Black Cat Weekly #156

By Steve Liskow, Anna Tambour, Melodie Johnson Howe and 6 more

Exciting stuff this time: a new Velda P.I. story from Ron Miller, a new supernatural mystery from Steve Liskow (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), plus great modern tales from Melodie Johnson Howe (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman) and Anna Tambour.

On top of that, we have a mystery novel from Isabel Ostrander and a space opera novel from Edmond Hamilton. (Truly something for every taste.) And did I mention science fiction classics from Nelson S. Bond, Ray Cummings, and Evelyn Goldstein? And another solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles?

   Here’s the lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Kindred Spirits,” by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story
]“Who Killed Yogi Barrett?” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Losing It,” by Melodie Johnson Howe [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“E-I-E-I-Oh, Velda!” by Ron Miller [short story, Velda P.I. series]
The Fifth Ace, by Isabel Ostrander [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Kindred Spirits,” by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“None So Seeing As Those Who’ve Seen,” by Anna Tambour [novelet]
“The Recalcitrant,” by Evelyn Goldstein [short story]
“He Who Served,” by Ray Cummings [short story]
“The Ghost of Lancelot Biggs,” by Nelson S. Bond [short story, Lancelot Biggs series]
The Universe Wreckers, by Edmond Hamilton [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Cat Weekly
• Release date: Aug 25, 2024

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE CAT’S MEOW

KINDRED SPIRITS, by Steve Liskow

WHO KILLED YOGI BARRETT?, by Hal Charles

LOSING IT, by Melodie Johnson Howe

E-I-E-I-OH, VELDA!, by Ron Miller

THE FIFTH ACE, by Isabel Ostrander

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

NONE SO SEEING AS THOSE WHO’VE SEEN, by Anna Tambour

THE RECALCITRANT, by Evelyn Goldstein

HE WHO SERVED by Ray Cummings

THE GHOST OF LANCELOT BIGGS, by Nelson S. Bond

THE UNIVERSE WRECKERS, by Edmond Hamilton

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

*

Kindred Spirits is copyright © 2024 by Steve Liskow and appears here for the first time.

Who Killed Yogi Barrett? is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Losing It is copyright © 2012 by Melodie Johnson Howe. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, August 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.

E-I-E-I-Oh, Velda! is copyright © 2024 by Ron Miller and appears here for the first time.

The Fifth Ace, by Isabel Ostrander, was originally published in 1918 under the pseudonym Douglas Grant.

None So Seeing As Those Who’ve Seen is copyright © 2018 by Anna Tambour. Originally published in The Road to Neozon. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Recalcitrant, by Evelyn Goldstein, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, September 1954.

He Who Served, by Ray Cummings, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, September 1954.

The Ghost of Lancelot Biggs, by Nelson S. Bond, was originally published in Weird Tales, January 1942.

The Universe Wreckers, by Edmond Hamilton, was originally published as a three-part serial in Amazing Stories, May to July, 1930.

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR & PUBLISHER

John Betancourt

ART DIRECTOR

Ron Miller

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

EDITORIAL BOARD

Thomas A. Easton

Ryan Hines

Vicki Erwin

Paula Messina

Richard Prosch

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Exciting stuff this time: a new Velda P.I. story from Ron Miller, a new supernatural mystery from Steve Liskow (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), plus great modern tales from Melodie Johnson Howe (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman) and Anna Tambour.

On top of that, we have a mystery novel from Isabel Ostrander and a space opera novel from Edmond Hamilton. (Truly something for every taste.) And did I mention science fiction classics from Nelson S. Bond, Ray Cummings, and Evelyn Goldstein? And another solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles?

Take a look. Here’s the lineup—

Cover Art: Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Kindred Spirits, by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Who Killed Yogi Barrett? by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Losing It, by Melodie Johnson Howe [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

E-I-E-I-Oh, Velda! by Ron Miller [short story, Velda P.I. series]

The Fifth Ace, by Isabel Ostrander [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Kindred Spirits, by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

None So Seeing As Those Who’ve Seen, by Anna Tambour [novelet]

The Recalcitrant, by Evelyn Goldstein [short story]

He Who Served, by Ray Cummings [short story]

The Ghost of Lancelot Biggs, by Nelson S. Bond [short story, Lancelot Biggs series]

The Universe Wreckers, by Edmond Hamilton [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

KINDRED SPIRITS,

by Steve Liskow

The only reason the notice on the bulletin board caught my eye was the two words on the Post-it Note above it: PAID GIG. I put the number in my phone and texted it when my afternoon classes were over. An hour later, a reply invited me for an interview. That Saturday afternoon, I drove eighty miles north and found the Ojibway Historical Society in a red brick mansion that might have been built after the Civil War.

The hardwood floor gleamed with varnish the color of ginger ale, and portraits of stern men and women watched me climb the stairs to Eustacia Houston’s office. Eustacia—I wondered if she was named after an ancestor—wore her brown hair in a bun the size of a cantaloupe, and her glasses made her eyes big as grapes.

Call me ‘Stacy,’ she said. "I did not escape from a Victorian novel." She turned her eyes back to the résumé I’d attached to an email.

Jenna Somerset, she said. Five-foot-seven; hair, brown; eyes, brown. Special skills: armed and unarmed combat, vocalist, jazz dance, English dialects and fluent in Spanish.

She looked up again. Theater major, right? Nobody else puts combat skills on a résumé.

I nodded. I’m a junior.

Spanish, but no German.

Is that a problem?

No, it’s just that the city founders were mostly German or English. Have you done improv?

Not in performance, but I’ve had lots of practice in workshops. The room was only slightly bigger than the bedroom in the apartment I shared, and pictures on the wall showed a saw mill and a large ship on the river that lay less than a mile west of where we sat.

Exactly what are you looking for? I asked. Your notice mentioned pay, but not much else.

In the late eighteen hundreds, Ojibway was one of the largest producers of lumber in the entire world. Stacy took off her glasses to polish them. Without them, she looked thirty instead of fifty. In the late eighteen hundreds, you could walk across the river on the logs without getting your feet wet.

