Victoria Thompson: Murder On Waverly Place

Madame Serafina directed everyone where to sit. Mrs. Decker was to sit to her right, then Mr. Sharpe, then Sarah, then Mrs. Gittings, then Mr. Cunningham, and lastly Mrs. Burke on her left. When everyone was settled, Madame took a moment to look at each person in turn, her dark eyes seeming to penetrate their very thoughts. At least Sarah thought they could when Madame was looking at her. If so, she knew that Sarah was on the verge of bolting from the room. What had ever possessed her to do something so ridiculous?

“Because we have some new guests with us today, I will explain what will happen,” she began, her voice sounding even more hypnotic in the stillness of the dimly lit room. “Before we begin, we will hold the hands of the person on either side of us. This creates a bond between us and makes it easier for the spirits to communicate with us. Then I will turn out the light and close the door. The room will be very dark. When I have taken my seat again, I will call on my spirit guide, Yellow Feather. He was an Indian warrior who died in battle many years ago, and he is the one who actually speaks to the spirits, not I. In fact, he speaks through me. If he chooses to appear today, he will actually take over my body. You will know because you will hear his voice and not mine when I speak. If any of the spirits have a message for someone here, they will convey it to Yellow Feather. Do you have any questions?”

Sarah had a million questions, but she didn’t want to speak any of them aloud. Her mother had no such hesitation. “Should we tell you if there’s a particular person we want to contact?”

Madame smiled kindly. “It’s usually better if I do not know. In fact, I won’t even be conscious during the séance. But you may ask Yellow Feather questions, if you wish, and answer his. Is there anything else you wish to ask?”

Mrs. Decker couldn’t think of anything, so Madame showed them how they should hold each other’s hands. Each person in the circle would use his left hand to grasp the right wrist of the person next to him. Mrs. Gittings readily took hold of Sarah’s right wrist, but Mr. Sharpe gave Sarah an apologetic glance when he offered her his own wrist. She took his right wrist gingerly in her left hand, finding it oddly uncomfortable to be practically holding hands with a man she’d only just met, but no one else seemed concerned with the arrangement. They had done this before, after all.

When everyone was properly clasped together, Madame disengaged her own hands and rose from her chair. “I’m going to put out the light now and close the door and then return to my seat. The room will be completely dark. Then I will call for Yellow Feather.”

Moving almost silently, she crossed to the door and put out the light. Then she pushed the door shut. More than one person made a small sound of surprise as the room plunged into total darkness. Sarah closed her eyes and opened them again but could see no noticeable difference. She thought she would get used to the dark after a few minutes, but that didn’t happen. She couldn’t even see any light coming through the cracks from where she knew the door to be. A slight rustling told her Madame had returned to her seat. Could those amazing eyes see in the dark, too? Or maybe she just knew the layout of the room from memory.

They sat for a minute or two with nothing to hear but the sound of their own breathing, and then Madame’s voice broke the silence.

“Yellow Feather, are you there?” she called. “Yellow Feather, if you’re there, come to me now. I have some seekers here. They are searching for their loved ones. Yellow Feather, can you hear me?”

Mrs. Gittings’s fingers tightened their grip as they waited in the silence, and Sarah wondered if she was doing the same thing to Mr. Sharpe. Time seemed to be frozen, and Sarah had no idea how long they waited in the silence.

“Yellow Feather, someone needs to speak with you. Someone needs to contact a loved one.”

Another long silence. Sarah heard a low humming sound, although she couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from or even if it came from a human throat. The air in the room seemed to be vibrating with it, or maybe it was just the vibration she sensed and not a sound at all. Then she heard a strangled sound, as if someone were choking.

Was someone ill? Mrs. Gittings’s fingers tightened again, and Mr. Sharpe’s wrist tensed beneath Sarah’s hand.

“This is Yellow Feather,” a deep voice proclaimed, and Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. The sound came from where she knew Madame Serafina sat, but the voice was a man’s. “I sense a stranger’s presence, someone who does not believe.”

Sarah stiffened, instinctively feeling guilty and feeling angry for feeling that guilt.

“Don’t pay her any mind, Yellow Feather,” Cunningham pleaded. “Please, is my father with you today? I need to speak with him.”

“Many spirits are here with me, but not all of them wish to speak. Some are very sad and others are angry.”

“Is my father angry?” Cunningham asked, his voice shrill with alarm. “I did exactly what he told me to do! It wasn’t my fault that it didn’t work out!”

“Someone is here,” Yellow Feather’s voice said. “She has a rose.”

Sarah could feel a tremor go through Mr. Sharpe’s arm. “Harriet,” he breathed. Then louder, “Harriet?”

“She has a red rose. This has some special meaning.”

“Yes, I always gave her red roses on our anniversary,” Mr. Sharpe said, his voice trembling. “Harriet, can you hear me?”

Sarah found herself holding her breath, infected by his tension. She could almost imagine she smelled roses.

“She wants to tell you something,” Yellow Feather said, “but the message isn’t clear. She’s afraid for you.”

“Afraid? Why is she afraid?”

“You are trying to make a decision.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Sharpe said. “What does she want me to do?”

The scent of roses was stronger now. Sarah was sure of it.

“There is danger,” Yellow Feather said. “Someone is in danger.”

“No, there’s no danger,” he insisted.

“You must protect someone from this danger.”

“How? How can I do that?”

The humming sound returned, louder now, almost audible but not quite. A long minute passed, and then another. Sarah felt Mr. Sharpe’s tension. It was radiating through her now. The smell of roses filled her throat.

“Tell me!” Sharpe begged. “Tell me what to do!”

The humming stopped, and Yellow Feather made a groaning sound, as if he were in pain. “You know the answer. Follow your heart.”

“I can’t!” Sharpe protested.

“Follow…” Yellow Feather said on a soft moan. “Follow… your… heart.”

Sharpe drew a breath and let it out on a sigh of surrender.

“Father,” Cunningham tried again. “Father, are you there?”

“Opal is here,” Yellow Feather said, ignoring Cunningham.

“Opal!” Mrs. Burke said in surprise. She didn’t sound happy.

“She wants to tell you something. Something important. Something you need to know.”

“I did what you told me!” Mrs. Burke said anxiously. “But it wasn’t enough.”

“She says… Someone else is here.”

“Who? Who is it?”

“Father?” Cunningham interrupted. “Father, are you there?”

“Someone Opal loves.” Yellow Feather sounded impatient. “Someone you both love.”

“Mother?” she asked in surprise. “Mother, are you there?”

Yellow Feather moaned. “I’m tired, so tired…”

“No, no!” Mrs. Burke nearly shouted. “You must tell me what my mother is saying!”

“The message is unclear,” Yellow Feather complained, sounding oddly petulant. “She’s fading.”