Black Wave: A Novel

By Devon Glenn

In 1893, psychic medium Darthilda Crossing meets the love of her life, Rahul Kajaria, while hosting a sance at her parents summer cottage in Cape May, New Jersey. Her Ouija board reading foretells their passionate union but also spells their d-o-o-m. Darthilda will go bravely to her grave, but she refuses to cross to the other side without her beloved.

More than a century later, ghosts still haunt Cape May, but the science of sance has changed. Now, theres a ghost-hunting app called Orbies that uses image recognition to identify photos of ghostly orbs. And the ghosts can use a touchscreen. Aided by technology, Emily reunites with her childhood friend Elerick, as well as the ghosts who haunt her parents boutique hotel.

They soon come face-to-faceor, perhaps, face-to-orbwith Darthilda and Rahul in the sance room. If history repeats itself, the forces that brought Emily and Elerick together might also keep them apart. Their quest for freedom will test the boundaries of time, the bonds of humanity, and the strength of their Wi-Fi connection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: May 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781982203153

Devon Glenn

Devon Glenn is an editor and writer based in San Diego County, California. A former tech blogger, she covered the rise of social media before packing up her laptop and moving to the beach. Her work has appeared in Adweek, Kirkus Reviews, the Los Angeles Times, and other publications.

Book preview

Prologue

A s she watched her body wash up on the beach that morning, Darthilda Crossing knew she looked like a fallen reveler, drunk on brine and flashing her bloomers at passersby. Even the policeman shook his head at the sight of her, nudging her ribs with his dirty boot before finally lifting her arm to check her pulse. Looking down at her body from above, Dar was in no position to defend her virtue.

The officer let her arm plop to the sand. He hadn’t found a heartbeat. That would explain why Dar didn’t feel any warmer after he’d draped a blanket across her bloated limbs. She wanted to tell the coroner kicking his way through the sand to do something about her hair before he showed her to her next of kin. But before she could say anything—not that she could’ve—the two men lifted her into the coroner’s buggy, and that was that.

Separated from its earthly vessel, Dar’s soul scrambled like a hermit crab without its shell. For as wriggly and vulnerable as she was, what most concerned her about her untimely death was the nagging sensation that she’d been left behind. She certainly hadn’t been the only person on the beach that night—so why hadn’t his body washed up next to hers, entwined forever in a kelp valentine? She scanned the shore for a pair of feet, a lock of hair—any sign of him poking from the rubble of seaweed and driftwood and broken bicycle wheels. How would she tell him where she was? The waves had wiped most of the letters off her Ouija board. And who was left to send a telegram on her behalf? All along the south side of Cape May’s peninsula that night, rows of sweet gingerbread houses had fallen to the sand, leaving behind a pitiable thicket of turrets reaching up like hands folded in prayer across a vast field of ruin, their window eyes pleading.

A lighthouse blinked from the horizon. Dar knew she should follow the beacon to where loose souls go to yawn and stretch awake after their bodies had been laid to rest. Instead, Dar turned to the sand, desperate for another set of footprints.

She couldn’t go to the Other Side.

Not without him.

CHAPTER 1

Pennies

The Other Side of Cape May: Tricky Medium Exposes Senator’s Secret Lair!

by Clark Cummings

Cape May, NJ: Jun 25, 1893—A psychic has confirmed the rumors that New Jersey sen. Robert Digges is conducting backdoor deals from his seaside resort, the White Cottage Inn, and the answers have indeed come from above. Darthilda Crossing, psychic medium and heiress to the Crossing Railroad Inc. fortune, conjured a scandal when Washington attorney Alfred Jones was nearly crushed to death by a hotel employee who crashed through the ceiling of her séance room, exposing the secret room’s entrance for all to see.

The timing was unfortunate for Miss Crossing, who claimed to have channeled the spirit of President Harrison’s goat, Old Whiskers, when she heard a bleating voice and a series of loud bangs. The polter-goat proved to be Stewart Goldstein, a desk clerk, who narrowly missed Mr. Jones as he descended feet-first to the ground below, raining plaster and paint chips on the other guests’ heads. Mr. Goldstein reportedly landed on a table, scattering a deck of tarot cards and smashing a crystal ball while Miss Crossing shouted, Oh, fiddlesticks! and other phrases that did not meet our editorial standards. Mr. Jones is expected to recover.