I’m not from around here.

Yes, your accent sounds New England, not Michigan. Stacy settled into the lecture and her energy spiked. I wondered if she’d ever been on-stage herself.

"The city was founded in eighteen twenty-three, so this will be our Bicentennial, last week in October, both sides of Halloween. Tours of the historical sites, a concert in the park down the hill, games, rides, like the County Fair on steroids.

We have docents for tours all year ’round, but for the celebrations, we hire actors to impersonate famous members of the community. The owner of the saw mill, the mayor, servants, characters like that.

Uh-huh. I tried to visualize my own project and performance schedule. So this would go up in four weeks?

That’s right. For the houses, we want actors to portray servants. All the families had several, of course, and servants can dish and give the gossip the family members wouldn’t share. Most of them will be students like you or have regular jobs.

She looked at my résumé. You mention dialects. Can you do Irish? There’s a maid we want to conduct tours at the Heidecke House. That one has a…somewhat colorful past.

How colorful? I made a note to myself that the name Heidecke had three syllables, stress on the first one.

Stacy cleared her throat. Someone died there under mysterious circumstances over a century ago. Two women, in fact. People have claimed to see their ghosts.

Really.

My great-great-great-great-grandmother was hanged as a witch because she had the sight. My female ancestors inherited it too, until it skipped me. The closest I came to being psychic was knowing when my algebra teacher would call on me. It was always when I didn’t know the answer.

I cleared my throat. Tell me more about the Heidecke house.

She sank back in her chair and folded her hands as if her lecture was a polished monologue.

In eighteen-fifty-six, Walter Heidecke formed an alliance with a few other businessmen and built the sawmill on the river. One of the other families was in shipping, and they formed a virtual monopoly. Eventually, the workload was so big that they had to let other people join in, but Heidecke was always the major stockholder. He built the mansion three houses down from here and commissioned the park at the bottom of the hill. He also helped build the first Presbyterian church and a public school.

Sounds impressive. I wondered which of the stern portraits on the stairs was his.

He was very lucky in business, Stacy agreed. But not so much in love. He married the daughter of one of the other partners, but she died a year later in childbirth. Neither of the twins survived.

Ouch. I could imagine a man so driven in business wanting an heir to pass everything on to.

Ouch with an exponent, Stacy said. He married three more times, but none of those marriages bore fruit. His second wife left him, claiming cruelty, and the third died after falling down the main staircase in the house.

Is she one of the ghosts you mentioned?

"Well, after she died, guests claimed they heard someone playing the piano in the house, and she was the only one who could play it. A maid died around the same time, and some people think they’ve seen her ghost, too. She killed herself."

In the house?

Yes. Her name was Brigid Shannon. We don’t have pictures of her, but by all accounts, she was beautiful.

Irish dialect. I saw where this was going.

You want someone to play Brigid Shannon for the tour.

She nodded. Like I said, a maid can gossip. It’s more interesting than putting everyone on a pedestal.

The only reason men put a woman on a pedestal is so they can look up her dress.

Stacy laughed, and she looked younger again.

Interested?

Maybe. I tried to sound casual. What is the payment you mentioned on the flyer?

Training and rehearsal one evening a week and on the weekends beginning next week, then rotating tours with one or two other actors for the actual celebration. We would supply your costume and accommodations. We’re offering five hundred dollars for the rehearsals and tours. Plus any tips you receive.

I didn’t hesitate.

When can I see the house?

Stacy picked up her cell phone.

* * * *

Kris Webster wore a white shirt open to reveal a black T-shirt stretched across pecs that don’t come without serious gym time. He was half a head taller than me, with reddish-brown hair that fell over his forehead and called attention to his eyes. He looked only a year or two older than my own twenty-one.

Kris is our regular docent at the Heidecke house, Stacy said. And he designed the pamphlet for this year.

It was easy. Kris’s grin made me feel warm and runny inside. The history around here is amazing, so the pamphlet pretty much wrote itself.

He escorted me out the door so I could look down the hill toward the park. Steady traffic moved to our left and right a hundred yards below us.

This hill would be great for sledding if there weren’t the traffic down there, I said.

Gratiot Avenue, he said. I made a note of that pronunciation, too. GRAH-shit, not GRAH-tee-o, as my GPS said it.

"You can’t tell because of all the trees, but the hill keeps going down, another few hundred feet after the pavement. Then you’ve got the park itself. Ten baseball diamonds. And kids do sled there in the winter. They flood the park, too, so you can skate."

I can’t even stand up on ice skates, I admitted.

Me neither. Kris waved his arm toward the houses ahead of us, all bigger than the one we’d left behind.

The lumber kings built these castles within a few years of each other, between the end of the Civil War and about eighteen-eighty. They were making money faster than they could count it.

He pointed toward the houses, nearest to farthest.

Fordney, Voght, Heidecke, Bancroft, Bauer and Stevens. The original public library was built by Bauer—that’s the Historical Society building we just left—and there’s an elementary school named after Bancroft. All the others have a street named after them. Oh, and the museum across the river is named after Stevens.

Serious money. I wondered what it would be worth in today’s dollars.

To cry for, Kris agreed. But look at the houses again. Even though these people made their money in lumber, three of the houses are brick because that was considered more fashionable then.

The Heidecke house was one of them. Close up, it looked bigger than the Great Pyramid. A red brick arch rose above the front door, and the porch stretched the entire width of the house, an overhanging roof extending to two pillars beyond the carriage path to shelter visitors from rain. The windows had arched cape lights and shutters of dark wood, eyes that seemed to stare back at me.

Beyond the house, I saw a more modern garage. Enormous maple trees towered over a back yard big enough for a golf course. Beyond the trees, the land sloped down again.

I would have expected a well in the back, I said. But we’re on top of the hill, right?

Right. But the town water works is only a half mile behind you. These houses all had indoor plumbing before nineteen hundred.

