The Seance

In the year 1892 records tell of a house in Gradeley that is most unsettling. A house, that many say, is marked with a curse; damned for all eternity. No one goes into that house anymore. So it sits there all alone, a solemn reminder of those fateful events that took place there one stormy August night.

At ten o’ clock a brass knocker crashed against pine.

“Ah, they have arrived,” Merrick exclaimed.

“Show them in, if you please.” The butler walked to the entrance and opened the door. Standing at the threshold was Abigail, Merrick’s eldest daughter, and her husband, Jonathan. The butler took their coats.

“Storm’s brewing, father. I can feel it,” Abigail informed with a smile.

“It’s so good to see you!” She wrapped her arms around him.

“It’s good to see you as well, my dear,” he replied.

“And Jonathan, so good of you to come here on such short notice. And for such an important event, no less.” Merrick shook Jonathan’s hand.

“Well,” Jonathan replied. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. This sort of thing has always been a bit of a fascination of mine.”

“Really,” Merrick replied. “I did not know.”

“Well,” Jonathan continued. “Abigail tells me that you’ve done this kind of thing before.”

“Well, in a manner of sorts, yes. But, purely by experimentation alone. You could say that I am a practitioner of the sciences of the beyond. I’ve been working to perfect this rite for quite some time, but with nearly no success, I’m afraid to say.”

“Nearly?”

“Well, every now and then, something around me moves without the assistance of any identifiable means, or I may hear something that belongs not to anything known or familiar.”

“Then, how do you know you’re on the right track if you go by feeling alone? What evidence have you to go by?”

“Well, my dear Jonathan, that’s a good question. And here’s a good answer. Many scientists of, dare I say, more credible fields all go by the evidence of change and reaction. When a chemist goes about devising a potion, he studies the ingredients and their independent natures and then decides whether or not one would be compatible with the other. He mixes them and notes their changes and reactions to one another. I, by this example, am a sort of alchemist. I seek to devise certain potions that heighten perceptions and senses that react and change to the environment around them.”

“Are you drinking these potions,” Jonathan asked, concerned.

“Oh, no no no. I am not at all. I have merely been working on a solution that one could burn. One that would emit no smoke or give way to any hallucination or qualify internal change or reactions through external illusions. With the burning of such a potion, my aim is simple; to send a signal that penetrates the other side. One that would allow a path to be clear and visible to one who we desire the company of.”

“What do you mean,” Jonathan asked.

“To communicate with the dead, my dear boy.”

Jonathan stood silent for a moment. Then he spoke.

“Well, believe me, this is most fascinating. But, how do you know who, or what you are communicating with?”

“Well, Jonathan,” Merrick stated. “It’s simple. All you need is to establish a connection, fashion something of familiarity with the one you wish to invite into your presence.”

Jonathan listened.

“An object, Jonathan. Something that both you and the deceased party knew in the living.”

“Really, well that’s –.”

Abigail was standing at the entryway.

“Gentlemen, dinner is ready.”

“There will be much more to discuss later, Jonathan,” Merrick instructed.

“Let’s go eat.”

Over dinner little more was discussed of Merrick’s research, as all would be lost, he noted, if his talk of success met with failure at its moment of truth. Instead, all four sat around the table discussing the mundane significances of everyday life.

“Did you hear, my friends,” Merrick said, as he broke the silence. “Winter’s bound to come early this year. Did you hear any birds chirping as of late?”

“Yes, but not so many. Not nearly as many as is normal,” Abigail replied.

“I thought so,” Merrick replied.

“Nature always has a way of telling you what to expect. All you have to do is observe.”

“That’s very true,” Beatte, Merrick’s wife, stated.

“You can always keep your head to the sky for signs of a calm or signs of a storm. Much like an Indian can keep his ear to the ground to track or hear the sounds of hooves approaching.”

“Did you look to the sky tonight,” Jonathan asked Beatte.

“I did, and you?”

“Well, sure. It looks like a storm is approaching for sure. I mentioned that to Abigail not an hour before our arrival.”

“I’d say that approaching storm’s got the birds spooked and that could explain why they’re so few in number today. But, they’ve been scarce now for the better part of a week. Usually, they are around for another month. I’m sure we’ll feel a chill come in the air in a couple of weeks or so. Mark my words.”

