The Ecstasy of Spirits

The London fog, a greasy, yellow-grey shroud smelling of coal smoke and damp wool, pressed against the window of Jonathan Blackwood’s office. It was a fitting atmosphere for his trade. He dealt in shadows, not the spectral kind that haunted the penny dreadfuls, but the far more tangible shadows of human greed and gullibility. His business was truth, a commodity as rare and often as unwelcome as a clean breath of air in the St. Giles rookery.

His latest client, Lord Ashworth, sat opposite him, a man whose tailored waistcoat and manicured hands seemed utterly alien in the cluttered, book-choked room. Ashworth twisted a signet ring on his little finger, a nervous tic that betrayed the anxiety beneath his aristocratic composure.

“It is my niece, Mr. Blackwood,” he said, his voice a low, strained baritone. “Eleanor. A bright girl, but… impressionable. Since her mother’s passing, she has sought solace in… unconventional circles.”

Jonathan leaned back in his creaking leather chair, steepling his fingers. He had heard this story, or a variation of it, a dozen times. Grief was the most fertile soil for the charlatan’s seed. “Spiritualism, I presume?”

Lord Ashworth grimaced. “They call themselves the Elysian Circle. A rather lofty title for what I suspect is a den of thieves and frauds. They are led by a woman, a so-called medium. Cordelia Ashford.” He practically spat the name. “She has convinced Eleanor that she can commune with her departed mother. For a price, of course. Donations, she calls them. Eleanor has already signed over a significant portion of her inheritance.”

Jonathan made a note on the folio before him. Cordelia Ashford. Elysian Circle. Financial exploitation via fraudulent mediumship. It was a classic case. He’d exposed men who made tables rap with their knees and women who disgorged cheesecloth ‘ectoplasm’ from their corsets. He had cataloged every trick, every psychological manipulation, every hidden wire and accomplice. This would be no different.

“There are… other rumors, Mr. Blackwood,” Ashworth continued, lowering his voice and leaning forward, as if the fog itself might be listening. “Whispers of rituals that go beyond mere hand-holding and darkened rooms. Talk of… debauchery. Of using carnal energies to pierce the veil.” He flushed, a dark red creeping up his neck. “I cannot have the family name dragged through such filth. Eleanor must be extricated before she is utterly ruined, both financially and morally.”

Jonathan’s interest, which had been purely professional, sharpened. The introduction of sex into the equation was a common, if effective, escalation. It bound followers with shame and illicit excitement, making them more pliable, more willing to part with their fortunes. It was a grubby, predictable tactic, but one that required a delicate touch to expose without causing a greater scandal.

“I require proof, Lord Ashworth,” Jonathan stated, his tone flat and businesslike. “Irrefutable evidence that this Cordelia Ashford is a fraud, and that her methods are designed to swindle, not to summon. Something you can present to your niece that will shatter her faith in this… circle.”

“Whatever it takes,” the nobleman affirmed, his jaw tight. He slid a heavy envelope across the desk. “This should cover your initial expenses and retainer. Infiltrate them. Expose them. Burn their Elysian fields to the ground.”

Jonathan picked up the envelope, feeling its reassuring weight. He did not believe in spirits or otherworldly realms. He believed in motive, opportunity, and the mechanics of deception. Cordelia Ashford was a predator, her séance parlor a cleverly disguised abattoir for the fortunes of the grieving. He would be the hunter who entered that parlor, not with a cross or holy water, but with a ledger and a keen eye for the lie. He would find the hidden levers and the secret doors, and he would drag her and her sordid theatre into the cold, unforgiving light of day.

Two evenings later, Jonathan found himself seated in the back row of a rented lyceum hall in Bloomsbury. The place was respectable, smelling of polished wood and old paper, a far cry from the gin-soaked parlors where most mediums plied their trade. This was a deliberate choice, he noted. It lent an air of intellectual legitimacy to the proceedings. The crowd was a mix of society matrons in rustling silk, sober-suited gentlemen who looked like they should be at their clubs, and a smattering of younger, wide-eyed acolytes. They were not the desperate, impoverished souls he’d expected, but the comfortable, the educated, the bereaved with money to burn. They were, in short, better prey.

