1.16 - The Spiritualist

My name is Mal Fleming. I am here to assist in your passage. Can you remember your name and the circumstances of your death? Hmm. It's so interesting being on the other side of the seance. Except you can actually see me. Except this is actually real. Would you like to talk more about... My name is Margaret Wolfe, and I died of a heart attack or stroke. I'm not certain which. Something sudden. I was in my parlor, tuning my piano, and not a pain exactly, but a sharp snap. It must have been a day or so before someone found my body. The Collins boy was supposed to come in on Wednesdays, but he often skipped his lessons, so most likely I was found on Thursday morning by little Eliza. Should have been the Collins boy. Eliza didn't need to see something like that. She was so polite. Always practiced. Always a smile for me. No matter. I was an old woman when I died. Though do not think me grateful for it, Mr. Fleming. You can call me Mal, if you would like. I would prefer not to. I wonder, Mr. Fleming, do you feel less alone because you can talk to spirits? I was so very lonely in the house where I died. I would have welcomed the company of ghosts. Though perhaps they would have resented me, considering. I enjoy talking to spirits. Most of the conversations end with them passing on, but yes, I suppose it makes me feel less alone. But why would they have resented you, Miss Wolfe? I think you know why, Mr. Fleming. The other spirits tell me you do research before you talk to us. Surely you know my story. Or have I been completely forgotten? You haven't been forgotten, Miss Wolfe. But I would prefer to hear the story from you. I find that sharing can often assist in one's passage. I have been in this cemetery for well over a century. On this side of the onyx door. You think you can assist in my passage? It couldn't hurt to try. And are you sure of that? Hmm. I was born in Rochester. Not a large city, not New York. But it was big enough. There were other children to play with, and you could walk the streets, and there was activity, bustle, noise. And there was my Aunt Elizabeth. She was unmarried, had no interest in it, taught music. One of the few things you could do as an unmarried woman back then. She taught us, Calliope and I, piano And we would practice scales in the attic apartment she rented Being sure not to make too much noise My father decided to move us to the country when we were fourteen He wanted to farm Was tired of the city, Mother said Not asking us whether we were tired of the place we were born and raised The house was... It was nowhere There was nothing to do except help with chores and go to church every Sunday. No other children for miles and miles. Calliope and I shared a room, and as we drifted off to sleep in those long winters, it could feel like... like it was just us two. I had a recurring... not a dream and not a fantasy, because I didn't want it to happen, but a vision, I suppose you could call it. When I woke up, after I had dreamt my dreams, but before I had fully emerged to the physical world, something in my mind expected Calliope and I to walk downstairs and find our mother and father dead at the table, their corpses bloated and rotten. In this, vision really is the best word for it. Calliope and I would bound to the Reynolds farmhouse an hour's walk away. We wouldn't say anything to each other. We would just run and run and run. And in the back of my mind, I knew what we would find. The Reynolds were dead too. Splayed out next to the fireplace. Swollen like they had been dead for weeks. Just like our parents. And still, Calliope and I said nothing. We went to the other farmhouses, the Millers and the Browns and the Wilcoxes, and of course everyone inside was dead. God had passed over the world and forgotten about Calliope and I. We would fall asleep, clutching each other tight, not saying a word, language failing us. And then, in my vision, I would wake up. And in my arms would be the body of my sister, still beautiful and fair, even as a corpse. That's when I would scream, and after that... You woke up for real? No. It was not a dream, remember. It was a vision after I woke up, but before I left my bed. Realer than a dream. Less real than the physical world. Or more real, who could say? The house turned your mind in strange directions. It felt empty, even with the family inside it. And the country was so quiet, so quiet, especially blanketed with snow, which it often was. But the house wasn't quiet. The house settled. It creaked and groaned and it terrified my mother. She was a superstitious woman, though she would never admit it. She was far too religious for that. Aunt Elizabeth always teased my mother when a black cat would walk by. Calliope and I wanted to be just like Aunt Elizabeth. We can talk about something else, if you would... There was a floorboard in our bedroom. If you struck it just so, it would make an unearthly groan, like some sort of demon. And of course, we told Mother that we had heard terrible stories about the farmhouse. murder and corpses. And I'm not sure who she thought we heard it from. We didn't talk to anyone. We had no friends. We were so lonely in that house. And it was only Mother who believed anything was happening. Father had his head full of worry about the farm, and Calliope and I were completely innocent. We didn't hear the noises at all. Mother, is everything all right? Is there anything we can do? It got to a point where Mother couldn't sleep, all