Once again, Mrs. Mason seated herself in the comfortable chair in the living room. An anxious Sybil sat opposite her, biting her fingernails while she waited for Mrs. Mason to go into her trance state.
After several moments, during which the medium coughed and spluttered, as was customary prior to the onset of trance, Mrs. Mason relaxed, her eyes closed, and her breathing became more regular. To all appearances she seemed asleep. After a while, which seemed like an eternity to Sybil, her eyes or rather her eye lashes fluttered, and the muscles around her lips began to move. Clearly, an entity was trying to manifest itself through her.
And then what had been a gentle, ladylike face suddenly turned into a hard, masculine one; every line was etched sharply. The nose became aquiline; the medium, her eyes still closed, sat bolt upright in the chair. The entity operating her physical body now was someone other than Mrs. Mason. Sybil did not have to wait long before she found out who was confronting her.
“You see, white woman,” the harsh voice said, “you see now the foolishness of trying to steal treasure from sacred burial ground? I kill your man and I kill you if you do not leave.”
“I intend to leave,” Sybil replied, totally prepared to defend herself. “But I want this anger, this hate to stop. What else do you want me to do? I have already done all I can.”
“Not so.” The Indian’s voice was deep, totally unlike Mrs. Mason’s normal speaking voice.
“What more do you want?” Sybil almost shouted. “Haven’t I gone to the Indian village and given them money for a school?”
“Rolling Thunder says white woman must leave. White woman must go back to city. White woman must give back precious stone.”
“You mean the opal?”
“Yes. Stone must go back where it came from.”
“But I don’t know where it came from. How can I do this?” Sybil said, almost in tears now. But her distress made no impression on Rolling Thunder.
“White woman must give back precious stone. White woman must leave sacred burial ground and never come back or I will kill her as I kill all others.”
“But what about the curse? You’ve put a curse on this house!”
“You are right. No blade of grass shall grow in this soil until sacred burial ground is restored to Indian people. No house, no people.”
“But that is impossible! I don’t own the house. I am only here for a little while.” “You here long enough. You must tell them.”
“But suppose they don’t want to leave? What about the curse?”
“Curse go with you. You go. You return the opal. You must return land to Indian people. That is my command.”
“But how can I do this?” Sybil cried out in desperation, for she noticed that the medium had sunk back in her chair, deeply asleep now. Clearly, the Indian had left her body. After a minute or two, Mrs. Mason sat up again, her face having regained its normal expression. Once again, Sybil realized that Mrs. Mason could not recall what had come through her lips. She had, of course, recorded every word that had been spoken and she now played the tape back for Mrs. Mason who listened intently.
“Well, that’s quite an order, isn’t it?” she finally commented.
“What should I do? How can I break this curse?” Sybil asked.
“There’s only one way you can deal with this,” Mrs. Mason replied, and there was a grave timbre to her voice. “You are dealing with an ancient Indian ritual curse. Only an Indian ritual can dissolve it. I can’t. You can’t. It has to be dealt with the Indian way.”
“But how? Whom do I call? What do I do next?” Sybil said. Tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks.
Again Mrs. Mason had an answer. “Well,” she said very calmly, “I think I might have a solution for you. I have a friend who is a writer. He writes about strange phenomena, the occult, the paranormal, the world of spirits, and such. He is very knowledgeable and has learned a great deal. He is a little psychic himself and he might just be able to help you.”
Sybil was clearly disappointed. What good would a writer be to her? All he could do was publish the story, which would merely bring more people to the house. She told the medium this, but Mrs. Mason shook her head. “No, that is not so. You see, this young man is not only knowledgeable where it counts— he’s also Indian. Or at least part Indian, I am not sure how much.”
“Why do you think he could help me?”
“Just a hunch,” Mrs. Mason replied. “It came to me in a flash when you asked before. Perhaps the spirit guides are suggesting it. Perhaps it is my own intuition. Why don’t you give it a chance? Talk to him. You don’t have to go ahead with it, but give yourself a chance to explore this possibility. I feel very strongly about it. I feel that there might be a solution in this person, and that somehow you will be able to succeed where I cannot. You see, the Indian chief, while using me as his medium, will not listen to me if I speak to him as myself, the clairvoyant. I have no standing in his world. You understand me?”
Sybil nodded.
“Very well then,” Mrs. Mason said and rose from the chair. “I shall call the young man tomorrow and I will ask him to get in touch with you at once.”
“What is his name?” Sybil demanded to know.
“His name is Johnny Woodruff.”
And with that Mrs. Mason let herself out the door, smiled at Sybil and went on her way.