I’m going to take a month off from the weekly question and do something I used to do for the National Post in August. Instead of writing The Bookless Club, I’m going to do a short story each week. To make this a more challenging project, I’m going to ask you to send me one word that you’d like to see incorporated into a story.
This week’s story posts on three words from you, dear readers. Glen Taylor sent in the word “ectoplasm”; Bonnie Hamilton’s submission was the word “circle” and from Margaret Dutilloy, the word “rescue”. Ectoplasm sort of set the tone and luckily, isn’t just associated with biology, but with the supernatural, as well. Herewith, a ghost story.
EDITH, EYDIE AND ECTOPLASM
In the small town of Marigold, stories spun like spider webs—fragile and intricate, catching the light just so. It was the kind of place where people believed in ghosts, not out of fear, but out of a sense of continuity. The past lived with the present here, braided into the fabric of everyday life.
In the small town of Marigold, stories spun like spider webs …
Eydie Danforth was a woman with a heart tuned to the strange frequencies of Marigold. She was a fifth generation Marigolder and had inherited her great grandmother’s old shingle-sided house. It was a house full of secrets, murmured from one generation to the next, the kind that spoke of whispered legends such had been her great grandmother.
In the second week of rain that damp summer, Eydie found herself kneeling on the attic floor, sorting through her great grandmother’s chest. Beneath the moth-eaten handknits and her great grandfather’s death certificate, she discovered an envelope, yellowed with age, and marked with a curious symbol: a swirl that expanded to form a circle.
The envelope contained a single photograph. In it, her grandmother, Edith, was standing with a group of women in a circle. Behind them loomed the old Sanderson mansion long before untimely death had claimed Clement Sanderson and before Virginia creeper had concealed the handsome, old facade. Turning over the photograph Amanda saw the words, “The Ectoplasm Circle, 1928” in her great grandmother’s unmistakable penmanship.
Ectoplasm. The word conjured images of séances and spirits …
Ectoplasm. The word conjured images of séances and spirits, of the unseen made visible. Eydie’s grandmother, a formidable woman, had always kept her own counsel. Widowed, with two small children to support, Edith had also proven resourceful. Eydie remembered the stories confided to her alone, of nights when Edith would gather with the similarly grief stricken, invoking the spirits, seeking the guidance of those who had passed beyond the veil.
Though she numbered amongst the bereaved, Edith also charged for this service.
Driven by a curiosity she couldn’t quite name, Eydie ventured into the rain following the path to the old mansion in the photograph. The house was so long abandoned that held little fascination, even for even the children of Marigold.
The door creaked open as if it had been waiting for her.
There is a scent both intriguing and repellent unique to forsaken homes. Shadows limber up with the introduction of infrequent gusts. Eydie wafted from room to room. In the parlor, she came upon a circle of chairs covered with a fine silt of dust. In the center of the circle lay a leather-bound book, its pages filled with handwritten notations and of what appeared to be sketches cloud formations.
The words told the story of the Ectoplasm Circle, a group of women who had sought to communicate with the beyond. They had believed that ectoplasm, a substance said to be exuded by mediums during spiritual encounters, was the key to unlocking the mysteries of the afterlife. They had gathered in this very room, joining hands, in a desperate bid to make contact with lost loved ones.
As Eydie read, she felt a connection to these women. They had sought understanding, solace, and perhaps, a measure of control over the dire uncertainties of life. Husbands died in accidents of every variety; wives died in childbirth; children succumbed to a laundry list of illnesses; the elderly perished in a hard winter. It was a miracle to survive into old age. You could expect your heart to be broken a dozen times.
… a measure of control over the dire uncertainties of life.
As Eydie closed the book she was certain she heard a noise—a faint, plaintive cry. It echoed through the empty halls. She followed it, her steps light and cautious, until she reached the cellar door.
Taking a deep breath, Eydie descended into the cellar, following the cries to a small room. In the center, a young girl sat, her eyes wide with fear. She was surrounded by a faint, shimmering mist—ectoplasm.
A small gasp escaped Eydie’s lips. Edith had spoken about exactly this.
She knelt beside the crying child, reaching out a hand. The girl looked at her with eyes full of unspoken sorrow. “They left me here,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “I can’t find my way back.”
Eydie understood. This was not just a girl, but a spirit, trapped between worlds. She closed her eyes, remembering her grandmother’s teachings, the rituals and the words of power. She took the girl’s hand, feeling the chill of the ectoplasm seep into her skin.
“Let’s get you home,” she said softly.
Together, they stood in the circle as Eydie recited the words invoking the spirits to guide this lost soul. Eydie felt her rib compress as if receiving a strong hug and a small cyclone of dust spiraled into the air. And then, with a final, shuddering breath, the girl faded, the ectoplasm dissipating like morning fog. The rescue was complete.
Back in her home, Eydie placed the photograph and book on her mantel, a tribute to the women of the Ectoplasm Circle. She knew that Marigold’s stories were not just about the past but about the connections that bound them all together, across time and space. And in that, she found comfort, knowing that she, too, was a part of that enduring web of life and mystery.
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