(I’ve been less than productive with my fiction and have taken to typing at random hoping I can beat the chimp also typing a random to recreate the Complete Works of Shakespeare. I read somewhere that the chimp doing so would take a million years. I’m only trying to for 2,500 decent words surrounding an interesting story.)
Some Things Never Change
Margo Schapiro was shaking when she spoke of the event to her therapist.
It started innocently enough. Margo’s and her friends gathered over a Ouija board, a simple game to goof off with that night. The event was enhanced by a few glasses of wine and preceded by a couple of deep hits on an indica pre-roll. The legality was a point of discussion because it was bought, legally, at a dispensary on Cape Cod and brought or smuggled depending on one’s perspective, to Margo’s apartment in New Haven. The discussion made created more giggles than legal points.
The game began. Rooney accused Margo of pushing the planchette, the heart-shaped pointer that led to the letters and numbers, on the board when his question “What do I need?” was answered with “b-l-o-w-j-o-b.” Her giggles from a third hit on the pre-roll were a dead giveaway to the culprit spirit.
Margo asked about getting married. The planchette moved with suspicious determination to the outcome, you will live with eleven cats and die lifting a fifty-pound bag of kitty litter. When she balked with an “oh, very funny” the planchette moved under the solo fingers of Rod to the words, they will find you weeks later after the cats lived off your rotting corpse.“
After the uncomfortable laughter died, the friends made a more serious effort to let the board do its thing. Alas, when no one was deliberately pushing on the planchette there was only a one-word message, “s-e-a-n-c-e.”
“Stop it,” said Margo. “This is so stupid.”
Rod went pale. “That wasn’t me. I swear.” Anne shook with more conviction, “I was barely touching it.” Rooney held his hands out as if to say whoa. “Don’t look at me for Christ’s sake. I don’t even know what sense could mean.”
“Maybe the ghosts are telling us to get some sense in our heads,” suggested Anne.
“It’s séance, you idiots,” said Margo. “And it’s not funny.”
Margo blew out the patchouli-scented candle she’d lit for atmosphere and turned the lights up. The conversation turned to the paranormal where each relayed stories of someone who knew someone who’d once heard of someone else seeing a ghost. Except for Margo. “You don’t really believe in this nonsense, do you?” Sure, they’d all seen Poltergeist and The Exorcist and thought they were fun but nothing more. They’d seen but never taken seriously ghost-hunting YouTubes filmed in black and white that showed the illuminated eyes of bad actors trying to look spooked and never finding anything.
“A séance would be fun.” It was Anne. “I mean, what harm? It would be like a murder mystery party.” They all agreed that, yes, it could be fun, might be fun, and just as readily concurred they feel like idiots for doing it. “But open-minded idiots,” said Rooney. With emphasis on idiots, thought Margo.
The Ouija board was shunted aside to be replaced by a laptop for the ensuing Google search. They input séance, which led to mediums “in your area.” The group of four was surprised that they were so many in Connecticut. One, listed as a psychic and tarot card reader, was less than five miles away. A little digging revealed her to be a genuine Roma, gypsy, a Madame something or other, with a 1.3 rating out of five. She also had, twice, settled a civil suit for removing a curse on a couple of divorcees beyond their former spouses. The reviews on Yelp range from “a fraud” to “satanic” to “too much stinky incense.” Madame got a pass.
Others had similarly dubious skills. There were those that were if not authentic at least entrepreneurial. One sold her own Tarot cards which she suggested gave better results than mass-market versions. Who knew there were mass-market Tarot cards? Another provided private as well as group sessions, and Reiki, in person or on Zoom. Still, another offered coaching for psilocybic trips but insisted clients provide their own mushrooms.
A lady who looked like she bought her clothes in a vintage shop at Woodstock, relayed her decades of work in mediumship, angelic channeling, holistic health and wellness, prayer, spiritual counseling, parenting, family counseling, and grief support. Still, another woman boasted she was not only a medium but a hypnotherapist specializing in past-life regressions. A link to another of her websites billed her as the R-rated hypnotist working at a variety of seedy clubs in New England. They got a pass as well.
One low-key website struck home. Laura Palmer’s website was less about hype and more about experience. Her homepage said she was simply a spiritual medium. Hers, she wrote, was not so much a gift but an awareness, a sensitivity. She claimed no crystal ball gazing, no miracles, no winning lottery numbers, not even an evening of entertainment. Laura’s talent was her ability to connect with spirits. She had no Yelp ratings but a very long list of tributes from apparently well-educated types, including one from an Anthropology professor at Yale. “Laura turned me from a cynical skeptic to curiously curious. I was comforted,” he wrote.