Our footsteps echoed on the porch and I felt tiny when I looked at the front door. Kris nodded.

I know, huge, right? But we have some of Walter Heidecke’s suits; he was shorter than you and vain about it. None of his wives were over five feet tall.

Four wives, was it?

Right. Prudence was fifteen and he was fifty-six when he married her. He cleared his throat. I guess he figured if she was young and fertile… Anyway, it didn’t work. But after he died, she adopted a boy and a girl. Nine-year-old twins whose parents were killed in a fire.

He opened the door and revealed a vestibule with polished hardwood floors so shiny I squinted. It led to a reception hall with a breathtaking chandelier and a staircase running up the right side.

That chandelier cost a thousand dollars in eighteen seventy. Now it would be like thirty or forty.

He cleared his throat. Did Stacy tell you about the women who died?

A little. Is that the staircase the third wife fell down?

Agatha, yeah. One of the servants found her at the bottom. They’d been married about four years.

Framed portraits led up the stairs. All the people looked stern and a little unhappy. Uneasy is the head that wears the crown, and all that.

I pointed to the chandelier again. Thirty-six crystal tulips, each holding a bulb, finely-woven chains leading to the central line holding everything to the ceiling, at least twenty feet above us, level with the second-floor railing.

How much does that sucker weigh?

About half a ton. There’s a winch and tackle system above so you can lower it to clean it or change the candles. Bulbs, now. He opened a square panel in the wall under the stairs and showed a lever and a switch. Ingenious, huh?

He cleared his throat. The maid hanged herself from that chandelier.

I tried to swallow but couldn’t.

Late one night, he continued, when everyone was asleep. She used a broom to pull the thing close enough to the stair rail so she could fasten a rope. Then she climbed over the railing and…

My throat felt tight. And people see her ghost, too?

Yeah. A few people claimed they saw a woman with long red hair hanging from the chandelier. Not so much now because nobody’s lived here at night for about sixty years.

He gestured toward a set of double doors on the left. They had stained glass windows that made me think of a Tiffany lamp.

We’ll go through the ground floor, first. Are you officially hired?

Not quite, I said. But I think it’s pretty much a done deal if I want it.

He nodded. Great. We’ve got scripts for all the actors. I can email you a copy, along with notes on all the rooms. If you can stay all day, we can go through the place again so you start getting a feel for it.

Spending more time with him wouldn’t suck. We stepped through those double doors into a ballroom with windows along two sides, the sun reflecting off the varnished dance floor again. A huge fireplace stood to my left, and a few chairs that looked beautiful and uncomfortable faced a baby grand piano to my right.

The dead wife is the only one who played? I asked.

Uh-huh. For hours when she was alone. If they’d had kids, she probably would have taught them, too.

He hesitated. Heidecke loved to throw parties for holidays. He had a few after Agatha died, but people stopped coming. Especially when stories got around about people hearing the piano.

He led the way to a kitchen with an island and an oven big enough to accommodate the banquets for the guests. Then the library, much smaller than I expected. Dark and gloomy enough that I expected a raven to croak, Nevermore.

After the ballroom, all the other rooms seemed tiny, and the low ceilings and dark furniture made them feel even more so. I knew that was the style in old Victorians, but even I felt cramped by the rest of the first floor.

The bedrooms are bigger, Kris said. He stopped by one of the portraits at the top of the stairs.

This is Walter with Agatha. You can see here, he’s barely taller than she is, and we know she was only four-eleven.

The man scowled out at us, small eyes under heavy eyebrows and black hair. His mouth knotted into a twist that made me want to apologize for whatever was wrong.

Was his hair really that dark? I asked, or is it just the photography.

He had jet-black hair until the day he died, Kris said. He was sixty-four then, about ten years after this picture was taken.

The master bedroom had a magnificent four-poster bed with covers and pillows and a comforter so pink I thought of cotton candy. The bureau had eight drawers, and the closet was bigger than the library.

Prudence died in the bed, Kris said. Her adopted children were with her. Along with their spouses.

How old was she then? I asked. I doubted that the woman’s clothes were in the closet, but I itched to check it out.

Eighty-two. She died in nineteen sixty-two. The kids were in their fifties.

Tough lady.

I guess she had to be to put up with hubby. When he died, she took over the business, and was apparently sharp as a cross-cut saw.

The room had a modern bathroom. Kris showed me Heidecke’s dressing room, bigger than most of the downstairs rooms, and with a separate bathroom of its own. A velvet love seat that looked more comfortable than any other furniture I’d seen faced the window.

We looked at the billiard room and Heidecke’s home office with a telephone and an ancient typewriter near a desk bigger than my car.

He didn’t type, Kris said. He had a secretary for that.

Two more rooms that were guest bedrooms before the adopted twins took them over lay beyond the office. One last room, across from the master bedroom, had a crib and a toy chest resembling a carved elephant. The walls were pale yellow and happier than every other room I’d seen so far. For the babies Heidecke wanted so badly.

I found that a little harder to take than I expected.

We looked at the servants’ quarters on the third floor. The last room had a bed and a small bureau with a mirror atop.

This was Brigid’s room, Kris said. Nobody used it after she died.

A back stairway led down to the kitchen. When we reached the front hall again, Kris turned to me.

How about it? Interested?

I nodded. Absolutely. This is awesome.

Maybe I could even get some kind of extra acting credit to put on my résumé later. And get to know Kris a lot better.

We went back to the office and I read the contract twice before signing. It was early afternoon and I was hungry.

Is there somewhere nearby I could grab a sandwich or something?

There’s a Pizza Hut downtown, Kris said. You want to go there?

I grew up in Connecticut, where they invented pizza. To me Pizza Hut was one step above a mime performing music, but I didn’t say so.

Sure. Then maybe you can take me through the house again.

That works. He pulled out his car keys. I’ll drive.

* * * *

I ordered a salad while Kris worked through a pizza that looked heavy on cheese and light on meatballs.

