The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told by Martin H. Greenberg Page A

over, they set up the board, light candles, and ask questions while looking at James’ picture. It’s pointless and sad and unnatural and—and . . . just plain disrespectful .”
    I was really liking her now. “Society?”
    “The Psychical Society of Chicago.”
    Though briefly tempted to ask her to say it three times fast, I kept my yap shut. The group investigated haunted houses and held sittings—their word for séances—writing their experiences up for their archives. Escott was a member. For a buck a year to cover mailing costs he’d get a pamphlet every month and read the more oddball pieces out to me.
    “The odious thing is,” said Miss Saeger, “they’re absolutely sincere . When one has that kind of belief going, then of course it’s going to produce results.”
    “What kind of results?”
    “They’ve spelled out the names of all the people who ever died in the house, which is stupid because the house isn’t that old. The man who supervises these sittings says that’s because the house was built over the site of another, so the dead people are connected to it , you see. There’s no way to prove or disprove any of it. He’s got an answer for everything and always sounds perfectly reasonable.”
    “Is he the medium?”
    “No, but he brought him in. Alistair Bradford.” She put plenty of venom in that name. “He looks like something out of a movie.”
    “What? Wears a turban like Chandu the Magician ? ”
    Her big dark eyes flashed, then she choked, stifling a sudden laugh. She got things under control after a moment. “Thank you. It’s so good to talk with someone who sees things the way I do.”
    “Tell me about him.”
    “No turban, but he has piercing eyes, and when he walks into a room everyone turns around. He’s handsome . . . for an old guy.”
    “How old?”
    “At least forty.”
    “That’s ancient.”
    “Please don’t make fun of me. I get that all the time from him, from all of them.”
    “I’m sorry, Miss Saeger. Are you the only one left in the house with any common sense?”
    “Yes.” She breathed that out, and it almost turned into a sob, but she headed it off. The poor kid looked to be only barely keeping control of a truckload of high emotion. I heard her heart pound fast, then gradually slow. “Even the servants are under his spell. I have friends, but I can’t talk to them about this. It’s just too embarrassing.”
    “You’ve been by yourself on this since August?”
    She nodded. “Except for our pastor, but he can’t be there every day. He tells me to keep praying for Flora, and I do, and still this goes on and just gets worse. I miss James, too. He was a nice man. He deserves better than this—this—”
    “What broke the camel’s back to bring you here?”
    “Before Alistair Bradford came all they did was play with that stupid Ouija board. I’d burn it but they’d just buy another from the five and dime. After he was introduced they began holding real séances. I don’t like any of that stuff and don’t believe in it, but he made it scary. It’s as though he gets taller and broader and his voice changes. With the room almost totally dark it’s easy to believe him.”
    “They let you sit in?”
    “Just the once—on sufferance so long as I kept quiet. When I turned the lights on in the middle of things Flora banished me. She said my negative thoughts were preventing the spirits from coming through, and that I was endangering Bradford’s life. You’re not supposed to startle a medium out of a trance or it could kill him. I wouldn’t mind seeing that, but he was faking. While they were all yelling I had my eye on him, and the look he gave me was pure hate . . . and he was smiling . He wanted to scare me and it worked. I’ve kept my door locked and haven’t slept much.”
    “I don’t blame you. No one believes you?”
    “Of course not. I’m not in their little club and to them I’m just a kid. What do I know?”
    “Kid’s have