30. The Séance.

Oct 30, 2020

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The Lobby

The night’s first raindrop formed and fell from the grey clouds above. As it descended, it reflected in the flickering red of the sign broadcasting the hotel’s name.

The wind shifted, and the thick orb angled toward a group of six figures as they examined the sky from the rooftop. It gained speed and hurtled towards the woman dressed all in white, striking her forehead with a wet smack.

Maude leaned forward to let the cool liquid run down her nose. Her coif of snow-white hair, fortified by half a can of hairspray, remained perfectly still. She felt the next few drops on the back of her neck, and looked back up.

A streak of lightning made the clouds glow brilliant blue, like floating lanterns in the sky. Then came the tremendous boom of thunder. The other five participants in that night’s séance turned in her direction for guidance. Some wore masks to cover their mouths and noses, to thwart the spread of the ongoing pandemic.

“Let’s go,” she said.

The wind picked up as they crossed the rooftop, and Maude’s loose white dress billowed behind—she looked like some stubborn old soul who couldn’t stand still for a daguerreotype. She opened the rooftop door into the stairwell, and the others followed behind just as the downpour began.

This was for the best, Maude thought. The feel was off up there anyway. And if there was one thing Simon had taught her that actually stuck, it was the importance of atmosphere.

They descended to the 7th floor. Maude opened the door to the strums of acoustic guitar and dim chatter. In the hallway’s alcove, a moldy green couch that the Society had found in storage was set up as a makeshift stage. A performer stood on top and tuned his guitar in front of scattered, silhouetted partygoers holding red plastic cups.

Near the back, Maude found the tall, bespectacled Patrick Jacobson. He was wearing a black tuxedo with long coattails that hung to his knees. Maude grabbed his sleeve.

“Not gonna work, huh?” he said.

Patrick was the president of the Palmer Preservation Society, and the rooftop séance had been his idea. He thought it’d add a nice intrigue—whipping wind, dark skies, the group bathed the light of the rooftop sign they’d wired to a generator and lit for one final night.

These hobbyists always thought they knew best, Maude thought.

What he didn’t know—what none of them knew—was you didn’t need much for a successful séance. A dark room, the more enclosed the better, somewhere your voice would boom against the walls. That’s where the real conjuring occurred, in the medium’s voice.

“Too stormy,” she whispered. “Going down to the lobby.”

He nodded, glanced at the guitarist who had launched into an out-of-tune ballad, and said that, on second thought, he’d join them. The group, now seven in all, started down the stairwell.

On the way, Maude thought of Simon.

They were rehearsing, years back, when she was beginning as his apprentice. He still wore a trim mustache and long black hair. From her hiding spot in the closet, she could see the crow’s feet around his eyes deepen in anticipation. He scrunched his nose—the signal she was waiting for—and she slammed her fist against the wall.

He dissipated from Maude’s memories as the group reached the 4th floor. Patrick held up a finger for the group to wait, then opened the hallway door.

“—more than a few dead bodies were found in these rooms,” said a woman’s droll voice from the hall. “And more than a few old people who fell asleep and forgot to charge their hearing aids.”

Maude peeked into the hall and saw a small tour group in the shadows. They were lit by a faint LED lamp held by a short, red-haired woman in a mask. Patrick took her aside and said a few words. She turned to the group and made an announcement.

“And now, a change in plans. We’re going down to the lobby for a fun little séance,” the woman monotoned. “Come on.”

As they descended again, Maude calculated the portion of ticket prices—minus the cut going to Joey, her assistant—that she’d be getting from tonight’s show. It was a good score, and would let her take the next weekend off entirely. That was rare.

An older man from the tour group sidled up next to Maude in the stairwell.

“You’re leading this show, huh?” he asked through his mask.

She nodded. He introduced himself as Mikey.

“Know much about this old place?” he asked.

On the way down, Mikey told Maude the broad strokes of the building’s history. He was writing a piece about tomorrow’s demolition for the Chronicle. As a matter of fact, he was just on his way home to finish it up—it was a shame he couldn’t stick around for the séance.

She made a mental note to ask Patrick for his name later. Tips from old city reporters like these always came in handy. Simon had always preached the importance of these chance encounters.

“If you’re in this profession, you’re never off the clock, never on vacation,” he’d said. “When you least expect it is when you find the good stories, the true ones, that change the show from mediocrity to something people tell their friends about. That’s where the real money is.”

They exited the stairwell on the ground floor to racket of the generator rumbling in the ballroom. They followed the orange extension cords down the hall to where they split—half led left into the dining hall, where a magic show had just wrapped, and half right into the lobby, where a crowd milled.

Maude had been given a tour of the space yesterday as Society members were frantically restoring it to its original, pre-conversion look. They’d filled the room with torn, scuffed furniture that Latham had kept around in basement storage. Now, it was lit in a soft kaleidoscopic haze from mismatched lamps placed throughout, and cluttered with partygoers.

Their dress styles were a mix—suits and gowns, jeans and T-shirts. The Society wasn’t going to throw anyone out tonight; this event wasn’t strictly legal anyway, and they didn’t need any extra attention. Some in the crowd wore masks, but most didn’t, or had them tucked under their chins. Dim blue lights from vapes hovered in the darkness like digital fireflies.

