New York, 1853

A round-faced girl sat across from Enid at the table. Typically, Enid charged each attendee in a group one dollar; but this girl had requested a private audience in Madame Enid's parlor. She'd paid five dollars for it. Where a solemn, modest-looking girl came up with the money for such a venture, Enid did not want to know.

"You say it is your brother you wish to reach?" Enid asked. The two women were now quite alone. Enid's widowed eldest son, Alfred, had discreetly drawn the velvet curtains closed behind him after showing their guest into the room.

The girl—she'd introduced herself as Florence Moore—pulled her shoulders back and folded her hands to keep them from trembling. "Yes, ma'am." There was a candle lit at the center of the table and the flame flickered with the quickening of her breath. "Drowned, he was. At sea."

"What was his name?"

"Felix, ma'am. He—it was just he and I after our ma died."

Enid felt pity for the poor creature. Alone in the world. She knew all too well what that was like. "Well, don't be afraid, my dear. Tonight, we shall find your Felix."

Florence half-smiled, revealing a space between her two front teeth which was soon concealed by the return of that tight-lipped, careful expression. Enid placed her own palms flat on the table, the cream-colored tablecloth smooth against her skin. The delicacy of it put her at ease. It also helped to conceal the rigging Alfred had designed underneath the table.

Enid instructed Florence to place her palms flat on the table as well and then began to recite the Lord's Pray in a clear, altruistic voice. She did this before every session—for luck, she told her patrons. "Tonight, we call to Felix Moore," she declared to the room with less ceremony than she employed during her public sessions. In a group, eyes were always shifting uneasily—distracted by every little noise or movement, but Florence's eyes remained fixed on Enid as she spoke. "May he hear us through the ether, and come forth." 

A pause, then Enid closed her eyes and began to hum. She often did this for longer than Alfred preferred, but she found it best to make her audience tense—impatient. Spirits were found to be more impressive if it took time and effort to conjure them.

Enid raised her knee so that it pushed up the lever beneath the table, delivering a firm knock below the table's surface. The candle shook but Florence made not a sound. "Felix?" Enid called into the darkness. "Felix Moore, knock twice if it is you with whom we are speaking."

Enid waited, then moved the lever twice more. Knock. Knock.

"Felix!" she continued, eyes still shut. It was an important, though precarious, facet of the performance. She could not see her audience, but Enid's ability to command a room was what made her so effective. "I have your sister with me. Florence is here. Knock twice if you understand."

Enid allowed for a pause to linger, then moved the lever again.

Knock. Knock.

"Florence misses you, Felix. She does. She wants to know that you are all right."

Silence.

"Felix?"

Enid felt a rush of air against cheek and knew it was Alfred from the room above. The ceiling in this room had originally been much higher, but they'd built a false ceiling lower so that Alfred could orchestrate disembodied sounds—footsteps and sometimes banging from restless spirits. Most significantly, it allowed him to run a metal tube down from the ceiling through which he could blow out the candle centered on the table. Enid could smell the curl of smoke rising from the extinguished wick in the dark. She opened her eyes.

"I'm afraid we've lost him," she sighed, trying and failing to smooth the ripple of irritation in her voice. Alfred had taken to doing this without her permission—ending sessions before they were complete, forcing patrons to return and pay again with the hope of making a stronger connection beyond the veil.

Rising from her seat, Enid moved deftly in the dark to find and light a lamp kept on the nearby bureau. When she turned around, she found that the girl did not look as disappointed as Enid would have expected.

"My apologies," said Enid. "Truly. But the other side... it can be fickle."

Florence stood and came to join Enid next to the bureau. Enid was surprised when Florence suddenly took her hands and clasped them together with unceremonious feeling. Enid's heart ached for this girl.

"I don't have a brother," Florence whispered. "In fact, I have five sisters. All living."

Enid wasn't sure how to respond. Florence looked into her eyes with calm, collected earnestness.

"Your son. Alfred," Florence continued. "He's stealing from you."

Enid's brow knit. She wondered if Alfred was still in the crawlspace above. If he could hear. "Why do you say that?" she asked in a low, taut voice.

Florence glanced up at the ceiling, sadness cracked across her steady gaze. She leaned forward to whisper more softly. "Your husband told me."

"Child, my husband is dead."

Florence nodded. "Yes. He reached out to me. He wanted you to know. Alfred cannot be trusted."

With this, Florence released Enid's hands—which now felt like ice—smiled a delicately sympathetic smile, and exited through the velvet curtain—leaving Enid alone in the dimly lit room. Shadows licked the space around her. She felt a gnawing dread.

Before she could turn or make any attempt to follow the girl, a chill crossed the room. Trembling, Enid walked back to her chair and took a seat, placing the lamp on the table. Her lips parted. The lamp went out.



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