You’re a theater major, he said, so why didn’t you go to Yale? They’ve got a good program, right?

Worth every penny, I hear, I said. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough pennies.

One perk of theater is that you make lots of friends. If a bunch of us rehearsed together on weekends, we’d probably go out for pizza and beer at least once.

Besides, I wanted to get out of the state, see a little more of the world.

So, why not the Royal Academy in England?

They talk funny over there.

Said the woman who can do dialects.

He watched me toss my lettuce with my fork. Pizza may come and go, but garden vegetables don’t offer a lot of surprises. And, since I’m a woman in theater, I worry about every ounce and inch.

How did you get into a job at the historical society? I’d always thought of docents as little old ladies with glasses on a chain.

I was a history major, of course. And I had a girlfriend from Ojibway, so I came up and saw the town and those great old buildings. One thing kind of led to another.

A girlfriend. I kept my voice neutral.

Last I heard, she’s married and living in Arizona.

But you’re originally from around here, I said. I recognize your vowels and rhythm.

After we ate, he took a slightly more scenic route back to the houses on the hill and pointed out another brick building at a busy intersection. I saw a bridge beyond it.

That’s the hotel where we’ll put people up for the week, he said. They’re one of our sponsors, and we cut a deal with them. I hope you don’t mind a roommate.

Not if she doesn’t snore or bring home more than three guys at a time.

He shook his head.

You can only have two. I wrote it into the contract.

When we returned to the office, Kris sent copies of the script and files of extra notes to my email. I downloaded them to my phone so I could look at them right away and figured I’d print out a copy when I got home. He glanced at the clock and back at me.

Jim’s tour of the house is finishing up, so we can go over and take as much time as we want.

We took a lot of it. I tried to read off my phone in an Irish accent while I walked the rooms several times. Whoever wrote the script might have been Irish, because using a brogue really brought the language to life. They threw in fascinating details that made the family and the building come alive. References to the piano, the chandelier, the four-poster bed, and the happily-decorated nursery that never housed a baby gave me cues, too.

I assembled all the information, Kris said, but a local playwright put it together. It sounds good when you do it with the brogue.

I found a story about Brigid Shannon, the maid who killed herself. She was pregnant, but her sweetheart abandoned her when she told him.

Timothy Drury, Kris said, one of the grooms in the stable. He took off a few days before Brigid killed herself, and he was never seen again.

I hope the bastard’s life was short and bitter, I said. I’d say she was better off without him, except that she killed herself.

Kris shook his head. Don’t forget, it was the eighteen nineties. Unwed women were a disgrace, especially in the upper-class families.

Wealthy families. I scrolled further. No one who treats a woman this way is really upper-class.

No argument here.

We looked at the chandelier and I consulted the notes on my phone again.

For years, guests have seen a shadow on the wall late at night, slowly swinging from that chandelier. I guess that would be Brigid. Me.

I looked at Kris again. Does that still happen?

Nobody has lived in the house since Prudence died. But it’s a cool story, the kind visitors love to hear.

The next story told of Agatha, the third wife, and her fatal plunge down that same staircase and people hearing her piano. I wondered about separating those two stories, but Kris pointed out that the women died the same week, so connecting them made sense.

I wondered if there was a stronger connection than the timing, too, but there was no way to find out.

We continued through the rest of the house: bedrooms, servants’ quarters, office, and the unused nursery. By the time we finished, it was late afternoon. I wished I’d packed a bag for overnight. With a witch in my family tree, you’d think I could plan ahead better.

I have to get back to campus. I’ve got classes to study for, and I’m going to have to find friends to record the classes I’ll miss the week I’m up here.

You have time to eat again before you go?

I know temptation when I see it. A salad would lead to an entrée, and that could lead to dessert. Tempting, but much too soon.

I’d better not. Next week, okay?

Done deal.

He walked me back to my car and I watched him stand outside the building while I drove down Gratiot—GRAH-shit—toward I-75.

* * * *

Over the next week, I ran the lines for my tour as Brigid at least once every day. Shauna, my roommate, was a theater major, too, and she held book Thursday and Friday so I could see how much I’d memorized. The real rooms and furniture would give me cues, but it was basically a fifty-to-sixty-minute monologue. The playwright who wrote it knew how to link lines so they were easier to learn, though, bless him.

The notes Kris sent along with the script said Brigid Shannon hanged herself only two days before Agatha Heidecke fell down the stairs. I wondered again if something tied the two deaths together.

When I reached the Historical Center late Saturday morning, Stacy introduced me to Cassidy, a petite redhead who was also playing Brigid, and Magenta, nearly six feet tall and wearing enough eye-liner to pass for the Lone Ranger.

Magenta is designing your costume, Stacy said.

Actually, it’s a pretty run of the mill maid’s costume. Magenta’s voice was dark and sultry, a perfect fit for her big frame. But I need your measurements, and you left them off your résumé.

I joined her in a room off the lobby, where a tape measure, scissors, and several bolts of fabric lay on a table. A full-length mirror stood on the opposite wall.

What’s your shoe size? Magenta asked.

I told her. Do the maid’s shoes have a high heel?

No, Heidecke was so touchy about being short. They look clunky as bricks, but they’ll give you lots of arch support, and the high back is good for your ankles.

I took off my sweatshirt and let her run the tape around my chest, then my waist.

I’ll bet you’re hot as hell in a ball gown, aren’t you?

I love doing restoration plays, I said. The dresses take an hour to get into, but they make me feel like royalty.

She looked at her measuring tape, then at my face. And the push-up bodices…

I sensed something beyond professional interest.

Kris would probably like that if I wore it, wouldn’t he?

You think? She returned to business again.

The skirt will be mid-calf and with black tights. I need your inseam length.

She promised to have shoes the following week so I could get used to them, then sent me on my way. Kris and Cassidy were chatting in the lobby, Cassidy in jeans that fit her even better than mine fit me, and a sweater that matched her hair. Her eyes looked like jade and her nose made her look like the world’s sexiest chipmunk. Kris listened to her so attentively I was afraid he was going to strain his ears.

