The basement door opens, and Mr. Spencer’s boots appear on the steps, his camera cradled in his arms. Others follow him down, watching as he circles the room, breathes in the dusty air, measures the position of the stool from the tripod. He spins the stool around and moves the tripod back a few inches, not because the position was wrong, but because Charles put it there.
Charles lifts the beam to the double doors that lead outside and opens them, letting the sunlight pour inside the room, giving a warm glow to the wooden walls. Shadows move across the room, bending around the surfaces.
Mr. Spencer paces, talking to the guests, and Charles watches his every move, looking for trickery. He doesn’t suspect that the work is already done. When the basement is full, Mr. Spencer pulls the T-shaped flash from his case and holds it to his chest. He begins his speech, working through his well-rehearsed lie.
“You may ask how I was introduced to Spiritualism. The truth is, it wasn’t something I sought out. It came to me. I was a simple photographer, and quickly found that there was something else to my photos. Something spiritual,” Mr. Spencer says, lowering his head like he’s deep in thought. He’s polished today, steady, at his very best.
“Strange wisps and shadows appeared, hovering above the bodies. I thought they were mistakes at first. Cracks in the lens. Leaks of light. What else could it be? I sought wisdom from leading Spiritualists who all told me the same thing: It was the ghosts of those who had passed over, staying with those who cared about them.”
The crowd listens, unable to look away from him. Sometimes, once Mr. Spencer gets talking, I forget everything he says is a lie. I think if I listened long enough, maybe I’d even start to believe him, even knowing what I did to the photographic plates last night.
He nods to the camera.
“I’ve come to learn that it is not the tools I use—it’s me. The spirits are drawn to me like moths to a flame. The camera doesn’t matter. Many feel what I’m about to do is a cheap trick, not worthy of a place like this. I have made every effort to ease your minds and prove to you that my motivations and methods are beyond reproach. Charles here has inspected my camera, and I have never touched any of the photographic plates I am about to use. Isn’t that right, Charles?”
The crowd murmurs and Charles steps forward, holding the plates in his hand.
“Hand them here.”
Charles doesn’t give them to Mr. Spencer.
“Just one more thing, sir, if you don’t mind,” Charles says. He moves away, steps into the corner, and pulls out a case. Inside is the exact same model of camera that Mr. Spencer uses.
“In our early letters with Mr. Spencer, we asked what type of camera he used and purchased the same one in order to test his story. Please, sir, use this camera instead of your own.”
“Well, look at you,” Mr. Spencer spits, and I can see the cracks appearing in his mask and the real man oozing out. “So wise!”
He takes Charles’s camera and handles it roughly, removing his from the tripod and setting it on the floor. He turns back to the crowd.
“I know what some of you must think. This is a hoax. Other spirit photographers have been exposed and that must mean we’re all liars. Should I be judged by the worst in my field? I ask a modest sum for my work in order to support myself, not to get rich, and then people like this man here act as if—”
“You said yourself that the spirits are drawn to you, so the tools shouldn’t matter,” Charles interjects. And it is of no matter. Charles’s prodding shouldn’t get to him because he knows the plates are already changed by me, but I can see the anger bubbling in Mr. Spencer’s eyes and hear it thick in his throat. Maybe his pride is hurt. Maybe he’s pretending. It’s hard to tell.
“You’re an ugly presence to have in this room,” he sneers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you scare the spirits away.”
“Already planning your excuses, I see.”
“They are not excuses, sir, they are the truth. A negative presence can repel the pure spirits away, and if you are to stay in this room you must—”
“In this house, I will stay wherever I wish,” Charles says calmly and folds his arms. He’s clearly used to being asked to leave, and comfortable with not obeying.
“Please sit,” Mr. Spencer says, motioning at a man near the black curtain. He places his hat by the stool and the man drops money inside. “I apologize for the spectacle. No matter how hard I work, there will always be doubt. Who are you looking to connect with, sir?”
“My wife,” the man says. “She died last May, but I still . . . I don’t know . . . sometimes I think . . .”
“Do you feel her here now?”
The man nods, and Mr. Spencer closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.
“I feel her, too.”
Mr. Spencer rubs his fingers over the plates and pulls one with a single drip of candle wax out from the stack and slides it into Charles’s camera.
“Sit still. Don’t move. Keep your eyes open and look here,” he says, motioning to the lens.
There’s a stillness in the basement—no one moves, no one breathes. The shutter clicks, the flash ignites, and the photographic plate gathers the light through the lens.
From the corner of the room, John motions at me to join him, and I slide my back along the wall, careful that no one sees me.
We retreat into a shadowy corner, and I stare at my shoes, trying not to look at him in case Charles notices us together.
“Did you find the plates?”
“Of course,” I whisper. “But it wasn’t easy.”
“There are so many people here. It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“I know. I wish I had your help.”
Charles turns and nods at me and my heart races in my chest. Did he see me talking to John? Does it matter? We’re the only two kids here. Of course we would talk to each other. That’s normal, isn’t it?
Still, I walk away, trying to look innocent, but I know that the more I try, the more guilty I look.
Don’t ruin it, Liza.
“Next,” Mr. Spencer says, sliding out the plate and storing it in darkness. A woman places crumpled dollars in the hat, sits on the stool, and talks with Mr. Spencer. On and on it goes, the stories of loss and sadness blending together. As the supplies dwindle down, he’s careful to select his subjects based on my wax markings. When the plates are all used, Charles springs into action, grabbing them and unscrewing the camera from the tripod.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all for your participation,” Charles says. He pats the package of plates. “I will handle the development of the photos and the truth will soon be revealed. If this proves to be a fraud, we will return your money.”
Mr. Spencer retreats to the corner of the room and takes a small bottle from his jacket, unscrews it, and takes a long sip. He smirks at Charles and eyes up the bills from his hat.
“Now, follow me to the assembly hall,” Charles says. “Ms. Eldridge and Annabelle are waiting for us.”
He tucks the package of photographic plates into his jacket and waves me over.
“We’ll develop these after the assembly and find out once and for all what that man truly is,” he says with a look confident that he would find no ghosts in Mr. Spencer’s photos.