“Why don’t they just get a telephone put in?” said Mr. Clemens in a stage whisper, followed by an involuntary exhalation that I interpreted as the result of a nudge to the ribs from his wife.
I stretched my hands out tentatively in the dark and grasped those of the women on either side of me, Martha McPhee to my right and Susy Clemens to my left. The thought went through my mind that, whatever Martha said about the “energies,” having both her hands held would certainly limit her opportunities for deception. But I reminded myself that I would have my best chance of discovering what was really going on if I freed my mind of all preconceptions and simply observed the evening’s events. Mr. Clemens had given me that advice on our first trip together, and it had served me well every time I had actually been able to follow it. I mentally put the issue of possible deception to one side, and resolved to pay close attention.
After a few moments, when all hands were presumably joined, Martha spoke again. “If we are successful in our attempt to converse with the other side, I shall very likely go into a trance, to provide a conduit for the spirits to communicate. Any of you can ask questions, but perhaps it would be best if one person were to take the lead. Sir Denis, I know that you have been at sittings before tonight. Would you be willing to make the first overtures to any entity that might appear?”
“Yes, of course,” came Sir Denis DeCoursey’s voice from across the table. “But I would hope that others will feel free to ask their own questions, once we have established communication. Are there objections to that?”
“I certainly have none,” said Martha, “though I cannot say how the spirits may respond. They are often reluctant to answer questions they consider frivolous or hostile. If we are all ready, then, I will attempt to channel our energies. I feel that they are very strong this evening.”
There followed a period of awkward silence—possibly five minutes, at a guess. Except for the utter dark, and the two warm hands I clasped on either side, it reminded me of a Quaker meeting I had once attended in the company of a Yale classmate of that persuasion. Someone coughed, and one of the women on the other side of the table gave a little nervous laugh. My ability to concentrate was just at the point of evaporating when there came a sudden loud rap. With the exception of Martha McPhee, I think everyone at the table jumped at the report; I know I heard several gasps. It sounded as if it came from the exact center of the table, loud enough that I think it would have been audible outside the door.
“Is there anyone there?” said Sir Denis, more calmly than I think I would have managed.
Barely had he said these words than a volley of knocks commenced, six or seven in rapid rhythmic succession. “Better let ’em in,” said Mr. Clemens, but no one bothered to shush him. I cannot say what was in anyone else’s mind, but I was at once exhilarated and, I admit, a bit frightened. All I could think was that it was of the utmost importance that I remember everything that transpired. If there really were someone there, attempting to communicate to us from beyond the grave, it would be mad not to heed every single syllable of what the summoned spirits might have to tell us.
“Do you wish to speak to anyone here?” said Sir Denis. This time the answer was a series of knocks from different quarters of the room, some of them nearly as loud as pistol shots, others much softer. While I had no idea of the cause, the effect was as if several different entities were answering the question at once.
Then came a voice that, had I not been seated next to her, I might not have recognized as coming from Martha’s mouth. “Why do you call me?” she said. She spoke almost tonelessly, and her hand seemed limp, as well; I was quite ready to believe that she had fallen into some sort of trance. Indeed, had I not known better, I would have thought it was a man’s voice I was hearing. Or was it a spirit? I felt a chill at the thought.
“First tell us who you are,” said Sir Denis. “Some of your loved ones from your former life may be here, and they would gladly speak with you.”
“My former life is a shadow of a dream,” said the spirit voice. “Things are far different here, far happier. But I remember that when I walked upon that lower plane, I was called by the name of Richard.”
Someone gasped, then said, “Richard? Can it be? This is your loving Hannah—oh, Richard, how I miss you!” I realized it was Hannah Boulton, the widow, speaking. Was this truly the spirit of her dead husband?
“Hannah . . . yes, I recall that name.” The voice remained calm, though I must admit a chill came over me every time it spoke. I was almost persuaded to loose my grip on Martha McPhee’s hand, though I held on for fear of breaking the circle and causing who knew what consequences.
“Surely you recall more than that,” said Mrs. Boulton, pleading in her voice. “Oh, dear Richard—we were married twenty-eight years.”
“Yes, Hannah—I could not forget that,” said the spirit, in a voice still without emotion. I thought it would have been much more interesting to know if the spirit would have recalled the name Hannah, or their long marriage, without prompting. Judging from Mr. Clemens’s audible snort, he was of the same opinion. But a grieving widow could hardly be expected to raise
