The morning sun is harsh through the frosted window, and the sky is on fire, just like the painting on my wall. I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but my body is still sore from yesterday’s journey and working late into the night, and the bed is so soft and warm.
Sounds come from outside, talking and laughing, and horse hooves tap against stone. The big front door opens and closes, opens and closes, and the house is filled with conversation.
Charles talks in the hallway outside my room. I recognize his voice. It’s a low rumble, and Margaret answers, then the door opens a crack and I peek through my eyelashes to see her.
“Is she asleep?” Charles asks.
She smiles, steps forward, and touches my shoulder.
“Faking it, I suspect.”
In the morning light, Margaret looks like a porcelain doll that’s come to life. It seems impossible that she is related to Ms. Eldridge. Today, her dress is blue, and her hair flows to the side in big swoops that look like waterfalls, crashing over the smooth rocks of her shoulders.
She sticks out a toe and slides the suitcase closer to me and for a moment I panic, thinking she might open it and find my Hidden Place.
“Get some clothes on, dear,” she says, and leaves the room.
I pull on a faded dress and slip on my shoes, looking out the window to see people gathered in the yard. They stand by the stone wall and face the sun with their hands shielding their eyes.
“Come,” Margaret says as I open the door. “It’s time for breakfast.”
She grabs my hand and leads me down the hall. This time I step without care, letting the boards squeal under my feet.
Charles follows us, past his bedroom door and down the stairs, where the main rooms of the house are full of guests. Some are standing and others are sitting in chairs, talking to each other, holding back tears as they tell stories of the people they’ve lost. There’s laughter, too, as memories are shared.
Margaret leads me to a table. Most people have already eaten breakfast, because the white tablecloth is stained with grease and coffee.
“One more plate!” Margaret yells, and from the kitchen, a man responds with, “We’re just cleaning up.”
“You can scrounge up some more,” Margaret says, and blends into the swarm of people around us.
Soon, a plate appears. Eggs, potatoes, and a few slices of ham glazed in a warm gravy. I look around the room until I see a small figure glide through the crowd, cowlick quivering like a bug’s antenna.
John.
Charles sits next to me and tucks a napkin into his shirt.
“I won’t make you eat alone,” he says, snapping his fingers at the kitchen staff for another plate. “Didn’t have time yet this morning, but it all smells so good.”
When it arrives, he scoops out small portions, arranging them in a circle around his plate so they don’t touch, and then cutting up the meat into perfect little cubes.
“Has anyone told you about this place?” he asks.
“Not really,” I mumble, not letting on what I already know. “Margaret told me about Annabelle.”
Charles smiles. “Ah, our own guiding star. Well, that’s a good start.”
Charles divides the eggs on his plate and lays his knife in the middle. He points to the left side.
“These eggs are us,” he says, and then points to the eggs on the other side. “And these are the spirits of the people who passed over to the spirit world.”
A man moves behind us and laughs. “They don’t look different to me.”
“Yes, sir, that’s true. And in a way, it’s the point I’m trying to make.”
Charles is nothing if not polite. He taps the knife with his finger.
“When you die, you pass through this wall, a barrier that separates the living from the spirits.”
Charles picks up a piece of egg from the living side of the plate and moves it across.
“Just like that,” he says. “And it’s there that you live for all eternity, in Summerland, separated from the living.”
He places an egg in the middle of the plate, right under the knife.
“There are people, however, who are born with a gift. They can speak through the wall to people on the other side. They are called mediums.”
I take a bite of my eggs and he smiles. He seems kinder than he did last night, but maybe he has an act too. I need to be careful.
“Like this knife, the wall between us has thick and thin parts.”
He points his index finger to the part of the knife where the blade meets the handle.
“This house sits on a spot where the wall is exceptionally thin. Do you understand what that means?” Charles leans in close and whispers, “It’s all right if you don’t believe. Some days, I’m not sure I do, either.”
Ms. Eldridge appears in the room, and her eyes lock with mine.
“Ah, my girl, you look much better today!” she says. “I trust you slept well?”
Without waiting for me to answer, she wraps her hands around my shoulders and calls out, “Attention!”
The room falls silent. Every head turns to us.
“I am so honored to have each of you here today, though I am under no illusions as to why you are. Loss is the common thread that runs between us. We are in a special place now. Did you feel it when you entered?”
Soft murmurs fill the room. Mr. Spencer smiles in the corner.
“Science doesn’t understand how this is possible. Many doubt our truth. They say we are foolish at best and liars at worst.”
I feel she’s talking directly to Mr. Spencer, but she continues on, releasing her grip on me and moving through the room. She looks up to the ceiling and closes her eyes, and in this light she is almost beautiful, too, like a monument carved in stone.
“There are things we hold in our hearts—small flames of truth that we must protect from the never-ending breeze of disbelief. If we can protect our fire, guard it from those forces, no one can deceive us.”
She turns to the crowd and extends her arms.
“Séances will be held regularly in the assembly hall and in the field, and Margaret’s class on astral projection will be held tomorrow by the large tree. This week, we’re honored to be joined by some special guests. Wilma Van Heusen is here to demonstrate the art of spiritual paintings, and Madam Crimson has her spirit trumpets in the parlor. And of course, Thomas Spencer, the infamous spirit photographer, will be set up in the basement. Schedules have been posted around the grounds.”
