“Pretty much,” Nelson said. “She also records everything and puts it online. Mei looked it up once. She has a YouTube channel called Desdemona Tripplethorne’s Sexy Seances.” He made a face. “Not exactly quality content, if you ask me, but what do I know.”
“But…” Wallace hesitated. Then, “If she tells people what they want to hear, what does it hurt?”
Mei’s eyes flashed. “Because she’s lying to them. Even if it makes them feel better, she’s still lying. She doesn’t know anything about what we do, or what comes after. Would you want to be lied to?”
No, he didn’t think he would. But he could also see it from the other side, and if people wanted to give her money just to have reassurance, then wasn’t it their business? “She charges for it?”
Mei nodded. Hugo wrapped an arm around her shoulder but she shrugged him off. “After what she did to Nancy, I really thought you’d see right through her. But here we are.”
Hugo deflated. “I…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It was her choice, Mei.”
“What did she do to Nancy?” Wallace asked.
Everyone stared at him, the silence deafening. Wallace wondered what fresh hell he’d stepped in now.
“She found Nancy,” Mei finally said. “Or Nancy found her. I don’t know which, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Desdemona filled Nancy’s head with all manner of crap about spirits and her ability to contact them. She gave Nancy false hope, and it was the cruelest thing she could have done. Nancy believed her when Desdemona said she could help. And then she came here looking more alive than she ever had since she first arrived. Nothing happened. Nancy was devastated, but Desdemona still collected her fee.” By the time she finished, Mei’s cheeks were splotchy, spittle on her lip.
Before Wallace could ask what had happened to Nancy for her to even talk to someone like Desdemona, Hugo said, “That’s not … I’m not trying to—look, Mei. I get what you’re saying. But it was Nancy’s choice. She’s reaching for anything she can to—”
It was then that Wallace Price came to a decision. He told himself it was because he couldn’t stand to see the look on Mei’s face, and that it certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Hugo was being flirted with.
It was time to take matters into his own hands.
He turned and walked through the doors, ignoring the others calling after him.
Desdemona Tripplethorne had taken a seat at a table. Squat Man and Thin Man stood next to her. The briefcase had been opened. There were candles lit on the table, the scent obnoxious and cloying, like someone had eaten a bushel of apples and then vomited them up and covered the remains in cinnamon. Most of the other customers had cleared out, though a few were still watching her warily.
The Ouija board had been set up on the table atop a black cloth that hadn’t been there before. The theatricality of it all made Wallace grimace. A wooden planchette sat on the board, though Desdemona wasn’t touching it. Next to the Ouija board lay a feather quill pen, resting on top of loose sheets of paper.
Desdemona sat in her chair ramrod straight, staring into a camera that had been set up next to the table on a tripod. A tiny red light blinked on the top. Without being told, Squat Man stepped forward, taking the shawl off her shoulders and folding it carefully. Thin Man pulled a vial of liquid from the briefcase along with a glass dropper. He dipped it into the vial and squeezed the top of the dropper, drawing up liquid. He held it over Desdemona’s hands, two drops on each, before setting it aside. He rubbed the drops into the backs of her hands. It smelled of lavender.
“Yes,” she breathed as Thin Man finished. “I feel it. There’s someone here. A presence. Get the spirit box. Quickly.” She smiled into the camera. “As my followers know, the Ouija board is my preferred choice of communication, but I’d like to try something new, if the spirits would allow for it.” She trailed a finger along the feather quill. “Automatic writing. If the spirits are willing, I give full permission for them to take control of my hands and write whatever message they deem fit. Isn’t this exciting?”
Squat Man reached into the briefcase and pulled out a device unlike anything Wallace had ever seen. It was the size and shape of a remote, though the comparison ended there. Out the top came stiff wires, each ending in a small bulb. Squat Man turned a switch on the side, and the device burst to life, lights flashing green. It squealed, a high-pitched mess filled with static. Squat Man looked down at it with wide eyes. He tapped it against his palm. The squeal died down, and the lights faded.
“Strange,” he mumbled. “Never had it do that before.”
“You’re ruining the ambiance,” Desdemona hissed out of the side of her mouth, never looking away from the camera. “Did you charge the damned thing?”
Squat Man wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I made sure of it. Battery’s full.” He swung it back and forth around him. Wallace stepped out of the way. It barely blipped when it came within inches of him.
“What are you doing?” a voice whispered beside him. “Whatever it is, count me in, especially if it causes trouble.”
He looked over to see Nelson grinning obnoxiously. Wallace couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m gonna mess with her.”
“Ooh,” Nelson said. “I approve.”
Thin Man frowned. “Did you hear something?”
“Only the sound of your voice, which I despise,” Desdemona said. She glared at the few remaining customers until they too got up and left. “Less talking, more focusing.”
Thin Man snapped his mouth closed as Squat Man stood on a chair, raising the device toward the ceiling.
“Spirits!” Desdemona said shrilly. “I command that you speak with me! I know you’re here.” She placed her hands on the planchette. “This board will allow us to communicate with each other. Do you understand? There is nothing to fear. I only wish to speak with you. I’ll not cause you harm. If you prefer the pen and paper, make your intentions known. Enter me. Allow me to be your voice.”
Nothing happened.
Desdemona frowned. “Take your time.”
Nothing.
“All the time you—would you stop hovering! You’re ruining it!”
Thin Man stood upright quickly and stepped away.
“Weird,” Squat Man muttered as he stopped near the fireplace. The device squealed again as he swung it over Nelson’s chair. “It’s as if something’s here. Or was. Or might be. Or never was at all.”
“Of course there was,” Desdemona said. “If you had studied the file I’d given you, you would know that Hugo’s grandfather lived here before he died. It’s most likely his spirit I’m feeling today. Or perhaps this place once belonged to a serial killer, and his victims are reaching out from beyond the grave after being horribly mutilated and then murdered.” She looked into the camera, wiggling her shoulders, chest rising and falling. Wallace didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed how violently red her lipstick was. “Just like when we were at the Herring House last year. Those poor, poor souls.”