2
After dinner, Mary sat in the parlor with Dad and Lydia, staring at the clock and trying to decide how soon she could reasonably excuse herself. All through dinner she'd been thinking about how to set up a proper séance in her bedroom. Oh, she wished she had paid more attention to Millie Clarke-Bolton's monologues about contacting ghosts. Mary wracked her brains. Sympathetic vibrations, those were important. An open mind. Belief. Mary had all of those. Candles, symbols chalked on things, velvet...a ouija board? Was she remembering what Millie had said or recalling a picture from a magazine?
She might have to improvise a little.
Mary was holding the stereoviewer but that was only because it had been the first thing that'd come to hand. It was the boring set that Anne liked, famous gardens of the world. She looked at some hanging moss and a big fountain until she went cross-eyed, her mind still on the seance, then set the viewer aside.
Dad was at the piano, playing a jaunty little tune that made Mary's foot tap. Lydia was in Dad's armchair with a magazine. The clock ticked. She lasted another two minutes before she couldn't bear it any longer.
"Well," Mary said. She slapped her palms against her knees the way Dad sometimes did and stood up. "I'm off to bed."
"Already?" Dad asked. He finished the jaunty piece, turned the page of his music, and started something a bit slower and softer. "Mother will be home soon."
"I'm very tired," she replied. She resisted the urge to do a theatrical stretch and yawn. Subtlety, subtlety. "Still recovering from the end of term."
"Ah," said Dad. "Well, good night, then. Sleep well."
Lydia barely looked up from her magazine. "'Night, Mary. See you tomorrow."
Would it truly be that easy? Mary looked from Dad to Liddie and back again. Neither was looking at her, let alone with suspicion.
"Goodnight," she said. Slowly she walked backward to the parlor door. Then she backed into the entry. "I am going upstairs now."
Dad's playing slowed. He looked at her over his shoulder. His voice was amused when he said, "All right. Good night."
But Lydia, she noticed, was looking at her closely now. She'd overplayed it. A knowing little grin curved Lydia's mouth.
"Good night, Mary," said Lydia in a low tone, hard to hear over the piano. "Remember, if you cannot be good, at least be careful."
0–0
Hands on hips, Mary stood in the middle of her room and considered. Ghosts liked a good ambiance, something welcoming and attractive. If she wanted a nice and cooperative ghost to show up she should make it look good.
If only Catherine were here! She was good at that kind of thing. Catherine would have come to her séance. She loved ghost stories, the more dark and Gothic the better. She'd have done it just for the laugh. Anne would have come, too. She'd have been nervous and weird but she was the sweetest of Mary's sisters and she'd have done it to be nice.
But they were gone and Lydia thought this was pointless so it was down to Mary. She crossed her arms and surveyed the room. Candles would be good. Oh, and water! Water was a conduit, Millie had said, or something like that. And it could also put out any fires from the candles. Flowers, incense...salt? Salt was protective, Mary remembered. Couldn't hurt to have some of that. With a brisk nod she left to gather supplies.
For what felt like an eternity she sat on the back stairs to the kitchen, waiting for Mrs. Reed and her daughter Alice, their maid, to finish up and leave. The Reeds lived above the carriage house out back, which was lucky. Mary didn't want any witnesses reporting to Dad. He'd be sure to stop her before she could contact any spirits.
At last the back door shut and locked, and footsteps crunched across the gravel on the path to the carriage house. Mary waited until they faded away. Then she waited a bit longer, just in case, holding her breath. All she could hear was the tick of the big clock in the entry, the slightly off tick of the kitchen clock, and the strains of the piano coming from the parlor. She nodded to herself. The coast seemed clear. Down the back stairs she went and into the dark kitchen.
Quick as a mouse Mary nipped into the pantry for the salt cellar. No incense, but there were some stubby candles in the back of the cupboard. She helped herself to those. Flowers. She didn't dare nick anything from the vase in the dining room or the entry. But there was a slightly sad looking rose in a bud vase near the sink. Mary decided she'd just borrow it, vase and all, and put it back later. Arms full, Mary sneaked back up the stairs quickly as she could.
Once back, she closed the door behind her and set everything on her nightstand. A quick look confirmed that Mrs. Reed or Alice had already filled her ewer for tomorrow so she poured the water into the basin. Then she set the basin on the floor. She set up three stubby candles around it—three was somehow magic, wasn't it?-and lit them. The rose she set nearby the candles. The flickering warm glow almost made it look as though the flower was pulsing. Wavering reflections of light showed in the water in the basin. Pretty atmospheric so far.