We passed the Fordney and Voght mansions, one brick and one wood, while Cassidy and I checked each other out. She worked as a receptionist for a dentist in Ojibway, and did lots of local theater. Considering her looks, I suspected she did lots of leading men, too. Then I told myself I was being catty.

The Heidecke fortress looked even more massive than I remembered. When we mounted the front steps, Cassidy took Kris’s arm and I caught myself biting my tongue.

She and I took turns narrating room by room with Kris following the script on his phone. Cassidy turned Brigid into a perky colleen, cute enough to give me sugar shock. I tried to make her more melancholy. After all, the man who got her pregnant abandoned her, and she hanged herself from the magnificent chandelier above our heads. She was sixteen.

We went out to the porch and watched the traffic down the hill. A few people stood on the porch of the Bancroft house to our left, probably the actors working on speeches for their house tours, too.

You’re both sounding good already, Kris said. Cassidy showed him her dimples and I gritted my teeth.

I need to get more connected with the house, I said. Some of the furniture and pictures have such great stories, I want to feel closer to them.

Cassidy nodded enthusiastically. Absolutely. Method acting, right?

I felt an idea spring to life.

Is the piano in the ballroom in tune?

It should be. We have it tuned and maintained regularly, along with dusting everything and polishing all the silver. I don’t envy the poor woman who does that. Thirty place settings.

I decided to get a feather duster to use as a prop, but didn’t say it out loud. And maybe I’d play a few notes on the piano. I wondered how it sounded in that big beautiful ball room.

It’s too bad there aren’t any pictures of the servants, Cassidy said. I’d like to see what Brigid looked like so I could do my hair the same way. Or maybe wear a wig.

Well, she was probably short like you. I could have bitten my tongue off after I heard myself say that out loud. Kris nodded.

Yeah, Walter Heidecke wouldn’t have hired a woman taller than he was himself.

Not a stork like Jenna here, that’s for sure. Cassidy’s green eyes flickered.

We went back inside and switched off on the rooms for our monologues again. I stumbled a few times because the gloom hiding under the glamour seemed to be sinking into me. My voice got a little slower and it felt different somehow.

When we reached the ballroom, I talked about the guests and pointed out the bandstand at the far end of the room opposite the fireplace. My voice filled the space like I wore a mic on my collar. We walked around the room, and ended up back by that baby grand.

Agatha, Mr. Heidecke’s third wife, was the only one who played, I said. My brogue came out naturally. Sure, and when she touched the keys, she gave you a little touch of heaven.

I tapped a couple of the white keys, then a black one. I don’t play at all, but the notes sounded beautiful when they floated out over the dance floor. Cassidy’s eyes widened and I knew she was going to try the same thing next time around. I didn’t care; Kris saw me do it first.

We moved to the third floor, the servants’ quarters, and Cassidy told how she—Brigid—was heartbroken when Timothy Drury left her with child and disappeared. We descended the back stairs to the second floor, with the bedrooms and vacant nursery. Cassidy’s voice became more operatic and she pantomimed tying the rope around the chandelier and the other end around her neck. She threw one leg over the railing and Kris stopped her.

Maybe don’t get that into it, he said.

She pouted but stepped back. We descended the stairs to the main hall. Kris stepped toward the vestibule, both of us behind him, Cassidy ahead of me, when I thought I heard something and stopped.

Kris turned and Cassidy almost walked into him.

Jenna?

Oh, sorry. I stepped toward them and tried to make my face neutral. Kris frowned and looked at me, then reached out to take my hand.

Are you all right? You look a little…

No, I said, too quickly. I’m fine. I’m always wiped after a performance.

Cassidy looked up the stairs and Kris looked over my shoulder, back toward the ballroom and kitchen, but I shook my head.

I’m okay. Really. I’m just…pushed myself too hard on an empty stomach.

No way was I going to tell them I heard the piano in the ball room.

* * * *

We rehearsed twice more in the afternoon, and I didn’t mention the piano to either Kris or Cassidy. But when I got back to campus, I texted Rowena, who was heavily into the supernatural. She came from New Orleans and read Tarot cards, which her mother had taught her before she entered grade school.

She knocked on my door in half an hour, carrying a bottle of red wine in one hand. Her extensions reached halfway down her back and her eyes gleamed.

Girlfriend, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.

I stared. How did you know?

She put down the bottle and hugged me. Oh, damn, Missy. I’ve been waiting for this. You told me you were doing a gig in a haunted house, so I knew it was gonna happen. It’s in your blood, right? For like, how many generations?

I caught myself before I told her, five. Rowena slid by me to the kitchen for two glasses and I followed, making vague protesting noises. She turned.

You don’t want the grape? I got weed, too.

We’ll do wine. Weed makes me horny.

All undressed and nowhere to go, right? Sucks being beautiful.

She poured two glasses and led me back to the couch. Now, tell Sistah Rowena everything. All of it.

I did. By the time I finished about the houses, the dead wives, the suicidal maid, and the piano, my glass was empty. Rowena poured me another.

Damn, girl, you opened a portal or something. That dead wife’s trying to talk to you.

Rowena, give me a—

Nuh, nuh, nuh. You’re in the house, you caught the vibe, and the spirits picked up on it. The descendant of a witch. They been waiting so long. Like, how much, a hundred years and change?

I shook my head. It doesn’t work.

Why not? You’re playing one of the dead women, right? She’s connecting with you, let her in.

No, it’s wrong. The dead wife played the piano. I’m playing the maid. She didn’t play piano. She might have been able to sing, but no way she sang with Agatha, and definitely not at any of the parties. She wouldn’t have been allowed in the room then, except maybe to carry a tray.

Rowena moved her lips in and out and half-closed her eyes. All she needed was a crystal ball and some incense.

Uh, those two women who died. How close together did you say?

A few days, why?

What were the dates? Exactly.

Um, wait a minute.

