Presence
Heat blistered skin and glazed over eyes; smoke choked the lungs, its currents pushed by a wind the flames themselves created. Disorientation. Pain. Fear. Adrenaline wasn’t enough to free the women from the fire. Not enough to drive most to break free.
Tabitha stumbled through the inferno, coughing until her chest ached. Margaret’s hand gripped hers, the only solid thing in a world dissolving into sparks and smoke. They had lost the others — Caroline? Ingrid? Their screams had vanished inside the burning asylum.
Dropping to her hands and knees, Tabitha crawled toward the entrance, palms seared by the heat of the floorboards. Blessedly, the door hung open. She dragged herself into the night, greedy for air. Margaret followed, eyes wide, gown streaked with soot.
“Where are they?” Tabitha rasped.
“I hear them,” Margaret whispered, cocking her head. “Don’t you?”
Tabitha did, of course. Agonized voices wailed inside the burning husk, a chorus carried on the fire’s roar. It sounded as though every patient still clawed for release, though the windows glowed only with flame.
“They didn’t make it.” Tabitha forced herself not to turn back.
They ran. Past the collapsing roof, into the woods, barefoot on a path they had walked so many times under guard. Smoke drifted after them, gray fog that even the moon could not pierce. Still, the voices followed — pleading, shrieking, unraveling sanity itself.
Finally, a gate loomed ahead. Tabitha’s chest eased. “There! We’re nearly out!”
Hand in hand, they passed through. The dirt road beneath their bare, burnt feet felt like freedom.
Until Margaret halted. “No,” she said faintly. “Look.”
Another gate waited in front of them. Identical. An iron arch, its swing door hanging open and rusting.
Tabitha froze. They should have been near the road by now. She turned. The way they had come was gone, the path swallowed in smoke. Slowly, she backed toward the new gate, eyes stinging.
“We walked straight,” Margaret murmured. “How can we be back at the gate? Unless there’s another?”
“Don’t think about it,” Tabitha said, though her voice quavered. “We’ll wait for daylight.”
They sank to the ground together, soot-streaked patient gowns pooling around their ankles. Around them, the forest pressed close, thicker than it had ever felt before. The night air carried not only smoke, but something heavier, like the breath of a hidden being.
The asylum’s crackling burned itself out, but the screams did not. If anything, they grew louder.
A twig snapped.
Tabitha’s eyes flew open. Heavy steps moved in the dark, circling, closing in. Then silence. Frantically, she drew a toothpick from her pocket and dragged it across her forearm, carving an archaic symbol the world hadn’t seen since the Gates were initially constructed.
Margaret clutched her free hand, knuckles bone-white. Neither woman dared to breathe.
And then there a rush of air, a shadow unfurling wings.
They never saw the thing’s face. Only darkness, surging forward.
***
Clara thumped her headdress on the table and let her long curls loose. She scowled as they fell around her shoulders, wishing she could cut them. Unfortunately, short hair was fashionable and contemporary, and she needed to look exotic.
It helped sell the bit.
When the door opened, she was ripped out of her thoughts. The sun shone around Edward Waterson, and though he was silhouetted against its brilliance, she’d always recognize her twin. They were as close to identical as fraternal twins could be – same dark, black curls, same round, green eyes, same elegant nose that ended at a fine point. Now, however, she could sense that something was off. It wasn’t psychic ability or twinly intuition, though.
No. It was the smell of soot.
She rose as he slammed the door and huffed. Her eyes immediately locked on his mustache, slightly singed, as her lips straightened into a tight line.
“Eddy,” she said, nearly breathless. She followed him to the liquor cabinet in the corner as he claimed a bottle and hunted for the least speckled glass. “Did you catch fire again?”
“Oh, bother the fire!” he exclaimed, uncorking a liquor bottle as his lips ticked into a morose scowl. “I’ve had worse days. Like every day spent rotting in this motorized foxtrot into Hell.”
Frustrated, Clara stepped forward and placed a hand on the rim of the glass as Edward lifted it to his lips. The pair scowled at each other for a moment before he set his drink down and leaned against the cabinet shelf.
“Surely,” he said, “You don’t disagree. I’m sure the Madame Clara Sahara bit is getting old.”
Narrowing her eyes, she snapped, “This was Mom’s gig. Yes, scamming people is frustrating at times, but it’s… It’s the only way we keep her alive sometimes, Ed. She’d be happy to see the two of us together still. Family is everything, she always said.”
He cocked his head, studying her sympathetically. After his moment of contemplation, he snapped his fingers and bent for a second glass, this time not bothering to check it for specks. “I don’t think I’ve told you in a while, Lari, but you look more like her everyday. She’d be proud to see you keepin’ the ol’ wagon afloat. Do you believe she raised two kids in here?”