Merrick took another bite.

The rest nodded in approval and savored the rest of their dinner. Each was on their last bite when there came through the still a thunderclap.

“It’s time,” Merrick said. He wiped his face and excused himself.

Twenty minutes passed and candlelight faded on weary wicks before Merrick reappeared carrying a luminous display.

“This way,” he whispered. The others followed him into his study, a spacious room with a round, empty wooden table standing alone in the center.

“Please take a seat,” he instructed.

Everyone sat and waited.

The study, once dark, was now revealed in detail as sconces, stands, and other such holders came to life with the gentle touch of a match. There was but one wick left to light. It was concealed, though, by red velvet cloth. As if resembling some grand finale, it waited for Merrick’s approval before it could make its appearance. For a moment Merrick stood behind his place at the table, bathing in the elements around him, setting the mood. The rest also waited in silence and, too, followed suit.

“There is something to be said,” Merrick had stated before, “for the preparation for ritual. Be it mundane or metaphysical. The body, like the mind, must know when the proper time is and ready itself like a rifleman prepares to line his weapon up for the kill or the samurai prepares his soul for an honorable death. Both these, Merrick claimed, were the source of absolute power and control over the environment in which these rituals are conducted. As such, every synapse, strand, and sinew must be working for this one goal, this one aim. If but one is off, all are and the aim is lost.”

“I needn’t preach nor pry,” Merrick continued as he sat with the others.

“We are all here because we are supposed to be, we are meant to be.”

“My dear Jonathan,” Merrick sat down and looked intensely at him.

“You are here because you knew you were ready to be. I know Abigail speaks greatly to you about my work. And, maybe you don’t know, but she also speaks greatly of your history and involvement in what aims my work is focused on.”

Jonathan nodded.

“You see, you are here because you have always been in spirit and in mind. You are no mere spectator, but a participant in a great trademark of the Cray family.”

He sat there, looking at Jonathan still.

“Welcome.” He stood up.

Merrick then proclaimed: “The candles burn brighter for us all this night! Let us do so also!”

He reached forward and pinched the velvet cloth. He lifted it up and placed it aside. All eyes fixated on the center of the table where an object of forbidden fascination sat. A round glass jar sat still, surrounded by curious onlookers. To its brim it was filled with an odd-colored substance. A green liquid of some alien origin sat motionless, imprisoned in aging glass. Sealing the mouth of the jar was a cork and stuck through the cork was a wick. There was something else, something suspended in the liquid contained inside. All but Merrick squinted and bent slightly forward for a closer look. It appeared to be a pocket watch. But whose? Beatte made out etchings on the back of the pocket watch, nearly erased by years of both wear and neglect:

“Abraham Enah Cray,” she muttered.

He’s been dead for nearly twenty-five years.

“12:45,” Abigail murmured softly as she examined its frozen hands.

“The time he died,” her mother informed.

“Some say,” Merrick stated,” “that the collective will has such powerful potential that it can cast lightning bolts from the heavens, and fire from the earth.”

Merrick continued.

“If our will be a breath as powerful as such a body’s, then may this wick burn proof of such a claim.”

“May our wills be joined,” Merrick stated.

He now sat, holding arms out with palms facing upwards.

All joined hands and closed their eyes, their ears perked, waiting for the cue.

“We are gathered here under blanket of night and howling storm to call on one who lives on the other side.”

“Let he who owns this name come forth and honor us with his presence tonight.

He and only he, and by this name alone:

Abraham Enah Cray!”

“Come forth.

Come FORTH.

COME FORTH!”

“Cut through that veil, that snag, that dark and be free to move as though you wish.”

“Come forth, for you are welcome here.”

“Come forth and show a sign.”

It was at this time a sign indeed occurred. And prolonged was it that all were astounded by its magnificence, yet frightened by its malevolence. The wind came upon the study. Warm and gentle, it grew to a resounding howl, louder than the storm that conceived it, and grew cold, so cold that it chilled all it touched to their very bones.

The wicks, they held their flames in desperation as only few let go. The rest, however, dimmed as if to betray their purpose. A phenomenon, no doubt, bested by but one thing; the mysterious jar on the table. First, its fluid glowed to awattage of almost immeasurable magnitude, then it started bubbling, as if heating up. As soon as it started, not a minute later did the bubbling stop and the brightness recede to a low, pulsating tremor of light. And as the four looked on in terrified fascination, out of the silence grew the beating of some sort of mechanical heart. And as that sound grew, they probed the dim room with their eyes as best they could. Then Abigail shouted out.

