The Dirty Bustling Streets of New York

If I was born in New York during the 19th century, I would have chosen a career in the paranormal.

I would want to be the Leonora Piper before Leonora Piper.

I can see it all now in the dirty bustling streets.

Newspapers are reporting local news and gossip. Strangers are telling their friends about how they used a telegraph for the first time and how they believed it to be derived from magic. Maggie and Kate Fox were at this point widely known and seances and talking to the dead was the norm.

I, a young 13-year-old girl, would inevitably attract the attention of my upstairs neighbor by asking him,

"Would you mind keeping it down at night? I apologize but it is hard for me to sleep with all the banging that comes from your apartment."

To which he would respond in shock,

"Miss, I stayed the weekend taking care of my mother upstate. That could not have been me." He would stew on the thought of what could have caused such a noise. Later that night, I would lay in bed pondering the same thought.

"Did Mr. Lance lie? Maybe I dreamt the noise? Can you dream of a noise?"

I'm alerted to more loud footsteps in the quiet of night. This time I pinch my arm to be certain that I am not dreaming. I creep on the tips of my toes following beneath the noise coming from my neighbor's apartment. It leads me to my kitchen and the thuds cease. I inspect my ceiling inquisitively until a pair of almost translucent hands begin to slowly wiggle through the hard material, effortlessly. The top of a bald head follows soon after. It continues to peak through my ceiling until it reaches its eyes. Two sad, dropping eyes pace our surroundings until it stops to stare widely into my eyes, then vanishes. I'm left in a state of awe, confusion and fear, all bundled into a memory that will stay with me my entire life.

After many more ghostly encounters in my late childhood, I would come to the conclusion that I have abilities to which I burden myself with the wonder of what caused this affliction.

"Is this a gift or a curse that will cost me something great at the end of my life?"

It wouldn't take long for news to spread that I am able to contact the dead. Soon after I would have neighbors asking me to contact their late loved ones. And not much sooner after that articles from the paper would bring forth dozens upon dozens of people that so desperately want to speak with their father, mother, brother, sister, cousin, husband to cry about how much they missed them or how much they wish they never knew them.

In my adult life I would have masters the art of divination. Tarot cards, Ouija board, Scrying, and even tea leaf readings. I may not have had the answers to why I was gifted these abilities, but I would know that it is all authentic. As I get older, I primarily hold seances. People from all over America travel to see me and what I can do. I charge people a reasonable price, just enough to get me by because this is my passion, my life's work, and I could never take advantage of vulnerable people. I, unfortunately, would lose a couple friends and some family members who believe that I should be working more and charging even more than that.

At the end of my life, when most mediums and psychics have been outed, I would write of book and all my encounters and my thoughts on spiritualism and those who faked it to get rich. My book would begin with what I thought was my first encounter, the spirit from my neighbors apartment.

On my last days, I would have peace with the unknown of the afterlife. I would be laying in my bed waiting for the reapers to take me somewhere new, reminiscing my life and all it had been. Until a forgotten memory would unfold like a movie in my head. A 5 year old me, running around the house, playing. My mother stopped me with her brows furrowed and her eyes heavy. She appeared to be upset. She stopped me, kneeled down and held my hands. "Darling, I am so sorry, but I found Mr. Black dead outside. It appears the poor cat was sick." As a child, I wouldn't understand why she told me that and simply respond "Oh." She would retort with "Don't worry, we can find a good spot to bury him." I would then run off and continue to play with Mr. Black in the living room.

After my death I would be written about alongside the other self-proclaimed mediums and psychics by Psychical researchers. Some believing and others fighting to prove us wrong.

But I would know the truth.

Even in the afterlife I would smile over the controversy and the mystery that is Spiritualism.