Chapter 16

sixteen

A motionless Ambrose Gibson sat on a simple wooden chair in the center of the stage as Trudy entered the Imperial Hotel theater. The gasoliers burned brightly but with no patrons to occupy the crimson velvet seats and no enthusiastic chatter to dispel the hushed silence, the room felt shrouded in shadows and mystery. Especially with Mr. Gibson perched motionless like a hawk on a rooftop.

“Mr. Gibson?” she called out tentatively.

His head turned languidly toward the sound of her voice. Almost as if he’d been expecting her… but of course, that wasn’t possible.

“Hello? Who’s there, now?” he replied, his own voice a mellower version of the one he’d used during his performance.

Trudy strode purposefully forward, reaching the edge of the stage and smiling up at him. She thought to put him at ease and present herself as a devotee so he’d be free with his information.

Although she and Alex planned to attend Mr. Tippett’s spiritualist event, they’d also agreed to meet with a few mediums in advance. While she was here to question Mr. Ambrose Gibson, Alex was on his way to meet with Miss Greta Watson.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson,” she said. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Trudy Hart. I wondered if I might speak with you for a moment. If you aren’t too busy.” She stole another glance around the vacant theater as if to suggest he couldn’t be too busy given that he was alone in an empty room.

He wore a light brown suit and with his long hair pulled back into a queue, he looked exceedingly average, except for his dark eyes that seemed to bore into hers. A flutter of nerves rippled through her, but she ignored it. There was nothing to be unsettled about. She was here to gather information, nothing more.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Hart,” he said, rising slowing from the chair. He strolled to the edge of the stage and then jumped with apparent ease, but his leap surprised her, and she squeaked awkwardly as he landed just feet from where she stood. Was he trying to catch her off guard, or was he merely eccentric?

Perhaps both.

“What brings you to seek my council?” he asked, gesturing to the front row. She took a seat, and he sat down beside her smiling benignly and expectantly.

“First, may I say I found your demonstration a few weeks ago mesmerizing. I could not take my eyes from the stage.”

“Thank, Dr. Hart. It brings me great joy to facilitate communication between the dearly departed and their loved ones. Just as you are a practitioner of healing, so too am I. These exhibitions I perform provide an invaluable form of spiritual healing which I’m sure you can appreciate.”

“Of course, sir. Such a noble calling,” she agreed with an exaggerated nod even while silently acknowledging he’d just equated his hypnotic parlor tricks to her medical degree. “I was wondering, though, if you might enlighten me about other methods the departed might use to communicate.”

“There are several ways in which they might do so. Just as each of us has personal preferences while we are sentient beings here on earth, spiritual beings have their own preferences, too.”

“And what might some of those preferences be?” she asked.

She strove to look pensive and demure, certain Mr. Gibson’s false humility cloaked a pompous personality. A person could not stand upon a stage and manipulate an entire theater full of patrons the way he had without an overabundance of confidence, whether earned or not. He leaned back and steepled his fingers as if pondering her question before answering.

“If the spirits are powerful enough, they might appear as visible apparitions. They might whisper to us, or sing. They often visit us in our dreams when our level of consciousness is the most fluid.”

She tried not to react to that last bit. It wasn’t a surprise to hear, of course. People often spoke of seeing loved ones during slumber, but Alex’s recent dreams of Isabella gave her pause.

“How might one discern between a visitation and a typical dream?”

“With practice.”

She considered that a rather sly and convenient response. One that hinted more at a person’s desire to believe a dream was something more rather than it being indicative of supernatural means.

“And what of knocking? Or moving objects? Can the departed do that?” She noted a glint in Mr. Gibson’s eye at the question as he, no doubt, found her gullible and therefore malleable.

“Oh, yes. Spirits move things all the time. They seem to love nothing more than to knock items onto the floor or make draperies shimmy around a closed window. Some might flicker lights if they are able. These are mostly harmless bids for attention, but occasionally they’ll move furniture and that can be a bit alarming to witness.”

“I should imagine. But can they make solid objects appear where they weren’t before? For instance, could a spirit place a token in a person’s pocket?”

He pondered this for a moment. “I suppose some spirits may possess the capability to manipulate objects in such a manner, but it would take a great deal of psychic energy to do so. And intense emotions would be necessary from both sides of the veil. So now I must ask you a question, Dr. Hart. Have you been experiencing visitations?”

She’d anticipated such a question. In fact, she and Alex had devised a story for just such a prompt so that the information they shared with any of the spiritualists would be identical. It was the only way to accurately compare the responses.

“My grandmother passed recently, and I cannot shake the sensation that she’s trying to tell me something. She’s been leaving treasures for me to find.”

“Leaving treasures?” A single dark brow arched.

“Yes,” she nodded, trying to look bereaved when in truth, all of her grandparents had passed before she was born and she had no relationship with them whatsoever, other than what her own parents had shared. “I found one of her brooches pinned inside a coat of mine, one of her gloves appeared on the floor of my room, and just last month I found an old letter from her tucked inside a book I’d been reading.”

“That’s most peculiar, Dr. Hart. The act of pinning a brooch requires a great deal of dexterity. Was this an especially meaningful item between the two of you?”

She seemed to have captured his attention now, and she nodded.

“Very meaningful. The pin was shaped like an amaryllis, her favorite flower. My grandfather gave it to her as a wedding gift.”