A low murmur of anticipation filled the hall, a collective hum of hope and expectation. Jonathan felt a familiar wave of disdain. They were children waiting for a magic lantern show, eager to be deceived. He scanned the room, his gaze clinical, cataloging the faces, searching for the plants, the shills, the accomplices. He saw none he could immediately identify. The devotion seemed genuine, which only made it more pathetic.

Then, the conversations hushed. A woman walked onto the stage, and the air in the room seemed to thicken, to coalesce around her. This had to be Cordelia Ashford.

She was not what he had envisioned. There was no theatrical velvet, no gaudy jewelry. She wore a simple, high-collared gown of deep emerald green that clung to a figure that was lean and strong, not fashionably frail. Her hair, a cascade of dark auburn, was coiled loosely at the nape of her neck, with stray tendrils that framed a face of sharp angles and startling planes. Her mouth was wide, her lips full and unpainted. But it was her eyes that held the room captive. They were a pale, unnerving grey, the color of a winter sea, and they seemed to see everything, to look past the facades and directly into the raw, wanting core of each person present.

Jonathan felt an involuntary tightening in his gut. This was no common fraud. This was a performer of the highest caliber. Her poise was absolute, her presence a physical force.

She began to speak, and her voice was another surprise. It was low, with a smoky, resonant timbre that seemed to vibrate not in the air, but inside his own chest. It was an instrument of profound control, a voice that could soothe a crying child or incite a riot. It was a voice, he thought with a flicker of grudging admiration, that could coax secrets from a dying man and coin from a miser.

“We are told that the spirit world is a silent kingdom,” she began, her gaze sweeping across the audience, seeming to meet every eye at once. “That the veil between our world and the next is impenetrable, a final, soundproof wall. This is the first and most fundamental lie we are taught. The first cage built around our souls.”

Jonathan subtly took out his notepad, shielding it with his coat. Rhetorical Device #1: Establish a common ‘lie’ to position self as purveyor of exclusive ‘truth’.

“The spirits are not silent,” Cordelia continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried to the back of the hall. “They are screaming. They are singing. They are weeping. They are desperate to connect. But they do not speak the language of our ears. They speak the language of energy. Of vibration. Of life itself.”

He watched her move across the stage, her gait fluid and deliberate. She used her hands as she spoke, not with wild gestures, but with slow, hypnotic motions, as if she were sculpting the very air around her. He could see now why Lord Ashworth’s niece was so enthralled. The woman radiated a charisma that was almost indecent in its power. It was a deeply sensual magnetism, an unspoken promise of release, of secrets whispered in the dark. He could feel the pull of it himself, a faint, unwelcome thrumming in his blood, and had to consciously fight it down, reinforcing the cold walls of his skepticism.

She spoke of auric fields and emotional currents, of grief leaving a residue that could be read, of passion being a beacon in the grey ether. It was all nonsense, of course, a beautifully woven tapestry of pseudo-scientific jargon and poetic vagaries designed to sound profound. Yet, the audience drank it in. He saw a woman in the front row openly weeping, a man beside her nodding with fervent intensity. They were utterly hers.

As she concluded, a strange quiet settled over the hall. It wasn't the silence of polite applause waiting to happen, but a heavy, sated stillness. Cordelia Ashford had not just given a lecture; she had conducted an orchestra of human emotion, and now, with a final, lingering look that seemed to find Jonathan in the shadows, she let the last note hang in the air, resonant and powerful. He felt pinned by that gaze, stripped bare for a moment, and an unfamiliar heat crept up his neck. He was here to expose a charlatan, but he had the distinct and unsettling feeling that he was the one who had just been expertly dissected.

Following the lecture, an assistant announced that Madame Ashford would be holding a demonstration for a select few in an adjoining parlor. For a further donation, of course. Jonathan paid the fee without hesitation, noting how easily the money flowed from the pockets of the enthralled. He was herded with about fifteen others into a smaller, more traditionally appointed room. A heavy velvet curtain blocked the window, plunging the space into a manufactured twilight lit only by a single, low-burning oil lamp. A large, circular mahogany table dominated the center of the room.