Lottie Digges, the hotelier’s wife, assisted Mr. Jones back to his room, assuring her startled séance attendees that Mr. Goldstein had taken a wrong turn while cleaning the hotel’s ventilation system, a statement the man was too dizzy to refute. But our sources tell us another version of events.

L ottie snickered as Dar read the article aloud. "Stewart does have whiskers like a goat, she said with a shrug. I suppose, though, that we should have waited until after the séance to have him dust the vents."

Dar, however, gripped the copy of the Washington Weekly Affairs, her fingers shaking with rage as she flipped through several pages of conspiracy theories, advertisements for whalebone corsets, and reviews of miracle cures to find the second half of the article. She located it on the second-to-last page, unfortunately placed next to the summer cottage listings for Cape May.

For years, our sources have told us that the guestrooms of the White Cottage Inn are connected to one another through a network of overhead tunnels. Could it be that Mrs. Digges uses them to spook her guests and send them running with their wallets open straight to Miss Crossing’s séance room? Or do they lead to the secret room where Senator Digges conducts his backdoor deals? Rest assured, Mrs. Digges, we will keep digging, so to speak, for the truth!

Locals describe Miss Crossing as comely but eccentric. Said one guest, who did not wish to be named, She’s wasting her nights lifting pennies from the eyes of corpses. What she really needs is a warm body!

Lifting pennies? Dar repeated. Who would say such a thing to a gossip reporter? But she knew the answer.

Lottie calmly coaxed the paper from her friend’s trembling hands. "If it’s any consolation, the article said Mr. Jones was expected to recover; it didn’t say he would."

Dar gave her friend a half-hearted smile. She was supposed to be marrying Alfred Jones, not reading about him in the paper. He had even come to Cape May to help Dar move her belongings to Washington, DC. Then Stewart had fallen from the ceiling, raining plaster on his alleged stint as grand marshal for Senator Digges’s backdoor-deal parade. Nervous that his relationship with Dar would make his other clients guilty by association, Alfred had ended their engagement on the spot.

Now look: it’s not the most flattering article about either one of us, but you have to admit that this photograph of you is glorious! Lottie gushed. Even the reporter said you were comely.

The photograph was a reprint from two years ago, when Dar and her parents were listed among the attendees at one of Robert’s fund-raisers at the capital. It was a black-and-white version of her former self, trapped forever in the second dimension. Like the article it accompanied, the photograph was only partially true.

Just after her twenty-first birthday, Dar’s hair had faded from golden blond to pure white. Every morning since, her mother, Virginia Crossing, had nearly broken her brush as she raked her daughter’s hair into the tightest of buns to hide its unusual color, which Virginia took to be boys’ bane most foul.

No one will notice a thing with all those combs in your hair, Lottie said, intuiting her friend’s thoughts. Maybe if we…oh. Or not. She retracted her hand. The feathers, flowers, and pearls on Dar’s combs may have hidden her hair from view, but they did nothing to draw the eye away from the scowl on her face.

Dar no longer looked like her photograph, and even with her mother’s combs, she wouldn’t be able to hide the color for long. Lottie would never say it, but she knew it was true, and Dar half wished that her friend would just come out and tell her she looked like Martha Washington’s wig model and have a good laugh so she could stop pretending to be something she was not.

Virginia was never good with a curling iron, Lottie said instead. Although, to be fair to your mother, it must have been hard for her to style your hair when you were fleeing her in a screaming panic.

She’s burned my forehead too many times, Dar said. It’s a survival instinct now. Finally, the laughter came.

Dar glanced at her friend’s coiffure. "Your hair is perfect, at least." She threw out the compliment like extra yards of rope, slackening the tension between them.

Thank you for noticing. Lottie patted the soft curls that framed her porcelain-doll face.

How did you make your pompadour so high in the front?

It’s like making a meringue—Lottie spun her hand in a tight circle—you keep whipping until stiff peaks form.