for fear of the floorboard in our bedroom. I'm not sure which one of us it was, Calliope or I, who realized there was a chance we could escape back to Rochester. We were so close when we were young. It was like we were two parts of a whole. But it was almost certainly me. I know that, even though I can't remember it. I was the one who made the plans, who burned with resentment. She was the beautiful one who smiled and made everything all right. There are sounds you can make with your body, Mr. Fleming, louder than you might expect, resonant and strange, sounds that seem like they aren't coming from you, but from a place, a place outside the room, somewhere beyond a door you cannot see. there's the cracking of course you move the muscles in your foot just so dresses were long then you could slip your shoes off ever so subtly and if the sole is directly on the floor then the sound resonates rings out feels unearthly I can do this even as a spirit and then you could put your shoe back on once the performance is done but I preferred the throat. I'm not sure which one of us figured it out, but you can sort of croak in such a way that you don't even move your lips. And it doesn't even sound like something of your body. It's a... Would you believe that sound could come from a 14-year-old girl, Mr. Fleming? No. So much trickery All to fake something you are doing right now without any effort at all I am almost jealous They didn't believe that could come from a 14-year-old girl either when they came to our farmhouse. We told Mother that we had a dream where a faceless apparition came to tell us that we would be their conduit, that we would be their voice, that we were chosen because we were innocent, as if any child is innocent. But our Mother believed it. We thought that we would hold hands, make a few sounds, scare our Mother, and even if our Father thought it was the wind or the floorboards, He would not stand living in a house that his entire family feared. But your mother brought... Witnesses. Our mother was afraid, yes, but she was also giddy with excitement. This was something new, something that brought mystery and wonder to her, to all our small, small lives. She told everyone she met that they needed to visit the farmhouse, to experience it for themselves. The Reverend Michael was the first to come. That terrified us. We knew that our secret would be revealed, that we would be punished and shamed. Surely the Reverend Michael would see through us. But he didn't. No, he did not. We sat around the table, the same table where I saw the corpses of my parents, in that vision after waking. We held hands. Reverend Michael was to my left. It was the first time I held the hand of a man who wasn't my father. As soon as we... He bolted up like an animal in pain. Reverend Michael told the spirit to click once for yes, twice for no. And the reverend had a conversation of sorts with Calliope and I. It turns out that a peddler had gone missing three decades back. There were rumors and tales as to what grisly fate had befallen him. He asked us question after question, and we gave him the answers that he wanted, and suddenly, it was as if the ghost of a murdered peddler was haunting the house. Reverend Michael came up with all the details. We just... I imagine it must have been difficult for you and Calliope to communicate at the same time. Aren't you glad you don't have a partner for this endeavor? And yes, at first it was difficult. We didn't know who was supposed to speak, and we'd end up accidentally rapping three times instead of twice, talking over each other. After a while, we decided to trade off answers. She would answer first, then I would answer, and so on and so on. Eventually, we simply knew what answers our audience was looking for. We would crack at the same time, make the sounds even more resonant. That first performance was not our best. But Reverend Michael would not even entertain the possibility that the two adolescent girls in front of him would create something like that. We could be unwitting conduits, certainly. Our innocence could be holy. We could be used for something greater, vessels of a force much larger than us. But we could not be the ones causing awe and wonder in his breast. Surely not. None of them could believe. What are you doing? Me. Mr. Fleming, those sounds weren't from me. I couldn't create something like that. Really? Hard to believe, isn't it? The curse of the fraud. Once you've admitted to lying, no one will ever believe you again. But no, those sounds follow me in my afterlife. I cannot escape them. It's the reason why no other spirit will come near me and ease my loneliness. But never mind. I was alone before my death, and I am alone afterwards. Is that so difficult to believe, with your chosen profession, with your talents? And who's making those sounds, Miss Wolfe, if not you? I would dearly love to know. There are no words or meanings to the sounds. I cannot control when they happen. But after years and years of listening, there is something I've noticed. They might sound like rapping and croaking, but if you listen closely, very, very closely, I think it sounds like scratching. Scratching on an onyx door, as if some great, unnameable creature was trying desperately to get in. Like I said, I cannot control when the sound occurs. But what do you think, Mr. Fleming? I would need to hear it a few more times to draw a conclusion, Miss Wolfe. You think it's me, don't you? Don't worry, I'm not