my
lips.
With a dreamy expression on her face, Frances said: "From beyond
the grave."
AN UNPLEASANT CHILL settled in my bones. "You must tell me
more," I said.
Frances seemed calm to the point of serenity. Her hand on the
coffee cup was as steady as a rock. "I have a new ally," she said,
"if you can make an ally of a ghost."
"A ghost."
"A disembodied spirit, a ghost, it is all the same."
"You have seen this ghost?"
Now, for the first time, Frances wavered. "I'm not sure. I think
I did, in the middle of the night. He was trying to talk to me. I
was in bed asleep . . . You understand, I presume, that like most
decent couples my husband and I do not sleep in the same room?"
I nodded. I did understand, though my mother and father-at least
until she took so very ill-had slept not only in the same room but
in the same bed, and I considered them to be a decent couple.
With that cleared up, Frances resumed: "Well, as I was saying, I
was in bed asleep, but I kept hearing this voice. A sort of hearty,
masculine, good-natured voice. I assumed I was dreaming that some
good, decent man had come to rescue me."
"Oh really?"
Frances went on: "And then I woke up. When I first opened my
eyes-of course it was dark in the room-I thought I saw a figure
standing not far from my bed. It frightened the dickens out of me,
of course, but only until I'd realized it could be the good man
from my dream. By then the figure had started to just . . . fade
away. I called for him to come back but it was too late. He was
gone."
I deduced from the way the pink spots on her cheeks burned so
brightly that this ghost had not stayed gone, and said as much.
"That's true." She nodded vigorously, setting her now empty cup
aside. She lowered her voice, leaning toward me, and I leaned too.
Frances's eyes were sparkling. "Fremont, have you heard of
automatic writing?"
With my face only inches from hers, it was all I could do not to
roll my eyes. "You mean where the spirit takes over your hand?
Supposedly? Yes, I've heard of it."
She nodded again, the curls bouncing prettily on her shoulders.
"I tried it, and it works!"
This was too much for me. I could restrain myself no longer. "Of
all the-the-what shall I say- methods for contacting the
spirit world, Frances, that one seems to me to be the most open to
self-delusion."
"Not if one's heart and mind are in the right place, Fremont!
Really, he has saved my sanity. When Mrs. Locke was, um"-she bit
her lip, not wanting to say any of the obvious words, until she
settled upon-"rendered unable to help me, I was almost in despair.
You remember."
I nodded. Yes, I remembered how desperate she'd seemed, and how
she'd almost fallen apart when we discovered the body.
"I needed someone so badly."
"Frances, what exactly was it that you needed help with? You
never said."
"I was having these experiences. I didn't understand them
myself. Hearing things right on the threshold of audibleness, but
not able to quite make them out-it was truly maddening. Then I
started losing time."
"Losing time?"
She nodded. "Whole chunks of it. No warning, not even any memory
after."
"Hm," I mused. "As if you'd been in a trance, the way you were
that night we went to the seance together?"
"Yes, precisely, and I was dreadfully afraid of what would
happen if I went into one of those trances when my husband was with
me.
"Yes, you did say that. The automatic writing has helped?
How?"
"Oh yes. He's explaining everything."
"He, who?"
"The Emperor," said Frances, glowing. "His name is Norton."
"Emperor," I said. "Norton." I managed not to hoot, but only
with the greatest difficulty. Really, this was much too much!
She nodded vigorously and smiled an absolutely dazzling smile,
while I feared she had lost her mind.
"Frances, what country-er, empire-was this Norton the Emperor
of?"
My question got rid of her smile, at least; I considered that a
kind of progress.
"He hasn't said," she replied, "but then, I haven't asked him.
We've been
lips.
With a dreamy expression on her face, Frances said: "From beyond
the grave."
AN UNPLEASANT CHILL settled in my bones. "You must tell me
more," I said.
Frances seemed calm to the point of serenity. Her hand on the
coffee cup was as steady as a rock. "I have a new ally," she said,
"if you can make an ally of a ghost."
"A ghost."
"A disembodied spirit, a ghost, it is all the same."
"You have seen this ghost?"
Now, for the first time, Frances wavered. "I'm not sure. I think
I did, in the middle of the night. He was trying to talk to me. I
was in bed asleep . . . You understand, I presume, that like most
decent couples my husband and I do not sleep in the same room?"
I nodded. I did understand, though my mother and father-at least
until she took so very ill-had slept not only in the same room but
in the same bed, and I considered them to be a decent couple.
With that cleared up, Frances resumed: "Well, as I was saying, I
was in bed asleep, but I kept hearing this voice. A sort of hearty,
masculine, good-natured voice. I assumed I was dreaming that some
good, decent man had come to rescue me."
"Oh really?"
Frances went on: "And then I woke up. When I first opened my
eyes-of course it was dark in the room-I thought I saw a figure
standing not far from my bed. It frightened the dickens out of me,
of course, but only until I'd realized it could be the good man
from my dream. By then the figure had started to just . . . fade
away. I called for him to come back but it was too late. He was
gone."
I deduced from the way the pink spots on her cheeks burned so
brightly that this ghost had not stayed gone, and said as much.
"That's true." She nodded vigorously, setting her now empty cup
aside. She lowered her voice, leaning toward me, and I leaned too.
Frances's eyes were sparkling. "Fremont, have you heard of
automatic writing?"
With my face only inches from hers, it was all I could do not to
roll my eyes. "You mean where the spirit takes over your hand?
Supposedly? Yes, I've heard of it."
She nodded again, the curls bouncing prettily on her shoulders.
"I tried it, and it works!"
This was too much for me. I could restrain myself no longer. "Of
all the-the-what shall I say- methods for contacting the
spirit world, Frances, that one seems to me to be the most open to
self-delusion."
"Not if one's heart and mind are in the right place, Fremont!
Really, he has saved my sanity. When Mrs. Locke was, um"-she bit
her lip, not wanting to say any of the obvious words, until she
settled upon-"rendered unable to help me, I was almost in despair.
You remember."
I nodded. Yes, I remembered how desperate she'd seemed, and how
she'd almost fallen apart when we discovered the body.
"I needed someone so badly."
"Frances, what exactly was it that you needed help with? You
never said."
"I was having these experiences. I didn't understand them
myself. Hearing things right on the threshold of audibleness, but
not able to quite make them out-it was truly maddening. Then I
started losing time."
"Losing time?"
She nodded. "Whole chunks of it. No warning, not even any memory
after."
"Hm," I mused. "As if you'd been in a trance, the way you were
that night we went to the seance together?"
"Yes, precisely, and I was dreadfully afraid of what would
happen if I went into one of those trances when my husband was with
me.
"Yes, you did say that. The automatic writing has helped?
How?"
"Oh yes. He's explaining everything."
"He, who?"
"The Emperor," said Frances, glowing. "His name is Norton."
"Emperor," I said. "Norton." I managed not to hoot, but only
with the greatest difficulty. Really, this was much too much!
She nodded vigorously and smiled an absolutely dazzling smile,
while I feared she had lost her mind.
"Frances, what country-er, empire-was this Norton the Emperor
of?"
My question got rid of her smile, at least; I considered that a
kind of progress.
"He hasn't said," she replied, "but then, I haven't asked him.
We've been
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