The rooftop group turned to Maude for guidance. She began instructing. They moved the furniture against the walls, except one large circular table, which they set in the center. They pulled up only enough seats for the original six; she announced the others could stand around as long as they kept quiet.

Maude took one last look around and made a slashing motion across her neck to those near the lights. They quickly cut out. The lobby was now lit only by the nine-armed candelabra in the center of the table.

Conversations died into expectant silence.

“It is now eleven o’clock,” Maude projected theatrically. “Will the participants please take their seats.”

She sat as a soft rumble of thunder vibrated the glass of the revolving front door. The other five from the rooftop took their seats. They’d paid the premium ticket price, after all.

Maude shifted her arms so her hands flowed freely through the ends of her long white dress. She raised them face-up and began to softly hum. She began her show.

“We’ll begin as we begin them all—with a prayer to our Mother Spirit,” Maude said. “To watch and protect us in this liminal realm between the life being lived and what’s next for us all.”

She closed her eyes and began her incantation, some bullshit about the veil between this and that.

Joey, her silent partner, leaned against the dusty grandfather clock. He pulled down his mask to sip his drink and let it smack back into place. He never paid attention to this crap Maude was spilling. He had a job to do.

He scanned the crowd for skeptics, those who might decide to get mouthy. If they did, Joey’s duty was straightforward: shout down the troublemaker quickly and powerfully, and if that didn’t work, grab him by the arm—it was always a him—and offer to show him something outside.

Tonight’s group didn’t seem to be a problem, Joey thought. They were there more for the building than this.

Maude finished her bullshit and extended her hands out in either direction. The man to her left and the woman to her right took them, then offered their own opposite hands. Soon, the circle was complete.

A thick anticipation filled the room. It was a part Joey never got used to. He knew all of Maude’s tricks. Hell, he’d designed most of them himself. But there was still something eerie about this moment before it all began.

“Tonight, we are guests at the Palmer Hotel,” Maude said. “One last group before the hotel leaves us for good. But before it does, we must make sure this structure has been cleared of those who have been left behind.”

A long roll of thunder sounded amidst the storm raging outside.

Maude scrunched her nose. Seeing that signal, Joey pressed the button on the remote in his palm.

A blast of air came from a ceiling vent. The candles flickered, their flames trembled.

Joey examined those outside the circle. They consulted their partners with widening eyes, wordlessly asking if they saw that flicker too. This trick always worked like a charm.

“Guests of the Palmer Hotel,” Maude spoke in a somnolent drone. “If you are present, make yourselves known.”

Heavy breaths of anticipation, another roll of thunder. Other acts would use this beat to “send another sign” that the spirits were around them, but that move was for amateurs. This first call-out to spirits, you let slide without interruption. It gave the ones that were answered later a little more legitimacy.

“Perhaps they’re shy,” Maude said in a cheerful voice. “Why don’t we try again?”

Chuckles through the crowd, smirks from those seated. It was always a crowd-pleasing moment, and an important one. You break the tension so that it could then be ratcheted further.

“Are there any guests left in the Palmer!” Maude boomed.

This new caustic tone to her voice always caught the audience off guard, and tonight was no exception. Joey saw the partygoers tense up as Maude’s voice dissipated.

Joey pressed another button.

A loud thumping came from the darkened hallway past the front desk.

It was a modified kick-drum Joey had rigged in the closet, angled so it struck the side wall. Everyone swiveled to look, except Maude. She shut her eyes and breathed in heavily through her nose, as if beginning a mystical transition. As soon as the jump-scare from the hallway dissipated, the crowd would recenter their attention on her.

And she’d be ready.

“We are here, we are here!” Maude boomed, her face amber in the candlelight. “We are not intruders, we are friends. We wish to help you pass to the next realm.”

Silence.

“Do you want our help?” Maude asked.

Joey pressed a button and the thump came from the hallway again. Fewer heads glanced toward the noise, most focusing on the white-clad medium at the table.

“We need to know how to help,” Maude said, the first bead of sweat forming at her hairline.

Now it was all Maude’s show. Joey just rested against the clock and waited to trigger the finale.

“Did a murder occur?” Maude asked into the air, frantically searching the corners of the lobby. “Were you murdered in here?”

A subtle creak from somewhere in the room.

“That is a yes,” Maude concluded.

It was a subtle form of improv Maude had perfected. She knew how to use each new creak or bump to develop the atmosphere. In a room this big, in a building this old, with this many people hanging around, there’d be no shortage of odd sounds. Once, Maude translated a stomach grumble into a vengeful spirit coming to terms with their banishment to purgatory.

Over the next twenty minutes, Maude wove a tale of someone named Jones, murdered in this very room. Their corpse was in some unmarked grave far away, but they’d left something behind. A special token.

“Heartfelt,” Maude said, pretending to hear Jones’s plea. “Gold.”