offended. Some people are suspicious like that. Aunt Elizabeth was. Mother made her come once the town was in an uproar, seeing ghosts inside every creaking door. Aunt Elizabeth made a good show of being frightened, asking the peddler about the murder, about the nature of the spirit realm, about heaven and hell. I was disappointed. To be honest, I thought it would be more difficult to convince her. I should have known better. That night, Aunt Elizabeth woke us up, put her hand over our mouths and told us to explain exactly how we did it. Calliope told her everything as soon as the hand was off her mouth. I found a little bit of pleasure in fooling the town, but Calliope's heart had been sick with the secret. We thought that it was all over and done with, that we would be marked with the shame of it forever, but Aunt Elizabeth had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She tussled our hair and said that we were the wickedest girls she had ever met. But she said it with a smile on her face. And soon we were smiling too. That's when the whole thing... There it is. Do you hear the scratching? Or perhaps it's knocking. As if something needs permission to enter. Would you let it enter, Mr. Fleming? would you? It doesn't sound like scratching or knocking to me, Miss Wolfe. Perhaps you need to hear it a few more times. Still, would you let it in? I'm not in the habit of opening my door to things I don't know. I suppose that's the difference between seeing ghosts and just pretending. Mr. Fleming, if you never let the unknown in, then your life will be dull and unchanging and ever so small. Like yours was before the spirits? Exactly. Aunt Elizabeth, she was the one to make it a business. She set the price. A dollar for entrance to a seance, more for a private session. Journalists and notable figures got in for free. Even if they denounced us as frauds, it was still publicity. And very few denounced us as frauds. And Aunt Elizabeth was fair. After expenses and some money home to father and mother, we each took a third. We even resumed our music lessons. It was the best time in my life. If it wasn't for Calliope, it would have been perfect. What was wrong with Calliope? She was an innocent. She had wanted to leave the farmhouse, but this? She would have confessed in an instant if Aunt Elizabeth and I weren't there. She enjoyed the travel. She enjoyed the attention. She enjoyed learning music with Aunt Elizabeth. But her soul did not sit right with lying. And yours did? I talked about this with Aunt Elizabeth. We were of two minds on it. I thought that if these people were stupid enough to give away their money on a parlor trick, then we deserved it more than they did. Perhaps not the most virtuous of thoughts, but I was an adolescent. I was taking my revenge on the world Aunt Elizabeth thought differently She said that we were giving people comfort and hope reassuring them that their loved ones were waiting for them that death was not the end, that we were performing a much-needed service. A lovely thing to believe, though I suspect that she said it to reassure Calliope. I suspect that my motives and hers were the same, though she never told me so. whatever her true beliefs the idea that we were comforting people it soothed calliope if only a little she did not confess to anyone at least and it turns out that our deception had more than a kernel of truth in it isn't that right spirits go about their business loved ones are waiting in a subtle place. And there are some that can communicate with the dead. Or at least you can, Mr. Fleming. Do you think there are others like you, Mr. Fleming? I'm not sure. Really? Have you given much thought to the afterlife, Mr. Fleming? Certainly more than I ever gave to it before starting this job. That's not a real answer, Mr. Fleming. I'm curious, do you think that there are ghosts outside of Greybrier Cemetery? Do you think that other people can talk to the dead as you do? Are there any spirits that your heart yearns to talk to just one more time? And what do you think awaits me beyond the onyx door? Those were a lot of questions, Miss Wolfe. Answer whichever you would like, I'm curious. I suppose it stands to reason that there are ghosts outside of Greybrier, though my guess is that it's not especially common. The same for others who can talk to the dead. I suppose it stands to reason. And, of course, there are people I would like to talk to. I can think of no one who would say no to that question. And who would you talk to, Mr. Fleming? My mother and father, if you must know. Poor Mr. Fleming. How young were you when they died? I would prefer not to talk about it. Oh, Mr. Fleming, will you not unburden yourself? Speaking of it could do you such good. Is this how you convinced your patrons to talk to spirits? It's like Aunt Elizabeth said. We were only giving them what they wanted. Well, I do not want this, Miss Wolfe. Then I will speak of it no further. And to the final question, what do you think awaits me beyond the onyx door? I couldn't say, Miss Wolfe. No one could. Oh, Calliope and I certainly tried to... Perhaps whatever is behind the door can hear us talking about them. Or perhaps you're making the noises yourself. That's always a possibility. But I can assure you, Mr. Fleming, on the soul of my sister, that the noises are not coming from me. They're coming from beyond the onyx door? Yes, exactly. Calliope and I became very skilled in our performances, but we were never able to make sounds like