In the years between 1915 and 1920, the city of Portland found itself in the grips of a fad that captured the attention of people from nearly all walks of life. It was not a fashion of clothing or art, but rather a fashion of mind, so to speak. It was the metaphysical that had so enraptured citizens of Stumptown, a passion for the occult. Specifically, a desire to communicate with the dead, and to see into the future. This was a veritable boom time for the city’s mediums, tarotists, and palm readers.
But of course in any cultural moment, there are always the naysayers.
The psychiatrist Anthony Galbraith was one such skeptic. In the winter of 1919 he set out to write an article for a prominent medical journal exploring what he called “the exploitation of Portland’s collectively weakened psyche by a new class of opportunists and charlatans.”
Unsurprisingly, he was having trouble finding subjects to interview, both among the exploited psyches and the opportunists and charlatans.
Eventually, though, he did find three spiritualists willing to entertain his questions, insulting though they were. Esme Aberdeen, Elizabeth Crossroads, and Maisy Van Vannen shared a storefront that was frequented by neighbors and crosstowners alike. Their readings and séances were worth traveling for, was the general consensus among those in the know. It goes without saying that the monikers they worked under were not their real names.
These women were confident in their work and their business. They felt they had the luxury to be generous with Galbraith. He was no threat to them. Better he come to their door, they felt, than go bothering any of their less established peers.
Galbraith opened the conversation with a question about Ouija. Were the boards purely devices for tricksters to con the vulnerable and unsuspecting? Or was a built-in deceit part of the product’s very design?
“Deceit? Dr. Galbraith, have you been hearing bad voices from your Ouija game?” Maisy Van Vannen asked.
“It’s an amusement,” Esme Aberdeen offered. “Something for the parlor, and a little scare for the kids.”
“Does yours grow legs in the night and make off with your silver? I am unclear of your question.” This was Maisy again.
Galbraith cleared his throat, intending to clarify. He felt he was being misunderstood, though he could not tell if it was a willful misunderstanding or the fault of the poor-quality minds whose company he was in. But Elizabeth Crossroads cut him off.
“Doctor, perhaps it would help if we told you a little about how we approach our work. Do you know what it means to be a medium, I am wondering? It is not what the sensationalists in the news and in church might have you believe.”
Galbraith rolled his eyes. He gestured for her to continue.
“Spiritualism is belief—any belief,” Esme said. “It’s whatever you’re seeking, and to which you wish to gain access. A medium just helps you get there—she’s the person in between, the bridge. That’s all. Nothing of substance is there which you haven’t supplied yourself.”
“I see my role more as realigning the living with those who they have lost,” Elizabeth said. “A connection to the afterlife, and those who have moved on. The spirit world is a mystery to us, and always will be. This is true. I work in allegory, abstraction. I acknowledge that freely.”
“Not me,” Maisy said. “I see ghosts. I see literal fucking ghosts. I can see the ghost of your mom right now. She hates your hair. If you want to make her ghost happy, get it cut.”
Galbraith laughed, but he was unsettled. Not just by the remarks about his deceased mother, but by all three women. They were not what he had expected. He was unsure how to square them with the article he wanted to write. He asked a few more questions, all of which were met with answers he found strange at best, if not wholly inscrutable. At the end, he thanked the women for their time, though he clearly didn’t mean it, then scurried from their presence.
The women, for their part, were torn on how to proceed. Esme and Elizabeth felt they had said their piece and needn’t have any further involvement with the small irritant that was Dr. Galbraith. Maisy, the youngest and most impetuous of the three, did not agree.
The next morning, Galbraith woke with an itch he could not scratch. Or rather, he could scratch it, but it would not stay scratched. It was on the tip of his nose and would not leave him. He scratched until it was a raw sore, an ugly blemish that drew the eyes of everyone he came in contact with, which caused him great embarrassment. But he was powerless to stop scratching.
Then came the figures in the mirrors. Wisps of human faces that appeared above his left shoulder each time he looked at himself. They were never the same. They were never his mother. They refused to make eye contact.
Then a high-pitched ringing sound, but only while he was seated at the dinner table. Then a smell of smoke or peppermint candy at times when there was no fire or candy nearby. He became fearful for his health and went to his personal physician, but when the doctor told him there was nothing wrong with him except a budding infection of the skin on his nose, he was forced to seek guidance from a fellow psychiatrist. This man too proved unhelpful, suggesting Galbraith’s symptoms were a manifestation of repressed childhood trauma.
“Your mother was cruel to you. Admit it and your problem will cease.”
“My mother was an angel in life, as she is in death, you fucking cretin.”
He spent the rest of the day looking over his shoulder. He got a haircut but second-guessed the style and went back for another.
Then he returned to the spiritualists’ storefront, where he found Esme manning the shop.
“I need help,” he said, his eyes on the floor. “I believe I am having troubles with my dear departed mother.”
Esme led him to a small table and took his hands lightly in her own, turning them palms up. She talked for a while on the nature of his discomfort, a push-and-pull from the world beyond the here and now, and the ramifications of the loss he’d suffered. But the gist of it all was simply: Your mother is proud of you and she knows you love her. Your difficult times won’t last forever.
Galbraith found comfort in this, more than he had expected. He thanked Esme effusively. Not long after, he would abandon his article writing as well as his public denouncements of spiritualism in general. He asked Esme her fee, but she waved him away.
Later, when Maisy came in, Esme said, “Let’s leave Dr. Galbraith alone now, hmmm? Seems you’ve had your fun.”
Maisy rolled her eyes at her business partner, but agreed. They had known each other (and Elizabeth as well) almost their whole lives, since they were children in San Francisco, attending the same neighborhood school. Their teacher had been an eccentric, and a woman of many and varied powers. It was from her that they’d learned their trade. Not the specifics of tarot and palm reading, et cetera, but to harness the natural gifts that allowed them to be persuasive in these undertakings. She was a mentor to girls of uncommon talents, girls of a certain kind—a profile Esme, Elizabeth, and Maisy all fit. The teacher would gather them early in the mornings, before classes started. There were no lessons to speak of, but there was encouragement. She’d ask the girls to speak about what they could do, and what they thought they could do if they tried. “Show me a trick,” she might say, and she’d delight in whatever was demonstrated. Then, another morning, she might say, “No tricks. That’s not all you are. Close your eyes and think slow instead. Think about the girl next to you.” Esme had not known what this meant at first and it frustrated her, as she had many, many tricks to show. But over time she figured it out and was grateful.
Esme was the oldest of the three, and she remembered when the teacher had approached only girls whose gifts were clearly visible, nearly pulsing from them, for such mentorship. But as the years went by, the barrier for entry to this club had fallen away. By the time Esme was in her teens, the teacher would take on any girl who expressed interest in her craft. They could all be made into a certain kind, it turned out.