Of Grave Concern by Max McCoy Read Free Book Online Page A

cast spells—but never how to contact Jonathan.
    Disenchantment spread like rust.
    Like most Spiritualists, I was regularly conducting séances for others. Strange things did happen—raps and knocks that did seem to contain meaning, weirdly knowing messages scrawled when our fingers were lightly touching a planchette, odd lights and sounds in darkened rooms. I would accept love offerings from those who had been comforted with what appeared to be contact with lost loved ones. But when the table tipping or the planchette writing became more difficult, I began to help the spirits along—a little at first, then more later. It wasn’t as if I were cheating, I told myself. After all, I’d had plenty of what I thought was evidence that the spirits were real. What harm could there be in giving the bereaved a bit of comfort?
    Inevitably, it all became cheating.
    As in any profession, there was a sort of fraternity among professional Spiritualists, and information was exchanged on how to give the best séances. One of the first tricks you learned was to visit the local cemeteries in a new city, to choose a few families represented by the best-looking tombstones, and memorize the names and dates. You also would want to visit the demimonde, because whores always had the best gossip. Husbands are compelled, it seems, to confide the most damning of family secrets when in the arms of even the cheapest of Cyprians. Then there were Blue Books for every major city, which was a listing of those families most receptive and (more important) most generous to mediums, along with details about the occupations and personalities of their recently deceased.
    Then, if you had a little money, you could order the stage props for a bang-up séance from Sylvestre & Company of Chicago, which produces a privately circulated catalog that offers everything an ambitious medium would need—from self-rapping tables to spirit cabinets, with secret compartments, to fully formed apparitions of cheesecloth, with ghostly rubber faces.
    I had their latest catalog in my valise.
    We do not, for obvious reasons, mention the names of our clients and their work (they being kept in strict confidence, the same as a physician treats his patients), Sylvestre & Company promised, but you can trust that our effects are in use by all of the prominent mediums in the entire world. In addition, we can furnish you the explanation and, where necessary, the material for the production of any known public “tests” or “phenomena” not mentioned in this, our latest list. Custom orders and rush service available upon receipt of telegraphic communication from trusted customers.
    I can personally vouch for the effectiveness of their magic slates.
    Still, I was not without compassion.
    I gave away sessions to those who had little or no means, but were seeking only a little solace, some small sign that their loved ones were happy in Summerland. What harm could there be in providing comfort? For the big money, I targeted those predators who seem particularly in need of a lesson in humility—speculators, politicians, preachers. All men, of course, and therefore easy marks for the humbuggery of free love.
    Even though I had become a professional fraud, inside me still burned a foolish hope that my antics were some pale reflection of truth. Perhaps it was possible that love could survive death.
    Even though I knew there was no bigger sucker than a grief-stricken spouse, I kept up the earnest and private séances every May 13. I would spend sunrise to sunset in prayerful reflection, asking God to forgive my corruption. Then I would surround myself with innocents and believers in a darkened room and plead for Jonathan to signal from the other side.
    Of course, no message ever came through.
    I publicly vowed to keep up the séances until the thirteenth anniversary of Jonathan’s death, and then declare the experiment failed. Privately, I decided