Clara studied him before she snatched up the glass he’d poured and leaned against the cabinet with him. She ran her eyes over the familiar wooden space before they landed on spirit photos – ridiculous manipulated images that showed her surrounded by the likenesses of supposedly “dead” people. A flim-flam, she’d thought at the time, just like her act.
“Hardly,” she finally whispered. “Worse yet, I don’t believe we’re both in this same damn circus. It’s been motorized, save a few wagons, but we’ve somehow avoided the upgrades. We’re still here in this same damn space. But despite all the spirits I supposedly talk to, Mom’s still the only one I care to keep close.”
Edward snatched his drink up and clinked the glass against Clara’s. After a deep drink, he cleared his throat. “Almost forgot. I brought you something – some words from the latest bull session.”
Her fingers tightened around her cup. “Not more gossip.”
“Oh, yes, more gossip. The chaps say we’re in a wealthy area. Attendees are expected to be a bunch of darbs in breezers – you know, those flashy convertible cars. A good place for your gig, at least. Not so sure these men are the type to appreciate a firebreather.”
With a frustrated sigh, Clara spun on her heel and strolled into the bedroom. Her brother trailed after her, and he plopped on the mattress as she slammed her drink on her vanity and flumped into the chair.
“I’m getting sick of this,” she admitted. “I’m twenty-eight. I wanted to be a librarian, you know that? Instead, I’m feeding into this fraudulent spiritualist movement. And for what? Mom has been dead for thirteen years. Maybe it’s time we let her memory fade. This felt fine before the war, but since it ended, it’s been an endless barrage of widows wondering what happened to their husbands overseas. I don’t enjoy this line of work anymore.”
“I know, Lari,” he said. “And I encourage you to leave. But I’m not ready, even when I catch on fire and complain about the food. We grew up here. Like you said, Mom taught us that nothing is more important than family. These people are.”
Glancing past her reflection in the vanity mirror, she said, “I won’t leave until you do.”
“Come on now, old bird. Leave your cage. Don’t wait for me. I know you’re not happy.”
“No.” She turned and leaned against the back of her chair as she gazed at him. “I’m not leaving without my brother. I’ll pull the scam on these darbs, if only to get a bit of extra dough for us. But I want you to seriously consider leaving with me, Ed.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“Good,” he repeated as he rose. “I’ll be taking the bottle tonight. Night, Clara.”
“Goodnight, Eddy.”
***
Clara pulled the headband onto her forehead and adjusted her dangling earrings beneath it. With one more smear of kohl beneath her eyes, she felt that her look was complete. Ethereal, ghostly, beautiful in just the right way. Rising, she scooped up her latest read – The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, something she’d managed to score in Harrisburg, and headed for her bed.
To her chagrin, a knock sounded at the door. Sighing, she left the book on the comforter and went to answer it.
On her stairs stood a man her brother definitely would have referred to as a darb. He wore a sleek but casual suit paired with wide-legged trousers. Brown slicked-back hair shimmered with heavy gel above dark blue eyes, which widened as they took her in. He almost shifted back on his heel as he studied her.
“Huh,” he finally said. “Didn’t expect a carnie to look like she stepped out of Harper’s Bazaar.”
Clara scoffed and started closing the door, but he jammed a two-tone shoe into the threshold before it could shut.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “My mouth moves faster than my brain sometimes. I’m not used to seeing pretty carnies. You speak to the dead?”
“I do,” she said, feeling at the fabric of her long skirt for her pistol. She didn’t like the looks of this guy, and unlike the rest of the carnival, her wagon was a private space. Cautious, she stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
As the man stepped inside, she buzzed about the space, lighting candles and jasmine incense. When she turned back to the patron, he was studying one of the spirit pictures on her wall.
“Come,” she said, drawing closer to the table. “Take a seat.”
He strolled up to the table as she produced a tarot deck. While she shuffled, she explained, “For one dollar, I’ll answer one question for you with my deck and allow you to speak to one person on the other side. Sound good?”
“That’s steep for a carnie medium,” he stated as he settled. “But I’m willing to give it a go. I’m hoping you can connect with my brother.”
Clara had to try her best to not purse her lips. She liked to use perfumes in her show, especially with the jasmine incense masking just where the planted scent emanated from. Without an excuse for floral perfumes, male spirits were a bit harder to fake. Closing her eyes, she shuffled the deck and hummed thoughtfully.
“What’s his name?”
“Richard.”
“And yours?”
“Harold. I’ll let you call me Harry.”
Clara nodded and spread the cards before her in an arc. She ran her hands over them until one caught the vaseline she’d smeared from her wrist onto her palm. Flipping it over, she studied the silhouette of a crescent moon against a sun.
“Hmm. This isn’t clear, actually – it’s like a shadow fell over the question of Richard’s presence. If your brother is here, I don’t think he’ll come through. Let’s see who we can connect with for you.”
