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Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire, UK
30th of June, 12:01 a.m. (GMT+1)
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Wilson knew what he needed to do next, but he required a few supplies. He quickly stopped by a store on his way back from Abbey Park and picked up a pack of candles, a lighter, a kilo of salt to replenish his stores, a liter of water, and some snacks for the wait till midnight. When he returned to his turreted room at the Greysides, he moved the furniture to one side and created a large open space within which to operate. He placed six tea light candles in a circle and checked their position before setting them aflame.
Wilson grabbed a quick snack and watered up—once he began, he wouldn’t be able to stop until it was done; as soon as he took Weber’s dissolvable tablet, the clock was ticking. He turned off the other lights in the room so that it was only illuminated by candlelight. He positioned himself on one side of the circle of candles and waited for the clock to tick one minute past midnight. Only then did Wilson start the séance.
There were several ways for the living to contact the dead, but of those ways, the séance was considered the most respectful. Although it appeared the ghosts were failing to live up to their end of the treaty, he was going to approach the subject with cautious respect. There wasn’t anything to be gained by being rude.
As Wilson supplicated into the dim light, he pushed his will outward and moved it in a circular motion, like the swirling waters in a vortex. The rhythmic pull would entice nearby ghosts without forcing them to appear before him. Those who chose to enter the whorl would be able to communicate with him—in a séance, he could only speak with those who wished to be spoken to. Once he established the patter, he slipped in one of Weber’s language-translating lozenges and held it under his tongue. It wouldn’t be long now.
Wilson closed his eyes and directed a constant stream of will into the eddy he had created. Within a few minutes, the glittering candles flickered and a presence entered the room. “To the spirit who has arrived, my greetings,” Wilson spoke in a flat pitch. Strictly speaking, none of the spectacle was needed to speak with a ghost—the candles, the voice modulation, the midnight hour—but it was best to keep up the old ways when encountering an unknown ghost.
Wilson felt the air compress and then a voice emerged out of nothingness, “Who is it that draws our attention?”
More than one ghost, Wilson thought. Good. That should save time.
“I am Damon Warwick from the Institute of Tradition, and I am here to speak about the Treaty of Great Missenden,” he announced himself.
A voluminous pressure released, as if a depth charge had been dropped into the room. Wilson was physically pushed backward an inch, and he instinctively opened his eyes and drew his will back into his body. He visually swept the area—the candles were still alight, but whoever he had been speaking to had retreated.
Undeterred, Wilson closed his eyes and started whirling his will for a second attempt. This time, a response was nearly immediate. “Mr. Warwick, we are honored to meet you again,” a different voice enunciated, seemingly from nowhere. “It would please us greatly to greet you properly, face-to-face.”
Wilson opened his eyes to nearly half a dozen translucent figures softly glowing on the other side of his small circle of candles. The two figures in the front were obviously related—their long faces, high foreheads, and aquiline noses spoke to a kinship. Wilson remembered them from the treaty renegotiations: Sir John du Plessis, 7th Earl of Warwick, and his fourth son, Sir Hugh, Lord of Great Missenden. Not only were they the spokesmen for the ghosts ten years ago, they were also the first to sign the original Pacification Treaty in 1917.
“Ah, Sir John, Sir Hugh, a pleasure to meet you again,” Wilson hailed them, rising from the ground and giving a small bow. Behind the nobles were two more faces he immediately placed names to: Mrs. Opal Wood, and Miss Clara Felton. There were other faces he recognized, but he couldn’t remember their names; it had been nearly a decade and there had been a whole group of ghosts involved in the negotiations—the more-modern ghosts translating between the older ghosts and the living. It had been like watching a UN meeting in slow motion; an arduous process, but successful. “Ladies, Gentlemen,” he collectively acknowledged the others in the group.
“It has been some time since you were last here, Mr. Warwick,” Sir John said cautiously.
“Almost ten years, Sir John, and I feel them. Of course, all of you look exactly the same,” Wilson joked to lighten the mood. Although his reasons for contacting them were serious in nature, he didn’t want to spook them.
“The benefits of healthy living, Mr. Warwick,” Mrs. Wood piped in response; her proper Victorian English danced like the dialogue of a period movie.
“I see you’ve gained use of our tongue?” Sir Hugh observed with mild surprise. The older ghosts who had just picked up the change nodded with him.
“It is a new magic we’ve created, Sir Hugh. It is powerful, but lasts only a brief while. Because of that, I’m afraid I need to speak quickly.”
“Certainly! Speak your mind,” the lord proclaimed.
“We have reason to believe that a little more than a week ago, there was a ghostly attack at the abbey made against one Gemma Green, a woman twenty-four years of age.”
A wave of gasps rippled through the ethereal bodies. “Certainly, sir, you are mistaken!” Mrs. Wood exclaimed.
“Additionally, there was a murdered and skinned gentleman found in Abbey Park yesterday morning, and my initial investigations suggest that there are supernatural forces involved,” Wilson reported neutrally, to keep tensions to a minimum. “If the perpetrator in both cases is one of the once-living, aggressions are escalating which neither party of the great peace want.”
Shock turned to outrage—a ghost killing one of the living had been unheard of for over a century. “That’s impossible!” Sir Hugh vehemently objected over the roiling.
“I come to you to ask for your help in finding the culprit, not to accuse anyone of a crime they did not commit,” Wilson raised his volume to be heard over the din. “The Institute of Tradition values our many years of friendship, and does not make this inquiry lightly.”
Sir John raised his hand to quiet his council. “We will look into the matter. Rest assured, if a ghost is responsible, we shall find the guilty and deal with the matter directly,” he vowed, putting his right arm over his chest. “We are committed to the accord and have dealt with other miscreants that threatened the peace in the past. This shall be no different.”
Wilson lowered himself to acknowledge Sir John’s words of solidarity. “When you believe you have an answer, or would like to speak again, please just knock my blue shirt off the corner of the dresser.” Wilson directed their attention to the article of clothing in question, conveniently placed near the edge of the dresser as a courtesy to the ghosts. The collective spectral heads bobbed in approval.
While ghosts could theoretically manifest on their own accord for a conversation, it took a tremendous amount of energy—an expenditure currently paid for them by Wilson’s swirling will. However, knocking over a light object required much less energy and it was something even the weakest of ghosts would be able to do. The appearance of consideration aside, Wilson’s ulterior motive was to allow any ghost, regardless of their power or prestige in the community, to contact him privately.
“I only have one more use of this new language-magic, so if you would send one who is conversant in the modern tongue, I would greatly appreciate it,” Wilson added. They exchanged more words, assuring each other of their mutual bonds of affection, agreeing to send young Miss Felton to speak with Wilson.
As the ghosts faded out of existence, Wilson released his will. He opened up the liter of water, parched from diplomacy. Conducting a séance was close enough to summoning that he didn’t even get a buzz off it. He snuffed out the candles, placing them on the dresser until the liquid wax cooled and solidified. He left the furniture alone for now and flipped on the television instead—surely there would be something entertaining to his jet-lagged brain this late at night. He climbed into bed with the remote and started changing channels.