Calling Minna

The doorbell announces the first guest and I check the gloomy room one last time. It's perfect. Midnight blue drapes cover the windows and walls, with the exception of the one corner where Angel managed to build up some ancient looking masonry. In the centre of the oval, fake oak table sits the ouija board she created, its dark layers of varnish glowing softly in the light of twelve candles. Besides it, on a cushion of dark blue velvet, lays an ornate dagger, a traditional kris with a wavy blade. It's most certainly the only piece in here with some real value. I found it in a run down antiquity shop and thought it would make a nice accessory. The velvet of the cushion matches my ceremonial coat, cut to a victorian pattern and worn over a simple white shirt. I'm as ready as I can be.
Angel is busy at the other end of the room, wearing her almost transparent, many layered nightgown. I don't like the rare events she has to make an appearance and hope today won't be one of those. But better prepared than sorry, as the saying goes. She smiles at me, the affectionate gesture turned ghostly by her goth makeup, dark around the eyes, showing off her prominent cheekbones and pale lips. The black contacts make her look even more convincing. She turns to the faintly glowing skull on its inky pedestal and lets the mandibles clack open and closed a few times with a touch of the hidden switch. The mechanism works just fine. It's not a real skull, of course, they are too hard to come by. But Angel worked as a restorer in town gallery for a while and has a knack for painting. She gave this 3D-print the convincing look of a skull right from the tomb. Now she lights a mango scented candle and places it atop the ghastly thing. I grin at her antics while the door bell rings a second time.
"Won't you open the door, Frank?"
"Not yet, only on the third call. You know how important it is to play to the audience's expectations."
She blows me a kiss and steps behind the skull pedestal. It has a concealed opening on the backside and Angel is used to slip in and out without a sound of her bare feet. Inside, she has full view of the room and what's most important, access to all controls on her touchscreen. Of course I'd prefer to have a fully artificial ghost, some kind of holographic projection. But even if something suitable exists on the market, it is still way out of our financial possibilities.
Nevertheless, the two of us are rightfully proud of this set up. We worked long and hard to get to where we are today. It takes time to win a good name in the scene, and you can't go advertising like any other specialised family-run business, say a removal company or hair salon.
When we found this isolated house with its overgrown garden and pointed roof, we knew we hit solid gold. It took some time to convert it, make it look older than it is, give it this mysterious touch, and install the necessary gadgets in the basement. But now, it's nearing perfection.

The bell rings a third time, longer, insistently. With a last controlling glance I hurry up to open the door and greet the bunch of people with a meticulous stiff bow. But no one acknowledges my effort. My guests file in with a breath of cold winter air. It snows outside and I busy myself to collect and hang up one expensive fur and three designer coats. This is it, finally we attract the right kind of people, those with the ready cash to buy our exclusive, customised services.

I show the customers down the stairs and into the basement. Their mood seems tense, hardly a word is uttered as the four of them file into the room. It's going to be a family session, the tall, slender old man obviously the father of two men in their mid forties and a somewhat younger daughter. Interesting that no one brought a partner.
I recall my instructions, given short and clear by my contact: 'Dad has to be convinced mom wants him to retire and sell the firm to the concurrence.'
This is clear and easy compared to the job with the politician the other week. It's hard to believe to what lengths some people go to make their wife trust that no, they don't have an affair with their secretary. But I digress, I'll have to concentrate on the job at hand, even if it's an easy one.

Ceremoniously, I open a bottle of expensive looking red wine, fill five glasses and offer them around while asking for the names of our little round. The woman, Doris, takes her glass and sips it with a flirtatious smile in my direction. Unmarried, I guess, probably living of daddy's fortune. Or she has a really good paying job, otherwise she couldn't afford the expensive taste in clothing she demonstrates. Well, maybe a rich boyfriend.
Next is he old man himself, today's victim to be. He must be nearing seventy but looks healthy and seems friendly enough, a bit sad maybe. But he recently lost his wife, after all. He says his name is George. Lonesome George, I can memorise this.
Then there are Paul and Herbert, the sons. They might be twins from the way they dress, all businesslike and smart. But the similarities end there. Paul is stout, solid looking with a friendly demeanour. He is the older, I think. Herbert looks exhausted, haggard even, and is very silent. I wonder what ails him. The death of the mother? He seems a tad old for that. But what makes me wonder most is which one of the brothers engaged me in the first place. We only talked on the phone and so it's impossible to tell. The one who did, at least, paid a retainer without reluctance.

As soon as everyone is introduced and seated, I explain the ritual. Paul looks almost bored, Doris indifferent. Herbert seems to be far away with his thoughts. His glass is already empty. While I refill it and place the bottle within his easy reach, I secretly check out George. He gives the impression of being offended. I wonder why. Is it Herbert's drinking or has he maybe got an inkling what this show is about?