that. Perhaps you underestimate yourself. Perhaps. The seances were... I would say that for a large portion of our audience, it was one of the most exhilarating nights of their lives. And what happened at these seances? There were two types. The first type was in theaters and halls for large crowds. Calliope and I would sit across a table and call the spirits. Of course, the spirits would come with much rapping and croaking. We would have Benjamin Franklin or George Washington come by the theater. They would answer, spell out words, and say that they worried about the direction the country was going in. Aunt Elizabeth would always put a plant in the audience, who would ask us to call their dead husband or son. and the woman would collapse in a heap, crying and thanking us. But we would also have people from the audience, the public, ask questions, ask to contact their loved ones, and we would give them what they wanted, tell them what they wanted to hear. They were so susceptible to it, quick to swear on their life that they felt a hand on their shoulder, saw an unearthly light. Perhaps it was comforting. They would line up outside the theaters, hoping to get a chance to thank us. I, there was one woman at a show in Philadelphia. I had told her that her son still loved her, still thought of her. And the way she was weeping, she told me that she was no longer afraid of death. Because she knew that Peter was there. And that he still loved her. That must have been... Draining, yes. The stage shows were the ones that made the real money, but I liked the private seances the best. We would rent out a room at whatever hotel we were staying at, and we traveled the world, Mr. Fleming. We were famous. I saw London and Philadelphia and even Paris. I went on a steamship. I looked out over the waves of the Atlantic, and I felt so free for a moment. For a moment. I forgot the farmhouse and my vision of a dead world. I saw the ocean and imagined that I could jump off the side and swim forever and never tire. At these private seances, we would only receive five guests at most. They had to either be very rich or very notable. Aunt Elizabeth would do research on them beforehand. She would make sure we knew how to give them exactly what they wanted. But it was still mostly instinct. Calliope and I became very good at our tasks. We would sit in a circle around a few flickering candles, and we held hands with our guests. I believe this has changed since I was alive, but it was very rare to be able to touch men as an unmarried woman. And I so enjoyed feeling them tremble. feeling the sweat drip down their palms, clutching them so that they found strength in my grasp. So we would call them, and they would answer the questions of the rich or notable, one croak for yes, two for no. Calliope would write down words if necessary, if the spirits required it. There was a Mr. Holly who asked us to tell him why he had been left out of his father's will. He was furious, raging. Aunt Elizabeth was ready to stop the seance, but Calliope and I, we told Mr. Holly that his father was sorry, that he regretted the way he had conducted himself, that it was too late to change the will, but not too late for Mr. Holly to know that his father loved and respected him. Mr. Holly burst into tears at that. His hands were shaking with relief. It was... there were many seances like that. Most everyone left fulfilled. I do not want you to think that anyone was terrified or shaken, Mr. Fleming. The vast majority let go of our hands and wished us well from the bottom of their hearts. And then they paid you. Oh, Aunt Elizabeth made sure they paid beforehand. But sometimes they left gifts. Colonel Blankenship did. Would you like me to ask about who Colonel Blankenship was? Oh, she does not like it when you talk about him. She? Where are these sounds coming from, Miss Wolfe? Starting to feel a chill in the mausoleum, Mr. Fleming? Put it out of your mind. We still have much to discuss. Colonel Blankenship was a very well-formed man His parents had died young and left him their fortune He was trying to talk to his mother one more time through Calliope and I An army man, but with a sadness in his eyes and a small smile He always bit his lip when he smiled He came back to us again and again Hoping to talk to his mother, hoping to talk to us We loved him, both of us did, in a desperate, consuming fashion. You can imagine how it went. Can I? Who do you think he chose? From the way you ask the question, I can guess. Calliope was always the beautiful one, the more innocent. I reminded people of how the world was She let people imagine how the world could be They married and I was happy for them And it seemed as though I would have to continue the seances alone or retire. We had enough money by then, and I remember one seance, another rich young man, an engineer. Not as well-formed as Colonel Blankenship, but presentable enough. the sort of man you could imagine a future with and smile a half smile, knowing that sometimes the best you could hope for was pleasant enough. He gripped my hand tight and I did not like the feel of his uncalloused poem. He told us to call on Benjamin Franklin, then asked us specific questions about his life. He laughed a bit when we deflected, as we always did. He asked to talk to his dead brother, and when we started rapping and croaking, he gripped my hand tight and told us that his brother was alive and well, and that we were frauds and cheats and most likely whores