I brought up Kris’s notes on my screen and scrolled through until I found it.

Brigid, the maid, hanged herself two days before Agatha fell down the stairs.

My hands felt cold. When I looked at the dates, they turned even colder.

October twenty-ninth and October thirty-first. Halloween.

We looked at each other for what felt like a long time. Then we both drained our wine glasses again. Rowena looked at me with might have been either awe or envy.

Damn, you are really something else, Jenna Girl. Something else. Those restless spirits are reaching out to you like a long-lost friend. A sympathetic soul who can help them.

I shook my head.

Restless spirits. Right.

More like kindred spirits. Rowena gave me a smile that belonged on a game show hostess. Like it or not, Missy, one of these ghosts connects with you. So you’re gonna have to go with it.

* * * *

When I went back the following week, Magenta showed me my new shoes, and I was surprised how comfortable they were. I’ve worn shoes on-stage that should have been outlawed as instruments of torture, but these felt light on my feet and still gave me lots of arch support. Cassidy liked the slight heels that gave her rear even more action on stairs. Kris noticed, too.

When will we see the costumes? Cassidy asked. Her voice sounded like her tight jeans were squeezing her too much. I can hardly wait.

I should have something next week, Magenta said. They won’t be finished, but you’ll get the idea and I’ll see what I need to fix.

I love French maid’s costumes, Cassidy bubbled. "Like in, what’s that play? A Flea in Her Ear? Is that it?"

I knew the play, a sex farce. I could picture Cassidy in a costume cut low enough to show her navel and a skirt short enough to show her tonsils when she bent over.

We walked over to the Heidecke house, big fluffy clouds filling the sky and a slight breeze fluffing my hair. Cassidy and I alternated rooms, the way we’d done the week before, with Kris following the lines on his phone.

I was almost perfect on my lines. Cassidy was, too, but felt more like soap opera than history for my taste. Kris, of course, looked like he wanted to eat her up with a spoon, maybe even with whipped cream and a cherry on top. I suspected it was far too late for that.

Being in the house again, I felt heavier and caught myself looking over my shoulder a few times. Nothing was there. While I talked about the ballroom, my voice seemed to echo more than before, almost as if someone were speaking along with me. I looked around, but there was nobody there but the three of us. Of course.

Then, when we left the room, I heard a piano chord and stopped in my tracks. The other two looked at me.

Did you hear that?

Hear what? Kris asked. He and Cassidy glanced around. The hallway seemed a little darker and even more constrained. My throat felt tight.

The piano, I croaked. I thought I just heard a piano. Just a couple of notes.

They looked at each other, then back at me.

Um, no. Cassidy’s eyes grew enormous. Wow, you really get into your character, that’s so cool. How do you do that?

I took a deep breath and forced air back into my lungs.

Practice, I said. And I guess a character you can really relate to.

When we broke for lunch, Cassidy and I sat on one side of the booth and Kris sat across from her. I was pretty sure she was stroking his leg with her foot and considered backhanding her. Luckily for her, I was hungry, and my sandwich was sloppy enough that I had to hold it with both hands.

I texted Rowena and told her what happened. She replied in minutes.

Don’t fight it. Go with it.

Like I had a choice.

When we went back to the house after lunch, we traded rooms again, and this time I knew I heard another voice talking along with Cassidy. An Irish brogue, but a slightly deeper voice, sad instead of perky. I looked around the room instead of at Cassidy or Kris. When we left, I heard a piano chord again, and my voice felt tighter while I talked in the hall.

By the time we finished, I felt twenty pounds heavier, my hair plastered to my forehead, but so wired I expected sparks to come out of my mouth when I talked. I drove back to campus and texted Rowena again. She came over right away, this time without the wine, and I told her about my day in a haunted house.

They like you, she said. Or at least, they trust you.

Lucky me, I said. I’m a chaperone for restless spirits. So what happens now? Am I going to have to adopt one?

She pulled a baggie and rolling papers from her purse. I watched her roll a joint and fire it up before she spoke.

I don’t know, Girl. Best guess? You said you feel like you’re choking by the stairs, right?

I nodded. She took a hit and passed the joint over to me.

You’re hearing the piano and a voice that might be the wife, but you’re acting the maid. I think she wants a piece of the action, too, but she’s not as powerful.

I let out the smoke. It burned in my throat and felt like a rope tightening around my neck.

That makes zero-effing-sense.

This ain’t science, Girlfriend. It ain’t even algebra. We’re feeling our way here.

She took another hit and held it for a minute, then let it out.

It’s good that you’re an actor. You’re used to opening up to connect with other people. And you understand your own body and feelings.

Okay. So now what? I was feeling more relaxed and open, like anything could happen and it would be all right.

Just keep doing what you’re doing. You said you’ve got the lines for the maid down, yes?

Almost perfect. And I’m getting used to the house.

I remembered how that house felt around me. Or vice versa.

Actually, I feel different in there. Kind of heavy and sad. And lonely.

Really.

Rowena watched me take another hit.

Want my best guess? I think you’re getting closer to the maid, too. That’s the choking thing. Maybe the heaviness and sadness, too. Or maybe that’s both women.

I followed her pretzel logic like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn.

If you’re right, something else is gonna happen next week, isn’t it?

Bet on it. They’re both trying to reach you, and every time you’re in the house, they get a little closer. They know you better and better, especially the maid because you’re trying to become her. They’re teaching you how to listen to them.

I thought about the calendar, and the dates when the women died. We would be doing tours on the anniversary of both deaths.

* * * *

When I went back two weeks later—the week before the festival—I brought a red wig that I knew I could use in a lot of roles besides Brigid. And I took Stacy aside and told her about my experiences.

She frowned as the full meaning of my adventures sank in.

Are you sure you’re all right? It’s safe for you to keep doing this?

I nodded. But I’m wondering if something else will happen today.

Like what?

I don’t know. Maybe I’ll hear the piano again, but I can’t imagine how the maid will try to get in touch with me. If that’s really going to happen. Maybe I’m just getting into the role too much.