It was all building to a search through the room that, inevitably, would lead some lucky person into discovering the gold necklace in the shape of a heart concealed on the grandfather clock’s pendulum. Joey had placed it there earlier in the evening. When it was found, the finale would begin.

Joey would press the button that’d create a giant gust to puff out the candles. Then would come the sound effects in the ceilings and walls that he’d spent hours setting up late last night. And then silence, before Maude relit the candles and deliver her closing spiel to the inevitable applause.

Later, Joey would retrieve his special effects as the partygoers came down from the excitement—usually, he’d wait until the scene was clear, but the demolition was a hell of a strict deadline. He’d get his cut off tonight’s take from Maude tomorrow, same as usual.

Joey felt a hard knock against his shoulder.

He shifted his weight and looked at the grandfather clock. Maybe someone had just bumped it on the other side. He rested against it again.

Another knock, more forceful.

As Maude continued, he stepped slightly forward to examine the clock’s interior. Nothing unusual. In the candlelight, he could make out the gold strand of the necklace, spiraled around its pendulum.

“We will help you,” Maude pled to the spirit. “We will find the item you left behind, and then you’ll be free of your burden. Is that what you want? To be free?”

Joey leaned back against the clock.

“I said, is that what you want?” Maude said. “Do you want to be free?”

A boom in the clock. Loud enough to get the entire room’s attention.

They all looked toward Joey. Past them, he saw Maude’s eyes snap open and glare in his direction. He slowly raised his hands and eyebrows in a mixture of apology and confusion. They turned back to see how the medium would react.

A new look suddenly emerged on Maude’s face.

Her mouth dropped open. An odd, wondrous smile. She released the hands of those at the table and slowly stood up.

This was a new bit, Joey thought.

“There, there!” she screamed, pointing to Joey.

The entire room’s gaze swung back to him. He raised his eyebrows even further.

“In the clock!” she shouted. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see?”

Joey stepped aside and the partygoers shifted into a tight half-circle to examine the clock. Maude approached; the crowd parted for her.

“He’s there! He’s there!” Maude shouted. “Don’t you see? The bellhop! The bellhop in the clock!”

There was something off about her voice, Joey thought. A tone he’d never heard before.

The grandfather clock suddenly came to life.

tick. tick. tick.

A gasp went through the crowd. The ticks began to speed up.

All at once, Maude was lifted from her feet and thrown through the air, her body flung into a group of people near the table. They fell in a mass of arms and legs.

Tick! Tick! Tick!

Joey ran to Maude and bent down on a knee.

TICK! TICK! TICK!

“Are you okay!” he shouted over the clock.

In the dim light he saw a welt forming on her forehead. It was purpling at an incredible rate.

“No,” Maude said.

Joey couldn’t hear her.

“No!” she screamed.

TICK! TICK! TI—

The noise stopped. A quivering stillness came over the room. Slowly, the partygoers turned back to the clock. Its pendulum had halted mid-swing.

Joey turned to Maude.

“What is this?” he whispered.

“I think we’re in trouble,” Maude said back with a startling clarity that turned Joey’s blood cold.

A new sound from above.

Thunder, but near. Constant. An earthquake from the hotel’s higher floors.

Everyone looked up as if they could see through the ceiling to its source. The sound grew louder, closer, an avalanche falling toward them. But not just from above. Somehow from the sides, as well. And below, too. It was surrounding them.

The lobby’s original ceiling lights came on, casting the group in a flickering orange strobe. The partygoers scanned each other’s faces for solace but found only halted breaths and searching eyes.

The grandfather clock’s pendulum began to sway again. Back and forth. Back and forth. Its ticks were drowned out by the raging noise.

Until the clock struck midnight.

It chimed with deafening intensity.

The partygoers clasped their hands to their ears and began to scream. The volume only grew with each new toll of the bell.

Joey squinted through tear-filled eyes at the frenzied chaos. Some clawed at the side of their heads with a ferocity that left their ears bloody and torn. Those in masks coughed out droplets of spotted blood, painting Rorschach tests in deepening shades of red.

Patrick Jacobson had somehow procured a sharpened edge from a piece of furniture. Without hesitation, he stuck it in his carotid and jerked across like he was pulling a rip-cord. His body sprayed the grisly, writhing carnival of anguished partiers in an arching crimson drizzle, and then he fell in a clump. A moment later, the mass strained toward his hand, scratching and clawing and biting one another for the prize of using his exit method next.

Joey felt pressure in his ears, then a painful pop. He winced and new dampness ran down the sides of his neck. He turned to Maude.

Her face had begun to peel away in vertical strips. As each new fillet of skin rolled down it revealed a fresh layer of wet red behind it. Still, she was somehow serene.

Maude pulled him gently by the back of his neck to bring him closer. He saw the strings of muscle where her cheeks and lips once were. They tightened and shifted like a cluster of maggots as she spoke. He couldn’t make out what she said.

She pressed a finger to his ear. Blood flowed down her wrist, staining the sleeve of her white gown. She spoke again, and this time could he make out her voice over the lobby’s horrific orgy of sobs and screams.

“Joey,” she whispered. “This is the en—

Artwork by Tiffany Silver Braun.