Out of the Mist (8 page)

~~~***~~~

The Séance

Russell Barton

“
When I die, you get this,
love. Not that you’ll ever use it.” Lilly Coker, who I had known
for as long as I could remember, pulled an Ouija board from an old,
ornate Captain’s trunk. “Do you remember Mrs. Grimes who held
séances during the war at your family’s house? She always used my
Ouija board. This one.” Lilly pointed at the board and then set it
on the table. I recognised it. “Oh! Lest I forget.” She pulled a
crystal glass from the trunk and placed it, bottom up, in the
centre of the board. Smiling, she looked at me. “Fancy a
whirl?”

“
No, thanks.” I was
helping her pack for her move to an old folk’s condo in Blackheath;
she waitressed in our café for many years when I was very young.
The café was at the front of the kitchen and the family dining room
at the rear. This arrangement made it possible for the café’s
waitresses to occasionally serve meals to family and guests. I
always regarded her as family.

“
You and your Uncle Ted
and that bloomin’ dog gave us quite a fright at one of Mrs.
Grimes’s séances.”

“
I remember. Everyone
panicked in the dark. Mrs. Grimes hoped to communicate with the
dead, especially her son, Michael, shortly after his destroyer was
torpedoed in the Atlantic.”

“
Yes, but others in
England, your relatives included, wanted to contact the loved ones
they lost in the war. But whew! What a panic when the séance got
out of control.”

I grinned. “Even now I remember the
screams.”

Lilly carefully wrapped a cloth around the
board and returned it to the trunk.

“
It’s a nice crystal. I
think I’ll keep it out for use at the condominium.” We lapsed into
silence for a few minutes, Lilly, sorting and packing, but both of
us thinking about the frightening encounter with the supernatural
that happened one evening early in 1944.

On the occasion of the séance, my family and
their guest of honour, Mrs. Grimes, family friend and medium,
settled around the dining room table drinking tea or sipping sherry
while waiting to be served dinner. Even Uncle Raymond, a medical
student, attended because he had been a close friend of Mrs.
Grimes’s son, Michael.

Suddenly, Mrs. Grimes’s cup fell into its
saucer. Her hand thrust forward as if to fend off a confrontation.
“No, no, not yet! Can’t you see, we’re drinking tea? Come back
later, Dearie, when I’m having my trance.” She placed the cup and
saucer on the table remarking, “Oh, they can be so impatient. You
have to let them know when you’re ready.” Family and friends sat in
an awkward silence for a few moments. The air raid sirens went off.
“Ignore them,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Our friends up there are already
telling us that we’ll be safe for tonight.”

“Well
,
that’s reassuring,” remarked Grandma
.
“Let’s carry on then. I’ll set up Lilly’s Ouija
board on the smaller oak table. We can move from the dining table
to it when Mrs. Grimes begins the séance.” She moved over to a
round oak table, next to our family dining area
,
and set up for consultations with the spirits.

Quickly, the waitresses, using
their backs, pushed open the frosted glass door from the kitchen to
the dining room and backed in with trays carrying hot bowls of soup
and tureens filled with potatoes and steaming cabbage. Giggling,
turning to approach the dinner table, they negotiated their way
between the candles in the flickering light, and set down the
trays.

“Did you get a bet on the grand
national
,
love?
” Lilly directed the question at my Grandfather
as she loaded plates with food.

“Mr. Sims took it on the phone.
I put five pounds to win on Hot Toy. We’ll see if Mrs. Grimes’s
last consultation with the spirits pays off.”

“Now
,
darling
,” responded Mrs. Grimes, who had
just wriggled her enormous self into place next to Grandmother.
“They judge horses like we do. There’s nothing special about their
ability to predict a winner.” She set a small, red, battery powered
light on the card table. Someone switched out the overhead lights.
Combined with the candles, the red light gave the room an eerie
presence.

“Ere ‘ang on ta this
,
l
o
v
e
.” Lilly handed out plates loaded with vegetables
to the adults. “Well
,
I put a quid on
Hoof Hearted.”

“Nice to hear you using your
H’s for a change
!