If it’s doing so much to you, maybe we shouldn’t let you do this.

I saw five hundred dollars floating away on an expensive Persian rug like the Heidecke house had in every room.

No, I really want to do this. It’s different from anything else I’ve ever done. And how can it be dangerous? Cassidy’s right, or at least partially. Even if ghosts are real, they don’t have any substance, right? They can’t do any physical damage. And I’m in good shape, it’s not like I’ll have a heart attack or something.

I couldn’t tell her the truth, that I wanted to connect with the ghosts. I wanted to feel like I was really part of my family tree instead of the dead limb. Was that too much to ask?

We went downstairs to the main room in time to see Cassidy emerge from the fitting room in her maid’s costume with an entrance that needed a follow spot and a trumpet fanfare. Magenta let out the bodice and lengthened the skirt so she didn’t look quite so much like one of the Hot Box Girls from Guys and Dolls.

Magenta gestured to me.

Your turn.

The costume looked like we were born for each other, especially in my wig. I looked in the mirror and felt myself sinking even deeper into the role. Magenta gave me two thumbs up.

Damn, sometimes I even amaze myself. You look fresh off the boat.

Magenta made only a few tweaks to my costume, nothing I couldn’t have done myself, except that I would have taken longer. We trudged over to the mansion again. Cassidy seemed more cheerful, and I wondered what deals the others cut with her while Magenta was nipping and tucking my costume.

There’s a party after the last tour on Halloween, she said. Can we bring a date?

Absolutely, Kris said. Which meant that he and Cassidy weren’t a couple. I wouldn’t have minded hooking up with him, especially since I wasn’t going to ask some guy to drive two hours from school and kill time all day until I did my tours.

When we reached the Heidecke front porch, the windows stared out at us as if they knew our secrets but had plenty of their own that we would never discover. Kris pulled a quarter from his pocket.

Today, I’m going to have each of you do the entire tour without switching back and forth. Call the flip to see who goes first.

Cassidy called heads and won.

She bent at the waist and sagged slowly until her hands were flat on the floor, then slowly straightened up and let her head loll loosely on her neck. Then she recited two or three tongue twisters and grimaced a few times to relax her face. Finally, she took a deep breath and held it for about sixty seconds. When she let it out, she nodded to Kris.

Let’s do it.

Little girl playing actress. Bite me. Said the girl wearing a red wig.

We entered the vestibule and Cassidy started her monologue, sounding like a Disney Leprechaun more than a maid, but Kris was the director, not me. We went into the reception hall, and she pointed out the deacon’s bench, the umbrella stand, and the thousand-dollar chandelier. I thought I caught movement over on the wall of portraits leading up the stairs, but when I turned that way, nothing seemed different.

Cassidy led us into the ball room and swept her arm grandly around the space. She strode to the fireplace, then mounted the bandstand and posed prettily. Her diction was sharp and her voice strong, even in the high register. She minced across the floor to the piano.

Walter Heidecke bought this for Agatha, his third wife, as a wedding present, she said. Sure and she loved it, played it like magic. If the couple had been blessed with children, they would have probably played it, too. But Agatha had no children. That was the curse of the family, no heirs, though the Master wanted them dearly.

Something pressed on my shoulders and I heard another voice accompanying Cassidy. It sounded sad, especially when she talked about no family heir. Cassidy sat on the piano stool and played a few notes. Then she ran her right hand down the top keys so we heard a flurry of notes, cascading one on top of another.

With a dissonant crash, the cover slammed down on her fingers.

Ow! Son of a bitch!

She leapt off the bench and shook her hand vigorously, then stuck her fingers in her mouth. Damn.

Kris and I hurried to her. Her fingertips were already pink and I could almost feel the bruises forming. She was going to have a hard time with buttons for a few days.

What the hell? Kris said. Let’s go in the kitchen and put cold water on them.

I’m all right, Cassidy said. Clearly, she wasn’t, but I had to give her props. The show must go on.

How could that happen? Kris demanded. That’s so weird.

We went through the door to the kitchen and I stopped in the doorway. Then I looked at Kris and Cassidy.

I hear the piano playing again.

Cassidy turned on the cold water and stuck her fingers in the stream, but Kris turned to me.

Really?

Yeah. It’s playing a song. I don’t know what it is, but it sounds happy.

Cassidy said something else, but I didn’t hear it because of the water. Maybe that was a good thing.

We continued the tour without any more weirdness until we worked through the second-floor bedrooms and reached the top of the stairs. Cassidy pointed to the chandelier and told about hanging herself after her lover abandoned her. She sounded more operatic than bereft, though, and I found myself turning toward the portraits so she wouldn’t see my eye roll.

Something dark moved on the wall by the portraits again. I blinked and watched more carefully. It was a shadow, but the light from the chandelier fell directly on that wall, so there couldn’t be a shadow there without a person. I looked even more closely. Yes, it was a shadow, and it moved back and forth, back and forth.

It was Brigid Shannon’s body swinging on a rope, back and forth, back and forth.

My scream should have shattered every tulip in that light fixture.

* * * *

I did not faint. I know that for sure. I absolutely did not faint. But the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the top step and Kris looked down me with his eyes narrow and his forehead wrinkled. Cassidy hovered behind him, her own face the color of the lace curtains in the master bedroom.

Are you all right? Kris asked. Well, no, sorry, stupid question. What—?

Damn, Cassidy said. If I could scream like that…

Shut up. Kris didn’t even look at her. I tried to swallow but my throat felt even tighter. I tried again and did better.

Brigid. It came out as a weak croak. I saw a shadow on the wall, it looked like a body swinging, like it was hanging on the…

I waved toward the chandelier. They both looked that way, then toward the portraits.

Um, there’s nothing there, Kris said.

I nodded and tried to swallow again. I know. It’s impossible. But I saw…

Go down to the kitchen and get a glass of water. When Cassidy didn’t move, he snapped, Now.