“Look!” She pointed to the jar’s content.

They all leaned in.

The growing sound they had heard wasn’t beating. It was ticking. The pocket watch had come to life.

Merrick jumped from his seat and flew straight for the desk, returning with quill and paper.

“Abraham Enah Cray, show us a sign and write upon this paper here!”

The liquid inside the jar began to bubble once more.

The ticking beat faster and the clock’s hands moved just the same.

The four held hands tighter, so tight they grew wet with sweat.

Merrick shouted again:

“Show us a sign!”

The quill began to tremble.

Then, the wick grew red, then white hot. Then a flame ignited.

Merrick’s eyes grew wide and round as saucers.

“By our will the wick is lit,” he exclaimed as transparent ribbons of smoke snaked their way out of the jar and into the ethers.

The beating now hastened to the point that if it were human, would certainly bring mortal demise.

The watch’s hands spun fast, so fast they could almost not see them.

The liquid bubbled so violently now that it threatened to expel the cork with record speed. And then, as records state, the room was filled with the stinging stench of decay. And in the elements’ climax the jar cracked and broke. Its fluid shot forth in place of glass in all directions, extinguishing not only its light, but the light of every candle in the room, leaving the four to grope and moan in blind horror. In a silence not even the storm outside could penetrate, they waited. Then something happened. Something as unpredictable and equally terrifying as the preceding event. The wick, still stuck in the jagged mouth of the jar, lit itself.

Then Beattie screamed.

“Where’s Abigail,” she cried. “Where is she!?”

Jonathan looked to the place to his right where she was.

“She, she was just right here,” he exclaimed. “Not a minute ago!”

He examined the table. Out of ignorance and desperation he grabbed the lit jar.

“Look.” He pointed to what was once something on the table that was once too dark to make out.

“What are those,” Beatte asked.

“I’m not sure, I-I think they’re claw marks,” Jonathan replied.

There, on the table, were two sets of streaks, leading from about the center of the table to just before the end. In one was the fingernail of a young woman.

Beatte cried, Jonathan rubbed his forehead, mumbling something incoherent, and Merrick just stood there, quiet. In his mind it was all his fault. Not only had he failed to conjure their departed relative, he conjured something far worse. And now it had his daughter. She was nowhere in sight. And just as madness took over, Beatte let out one more bloodcurdling scream. Merrick and Jonathan looked over to where she was pointing: to the table where the quill and paper sat. Only this time, the quill was out of the ink and was lying on the paper, bleeding through it and staining the wood below. On the paper something was written:

Proceeding the discovery of the note, the three searched the house for hours, days, and weeks. They never did find any trace of her. It was like she had disappeared into thin air; vanished from the face of the earth. Word of the actual happenings of that night inevitably trickled into town and, out of fear of a mob uprising, Merrick Cray disappeared into the country, alone with his squandered dreams and broken spirit. Beatte Cray, shortly after having discovered the note, broke down and was committed to an asylum. She hasn’t spoken again since that night.

Jonathan still has hopes of finding his beloved. For two years he searched that house, announcing himself to a suspicious public as its caretaker. Though he too has now disappeared into the world, much like that of Merrick, his experiences in that house during his search for his long lost Abigail are as noted as passages in the journal he left behind:

August the 5th, 1893

It is the anniversary of my dear Abigail’s disappearance. I search for her still, though I am leading to a certainty that I will never find her again. Although she may be gone, this house keeps her presence still. I am finding that more and more with each passing day I search.

At certain hours of night I am aroused from my slumber by the sweet smell of perfume. It is jasmine. It is Abigail’s. On a most curious night I did follow this fragrance to a point of fright beyond words. I nearly tremble as I write this, for it brings me back to there. That fragrance, as it grew stronger, drew a voice from the walls, and soon afterwards, a knocking. The voice was distressed, disjoined, and contorted. But I swear it was my Abigail.

Maybe I’m hearing things. A week without sleep can do such things.

Maybe if I sleep I will wake up and everything will be alright…

END