The drapes she left open because there was a nearly full moon tonight. It was huge and beautiful and shone right through her big window. There had to be something spirit-y about that. Plus the extra light would be helpful for her photograph. Of course, she'd ask the ghost to stay long enough to set up proper lighting. Mother didn't allow her flash papers, thinking they were too dangerous. Maybe the ghost could come back and meet her in the daytime, that would be ideal.
Mary rubbed her hands together. The most important part was next. Selecting the camera.
One of her bookshelves was entirely given over to cameras and equipment. She passed over her three box Brownies because she didn't want to risk any light leaks. Besides, she couldn't use her shutter bulb with those. So with tender hands she took her folding Kodak with the red bellows off the shelf.
She turned the electric light on long enough to make sure the camera was in good order and had film loaded. Mary had a shutter release bulb for this one—like the one the Camera Fiend had used to rig up his gun—and she connected it. After a bit of hemming over location, she at last set up her Kodak on its little legs atop a small pile of books a short distance from her other items. Her tripod was broken and she hadn't got a new one yet. Mary assumed the ghost would show up in the middle of her circle, so she tried to figure out a focus on that.
Maybe the ghost wouldn't mind moving if needed?
Camera and altar set up, Mary picked up the salt. Circles were also protective and magical, according to Millie Clarke-Bolton. It was best to have a circle of people, but Mary would have to make do with a circle of salt. She sprinkled a healthy amount of salt in a slightly cockeyed circle on her rug. She'd have to sneak the sweeper up here at some point.
Finished, Mary set the salt cellar back on the night table and turned off the light. Moonlight and candlelight made everything look eerie and romantic. Almost vibrating with excitement Mary settled herself cross-legged in her circle, her little altar before her and the bulb for her camera in one hand. She'd take a photograph the second the spirit arrived and hope for the best. If it stayed for a bit they could perhaps negotiate poses.
Mary relaxed her muscles and tried to clear her mind. She imagined a blank white wall. She concentrated on her breath through her nose. The scents of slightly decayed rose and burning candles wafted in the air. Dad was playing something on the melancholy side down in the parlor. She could just hear it through the closed door.
Slowly she released her breath. Her palm was getting a little sweaty on the bulb. It was time to call the dead. When Mary spoke, it was a word salad of bits and pieces remembered from Millie. It was the best she could do.
"Spirits," she intoned, keeping her voice down so that it wouldn't carry downstairs, "I'm talking to you. If there are any ghosts about please join my circle. Sympathetic and friendly spirits only. I am here to talk to you. I am an open vessel...No, wait, no. Not that. I am a closed vessel. Not for possessing. But my mind is open. I need you, spirit, to appear before me. I need you to...uh...incorporate. Corporeally. So I can see you."
Nothing. Of course. Who'd want to talk to someone being so awkward? Mary frowned, thought, and tried again.
"Good evening," Mary whispered. She aimed for the tone she used around skittish cats at the cannery. "I'm Mary Van Dort. I know the dead are there. I know you're listening, when you aren't busy. If anyone is free, I'd really love for you to come visit for a bit. But not a haunting visit. If anyone who has become pure spirit can hear me and is close by and can spare a minute, could you manifest in my room? I'd like to take a photograph of you. If you don't mind. Thank you. I'll wait."
That felt more natural. Mary waited. The candles dripped and flickered. The moon got even higher and shone more fully through her window. The tall tree outside cast leafy shadows on the floor. After a moment, Mary realized her fingers were cold. Her nose, too. The July night wasn't stuffy anymore. A thrill shot up her spine. Her palm tightened on the bulb.
Somehow the air seemed denser. The piano music from the parlor was even louder in the heavy silence of her room. The lovely, slightly sad strains filled her ears. She focused on the music, on the moonlight, her whole body tensed with anticipation.
At first she thought she was seeing things. A dust mote. Or a bug trapped earlier in the day when she'd had the window open. Right there in the beam of moonlight there was movement. Tiny at first, fluttering, wispy and with barely any substance. Almost an extension of the moonlight itself. Mary blinked hard and rubbed her eyes with her free hand, then looked again.
The little motes, or whatever they were, were growing more numerous. They shifted and flickered like a cluster of butterflies on a rosebush. As they swirled they began to take shape. Mary's mouth was hanging open and the room was so cold her breath made a little cloud. It was happening! She'd done it!
Eyes wide, not wanting to miss a second, Mary watched as a vague person shape began to emerge from the fluttery motes. The figure gained solidity, though moonlight still shone through it. The piano music continued from downstairs, faint and sweet. Was that the vague outline of a face? A hand? Flowing hair? Glowing in the moonlight and yet of the moonlight, just barely visible. But definitely a person shape. A ghost!
"Oh, perfect, hold just there," Mary whispered excitedly. She squeezed the bulb to trip the shutter.