She collected her card deck and walked it to the cabinet, then took a moment to wipe the vaseline on her skirt while her back was turned. Collecting a pen and paper, she returned to the table.
“Alright, Harry, place your hands flat on the table. I’m going to channel for you. Let’s get started.”
Once his hands were in place, she did the same, taking care to position her charm bracelet under her palm. She had a little perfumed container charm that was easy to pop open with a subtle roll of her hand, and it would fill the space with the essence of roses. She hummed softly for a moment, her eyes closed tightly, and nodded when she felt that enough time had passed.
“Oh spirits of the great beyond, I call to you. Please, give us a sign of your presence.” Her eyes opened, fixing on Harry, as her foot caught a piece of fishing line on her chair and gave it a tug. The tablecloth shifted. “Thank you. I’d like to hear who you are – please knock once if you’re a woman, twice if you’re a man.”
Once again, her foot was her tool of deception. She cracked the knuckle of her big toe and smiled triumphantly at Harold. “Ah, a woman. Have you lost any ladies in your life?”
A single eyebrow told of his skepticism, perking upward as his face remained otherwise unchanged. “I lost my mother half a decade ago.”
Perfect, Clara thought. Rose perfume was popular back then, and she could also do some mental math. Harry was thirty, perhaps, and most women had their first child around twenty or so back in the day. Around 1880, when his mother was theoretically born, names were much less diverse. She ran over a list in her head as she subtly popped open the rose container on her charm bracelet. One name stood out.
“I’m sensing a vowel. An E name. Is that correct?”
Harry nodded, so she smiled to herself. That narrowed it down. Elizabeth or Emma, most likely.
“Elizabeth, yes?” she said. To her satisfaction, his eyebrows perked up again, but this time with surprise. He nodded. “But she didn’t go by Elizabeth. I’m sensing a nickname, but it’s foggy. Was it Ellie, by chance? Wait, not Ellie… But it rhymed with Ellie?”
“Nellie,” he said quietly.
She lifted her hand, allowing the charm bracelet to slip beneath her long sleeves again. “Let’s see if we can channel her. Nellie, I give you permission to use my hand to write. Please send a message to your son.”
Picking up the feather-topped pen, she lowered its tip to the paper. Clara pursed her lips, imagining that a fine lady with money would write in an elegant but tight hand. Slowly, she began moving the pen across the paper.
She usually wrote something generic and vague, sending love to the living, but this time was different. To her surprise, she’d scrawled a more specific message across the paper. Love to my only son. I’m with your father.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what just came over me. You mentioned you had a brother – “
“I don’t. I was testing you.”
Surprised, Clara snapped her mouth closed.
“Madame Clara, was it?” he asked, propping an elbow against the table. “I don’t understand why you’re faking raps and moving the tablecloth with string when you clearly have some real ability. I’ve been to dozens of fraudulent spiritualists who would tell me all about my non-existent brother, how he died during the war, how he loves and misses me. You’re the first to call out that he’s not real.”
Clara shook her head, her eyes wide as she tried to process what was happening. She’d had people burst into tears at her table, threaten her, but she’d never had someone argue that her act was real. She couldn’t even explain what led her to write what she had – it was absentminded, almost automatic.
“This,” he said, reaching forward to take the paper from her. “Looks just like her handwriting. I can tell you’re real, and I need your help connecting with her. Can you go deeper? Talk longer?”
Her lips parted as she desperately fished for an answer. “I usually cut the sessions here. They’re just meant for entertainment, really – a quick chat. Hit on all sixes for a few minutes and call it there.”
His blue eyes swam over her face before he exhaled and dug in his pocket. Clutching a bill between two fingers, he asked, “Alrighty – maybe you’ll spend the evening making a longer formula for me? And you’ll let me come back tomorrow?”
Clara stared at the bill hungrily. She usually charged just a quarter for her services, and even that felt expensive. But wealthier communities were willing to pay more, and that dollar was a tantalizing reward for so little work.
“I can certainly try,” she stated.
“I’d be keen on that. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He set the bill on the table and headed to the door, pausing to smile at her before he stepped out. Sunlight trailed in as he opened and closed the door, illuminating the jasmine-scented smoke that hung suspended in the air.
Stiffly, Clara collected her pen and snapped the container on her bracelet closed. Staring at the door, she wondered what bigger scam she could pull on this man. Other mediums used elaborate hoaxes like Pepper’s Ghost, but in her tiny little wagon, she simply didn’t have the space for anything so involved.
After returning her supplies to the cabinet, she picked up the money Harry had left on the table. She almost had to do a double take… It was a five dollar bill.
It took a whole day to accrue this much, and that was on a good day. She ran her fingers over the cotton banknote – something she so rarely held, since most people paid in coins – before she headed back into her bedroom to read.