Dar laughed; Lottie Digges hadn’t baked a meringue since President Harrison checked into her inn one summer after elbowing his way in between President Cleveland’s two terms. Her pie tin had been collecting dust ever since.

Once, Dar and Lottie had been freckle-faced girls running along the summer beach, picking glittering stones from the sand and pretending they were diamonds. Now Lottie was the very picture of femininity—a real-life Gibson girl—while Dar had lost her freckles through the years without gaining many womanly charms. She still lived with her mother on a perpetual holiday in their sprawling summer cottage, while Dar’s father, a railroad executive, was away on a perpetual business trip.

I’m already regretting wearing this dress. Dar’s voluminous black gown had the kind of leg-of-mutton sleeves that women loved because they created the illusion of a slimmer waist and men loathed because they made women more difficult to grasp by the arm. The price she paid for such high fashion was a high collar that choked her at the neck and a skirt with a train long enough to polish the floor as she walked. The dress commanded her to sit up straight, to keep her distance from the person sitting next to her, and to mind the candles and china while she moved. On any other woman, the dress would have started a conversation. On Darthilda, it was more likely to start a fire.

Nonsense, Lottie argued. You are making a fashion statement. This dress says I am here and I have nothing to hide.

"No, your dress says I am here and I have nothing to hide." Dar looked with suspicion at Lottie’s emerald-green taffeta gown. She was as intimate with her bosom friend’s wardrobe as she was with her own, and the green taffeta served no other purpose than to show how Lottie’s profile formed a perfect S from her backside to her bust—which happened to be bursting at the seams. Dar didn’t call Lottie her bosom friend for nothing.

"Oh, but it is hiding something. Lottie batted her eyelashes. It’s hiding the grass stains."

I thought Robert went back to the city.

With a sigh, Lottie sank into the chair next to Dar’s. He did. And he hasn’t spoken to me since the article came out. I’ll be lucky if I see him before the next election.

It’s my fault for trying to host a séance at the White Cottage, Dar assured her. Your husband never liked my ghosts.

Lottie snorted. Only because he can’t charge them for staying at his inn. She fixed her eyes on the table. Why is your séance room so austere this evening? She walked a circle, inspecting. What happened to your grandmother’s tablecloth?

Dar eyed the tools of her trade: enough seats around the table to pull a few guests at a time from the crowd, candles resting on doilies to set the mood, a pen and parchment—and a Ouija board in case the guests wanted to speak to the spirits directly. My mother says that no one who has read this article will think my ghosts are anything but parlor tricks. But ghosts there will be, and I’m leaving the table bare so that the guests can see there are no strings attached.

Lottie frowned. If she thinks your reputation is ruined, why would your mother host another séance and invite all her friends?

Well, the reporter said I could use a warm body, Dar explained, tapping her fingers on the table. So my mother said it’s high time I trade my ghosts for another buffoon with a handlebar mustache.

Lottie raised an eyebrow.

That’s not exactly how she worded it, but it’s the general idea. Dar buried her face in her hands. Why did she have to pick tonight of all nights to bring a bunch of judging eyes? The ghosts love the humidity. This may be the most paranormal energy I’ll see all year! She felt a hard lump of resentment rising in her throat. Her séance room was supposed to be her sanctuary—the one place where she could turn the lights down low and let the spirit flow through the hollow vessel of her body, lighting her up like the filament in a glass bulb. There, she didn’t have to be anyone, not even herself. She could simply be.

Lottie pulled her friend’s hands away from her face. Don’t rub your eyes—they’ll end up as puffy as your sleeves.

Dar pulled her hands free and brought them back to her face. I don’t care.

"You should care. Lottie yanked Dar’s hands away again. Don’t you want to get married? Show Awful Alfred what he’s missing?"

Dar stuffed her hands in her dress pockets and shook her head. I want to be left alone. Right after he proposed, Alfred had groped her with his grubby hands while asking her under his fowl breath if she knew how lucky she was to be with him. She told him the truth—that she didn’t feel a flutter of affection for him and that she would feel much luckier if he would keep his hands to himself.

Alfred had been Virginia’s idea, not Dar’s. She had invited him over for tea one afternoon and would not let Dar back into her séance room until she had accepted his proposal. To this day, Dar did not understand how Virginia had gotten him to agree to ask her. It would take a lion tamer to get a beast like Alfred to get down on one knee.

