Mark of the Beast. Brian Ball
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Alan, it was a further small embarrassment. He hadn’t held hands in public since childhood, not even with Janice. He felt his palms sweating and he wished the meeting over.
For Janice, there was a different sensation. The small feelings of rather fearful excitement gave way to much deeper and more complex emotions. She would have found it difficult to describe how she felt, but it seemed to her that she was experiencing sensations that she had not encountered often in her life, and then only for a few moments.
“It’s not easy—the darkness!”
The words ended suddenly with a piercing shriek. It was echoed by the outgoing breath of the congregation; women called out aloud now. They had caught the distress in the strange, unearthly voice. Janice found herself calling too, but she did not know what she was saying. Beside her, Alan gripped her hand reassuringly.
She responded gratefully.
“What’s happening, Jan?” he whispered. “What’s the old girl doing? I swear it’s not her voice! It can’t be—Jan?”
“I don’t know, Alan.”
Someone asked a question:
“Is it the guide? Mrs. Worrall, is it the guide who can tell me of Sadie? How’s my little Sadie, Mrs. Worrall? Is the Golden Girl ready to tell me how my little Sadie is?”
“Hush, Mr. Purbeck!” a woman called. “Mrs. Worrall’s having trouble!”
Janice was spellbound. Her breathing was jerky and irregular; her heart still pounded, but she could make out what was taking place. Alan wanted to ask questions. She told him to wait.
The medium appeared to be unconscious, yet she sat more or less upright in the chair. Her head had fallen to one side. The eyebrows still twitched, and her lips worked spasmodically as if more words struggled for exit. Suddenly she spoke again:
“Oh, yes! Yes, I am here!” The voice was clear and young, certainly not that of an immigrant from the West Indies. It was a cultured voice, one that had known breeding and education.
“I can hear! I can stay but not for long! The—the—darkness!”
And then the words were distorted, the sounds jumbled so that a mixture of strange consonants straggled out of the medium’s mouth.
“How’s my Sadie?” called the old man impatiently.
The answer came at once, quite clear and in the voice of the young girl. There was no doubt or hesitation: “Sadie? Sadie with the limp and the bushy tail? I can see her now. She is so happy. Sadie is well—Sadie sends a bark for her master!”
And a small, snapping barking came from the medium.
Alan stifled a groan. He had listened to the frantic squeals of the women in the circle, and to the maunderings of the old black lady. Now, he felt that the whole performance was on the level of farce.
It appeared that the people who attended the séance did so to get in touch with their deceased pets. Alan thought of the story he would have to tell at the office; a smile came to his face, yet he quickly erased it. Janice was taking it all seriously. He would have to be careful not to let her see how he felt. Mild interest with just a little skepticism, that was the attitude.
He murmured encouragingly to her. Mrs. Pierce told him to be quiet.
Alan decided to discuss mysticism with Janice when they got home. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to let her see that the people around her had been taken in by a bit of clever voice-modulation. Mrs. Worrall was clearly a first-rate mimic. She’d done the Golden Girl bit quite well, though she had gone bronchitic at one stage. Those grunts and groans were not in keeping with the rest of the performance. It was too much that the only effective message should be from a dead dog. Alan allowed himself a moderate smile as he looked about the circle.
Janice saw the disbelieving smile. It was like Alan, of course, to remain aloof when matters beyond the immediate perception of the senses were before him. He had a man’s cold, practical mind, disregarding what be couldn’t touch or see or have confirmed in writing by a couple of experts. Janice found herself disliking him greatly. But the feeling lasted only for moments. What was passing before her was of far greater interest.
Mrs. Worrall was in a trance; she was unconscious, but it was an odd kind of unconsciousness. A spirit guide was talking through her dark lips. More men and women, encouraged by her success with the dead Sadie, began to question the medium.
“Can you tell me anything about my mother?” asked one fairly well dressed woman of about fifty. “She passed over last week and we do miss her so!”
Mrs. Worrall’s lips moved:
“—not so dark now and the shadow passes—much light, much sweet light! Who calls?”
“Me, Golden Girl!” cried out the woman who had asked about her mother. “Me, Mrs. Wyatt! It’s about my mother—tell her we send our love!”
Janice was so moved by the woman’s sad cries that she wept. There was no darkness, no feeling of danger no hints of blackness and the deep caverns of the seas. The congregation assembled in the small Spiritualist church were her friends, and the lady who rolled and twitched and writhed in her straight-backed chair was the means through which the living around her contacted the dear departed. The momentary fear was past. The dead girl who was the spirit guide would help them.
Mrs. Worrall’s lips moved easily, with no reluctance at all:
“—there is one near me,” came the voice of the cultured young woman, “—faint voice, a new voice in this happy place of everlasting light—speak, speak to her—tell her who calls!”
Alan could hardly bear it. No doubt the medium would ask the congregation to take a collection when she had done with her wiles. Janice would probably contribute lavishly. The poor girl looked completely under the spell of the ridiculous black woman. And the others too were deluded: take the lady who was trying to speak to her mother, dead only the week before. She was bending forward as though she was speaking into some kind of celestial telephone. Absurd!
“It’s me, Mother!” she cried. “Me, Ada!”
“Ada!” mouthed Alan silently. Good God!
A thin, tired, faraway sound came from the black woman’s lips:
“—tell her not to worry—tell Ada I can rest now. Tell Ada there’s good luck coming.” The voice became stronger. “Tell Ada I’ve left my cameo brooch in the teapot—tell her!”
As the voice faded and sank away, the men and women gasped in amazed delight. Janice was rather annoyed. It seemed to her that the powers of Mrs. Worrall should not be debased in this way: the women thought it a splendid prize.
Without thinking at all about what she was doing, she called out clearly and sharply:
“May I say something to the spirit guide? May I, Mrs. Worrall?”
Linda Pierce was both astounded and annoyed:
“I was next, Janice! I wanted to ask about my Charlie! He’s been ill and—”
“Oh!” screamed the medium in the girl’s clear voice. The dark! No more—darkness and danger! Oh, Golden Girl fears the shadows!”
Abruptly the atmosphere changed. Where there had been a mild, pleasurable feeling of self-congratulation, there was doubt. The fear returned.
No one moved. No one uttered a sound.
The last of the light was gone. The skylights were patches of grey, the walls dark, and closer than before.
All attention was on the medium. Mrs. Worrall’s whole body shook in the chair. Her heels drummed three, four times on the old wooden floor. Strange guttural noises came from deep within her chest. The congregation sat rigid, hands biting into one another, the circle unbroken and every eye on the medium in her eerie delirium.
“Shadows!