I tried to stand, but he stopped me.

Um, Jenna, there’s something you’re not telling us.

I waited until Cassidy returned, then held the glass in both hands and sipped slowly. How could I make them believe what I didn’t really believe myself?

Can we go outside for a minute? I asked. Get some fresh air?

I didn’t want the ghosts to hear what I said. Just in case there were ghosts. And they took sides. Kris held my arm all the way down the stairs and out onto the porch, where the cool autumn air filled my head and made me feel more my old self.

Okay, I said. I don’t really understand it either, but I think the ghosts are trying to talk to me.

They both started talking at once and I waved my hands and shook my head.

I don’t know why or how or anything. All I know is I’ve heard the piano in the ballroom a few times—I told you about that—and feeling different in the house.

Cassidy frowned and it made her look like an angry bunny.

Excuse me? she demanded. Are you seriously telling us you’re seeing ghosts. Ghosts aren’t real.

I don’t know, I said. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, but one of my friends, who’s seriously into the supernatural, thinks the two dead women in the house are trying to communicate through me.

That is so bogus. You’re just trying to get more attention.

I stared at her. It’s not like I planned this. It’s not like I even really understand it. But I know I feel different in the house and something’s going on.

Bite me, Cassidy snapped. We’re both doing the tours, sharing the role, but you want star billing. I know a diva when I see one.

I looked at her and decided she wasn’t worth slapping. Today something slammed the lid on your hand. I think Agatha didn’t want you playing her piano.

Cassidy looked down at her fingers, already a lovely shade of lavender around the nails. Kris glanced over, too, then back at me.

I’ve heard a voice under both of us, saying our lines. It’s like someone singing harmony, sort of, and it’s a woman with a brogue.

Now I know you’re shi— Cassidy stopped and looked at her fingers again.

And just now, when you were talking about Brigid hanging herself, I thought I saw her shadow swinging back and forth on the wall, then a woman hanging on a rope. That’s what made me scream.

I coughed.

And my throat’s getting tight when we talk about Brigid, or her hanging. Like I’m choking.

They didn’t say anything for a few minutes. The traffic on Gratiot honked and growled below us. Finally, Kris asked the big one.

But if this is really happening, why you? We’ve had docents here for years. Why hasn’t someone else had the ghost connect with them?

I don’t know. Maybe it has happened before, but they’ve been afraid to tell anyone. I mean, it sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Would you even be listening to me if something hadn’t slammed the piano on Cassidy a few minutes ago?

Umm…

I decided to put all the cards on the table.

One of my ancestors was hanged in Massachusetts during the witch trials. Psychic powers have passed down through my family. Until me. Until now.

They looked at me like I’d just asked if the Great Pumpkin would be at the party next week.

Well, it makes as much sense as anything else, doesn’t it?

I had them there, and they knew it. Kris watched the traffic for a minute before speaking again.

So, what now?

I was afraid he’d ask that.

Well, I said, I guess we should finish rehearsing for the day.

Cassidy looked back inside and licked her lips.

Hey, I said. I haven’t gone yet. What if they’re waiting for me, too?

Cassidy licked her lips again. Don’t say that, okay?

We moved back inside and Kris brought up the script on his phone again. We went back up the stairs to where we’d left off a few minutes before and Cassidy finished her turn, only another five minutes. I expected another shadow, but nothing happened. Maybe Brigid was saving herself for my real solo.

We adjourned to the porch again so Kris and Cassidy could talk about her few line mistakes. Most of them came after she’d had her fingers slammed in the piano.

When we went back inside, that sadness oozed into my body again, only worse. I led the others around the house, but it seemed distant now, as though I were looking through gauze. And a little bit dim. I didn’t touch the piano, so nothing happened there. But when we reached the Master’s changing room and separate bath, the sadness pressed on me so heavily that I almost sat down on the loveseat for a minute. Fortunately, I didn’t have much to say in there, and I felt stronger when we moved back into the hall.

When we reached the top of the stairs again, I gripped the railing with both hands and felt my voice change. I looked toward the chandelier. Something blurry shimmered below it, but I couldn’t make out what it was even though I thought I knew.

Because of the patch of red.

* * * *

When we returned to the Historical Society building, Kris caught Stacy up on what happened at the Heidecke house. She looked amazed, then incredulous, then curious. Then worried.

Um, Jenna?

I was pretty sure she was going to cut me loose from the gig, and that would suck. Before she could do that, I had an idea.

Do any of the other actors or someone on your staff play piano, I mean, really well?

Stacy shook her head. Not that I know of. Why?

I tried to make the crazy sound logical again. Fortunately, I was getting lots of practice.

Well, I’m connecting with both women some, but more with Brigid. Maybe because that’s the role, maybe because of the wig, I don’t know. But I’m guessing Agatha didn’t like Cassidy messing with her piano. Maybe if a real musician plays it during the tour, she’ll try to reach me again.

They were quiet for so long I couldn’t decide if they were weighing the idea or trying to decide who would point me toward the door. Kris finally spoke.

The piano bench has music in it, and it’s probably what Agatha played.

Stacy nodded. I can call the local musicians union. I’m sure there’s a pianist who would do it, especially if we offer them money.

Try to find a woman, I said. And I think we’d need her especially on Halloween night. That’s the night Agatha died.

I didn’t even want to think about the twenty-ninth, two days earlier.

The night Brigid Shannon hanged herself.

* * * *

The festival would go from Saturday to Saturday, with Halloween the Tuesday in between. I spent the week before making sure yet again that my acting coaches and classes knew I had a paid gig and wouldn’t be showing up, and that friends would take notes for the other classes I missed.

The Wednesday before the festival, Kris texted me.

Looked through our notes and found $1K missing from H safe before B’s BF split. Coincidence?

Did that mean Tim Drury stole it to finance his life after fleeing? In 1892, a thousand dollars was several years’ wages for servants like Tim or Brigid, more than enough to set up housekeeping somewhere else for a family with a newborn child. I