s scientific spirit.”

“Channeling her spirit?” I said with a snort. “Are you out of your head? My mother’s love of science is probably in my blood, just like she gave me blue eyes and the shape of her mouth. Sir Francis Galton wrote papers on that very subject.”

She heaved a sigh. “Did Sir Francis Gallon—”

“Galton.”

“Whatever his name is, did he write about sixteen-year-old girls—sixteen-year-old girls!—who invent improved versions of doorbells for their science fair projects?”

“He wrote about intelligence being inherited, and that’s probably what happened with me. Why can’t a girl be smart without it being explained away as a rare supernatural phenomenon?”

“I’m not saying you can’t be smart. In fact, a scientific mind like yours should want to explore the communication between spirits and mortals. It’s no different than the mystery behind telephone wires and electrical currents.”

I turned back to the photograph and scrutinized the “ghost” through narrowed eyes.

Aunt Eva crept closer. “Julius Embers is a good man. He specializes in the spirits of fallen soldiers now. See?” She pointed to a neighboring picture frame that held an article from the San Diego Evening Tribune.

The article, dated September 22, included three photographs of dark-clothed people, probably parents and wives, behind whom posed transparent young men in U.S. Army uniforms. Ghostly hands rested on the peoples’ shoulders. The supposed spirit faces disappeared into blurry mists.

“Do you still visit Julius?” I asked.

“I didn’t at first.” A chill iced her voice. “I was too humiliated after what happened between you and Stephen that day.”

I flinched.

“But then Wilfred died,” she continued before I could say a word. “Julius’s photography helped me with my grief.” She nodded toward a small photograph of herself and a hazy man with a slim build, who could have been my uncle if you looked at the image cross-eyed. “I felt guilty for not loving Wilfred enough when he suffered so deeply from his illness.” She straightened the photograph with her thumb. “But Julius and his mother always welcomed me into their home with warm smiles. He’s photographed Wilfred and me a few times now.”

“For a large fee, of course,” I muttered.

“Stop criticizing Julius. Here—look closely at the last paragraph in this Tribune article.” She tapped the glass framing the story with a fingernail caked in shipyard grime. “There’s a local photography expert, a man named Aloysius Darning, who exposes fake Spiritualist photographers across the country. He sent two men to jail up in Los Angeles, but he can’t find a single trace of fraud in Julius’s work. He attends my church, when it’s not shut down for the quarantine, and I’ve heard him discuss Julius’s spirits.”

I leaned toward the article and silently read the line about the fraud catcher:





Mr. Aloysius P. Darning, renowned for his ability to catch crooks in the act of falsifying spirit images, still cannot find one shred of proof that Mr. Embers is a fraud—much to Mr. Darning’s chagrin.




“It’s still impossible to believe.” I shook my head. “Stephen told me this is all the work of a drug addict and a cheat.”

“Julius isn’t an addict.”

“Stephen mentioned opium.”

“Maybe Stephen was the one who was lying. Did you ever think of that?” She plopped onto her sofa’s flowery cushions and untied her boots, which unleashed the foul odor of her feet. “Stephen was always jealous of his brother’s success.”

My stomach lurched. “What do you mean was?”

“I mean … Stephen’s battalion headed to France over the summer.”

“I know. We still write to each other.”

Her face blanched. “Oh, Mary Shelley.” She uncrossed her legs. “You shouldn’t be in contact with him. Does your father know?”