Got
a tip straight from the horse’s arse did ya?”
Grandfather roared with laughter at his joke.

“Billy,” uttered Grandmother
disapprovingly.

“Gawd
,
no! Young ‘arry ‘ere told me it was a winner. And
you know he picked last year’s wiv 20-20,” Lilly replied, ignoring
Grandfather.

“Uhh uhh
…
” Grandmother, open mouthed, pointed to a cup
rising from the table; its shadow from the candlelight flickered on
the wall.

“Bleedin ‘ell.” Lilly dropped a
plate on the floor and fled to a corner of the dining room.

The cup twisted erratically as
it ascended, a trace of white cotton thread glittered in the candle
light. It was above Uncle Ted, who had a benign smile on his face.
Mrs. Grimes went into a trance
,
eyes
turned upwards, lips flapping, jaw quivering, her puffed cheeks
turning gun metal grey.

“Be gone, be gone, we’re not
ready,” she commanded. The cup descended. Ted, still smiling,
reached up and gently, with one hand, guided it back into its
saucer.

“Good thing my tea hadn’t been
poured,” he snickered.

Mrs. Grimes hastily emerged
from her trance
.
“Betty,” she addressed
Grandmother. “How can I be expected to make contact with children
present?”

“I’m not a child,” Ted
retorted. “I am almost old enough to die for my country.”

“Ted, here’s
sixpence
.
W
hen
dinner is finished, look after Harry upstairs until his bedtime.
Oh! And take Winston
,
too.” Winston, who
lay on the carpet, whimpered and pricked up his ears at the mention
of his name. Grandmother handed over the coin, which Ted happily
pocketed.

After dinner, Ted and I left
with Winston and retired to the box room. Carefully we laid out the
track to Uncle Ted’s treasured Hornby OO clockwork train set.

“You can be Paddington
Station.” This required that I stand with one foot on either side
of the track and pretend to be a railway station, an unsatisfying
solution for my participation. I quickly tired of standing over the
tracks.

“Let me wind it up?” I inserted
the key into the side of the clockwork engine and wound until it
was too hard to turn. The locomotive looked convincingly real. It
was painted olive-green with black trim and resembled a turn of the
century steam engine. Wheels ready to spin, I carefully placed the
engine on the track. Uncle Ted had improvised a small bellows above
the wheels so that when they turned they inflated the bellows,
activating a horn that sounded like an owl’s hoot. It performed
erratically.

“Will the engine’s horn work?”
I was disappointed because so far it had failed to hoot.

“Yes, in a minute, but the
engine has to make more circuits before the bellows inflate fully.
Then the horn will sound.
”
The locomotive
efficiently made its way around the track.

Winston’s eyes followed. After
several circuits
,
he placed his paw on
the rails blocking the engine’s progress. The clockwork locomotive
struck him and clambered up his leg, its mechanism tracked into his
shaggy black fur. Yelping, he fled, hoping to leave the locomotive
behind. It didn’t cooperate. It wound more fur into its interior
mechanisms. Uttering a tormented howl, Winston raced down the
stairs with Uncle Ted and me in hot pursuit. He sought refuge in
the dining room, but the glass door was closed. Ted sat on the
floor beside the dog in front of the door. He put an arm around the
animal’s neck and, talking softly, calmed him down. With his other
hand he tackled the complicated job of extracting the animal’s fur
from the engine’s clockwork.

We heard the anti-aircraft guns
booming in the distance. “Is that Granddad pounding on the table
for more food
?
” murmured Ted
.
We laughed silently.

Winston panicked and
tensed his body at the sound. I comforted him more. We spoke in
whispers because we knew that, on the other side of the door, they
were conducting their séance. Uncle Ted’s ear pressed hard against
the keyhole. I strained to look through the frosted glass
panels.

My family and their
friends were seated around a table. In an armchair at one end sat
Mrs. Grimes, who breathed deeply. Her face, with the red light
shining directly on it, was contorted. Irregularities in the door’s
glass gave everyone a distorted shape, like in the hall of magic
mirrors.

