Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly #1)(7)

Since the séances never succeeded in contacting spirits, all of the entertainment was in the presentation. And Mama was an excellent presenter. Shadows billowed from the lone candles and flickered eerily across her face.

“As is customary,” she continued in a somber tone, “we must hold hands and chant together in order to summon the spirits’ attentions.” She lowered herself gracefully into her chair, her head held high. She extended her arms to grasp at her neighbors’ hands, and soon each person was locked, gloved hand to gloved hand.

“I would like to begin with my dear husband, Henry,” she proclaimed, “and once we have visited with him, we can move to any other spirits you may wish to see.”

A wave of nods moved around the table. Allison and the Virtue Sisters twittered.

Mama closed her eyes. “Henry, it is your wife, Abigail. I call to you in heaven. Commune with us, Henry, and move among us.”

The guests and I repeated her words and waited, our eyes closed.

The scent of the fresh-bread offering wafted into my nose, and my stomach bubbled with hollow hunger. To fit myself in my corset, I’d had to forego most of my supper. Perhaps I could steal a slice while our guests’ eyes were closed.

Several silent moments passed, and then Mama led everyone in another chant. I wondered who would be the first to tap the table. On the third round of chanting, I decided it should be me.

I lifted my slippered foot as silently as my skirts would allow, and with a gentle thrust, I kicked the table.

“Henry!” Mama exclaimed, her face a dramatic mask of pleasant surprise. “Is that you?”

I kicked twice—two knocks meant “yes.”

Around the table, guests giggled or gasped, though I was certain no one believed it to be real.

“Have you any message for us?” Mama asked.

Someone else knocked once for “no,” and everyone twittered.

“Are you certain there is no message?” Mama pressed. Two knocks this time, and I suspected she’d done the tapping herself.

“Do you miss your wife?” Allison cooed. “Or how about—”

A loud whack resounded in the room and cut her off. It was the heavy, hollow bang of a fist on wood. I stopped breathing. It hadn’t been the wood of the table—I’d felt the vibrations through my whole body. It had rattled my bones and teeth.

The knock had come from beneath the floor.

CHAPTER THREE

Whack! Another insistent knock on wood, and my whole body flinched. Was this real?

“Henry!” Mama exclaimed, her eyes enormous and filled with shock. “Is that you?”

Whack, whack!

A strangled yell of joy broke through Mama’s lips. “My darling!” Her eyes glittered with tears. “My darling, you have never come to my call before.”

Whack, whack!

Clarence flinched, squeezing my hand. It startled me, and my breath hissed out. This couldn’t possibly be real—Mama must have enhanced the theatrics somehow. But... the joy on her face was genuine, as were the shaking floorboards.

The guests’ eyes darted around the table, but no one broke the chain.

“Mama,” I said. “How do you know it’s Father?”

“Because he says so,” Mama replied.

Whack, whack!

My breaths came faster. In the candlelight, I could see steam puff from my mouth. When had the room turned so cold?

“B-but,” I quavered, “couldn’t the spirit be lying?”

Whack! The whole room shuddered, and the lamps rattled.

“Why would he do that?” Mama’s voice was high and quick with elation. There was something else in her tone. Fear. But was it fear that it wasn’t Father? Or fear that she might lose her only chance of meeting him again? Either way, all her concern for presentation or entertainment had vanished. “Of course it is your father.”

Whack, whack!

“Great heavens, Henry, I’ve missed you.” Her smile gleamed in the candles’ glow. “Who would like to invite Henry into our realm?”

No one answered. All of the guests sat stiff and wide-eyed.

“Eleanor, why don’t you invite your father in?”

“No, Mama,” I said. I freed my hand from Clarence’s grasp. Could the spirit still enter if our hands were not connected? Did a spirit’s entrance actually hinge on invitation? The rules of the séance were probably all dramatic nothing, but either way, I didn’t think the spirit had entered the room yet. Maybe there was still a chance to send it away.

I gulped. “You must listen to me, Mama. Make sure it’s Father.”

Whack, whack, whack!

Mama blinked at me, her eyes like empty holes. I knew the hollow desperation she felt. What if it was Father? What if this was our only chance to see him, to talk with him?

But this was not Father. He was love and warmth; he would never turn the room so cold.

I pushed to my feet. “Mama, please, this isn’t Father. We must not let it enter!”

“It is Henry,” Mama shouted over me.

“Make sure!” I leaned over the table, my hands reaching for her. “Ask him a question.”

Clarence sprang up, and his chair toppled behind him. “Mrs. Fitt, you must listen to your daughter.”

“No!” Mama rose and lifted her head high. “I know when my husband is near. I was his wife for fifteen years, and this is my house and my séance. I will invite him in if I wish.”