Standard trappings, Jonathan noted mentally, his eyes scanning every detail. Heavy drapery to muffle sound and conceal accomplices. A single, dim light source to obscure vision and heighten suggestion. A round table to foster a sense of shared experience and allow for subtle, coordinated movements.

They were instructed to take their seats. Jonathan deliberately chose a spot that gave him a clear view of Cordelia and most of the other sitters. She sat opposite him, her face a pale oval in the gloom. Her eyes, which had seemed so piercing on the stage, now appeared dark and bottomless.

“Place your hands upon the table, palms down,” she instructed, her voice dropping to that same hypnotic, resonant frequency. “We will link our little fingers, creating an unbroken chain. It is through this chain that the current of our collective energy will flow.”

Jonathan complied, the dry, cool skin of the woman to his left and the slightly damp, nervous touch of the man to his right connecting him to the circle. He fought the instinct to recoil. He was an observer, a scientist in a den of superstition. He had to remain detached.

Cordelia guided them through a series of deep, synchronized breaths. The air grew thick with the scent of lamp oil, old wood, and the faint, cloying perfume of the woman beside him. It was a calculated sensory assault, designed to disorient and lower the defenses of the logical mind.

Then, the phenomena began.

A soft rapping echoed from beneath the table. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. A woman gasped.

Crude, but effective, Jonathan thought, his gaze fixed on Cordelia. Her knees are hidden by the tablecloth. A simple, rhythmic pressure against the central pedestal. Child’s play.

A sudden, cold draft swept through the room, raising goosebumps on his arms. Someone whimpered about a spirit’s touch.

The curtain. It doesn’t quite meet the floor. An accomplice outside the window, opening it a crack on cue. Or perhaps a simple bellows hidden in her skirts. He made a mental note to check the window fastenings later.

“I feel a presence,” Cordelia murmured, her head lolling back as if in a trance. “A soul wishes to speak. He is searching for… Eleanor?”

Jonathan’s focus sharpened. It was the widow from the front row of the lecture, the one who had wept so openly. The woman, whose name was indeed Eleanor, let out a choked sob. “My husband… is it Edward?”

“He says… he says the garden is beautiful this year,” Cordelia whispered. “He is at peace. He feels no more pain.”

Jonathan nearly scoffed aloud. It was a masterful piece of cold reading. What bereaved husband wouldn't have a wife who tended a garden? What grieving widow didn't want to hear that her beloved was free from pain? It was a shotgun blast of sentiment, guaranteed to hit its target. The message was utterly meaningless, yet Eleanor was weeping with gratitude, her shoulders shaking. The deception was so blatant, so predatory, it ignited a cold fire in Jonathan’s gut.

The séance culminated with the table shuddering, lifting an inch or two off the floor on one side before thudding back down. The sitters gasped in unison. Jonathan, however, had been watching their hands. He’d felt the subtle, upward pressure from the man beside him, a pressure perfectly timed with Cordelia’s rising, urgent breathing. She wasn’t a medium; she was a conductor, using her voice and presence to orchestrate the unconscious actions of her followers.

When the lamp was finally turned up, the room was filled with the sounds of relieved sighs and emotional weeping. Faces were tear-streaked but euphoric. They had touched the beyond. They had spoken with their dead. Jonathan felt nothing but a profound, simmering contempt. He had seen enough. The mechanics were simple, the psychology even simpler. It was all a lie, a beautifully staged, emotionally resonant, and utterly contemptible lie.

He waited. He stood by the door, a pillar of starched linen and grim patience, as the other attendees drifted away, whispering their awe-filled thanks to Cordelia. She accepted their praise with a serene grace that made his teeth ache. Each grateful touch of her hand, each tearful thank you, was a testament to her skill as a predator.

Finally, only he and she remained, along with an assistant who began clearing the table. The air, no longer thick with shared delusion, felt thin and cold.