She also had references to media clips in professional journals including The American Journal of Psychology and Journal of Applied Psychology as well as a piece in Yankee Magazine. They took her seriously. They were also rather different from articles about the “cross my palm with silver types” who craved the attention provided by community newspapers, especially around local hauntings. The term “I felt a presence” appeared over 50 times in such articles. Laura offered none of that.
If there was an oddity beyond the subject matter itself it was a list of herbs she grew for medicinal purposes and recipes to go with them. “This,” she wrote, “has nothing to do with psychic phenomenon. I just like to grow herbs and cook. And, who knows, they claim benefits.”
That last bit, “they claim benefits”, was what almost convinced the four that she was the right one. The closer was her bio: a former Peace Corp Volunteer, retired nurse practitioner, and summa graduate of Princeton. And her fees were almost reasonable.
Margo took control. She called Laura asking for some details about where and when, probed into Laura’s methods, and was surprised when she said they could meet during the day. “I thought this was a night thing,” said Margo.
Laura countered with a laugh, “The dead, the spirits if you will, don’t adhere to much of a schedule. Evening seances make good theater – things that go bump in the night and all that – but people seem to be more at ease during the day. I think the less anxious, the more open is the process.”
That made sense to Margo and her friends. They agreed to meet that very Saturday which promised lovely weather and the chance to go apple picking before the séance. Laura suggested they pick Macouns. “Mine are perfect just about now. And the place you mentioned has delightful cider donuts.”
Margo drove Rooney, Rod, and Anne into the isolated hills of Litchfield County where Laura lived. As they drove up the long driveway to her home, they commented that either the medium business had grown large, or Laura came from money. “Inheritance or she married a banker. What’s she’s asking wouldn’t pay for this to be plowed,” said Rod. They noted the branches of her apple trees struggling under the weight of ripe fruit. “Macouns,” said Margo. “Just like she said.”
Standing on the wrap-around porch of a home that belonged in Architectural Digest was a smiling woman dressed in a retro peasant’s dress.
“My God it’s Katherine Hepburn!” said Anne.
“Cala lilies in bloom again?” asked Rod.
“Shush,” commanded Margo.
“You got to admit, there’s a resemblance,” said Rooney.
“Maybe that’s where she got the money for all this,” said Rod.
“Shut up!” said Margo. “Some tact please.”
“So, you’re all here,” said Laura when they got out of the car. She had a husky, breathy voice, that revealed a very WASP upbringing, boarding school background, and supreme if subtle confidence. “If you have the donuts, I have the cider. It’s in the barn. Please come along.” The friends followed.
It had been a very long time since the barn held any animals other than the magnificent black Labrador that obediently stayed by Laura’s side. “Beautiful dog,” said Anne. “What’s his name?” The dog gazed at Anne with a knowing smile, before continuing at Laura’s heel.
“Chucklebrook Smiles of the Marsh,” said Laura. “GCH. But he answers to Chuck.”
“GCH?” asked Rooney.
“Grand Champion. Chuck was Dog of Merit at Westminister some years ago. His son won Best-In-Breed. I predicted that.”
“The psychic thing?” Rod asked.
“No,” chuckled Laura. “A magnificent dog, though dumb as a post. He’s the spitting image of my Chuck.” Anne said she’d love a dog like that and asked about puppies. Laura cautioned that a date with Chuck warranted $10,000 in stud fees. “It’s a virtual date, you know,” said Laura. “We send out frozen sperm.” She patted her chest for Chuck to jump up and plant a very slobbery kiss on her lips. “Who’s a good boy,” she said, returning her own kisses.
Around the walls of the barn were home-grown posters from plays that hadn’t been played in many years and several rows of theater seating facing a small stage. Laura noticed their curiosity. “My parents used to host amateur theatrics here. The Litchfield Players they called themselves. They engaged friends and family, some fairly well known.” She gestured around to show playbills announcing long-gone actors many of whom were rather more than fairly well known.”
“Is that Katherine Hepburn?” asked Ron pointing to one playbill.
“Mum’s cousin,” said Laura. “My, they could have been twins.” Rooney raised his eyebrows.
In the center of the barn sat an old bridge table covered by faded green felt and surrounded by five still older Mission-style chairs. Laura told them to take a seat and cautioned them to sit gently. “They’re ancient but I don’t have the heart to get rid of them. That’s a segue in a sense. I don’t like to get rid of things until they have a place to go. There isn’t a Craigslist for spirits. Which brings us to the purpose of your visit.”