“We have a contact,” Mrs.
Grimes gasped. “Can I bring him down?”

“Who,” asked Grandmother?

“He says he will tell you when he gets
down. He’s strong now.”

“Let him down,” chipped in Mother.
“Perhaps we knew him once.”

Mrs. Grimes writhed in her
armchair. “Oh! It’s a transformation.” Chest puffed out, prominent
chin extended forward, Mrs. Grimes breathing deepened. She
gurgled.

“I am here to pass on important
news,” she squawked.

“Who are you and for whom is
the news?” Grandmother spoke clearly and firmly. Lilly giggled
nervously from the back of the room.

The locomotive buzzed into life
for a moment, winding more fur into its mechanism. Winston
whimpered and jerked forward but Uncle Ted, arm around the dog’s
neck, restrained him. Ted’s other hand laboured on to untangle the
clockwork locomotive. I continued my efforts to calm the dog by
stroking his head.

I pressed my face onto the pane
of frosted glass to see more. Mrs. Grimes’s expression was twisted,
her cheeks bulged.

Mrs. Grimes, in her new voice, rasped, “Why don’t
you leave me alone and bugger off?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Grandmother.

“What do you want, you old lard pot?”

“Who are you?” repeated Grandmother.

“Sometimes I am a creature
of
the night, sometimes I am he who comes
for you. I can be many things
!
Would
you like me to be your friend?”

“Well, yes, I suppose we would.”

“Then prove it,” the voice squawked.
Sweat poured down the sides of Mrs. Grimes’ face. “We can prove our
friendship through action,” squawked Mrs. Grimes. Grandmother
looked concerned.

Mrs. Grimes lurched forward in her
chair, her transformation now a frightening caricature, her
contorted voice rasped, “Action. Action! I’ll give you action.”
Eyes wide, Mrs. Grimes stared at the door. Could she see my face
pressed against the frosted glass panels?

“End it now
,
please
.
H
e’s up to no good
.
”
M
other’s voice faded into a whisper.

“Ooh! I want to spend a penny,”
added Lilly.

“Gertie, I think we should stop
this now. Come out of the trance,” urged Grandmother. Once again
the clockwork whirled, pulling in more fur. Winston growled, fear
changed to anger, anger turned to action.

Winston’s limbs stiffened, then
silently, with a thump, he lunged forward, breaking from Ted’s
grasp, paws scratching on the door. Lilly screamed
,
“See, oh Gawd, an ‘orrible face in the
door
!
” Everyone turned to look. Did she
mean me?

The red light crashed to the
floor, making the room darker. It flickered on and off, casting
eerie shadows from its new angle.

In the semi-darkness
,
Winston, breaking away from Uncle Ted, forced the
door open; his long, sleek, black form, a fast moving blur,
streaked into the dining room and headed for Mrs. Grimes.

The clockwork engine’s horn
activated for the first time, emitting sharp, eerie hoots. Winston
leaped onto Mrs. Grimes and licked her face. In panic
,
she snapped out of her trance crying, “Aaah! Oh my
Lord
!
Bealzebub’s among us
!
He has materialized!” Shrieks and yells filled the
darkness, chairs tipped, and crockery crashed.

My last view of these events
was of Grandfather, arms extended, face illuminated by a dull red
flickering glow, calling out, “Jesus Christ. Why? Why me
,
Lord? What have I done to offend you?” He looked
upwards. “Jesus, what did I do to deserve this?” The palms of his
hands were open and facing the heavens. Were they waiting for nails
to be hammered through
? Was he
waiting
for the crucifixion?

Uncle Ted and I fled via the
stairs to the box room, hoping to avoid detection.

“Quick, let’s play with the
train set and pretend that we know nothing.” A great idea, but we
lacked one important item
:
the
engine.

Poor Uncle Ted
. He
was in serious trouble. Later
,
the whole household heard Grandfather, who refused
to listen to Ted’s explanation of what happened, loudly lecture him
on the honourable treatment of household guests.

~~~***~~~

Tim’s Dinner

Phil Yeats