Of Grave Concern by Max McCoy

that we will be successful, but I promise to give it my all. Our success depends upon our combined mental and spiritual energies. Keep an open mind. Even a single negative thought could have disastrous consequences. But I have a good feeling about tonight and am optimistic about our chances.”
    Merde! What a hypocrite I had become.
    â€œLet us continue, then,” I said. “And remember—should strange visions appear before you on this stage, do not be afraid. And please refrain from pulling your pistols. Bullets have no effect on ghosts, and I am not yet ready to pass myself into spirit.”
    â€œShe’s talking about you, Bertrum!”
    Laughter.
    I put a finger to my lips.
    â€œWe need silence, please. Thank you.”
    I took a moment, then cocked my head, as if listening to unseen counsel.
    â€œThe envelopes, then,” I said. “Slips of paper and pencils were passed amongst you earlier, and you were asked to write a question that you longed for the spirits to answer. Please seal the billets in the envelopes provided, and pass them forward.”
    A few dozen envelopes were passed forward.
    â€œCould someone collect them?”
    An old man in front motioned for the others to pass the envelopes to him. He was about to hand the stack up to me on the stage when Timothy, my polite tramp, appeared a few yards away, waving an envelope. His clothes, including his red scarf, were now clean, but his face was still badly bruised. The old man waited until Timothy handed him his envelope, put it on top of the others, and then handed them all up to me.
    I placed the envelopes on the desk.
    When I reached over to take an envelope, it seemed to the crowd that I was taking the top one. Actually, I took the one from the bottom—a move similar to that used in cards.
    I was about to open the envelope, when there were two sharp raps from the table.
    â€œNo?” I asked.
    Another rap.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “The spirits say they can receive the question without opening the envelopes. This is unusual, but we will try it.”
    I held the envelope high over my head.
    â€œWhat is . . . No, when will . . .”
    I dropped the envelope.
    â€œThis is just too hard,” I said, raising my face toward the rafters. “Please. No, I understand. All right, I’ll try just once.”
    I clutched the envelope to my breast, closed my eyes, and swallowed hard. Then, in a clear voice, I said, “‘Where has my dear mother gone?’”
    I opened the envelope and nodded in confirmation.
    â€œWho wrote that? Raise your hand, please.”
    Timothy timidly placed his hand in the air.
    â€œSir,” I said. “The spirits have a message for you.”
    He worked his way forward through the crowd, nearly to the edge of the stage. I approached the footlights and knelt, so that I would be at his eye level. I gave him my most beatific smile.
    â€œBrother,” I said. “Your dearest mother, Mary Margaret, has been in Summerland these past three years since passing over. She wants you to know that she is safe, that pain is only a memory, and that she attends unseen to your welfare.”
    Timothy’s face positively radiated joy.
    â€œShe urges you to live,” I said. “Live!”
    He nodded, his eyes brimming with tears.
    I gave him a wink. He had played his part well.
    Then I stood, smoothed my vest, walked back to the table, and took the next envelope. I held it over my heart for a moment, while gazing out at the crowd. I spotted Judge Grout, hunched in a seat toward the back. His chin was cupped in his hand and he was listening as intently as if he were trying a case.
    â€œâ€˜When will Martha come back to me?’” I announced.
    I opened the envelope and gave a knowing nod.
    â€œWho asks the spirits this?”
    No hands went up.
    â€œCome now, someone asked this question.”
    A man in a shopkeeper’s apron far in the back raised a