She looked at the gathering with an expression that said, “Well?”
An uncomfortable moment of silence followed before Laura spoke again. “What I mean is, why are you here? Fun and entertainment are perfectly legitimate reasons though you could readily find a medium far less expensive than me who specializes in that sort of thing. You know, contact the spirits or your money back.”
Margo cleared her throat. “It all started…” She explained they were just having fun with a Ouija board, goofing around. We had a bit to drink I guess.”
“And smoke,” added Rooney.
“And…” said Laura.
“And, well, like I said we goofed around but got something.” She blushed, feeling foolish. “We just put our fingers on the pointer thingie and it spelled out séance. I thought one of us was joking, trying to scare us, but…”
“It wasn’t any of us doing it,” said Rod.
“It really wasn’t,” insisted Rooney.
Laura looked at each of them in turn. It was as if she were probing for a reaction, a laugh, a bit of perspiration, eyes trying to avoid her gaze. “That could be an interesting sign,” she said. “I’ve not encountered many spirits who suggested a séance. Curious indeed.” With that, she asked if anyone had someone they wanted to contact. The four looked at each other and shook their heads in unison. “We’re curious, that’s all,” said Anne. “Like maybe someone wants to contact us.”
“Hmm,” said Laura. “Let’s give it a whirl.”
They sat around the table. At Laura’s request, they held hands, closed their eyes, and did some deep breathing. She instructed them to open their eyes after a cool wind swept through the barn.
“Was that, is that a sign,” asked Rod.
“Of autumn, perhaps,” said Laura, “Though I think it was just a breeze.” At her feet, Chuck was snoring away oblivious to the chill that gave the four friends goosebumps. Rooney gasped when Chuck stretched a paw over Rooney’s feet.
“Sorry,” said Rooney. “Chuck startled me.”
“If a sleeping best in show startles you, we might be in for trouble,” said Anne.
“Dog of Merit,” corrected Laura. “Let’s continue.”
She gently tossed her head left and right looking about as if trying to find a faint sound. She then nodded to herself with a slight smile. “Yes,” Laura said, looking at Margo. “Someone wants to communicate with you. An older woman. She says she loves you very much.”
Everyone was looking at Margo now, whose eyes were pooling up with tears. “I think I feel her too. Does she say, is it, is she…my mother?” Laura again nodded gently and looked around. “Dorothea,” she whispered. “She’s happy, she tells us. There’s a Hal with her. Who’s Rusty?”
Margo gasped as tears rained down her cheeks. “That’s my mother’s name.” She choked out the words. Anne said Hal was her father who’d died when Margo was a teenager. Rusty, she didn’t know.
“Rusty.” She could hardly speak. “Rusty was our dog. My dog. He was our Irish Setter. Oh my god, dogs do go to heaven.”
Laura gave her a quizzical looking saying that, of course, dogs have spirits. She didn’t use the word heaven, only saying they, too, go to a better place. Laura also explained that she was not in contact with heaven. Rather, she talked of spirits, souls, and the famous bright light. “They come to us through the light just as they leave through the light. But they come to us. They watch. They’re curious.”
“Guardian angels!” said Rooney.
Laura admitted she didn’t know. Her honesty scored points with the team, adding credibility to whatever doubts they had. She didn’t know of the spirits intervening to help, or hurt, a person. Though she did allow that their communication, their advice, and their presence somewhere could add comfort. If they brought too much discomfort, she wouldn’t communicate it.
Margo had collected herself and asked the air if there was a message. Laura closed her eyes, then smiled, then laughed, then frowned. “Really? She looks lovely to me.”
Margo carried a worried look. “She asks, insists, you should dress warmer. Always have a sweater with you. And use sunscreen. You don’t use enough sunscreen. One moment,” said Laura.
“Yes, I will,” she said turning to Margo. “Your mother says you can fit those in that silly backpack you have, and why don’t you carry a purse like a grown-up? She wonders why you don’t let your hair curl naturally. She says you’ve put on weight. You were a size eight once, she says. And put on some makeup. She wants to know why you don’t smile at that nice boy who lives on the third floor. He’s a doctor.”
Her friends giggled. Laura shook her head but stopped. “Okay already. I get it.” Laura looked at Margo with some sympathy. “She asks me to remind you, you’re not getting any younger. She is quite adamant about that. She was five years younger than you are when you were born.”
Margo rolled her eyes thrusting a middle finger into the air. Laura wagged her index finger. “She says, is that how you treat me after all I’ve done for you?”
In those moments, Margo became a believer. She also returned to therapy.