There Is No Death, There Are No Dead: Tales of Spiritualism Horror by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crystal Lake Publishing
Published: 2021-08-27T00:00:00+00:00

KNOCK THREE TIMES

Seanan McGuire

San Francisco, 1906

“T he practice of spiritualism is inherently counter to the will of God.” Miss Beecher’s voice was a sharp, shrill nail hammered through the wall of Florence’s thoughts, somehow managing to be piercing and dull at the same time. It was a nice trick. Florence considered the value of pointing out that the transmutation of materials from one state to another—such as a voice into a weapon of aggression—was equally counter to God’s will, and thus the both of them must be seen as sinners with no chance of redemption. It was an appealing idea. She dismissed it all the same.

Miss Beecher was of a breed, one Florence had become well-acquainted with over the past four years, ever since the spirits began to whisper in her ears of an evening, ever since she had realized that the world was greater than the limits of her eyes.

Miss Beecher had gone quiet. That usually meant she was waiting for some form of response and would, upon failing to receive it, report Florence to her father for daydreaming through lessons. Miss Beecher never seemed to tell him when Florence was insouciant, or prideful, or just plain rude, but silence was the one thing she could not tolerate. Florence rapidly reviewed the matron’s last several words, settling on an appropriate reply.

“The idea that God would create immortal souls only to abandon them to slothfulness and indolence the moment their fragile flesh decayed is also counter to the will of God,” she snapped. “The practice of spiritualism is an ongoing acceptance of God’s will, and acknowledgment of His glories.”

“Very well said, Miss Denver,” said Miss Beecher, with unusual approval. Florence glanced to her tutor in surprise. Miss Beecher was actually smiling, expression foreign on her customarily dour face. “I believe we can mark today’s lesson down as complete. You have earned today’s riddle.”

“Excellent,” said Florence, who felt this paltry offering was anything but. She looked to Miss Beecher attentively. “Pray you, begin.”

“Half a minute’s warning you will have, and if you’re able, get yourself to safety in the shadow of the table,” said Miss Beecher, voice crisp and precise. “Class dismissed.”

Florence rose, offering a polite nod to her tutor, and turned toward the door.

She was almost there when there was a whisper of sound from behind her. She glanced back, eyebrows raised.

The upstairs room where she took her lessons was, as always, silent and cold, furniture save for the lone chair she sat in for classroom review covered in plain white sheets and kept meticulously clear of dust. The lights were down, the ashes in the fireplace long since chilled and reduced to grayish powder. It was a clean, presentable, dead place, and no others among the living walked here, nor had in years, nor, if Florence had the choosing of it, ever would again.

“Thank you for your time and attention,” she said, and walked away.

***

The practice of spiritualism might well be an affront to the will of God. To be entirely honest, Florence was less than sure in either direction.

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