But Dar was fierce, and she would be free. I have been saving every penny I’ve earned from my séances, she whispered to Lottie. If all goes according to plan, this summer will be the last one I spend in this house.

Nonsense. You’ll be carried across the threshold in the arms of a handsome tourist, and you’ll forget all about this golden spinster life you’re dreaming of. You’ll see. Lottie rummaged through her pockets. You can still salvage this night, she said, finally pulling out the small object of her search. She waved it before Dar’s face. Lip rouge fixes everything.

Dar’s eyes widened. You know I can’t wear that! How could she defend herself against a murderers’ row of skeptics—in matters both paranormal and paramour—while wearing a big crimson bull’s eye?

Lottie didn’t respond. She calmly held Dar’s chin in one hand, and with the other, she painted Dar’s lips the color of roses. There, she said. Now they won’t be able to resist you.

What if I want them to? Dar’s resolve wavered back and forth like a buoy in the chop. She loved hosting her séances, but she wanted the crowds to come of their own volition, with good energy and intent.

Just give me the signal, Lottie said, tapping the side of her nose. I’ll sneak out of the room, stand in the hallway, and moan like a ghost. When they start pounding at the door in sheer fright, I’ll throw a sheet over my head and chase them all the way back to the hotel.

Thank you. And if Stewart falls through the ceiling again when they get there, Dar added, please tell him to make sure my suitors never recover.

Lottie’s laughter erupted into full-blown cackling, making Dar forget for a moment that she was ever publicly called a fraud.

But really, Lottie said, "how are you going to handle a room full of doubters?"

Not everyone believes in ghosts, Dar replied, but everyone believes in death. I’ll win over the group by the end of the night.

Dar’s housekeeper, Mrs. Fields, had known about tonight’s removal of the tablecloth and polished accordingly. Dar ran her finger along the length of the table, inspecting for dust and finding none. She settled into her chair and drew in one long, slow sip of air to settle her nerves. She then held her breath with her tongue pressed against her front teeth to slow her heartbeat.

After a few seconds Dar exhaled, feeling her corset loosen its grip on her rib cage as her shadow slowly climbed the floral wallpaper, the velvet curtains, and the crown molding in time with the setting sun.

Lottie had busied herself—specifically her hands—by making shadow puppets. She pecked at Dar’s shadow with what appeared to be a crow.

Eventually, Dar pulled back the curtains to peer at the lawn below. The tableau of guests lining the lamp-lit street would have made a fine gift shop postcard. Despite her mother’s promises that this evening’s guest list would be a who’s who of single men who were not easily spooked, the ratio of women to men was suspiciously balanced—and most of the women in floral hats were walking arm in arm with their husbands.

Lottie leaned forward in her seat to get a better view. She tapped her finger on the window at a tiny woman in black, marching toward the house clutching the arm of what Lottie took to be her adult son. I think I’ve found your future husband! she exclaimed.

Lottie couldn’t be serious. The man had the longest, curliest mustache Dar had ever seen. Dar shuddered, imagining those hairy tentacles wrapping around her throat like a noose or, worse, tickling her upper lip when they kissed. I hope the room is big enough for the two of them, she said. That man’s mustache might need its own chair.

His mother looks like she’s here for an exorcism, added Lottie. The cross the woman wore around her neck was nearly large enough to stage an actual crucifixion. Dar took it as a sure sign that the woman believed in ghosts. (Holy ones, at least.)

Who do you think— A rap at the door cut Dar short. It meant that the first guests had ascended the stairs. She cleared her throat. You may enter.

Lottie leaped from her chair to greet the couple at the door. They must have already been waiting in the parlor. Dar, you remember my brother-in-law, Carl, and his wife, Clara, Lottie prodded.

Of course, Dar said quickly. According to Lottie, Robert had quarreled with his father shortly before his death. As a result, Carl, his older brother, had walked away with all their father’s assets. When people remarked that Robert must have married Lottie for her stunning beauty, they were being polite. Robert became a self-made man thanks in no small part to Lottie’s own sizeable inheritance. Lottie had openly loathed Carl for years until he married Clara and made Lottie an aunt, at which point she willingly traded polite smiles for baby kisses. The baby, now a pretty thirteen-year-old girl, was off with her gaggle of friends, which left Lottie to entertain the girl’s less amusing parents. But that was ages ago. By now they would surely be pleasant guests.