“Follow me,” Charles says, reaching for my hand. “I could use a helper today.”
He leads me through the house while Ms. Eldridge’s voice echoes through the halls with more instructions. We travel a different path than last night. The house is full of narrow stairways and hidden compartments lined with slatted boards that let you stand in the shadows and see right through, and Charles knows all the secret passageways in the house, the small doors that open up to tight halls that lead out to unexpected places.
“This house used to be part of the Underground Railroad,” he says. “Have you heard of that?”
I nod. Father told me and John about it after we heard mention of it in a book and thought it must be trains that traveled in tunnels under the earth.
“I thought so. You seem like a girl with smarts. That’s how my grandfather got up north by way of the Carolinas. Always wondered if he may have passed through here.”
Then why don’t you have Ms. Eldridge ask Annabelle? I think, but hold the words back. No use starting arguments.
We pass a prayer group gathered in a small sitting room, and take a route through the kitchen, then he leads me to the dining room and to the stairs.
“I don’t know your name,” Charles says, as if realizing it for the first time.
I feel like I owe him something after what I did to the camera supplies he was guarding last night. “Liza,” I say, deciding to go with my real name so I don’t need to keep my story straight.
“Pleased to meet you, Liza,” he says. “It’s a pretty name. I’m Charles Branch.”
Up the stairs, we follow the hall to his room and he opens the door. I don’t go in, trying not to look inside in the daylight, ashamed at how familiar I am with the contents of his dresser.
“Today should be interesting,” he says. “Ms. Eldridge fancies herself a skeptic, too, despite what you may think. Physical mediumship—that is, people who use props to communicate, are often nothing more than failed tricksters. We’ve had our share of frauds come through these doors, and she always does her best to catch them in their lies. She thinks of it as her service to the Spiritualist community. She’s destroyed a good many careers, but has a habit of missing the easy signs.” Charles pulls the brown paper bag out of his bottom drawer and raps it with his knuckles. “Which is why we’re not letting this leave our sight.”
I keep my face blank, try not to show any emotion, and follow him back downstairs where a crowd has gathered in the parlor. Dark curtains cover the windows, blocking out all the light, and people sit in a circle around a large woman. This must be Madam Crimson. She has dark hair and a giant mole on her cheek. She wears a red silk hat with tiny gold tassels dangling from the side, and her accent sounds like it comes from a faraway country, with a bit of New York. Still, it’s soothing, somehow, the way the words rise and fall like music.
“Are you here, spirits?” she asks.
A tapping sound comes, seemingly out of nowhere. It gets louder and louder, shaking the pictures on the walls.
“Can you hear them? They’ve come!”
She places a long, cone-shaped trumpet on the table and stands, walking behind the cabinet she’s brought with her, painted with bright colors and animals.
“I will not touch this trumpet again. I will not go near it.”
The tapping continues, and a soft murmur comes from the cabinet.
“The spirits are here, whispering around us!”
The crowd of people look around, hoping to see one for themselves. A woman begins to weep.
“Speak into the trumpet, spirits! Let them hear you!”
A strange sound comes from the trumpet, like air squeezing from a balloon. I can’t figure out how she’s doing it.
Margaret stands by the entrance of the room, watching the trumpet closely.
“Listen!” Madam Crimson shrieks, and her jewelry jingles as she begins to dance. Her bulky body moves and shakes, and the strange trumpet sounds continue. Phhhheeeeeee phhhheeeeeee phhhheeeeeee. I am here.
John appears in the hallway. He starts to smile, holding back a laugh, and it’s all I can do not to join him.
Phhhheeeeee. I am so happy on the other side.
The voice is small and high-pitched, like a child’s, and a man stands and says, “Samuel, is that you?”
The room breaks into commotion, and Charles taps me on the arm, pointing to the door. I don’t know if he saw me looking at John, so I follow him, head down, reminding myself to be careful.
We walk down wooden steps to a large dirt-floor basement with stone walls. It’s dark, with small windows along the ceiling, spaced in between the beams. The basement is only partially underground. The back wall opens outside to the cemetery, and there are two double doors with a beam across them. On the right side of the basement is a series of doors that must lead to smaller storage rooms, and on the left are shelves full of tools and scraps of wood.
A stool sits in the middle of the large room. There’s a folded black blanket on top and Charles takes it, stands on the stool, and hammers it into the beam.
“Have you ever had your picture taken?” he asks, and I lie and shake my head.
“Sit here,” he instructs, moving the stool in front of the blanket. He closes one eye, putting me in position, marking a spot. He draws a line in the dirt with his toe and then goes into a corner room, returning with a heavy wooden tripod and placing it on the mark.
“Click,” he says, mimicking the sound of a camera, and laughs. “I’m just pretending. The plates are expensive so we can’t use them yet. But I suspect we’ll have extra ones soon, once Mr. Spencer is proven to be a liar and chased from this place.”
Not likely, I think, and smile back at him.