Jonathan pushed himself from the doorframe and approached her. She was watching him, her pale eyes holding his as he crossed the room. There was no surprise in her expression, only a quiet, knowing stillness. It was as if she had been waiting for him.

“Madame Ashford,” he began, his voice flat and devoid of the reverence she was accustomed to.

“Mr. Blackwood,” she replied, her voice a low, smoky caress that grated on his nerves. She knew his name. Of course, she did. A good charlatan always did her research. “You did not seem… moved by our little communion.”

“I was moved to a great deal of thought, I assure you,” he said, stopping a few feet from her. He kept the distance professional, a bulwark against her unnerving proximity. “For instance, I was thinking about the clever use of leverage against a table’s central pedestal. The strategic placement of a draft. And the remarkable efficacy of making vague, sentimental statements to a grieving woman you’ve already identified as emotionally vulnerable. It’s a masterful performance.”

He had expected a flicker of anger, a defensive retort, a denial. He got none of it. Instead, the corner of her full mouth curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It was not a smile of warmth, but of private, condescending amusement. It made the blood pound in his temples.

“You have a keen eye, Mr. Blackwood,” she said, her voice dropping lower still, forcing him to lean in slightly to hear her over the clatter of the assistant gathering glasses. “Keener than most. You see the strings and levers. The stagecraft. Most people only want to see the ghost.”

“Because you sell them a comforting lie wrapped in cheap theatrics.” The accusation was bald, stripped of all politeness.

Her smile widened, a slow, sensual unfurling that made his gut tighten. “What you saw tonight, Mr. Blackwood, was a nursery rhyme. A story told to children to help them sleep. It is what they need, and what they can comprehend. A simple rapping, a cool breeze, the assurance that their Edward is happy in his garden. It gives them comfort. Is that such a terrible crime?”

“Fraud is always a crime. Preying on the bereaved is a sin.”

“And what if I told you that the nursery rhyme is based on a far more complex and terrifying truth?” She took a step closer, and the scent of her—something like night-blooming jasmine and old paper—filled his senses, an unwelcome invasion. Her grey eyes locked onto his. “What if I told you that genuine contact requires a current far stronger than what can be generated by holding hands and humming? That the spirit world is deaf to whispers but exquisitely sensitive to a scream? Not of terror, but of… ecstasy.”

The word hung in the air between them, obscene and electric. Jonathan felt a jolt, a hot, visceral reaction that he instantly suppressed. He saw now where this was going. It was the oldest trick in the grifter’s handbook: when confronted, double down. Escalate the claim to a level so outlandish it defies simple debunking.

“So, you admit tonight was a sham,” he pressed, his voice hard.

“I admit it was a primer. An introduction for the uninitiated,” she countered, her gaze unwavering. “But you, Mr. Blackwood… you are not uninitiated. Your skepticism is a shield, yes, but it’s also a lens. You see the mechanics so clearly. Perhaps you are one of the few capable of understanding the engine that drives them.”

She was goading him, he knew it. Appealing to his ego, to the very analytical pride he wielded as his primary weapon. It was infuriatingly effective.

“I’m inviting you to another gathering, Mr. Blackwood. A private one. For the inner circle. There will be no table-rapping. No cold drafts. No comforting platitudes for weeping widows.” Her voice was a hypnotic murmur, a silken promise of secrets. “Come and see the engine for yourself. Come and see the raw, unfiltered current. Then you can call me a liar.”

He stared at her, caught in the trap she had so expertly laid. To refuse would be to admit she had gotten under his skin, to concede that he was afraid of what he might see. To accept was to walk deeper into her web. His professional duty warred with a primal, deeply unsettling curiosity. He wanted to expose her. He wanted to tear down her whole corrupt enterprise. But to do that, he had to see it all.

And a dark, treacherous part of him, a part he refused to acknowledge, simply wanted to see.

“When?” he heard himself ask, the word tasting like surrender.

Cordelia’s smile was triumphant. “Friday. My townhouse. Come with an open mind, Mr. Blackwood. Or at the very least, an open eye.” She reached out, and before he could react, her fingers brushed against the back of his hand. The touch was feather-light, yet it burned like a brand. “We will have much to show you.”