I’m not here for the séance, Carl announced. I’ll just watch.

Or not. Dar fought the urge to show Carl the exit: out the window and straight into the rose bushes. If you fall into the sea, you’ve gone too far.

Her neighbor Mr. Worthington was also having difficulty getting into the spirit of the evening, but for different reasons. Dar saw him jump when he noticed the candles and the Ouija board, sending his glasses tumbling off the bridge of his nose and swinging from the chain around his neck. She mentally put Mr. Worthington on her do not conjure list.

The tiny séance room swelled with first-time guests. It seemed that many of the women who had ignored Dar’s séances several summers in a row were suddenly very interested in spirits. So much for my mother’s matchmaking scheme, Dar thought as she watched more and more women fill the empty chairs along the walls. The room had nearly reached capacity, and the glass bowl that Dar had set on the table to collect her fee was now overflowing with coins and bills. As she turned to greet another guest, she hit the side of the table with her enormous skirt, sending the bowl tumbling to the floor, where it rolled on its side and spit out its contents. She cursed under her breath. By charging a fee, she had been accused of lifting pennies from the eyes of the dead, but without it, her most grief-stricken clients would never leave her séance room. Uncomfortable with such a vulgar display of her profits, she hurriedly scooped up the money with her hands and stuffed it back into the bowl. She glanced around for somewhere to put it when Lottie snatched it from her hand and carried it away.

We’re still waiting on one person, Lottie called hopefully over her shoulder.

Who? Dar replied as Lottie handed the bowl to Mrs. Fields.

Lottie brightened. Our newest guest is visiting from India, she said. His—

Mr. Kajaria, Carl said, cutting her off. Rahul Kajaria. He’s one of three—soon to be two—investors in a jute mill in Calcutta. I’m unloading my share. He came to sign the paperwork. The front desk said he was headed here. He’s late.

If Carl Digges could end a business partnership as quickly as he fired off sentences, Mr. Kajaria would be halfway to India by now. But Dar could tell by the rustling of taffeta and the sudden whir of ladies’ fans that her mystery guest had something more to offer than just a signature.

I invited him, Lottie whispered as the door squeaked open once more.

CHAPTER 2

A Ouija board and

a wedding veil

R ahul entered the room cheerfully and without fanfare, dropping his briefcase into Mrs. Fields’s waiting arms. His dark complexion confirmed that he was, in fact, a native of India and not an Englishman living abroad, but he was dressed in a three-piece suit and tie to match his English American partner. He glanced at Carl Digges and, seeing that the chairs on either side of him were occupied, took the only seat left—next to Dar’s mother.

I tried my best, but it seems that your séances appeal solely to women and their dragged-along husbands, Virginia was saying, leaning toward her daughter and lowering her voice so only Dar could hear. If you want to be married, you’ll have to find a new hobby.

When Rahul took the seat next to hers, Virginia quickly composed herself and pinched a smile.

Rahul smiled back, and so warmly that Virginia had to spread her fan to cool herself.

Welcome, Mr. Kajaria, Dar said, and when he turned his face to look at her, it was as if he were lifting a lamp to light her path. Shall we begin?

Rahul leaned forward at the mention of his name. Dar was unaware that her beauty fell across the room like a shadow when she spoke. She took it as a reprimand for her diction when he said, You may call me Rahul.

The other guests regarded Rahul with great interest, especially the women. Dar noticed the way they smoothed their dresses and worried their curls, while the men shifted in their seats to improve their posture to his.

The men in the room, she suspected, knew better than to leave their wives alone with the object of their fascination, so there they were, twirling their mustaches and bracing themselves for a night of fainting spells and unbridled emotion.

Dar drew a large breath and recited the introductory speech she had prepared for the evening: We are gathered tonight to honor our loved ones in the afterlife, to commune with the former residents of Cape May, and to use the lessons from the past to inform the future.