as well. I told him that it was his own lack of belief that was interfering with the seance, his own cowardice, that if he weren't such a small man, we would be able to call on the spirits as we normally did. He seemed ready to strike me, though he was still holding my hand. Aunt Elizabeth chased him out, assisted by a few other men in the seance. But I was offended on behalf of... of our lie. I was shocked that he had the nerve to tell the truth. It was... I was already on my path when Colonel Blankenship died. Oh, I'm sorry. He was a colonel in Lincoln's army. He died valiantly, according to his men, though I'm sure they say that about every dead soldier. It broke Calliope, broke her in two, broke her forever, even though she only knew him for two years. I apologize, that was cruel. Did you and Calliope, did you did you try to Goliope tried to call on him hoping against hope that we had stumbled upon something real on the trick you are performing now I would have none of it and you would think that the death of her husband the death of her beloved a real spirit just out of reach you would think that it would make her finally confess to tell everyone of our scheme But no, in her grief, she decided that she had, in fact, made contact with her husband. That he told her that he still loved her. That his heart longed for her, that she was both beautiful and true. She started to believe her own lie. Perhaps it had started as a prank, but it had become something real. When she rapped and croaked, she was a vessel for the spirit world. We both were. How did you respond to that? I told her that she was being a stupid little girl, that she was deluding herself, that only an imbecile could let themselves be this foolish. Perhaps I could have been kinder. Aunt Elizabeth tried a gentle tact, but nothing could convince her. And I had no interest in performing with someone who actually believed in what we were doing. Like I said, I had enough money by then. Aunt Elizabeth was always very fair. I could buy a house, read, tend to a garden, teach a little music to keep myself occupied. Calliope could go through the country, throughout the world, spreading spiritualism, talking with ghosts, giving people hope, promising them life after death, being right, even if she wasn't aware of it. And that's how the course of my life flowed forward. On the whole... I researched you, Miss Wolfe, before I came to talk to you. Miss Wolfe, those sounds are getting louder. Ignore them. There are two things I didn't mention, Mr. Fleming, one more important than the other. I did tell the newspapers about the hoax. how it came about, how ashamed I was that Calliope was still peddling her falsehoods. But nothing came of that. I expected the whole lie to come crashing down, but no. People still believed what they wanted to believe. People still found comfort in their spirits. Some called Calliope an aging fraud, but an equal number called me a lonely, bitter spinster. Those who believed kept believing And those who doubted kept doubting On to the heart of it I died an old woman But Calliope lived even longer After a while, none of the lies mattered as much And we did not become sisters again But we exchanged letters, we were cordial And before my death, Calliope made me promise to give her a sign If spirits were truly real, I was to come visit her and tell her that I had been wrong. So when I died, and let me tell you it was quite a shock to realize that my adolescent self had been close to the truth, I tried to tell Calliope, whisper in her ear, come to a seance. But you know that ghosts cannot leave the Greybriar. I tried and I tried and I waited and waited and years passed. And eventually I realized that if Calliope was still alive, she would be 110 and that wasn't exactly likely. And so I lied to my sister. And you know what I think, Mr. Fleming? What do you think, Miss Wolfe? I think that the scratching on the other side of the onyx door I think it's all the fingernails of everyone who I lied to I think it's my sister And I think it's Colonel Blankenship And I think it's that idiot of an engineer And I think it's all of them And they're waiting To scratch and tear and rip my soul apart But you were right. You might not have known it, but... Are you scared they'll rip and tear you too? Don't worry. I think you're safe, Mr. Fleming, for the most part. I don't... And do you think the fact that I was right matters? Do you think it even matters that I recanted? You know, it was so good to experience a seance from this side. It's been very, very enlightening. It's put some things into perspective. I've known for a good long while that whatever is on the other side of the onyx door, it's been waiting for me. Miss Wolfe, I want you to pass on, but perhaps we could... And you know what I think, Mr. Fleming? What do you think? I think I deserve it. I think I deserve it. Miss Wolfe! Margaret Wolfe. Passage. Completed. You've been listening to Conversations with Ghosts, a Dead Signals production. For complete cast and crew credits, check out our website at conversationswithghosts.com Dead Signals is an independent operation, and we're supported by our patrons. If you like what you hear and want to support the work we do, go to patreon.com slash archive81 to sign up. You'll get a bunch of fun extras, including behind-the-scenes Q&As, music, and access to the first podcast Mark and I ever made together. That's patreon.com slash archive81. As always, thanks for listening. you