“The spirits are restless tonight,” Ramona said.
The smell of the candle was strong in my nose. What sort of candle gave off a smell like that? If it was a trick, it was one I’d never heard of. Washes of emotion came to me from the circle—fear, anger, blackest grief. I inhaled a breath and sweat trickled down my back, cold and damp. Keep it under control, Ellie.
A low moan arose from the table, deep and eerie, barely a human sound. The hairs rose on the nape of my neck. I opened my eyes to see that Ramona had slackened in her chair, her head slumped back. I could see the whites of her eyes in the slits of her eyelids.
“I have awoken,” she said, her voice pitched at a low tenor, like a man’s. “Who has called me? Who calls?”
Someone gasped. “What is your name?” This was Rose’s mother, gripping her daughter’s hand tightly and leaning forward into the circle. “Can you tell us?”
“I remember not who I was in your world,” Ramona replied in her spirit voice. “I lived many thousands of years ago, under the hot desert sun far from here. My body is gone, but I remain. When my spirit guide calls, I awaken. I bring messages from the dead.”
I calmed a little. I had never seen this particular trick up close before, though I had often heard of it. Many spirit mediums claimed to have a specific spirit they spoke to most often, who acted as their conduit to the other side. I’d heard of such spirits guised as ancient princesses, Indian chieftains, even aristocrats killed during the French Revolution. It sounded like this one was supposed to be from ancient Egypt, perhaps. James squeezed my fingers once, lightly and quickly, the equivalent of a wink. He’d likely seen this trick dozens of times.
“We wish to communicate,” Rose’s mother said, excitement in her voice. She had easily taken over the session, and I wondered briefly whether she was a plant. If so, her daughter was unaware of it. “We welcome you and your messages. We are listening.”
“There is a message from one who has departed and left his wife behind.” Ramona moaned. “He watches over her.”
The silent old woman made a choked noise. That was an easy one, I thought: elderly woman, who attends alone. Very likely a widow, the spirit medium’s bread and butter. The noise she’d just made had given away that Ramona was on the mark.
“My good and faithful wife,” Ramona said, pressing her advantage. “We will not be parted much longer. I will hold you in my arms again within the year.”
“Oh,” came a strangled sound from the old woman’s throat. Her face sagged. I watched her expression closely in the candlelight. She looked stricken, but not surprised. Ramona was telling her something she already knew.
The smell of the candle, I thought, was positively putrid. Had no one else noticed? I breathed lightly through my mouth, but the smoky smell was so thick it almost had a taste. The emotions at the table roiled in my stomach like nausea.
“What other messages do you bring us tonight?” urged Rose’s mother.
Ramona’s head lolled back and she moaned as if in pain. I felt a breath of air on my neck, and from somewhere in the center of the table came three quick, staccato raps.
“Speak!” cried Rose’s mother. “Oh, please, speak to us!”
The sad man, across from me, spoke up. “Oh, be quiet!” he said to her. “You’re ruining it. What about me? I’ve been calling. I don’t want to hear about some stranger’s dead husband. I paid my money. What about me?”
My stomach turned again. My attention shifted to the man and I felt the familiar itch at the back of my skull. It was coming from him, grief and rage, like a smell. I pulled my gaze away from him and glanced at James. He was tensed in his chair, his body flexed, his face scowling as the argument grew louder. The light, flickering down the line of his throat, seemed to be sliding its fingers under his collar.
“Be quiet, you selfish man,” Rose’s mother said.
“Mama, please,” whined Rose.
“I paid my money and I want answers,” the man nearly shouted, making the old widow next to him jump. “I mean it. I want to see—”
“Silence.”
Ramona had straightened her shoulders, though her head was still lolling against the back of her chair, her eyes still rolled back in her head. As we watched, startled, she shifted slowly, her head sliding like a half-animated thing until it rested sideways on one shoulder. She looked, in that position, uncannily like a woman whose neck had been snapped.
Still she used the low, mannish voice. “There is one other at this table,” she said, her lips the only part of her to move, “who death comes for. Someone here will be dead before the year is out.”
There was a beat of silence. I felt Rose’s fingers flinch in mine, her breath hitch. “Death knocks,” Ramona said, and as she spoke the raps sounded on the table again, hard and angry. “Death comes for someone in this room, someone who will not escape it. The spirits warn me. Death has its hand on someone’s throat.”
“Stop,” I said.
There was a cold beat of silence and everyone looked at me—everyone except Ramona, who stayed unmoving in her uncanny position. If she’d heard me, she gave no sign of it.
Beside me, I could feel Rose quietly convulsing her breath, near to hysterical sobbing. “Just stop,” I said to Ramona, though she gave no indication she knew I was there. “You’re scaring—” I remembered I wasn’t supposed to know that Rose was dying. “You’re scaring all of us.” I forced the words out. I took my hand from James’s grip and ran it over my forehead, which was chilled with sweat. “You should leave, all of you,” I said. “Someone is coming and I don’t think I can stop it.”