Dar thought she heard a snort coming from the other side of the room. She straightened her shoulders and continued. She focused her energy on her safest target: Mrs. Crowe. She was not so old that she was near death herself, but she was old enough to have lost a grandparent or two from natural causes.

I’m sensing a soul that would like to come through, Dar said, turning her face toward the far corner of the room. It’s coming from this direction.

The others turned their heads toward Mrs. Crowe, while Dar waited for a spirit to appear. Dar was stumped. While she could plainly hear the rustling of a dress and feel an electric charge against her skin, she couldn’t see a body.

Dar was moving her head back and forth, looking for the spirit, when Rahul cleared his throat. Maybe the entity is closer to the floor, he suggested.

Dar leaned over to one side and peered under Mrs. Crowe’s chair. She was startled to see a tiny girl, no more than four or five years old, lying face-up on the Oriental rug while moving her arms and legs up and down. Her spirit sparkled and faded like sunlight dancing on freshly fallen snow.

There’s a little girl here! Dar exclaimed. Her heart ached for Mrs. Crowe, whose eyes were already shimmering at the mention of the child.

What is she doing? Mrs. Crowe asked.

She’s making snow angels, Dar said. Who are you, sweetheart? she said to the girl.

Victoria, the girl replied without stopping.

As Dar revealed the identity of her little visitor, Mrs. Crowe pulled a handkerchief out of her dress pocket and sobbed. My granddaughter, she explained through her tears. I was supposed to be watching her while her parents were ill this winter. While I was pouring a hot bath for her, she wandered outside into the snow and got lost. Her tiny feet broke through a thin patch of ice on a stream. The water wasn’t deep, but it was cold. We didn’t find her until the next morning, huddled against the rocks, frozen to death.

Clara gasped, and Carl patted her shoulder. Dar wanted to kick herself for starting out the night with a dead child. Those who weren’t convinced of her talents yet would think she was playing to the vulnerabilities of grieving parents—and charging them handsomely for it.

But she couldn’t dwell on that point for too long. Dar knew the little girl had come for a very important reason. The medium brightened as Victoria toddled over to her chair and whispered in her ear with cold lips.

Victoria says she brought you here this summer because it’s warm, Dar told Mrs. Crowe. She is sorry that she disobeyed you that night. And she promises you will see her again in the afterlife when you and her parents are ready to join her.

Victoria smiled and took off her gloves, wiggling a pair of rosy, dimpled hands. Dar continued. She’s showing me her hands right now. She doesn’t need gloves.

Mrs. Crowe smiled through her tears. Her little body was frostbitten when we found it, she said quietly. Does this mean that she looks the way she used to?

Dar was grateful for a question about the spirit world that had a happy answer. Most spirits, once they’ve crossed over to a higher realm, appear to be in good health, she explained. Older people will even show up as younger versions of themselves.

She could feel young Victoria fading away, so she reached out for one last tidbit for Mrs. Crowe. The little girl stretched out her hand and grabbed the hand of a second shape that flickered into view.

Dar smiled knowingly. I think your husband comes to visit her here as well, she said. Was he handsome in his youth?

Very! Mrs. Crowe laughed. Tell him I miss him, won’t you?

The deceased Mr. Crowe, who appeared to be no older than thirty, reached into a pocket and pulled out a watch on a gold chain. Inside was a picture of him and Mrs. Crowe on their wedding day. Her dainty lips were closed in a serious expression, but her long lashes were cast down demurely, as if she couldn’t bear to share her happiness with the camera. Dar felt a twinge of longing, wondering if she would be wearing such a blissful expression once her mother had wrangled her beneath a wedding veil.

He knows, Dar said. But you’ll be together again someday, and he says you have many years ahead of you that will be happier than this one was.

With that, the two spirits faded. Mrs. Crowe’s story had been a sad one, but Dar could tell from the fans and handkerchiefs that had come out to tend to sympathetic tears that she had already won over the other women. Her guests were in for the night.

The next step was to win over the men that her mother had invited. There was nothing Dar loved more than a good challenge from a skeptical party guest. She looked at Mr. Mustache in the corner—he who had snorted.

You, sir, she said. What is your name?