We sat in front of my laptop in the living room at 8:30, lights off and a few candles glowing. I wasn’t sure they were necessary, but it seemed like the right atmosphere for a séance.
We logged on and said hello to Jasmine. She was Black, slender, in a tie-dyed T-shirt with her hair pulled back in a red kerchief. Other people logged in, until we had a group of eight, including Jasmine. She introduced everyone, we all said hello, and then Jasmine leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Empty your minds.” Her voice was a little above a whisper. “Breathe deep. Focus on nothing and everything. It’s like meditation. Let your mind roam without controlling it or thinking about anything. Just . . . go with the flow.”
Rachel and I looked at each other. Then we closed our eyes and held hands.
Jasmine turned on some soft new age music. Lots of harps. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and nothing else. My thoughts drifted. I wondered what would happen if I fell asleep.
Then Jasmine’s voice again, soft and delicate. “Is there a spirit nearby?”
We waited. Two minutes, three. Jasmine repeated the question. Then Edwin, a young Asian man, said, “It’s me. Suzanne.”
I opened my eyes. Edwin bent forward until I could only see the top of his head. “Suzanne. I died in 1987. I miss my husband, Cezar. I can’t find him here. Can anybody find him?”
Jasmine spoke: “Cezar? Are you there?”
Silence. Edwin’s head came back up. He wiped his eyes. “She’s gone.”
Then Kristen spoke, a middle-aged white woman. Her eyes were closed. “I’m George. I don’t know when I died. It was a long time ago. I just want to talk to someone.”
“Talk to me, George.” Jasmine’s voice was soothing. “Tell me anything you want.”
They talked for ten minutes. George was apparently a farmer who’d died in the 19th century. He told us about his life growing up in Missouri, his wife, his crops, his children . . . Then abruptly he just said, “I’m done. Thanks.” And Kristen blinked, as if waking up.
The session went on. No demons. The creepiest part was when Gregory, an African-American man in his seventies, lifted his head up. “Mommy? Mommy, are you there?” No one answered.
After an hour and a half, Jasmine rubbed her eyes, looking tired. “I think that’s it, friends. Thank you for coming. Let me know if you want to attend another gathering. Good night.”
One by one, they clicked off. Jasmine stayed. “So, Rachel. And Tom. How was that?”
“Was that pretty typical?” I asked.
“Yes. You rarely get the great historical figures. Just spirits of ordinary people. They’re lonely. Sometimes they just want to talk. Like George.” She pulled her kerchief off. “Oh, I should mention. You were guests tonight. If you want to attend another session, it’s $35. Per person.”
“Uh, thanks. How often do you do these?”
“Every night. Unless I’m too tired. Sleep well. Rachel, we have to get together soon! I want to hear everything.” Her eyes flicked toward me. Then she blinked away.
Rachel blew out the candles while I turned on the lights and got us some beer. “So what do you think?”
She shrugged. “It’s real. I felt lots of psychic energy, even through the computer screen. Nothing here, though, thank god.”
“That’s good.” I sipped my beer. “It was . . . interesting.”
I’m in my 40s, and I’ve faced enough dangerous situations that I’ve been forced to confront my own mortality more than I wanted to. Was this what I had to look forward to? Wandering alone in the ether for eternity? As much as I never want to die, this didn’t seem much better.
Rachel turned on the TV. “What do you want to watch?”
“Anything.” I scooted next to her and put a hand on her knee.
She kissed my cheek. “Real Housewives it is.”
I stifled a groan.
My phone buzzed at 6:30 the next morning. I rolled over and sat up before it could wake Rachel. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
Marcus. “Natalie’s dead.”
Oh hell. “How do you know?”
“Warren called me. He saw it on the news.”
Warren Pierce. “He’s up early.”
“I guess he has to get to his office early. I don’t know. What’s going on, man? I’m scared.”
“Me too. I’ll get back to you.”
I pulled on a T-shirt and staggered to the office, leaving Rachel sound asleep. On the internet I found a brief news story: Natalie McGinnis, 28, had jumped off the balcony of her Lincoln Park high-rise condo, landing with a splat on top of a parked cab.
Damn it.
I’d talked to her. She was scared. Could I have stopped this? Maybe not. But it didn’t make me feel any better.
I went back to her Facebook wall to scroll down her posts. The first one made my fingers freeze.
On a black background, one word: AZAR.
Goddamn it. I slammed my fist on the desk.
“Tom?” Rachel was at the door. “What’s the matter?”
“Natalie McGinnis is dead.” My head sank. “Azar got her.”
“Oh, no.” She knelt next to my chair and held me as I cried.
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