“And you discovered this inside your coat? Most peculiar,” he said, tapping his still steepled fingers together. His brow creased in thought, but then he gave a tiny shake of his head.

“I confess I’ve never heard of physical objects just appearing in such a manner. As I’ve said, phantoms may reposition items inside a room, but to manipulate a brooch is extraordinary.” He paused, still frowning, and turned to face her.

“Dr. Hart, as much as it may disappoint you to hear, I wonder if perhaps your grandmother placed the pin inside your coat before she passed on, perhaps even hoping that when you encountered it, you might think of her. Perhaps she did the same with the letter.”

His response surprised her. She’d thought for certain he’d go along and say she was receiving messages, and that ghostly fingers could move things with ease. That’s what she would’ve said if she were a fraudulent psychic… and yet his words supported her preferred hypothesis—that this was a human prank, not a phantom.

“So… you don’t think she’s visiting me?”

He patted her hand in a comforting gesture. “Don’t fret, my dear. While I don’t think it’s possible she’s moving those particular items, I am certain she visits you often because the link between you is obviously strong. When you think of her, when you sense her energy near you, you may be certain she is in your presence. I do hope that brings you comfort.”

“Uh… it does. Thank you.” She nearly rose to leave but had a sudden thought. One that she should likely ignore, but that was not her way.

“I wonder if I might ask you about something else, Mr. Gibson.”

She sensed a moment of exasperation from him, but he disguised it quickly.

“Of course, Dr. Hart. I am at your disposal.”

“The participants you brought to the stage at your exhibition a few weeks ago— what exactly transpired with Miss Albright, the last girl who tried to deliver a message but couldn’t?”

“Miss Albright?” He said the name as if he were tasting it on his tongue. “Ah, yes, Miss Albright. That was a most unfortunate occurrence, and highly unusual. She is well, is she not?”

“As far as I’m aware, she’s suffered no ill effects from the encounter, but I’m curious. Why wasn’t she able to reveal the message she’d received? And why did it distress her so?”

His gaze flickered momentarily, as if he sought to peer through the veil of memory.

“As a fellow practitioner of healing, you’re aware of how we apply our unique skills and God-given gifts and hope for a particular outcome, but as I’m sure you’ve experienced, occasionally things go awry. Such was the case with Miss Albright.”

“Have you any notion as to why things went awry?” she asked, choosing to maintain a facade of agreeable acceptance—in spite of him comparing himself to a physician again. “All the other participants did so well under your guidance.”

He nodded at her thoughtfully. “Yes, all the other voyagers traveled through the veil with ease. Unfortunately, when Miss Albright joined me that night, she was burdened by a number of hindrances that impeded her ability to reveal the message as intended, as well as blocking my ability to guide her through it. She was, to put it simply, too delicate to reveal a message that would cause her strife.”

“But how could it cause her strife? Wasn’t she merely the conduit?”

“In most cases, those compelled by the spirit guides to join me on stage are merely conduits. They are able to clear their minds completely so messages from beyond don’t get muddled with their own thoughts.”

“But Miss Albright wasn’t able to clear her mind?”

“I don’t believe she was, no. In fact, as soon as she reached the stage, I sensed the young woman was being influenced by forces beyond her control.”

“Forces, Mr. Gibson? What kind of forces?”

“Powerful ones. I fear Miss Albright may be entangled in a web not of her own design. The more she struggles against it, the more intricate and binding it becomes.”

“Bound in a web? You make it sound as if she’s in some kind of danger. Is she?”

“She may be. I suspect these forces are playing upon her fears and vulnerabilities, making promises but also threats. She came to me filled with secrets and I believe it is those very same secrets which prevented her from delivering her message that evening.”

“Fascinating,” Trudy said with all sincerity. Whether honest or deceitful, Mr. Gibson was himself a skilled weaver of webs. “Could you sense what her secrets were?”

He smiled benignly at her question.

“If I could, I would not divulge them to you, just as I won’t reveal your secrets to anyone else, should they come to ask.”

“My secrets?” she laughed at his ploy of redirection. “What secrets have I?”

He gazed at her, his dark eyes boring into hers. It was most disconcerting, as if he could hypnotize her with just his stare.

“Your secrets are the most treacherous kind, I’m afraid. They are the ones you keep hidden from yourself, and until you confront them, you’ll remain locked in an invisible prison of your own making. The world is full of magic, Dr. Hart, as well as love, if only you dare to open your mind and your heart to it.”

Then he smiled, and she blinked.

His answer had been ambiguous, nearly obtuse. He knew nothing of Trudy’s secrets, but he was as clever as Greta Watson with his ability to spin common human nature into metaphysical predictions. Surely everyone had fears they didn’t want to confront. She was no different. He didn’t know her.

“But regarding Miss Albright,” she said, performing a bit of redirection of her own. “What should she do about this web you speak of?”

“Are you friends with Miss Albright?”

“We are acquainted, and I’m concerned for her.”

“As you should be, but the choice is up to her. She may choose to fight with all her strength and pull herself free from this web… or she may choose to become the spider.”

Trudy shivered with unease at his ominous phrasing and wondered if she’d underestimated Mr. Gibson after all. He was as much of a showman as Hugo Plank.

“Become a spider? That sounds dreadful.”

But Mr. Gibson’s smile had turned enigmatic again. “Not if you like spiders, Dr. Hart. It all depends on which you’d rather be. The predator or the prey.”