I take my seat at the head of the table, half-close my eyes and start a monotonous incantation. We tried soft background music, but it didn't have the same effect. My chant consists only of vowels and has no hidden meaning at all. It's solely meant to help me judge and prepare the audience.
This is always a critical moment. If someone starts laughing now, chances are people feel ridiculous and run out on me. That's why I ask half of the payment in advance. It's not uncommon we have to make do with it. But although I'm convinced I can read mistrust in George's eyes, he keeps quiet, and as soon as I ask everyone to join hands, he takes Doris' and mine with a firm grip.
Good, maybe we can pull this through without clacking mandibles and ghostly appearances. Some drafts from the hidden ventilator and maybe a bit of smoke might do. I'm sure Angel follows the proceedings from her hideout and has come to the same conclusions.
I wait until everyone is settled before I take up my incantation again. This time I call on the ghost in Latin. I learned early on in my career as a medium that this language gives an impression of seriousness, even to potential unbelievers. As soon as Angel triggers the draft and the candles flicker wildly, I have the full concentration of everyone.
The silver ring on the ouija board quivers. It's only a thin layer of silver covering an iron ring, but it looks really good as a pointer. Now it moves and comes to a stop on the question mark. That's my cue. George's hand trembles slightly in mine while Herbert's is cold and clammy. I put my first question in a low voice.
"Minna? Is that you?"
The ring moves hesitantly over to the 'yes', then moves on, capturing all eyes of those assembled around the table. It takes some time until the words become clear.
'W-H-O--A-S-K-S-?'
"My name is Frank. I contact you on behalf of your family."
For a moment, the ring stays where it is, on the question mark. This is always a nice effect. Then it moves again, quicker this time.
'G-E-O-R-G-E-?'
I press his fingers reassuringly. He knows he is allowed to speak now, but it takes a while until he is able to croak his wife's name.
"M-Minna? Is this you?"
'I--A-M'
Secretly, I glance at my customers. Herbert seems lost in thought, or in a kind of trance. He won't remember much, I guess. Doris' eyes are glued to the board while Paul looks definitely bored. I turn my attention back to George who, as most victims are at this point, seems at a loss of words. Time to take over the game.
"Minna, is there something you would like to tell us? To tell George?"
The ring quivers for a moment between the question mark and the decorative skull in the centre of the board. I suddenly fear that the magnetic system is clogged or the connection to Angels screen cut. As it finally starts moving again, I have to suppress a sigh of relief. Now the ring moves fast, faster than usual. Doris whispers the letters as soon as they are marked.
'G-E-O-R-G-E--I--A-M--D-E-A-D'
This shakes him out of his stupor.
"I know, my dear, you've had a heart attack. I miss you so much."
'N-O--I--W-A-S--K-I-L-L-E-D--B-Y--P-O-I-S-O-N'
I gasp. What is Angel up to? That's certainly not in her instructions. Before I can react, the ornate kris dagger in front of me lifts slowly, as if taken by a ghostly hand, and turns around like the quivering needle of a compass. All the while the ring moves on and Doris spells out what it says.
'K-I-L-L-E-D--B-Y--H-I-M'
The hovering dagger whirls twice around its axis and finally comes to rest with its point only a few inches in front of Paul's chest. Doris spells out the last word.
'R-E-V-E-N-G-E'
Paul tears free of Doris and Herbert's hands and staggers to his feet, overbalancing his chair. His eyes widen in shock as he crumples to the floor the instant the sharp blade of the kris penetrates his chest.

In the following screaming and chaos I flip a hidden switch, and suddenly the whole scene is bathed in the stark white light of fluorescent lamps. Paul lies on the shabby carpet unmoving, eyes wide and lips turning blue. The dagger rests on its velvet cushion, the silver ring in the centre of the ouija board, circling the grinning skull.

The emergency service takes fifteen minutes to arrive. I spend them doing CPR on a lost cause and hoping against hope. The team's doctor relieves me and after a short examination declares the man dead by sudden cardiac arrest.
The cops arrive minutes later. I'm glad the doc insists the victim had a bad heart. He even shows the officer in charge a bottle of pills he found in his pocket. It takes a lot of willpower to renounce from glancing towards the table, where the kris lies on its velvet cushion, seemingly untouched.
Doris and George hug in a corner while Herbert is chain-smocking. I hand him an ornate chandelier to use as an ashtray before he sets the house on fire. The police want a testimony. Doris glances up, a look of desperation on her face. Her statement is simple and to the point.
"We came here for a seance, a chance to say goodbye to mum. Paul seemed a bit off from the start. Suddenly and without external reason, he dropped to the floor."
The others agree, and when it's my turn, I just say I have nothing to add. Everything else would raise suspicion and lead to questions.

Finally the emergency team quits with the covered body. The remaining family and the police follow suit. But not before the officers send me some more than just accusing glances. It's palpable what they think about my line of business. I'd better steer clear of similar incidents in the future.
As soon as they are out of the house, I hurry to Angel's hiding place, fearing the worst.
She is a shivering wreck, pressed into the corner of her hideout, hugging herself. Smeared makeup and tears stain my shirt while I hold her tight. As soon as she stops shaking, I carry her up the stairs. My heartbeat slows down as I double-lock the door to the basement behind me. I put Angel to bed. She doesn't want to speak, just clings to me with wide eyes.
Finally she falls into an exhausted sleep.

Hesitantly at first I return to the basement. The room is empty and very quiet. I start to clean up, snub candles, collect glasses, mop up spilled wine on the table. Now, with Angel sleeping off the shock and in the bright artificial light, I can believe Paul died a natural death.
Then I see the drying drops of blood on the blade of the Kris.

I really consider going back to my old job as a car retailer.