The Phantasmagoria of Miss Grimmsworth

London, October 1844

As Victoria sat at her desk sketching a barn owl skull, she endeavored in vain to put the overheard whisperings out of her mind. Her lithe hand moved along the cranium outlines of their own accord, having been made second nature after years of disciplined practice. Fixing her attention to the lateral view, she meticulously drew its curved, downturned beak.

Victoria stopped, a tremble seizing her bones.

They had been nothing but the baseless claims of a troubled soul, certainly not worth fretting over. She ought to continue her work and do away with such absurdity. Bereaved states of mind induce optical illusions afterall, she repeated to herself like a diagnosis.

A frown stretched across her face as the echoes of those illicit rumors plagued her concentration.

“You do not truly believe that the show is real, do you?” a gentleman had asked in a low, hushed voice under the foyer staircase.

“Of course not. What utter nonsense,” was his companion’s immediate reply. And yet, before he continued, there was a moment’s pause. “But Fenwick is inconsolable. He swore upon his honor—and on every natural law of science—that he saw the apparition of his late wife with no signs of projection to account for it.”

Professor Fenwick seeing an apparition? Why, it was inconceivable! A brilliant scholar of natural philosophy would never make such a claim. Victoria narrowed her attentive, deliberating eyes towards the two gentlemen, keeping her posture upright, only smoothening the creases of her dull lavender dress as she gave heed to their exchange.

“What? An apparition? The poor man is still grieving, to be sure, but even if there were no magic lanterns, there must be some other rational explanation? Theatrical contrivance is quite ingenious nowadays,” the skeptical gentleman returned, though sympathy enveloped his tone.

Mrs. Fenwick’s death must have driven him into these ghastly hallucinations. Victoria had known all too well about those same grief-stricken deliriums. Flickering lamps, a sudden whisper, a rapping on the window…Perhaps there was another method of projection even Fenwick had not yet known, a way to conjure the image and refract the light just so to create the impression of a spectre.

As Victoria worked out every possible theory, his companion put many of them to rest.

“I thought the same, my good man, but he told me everything, and the more I turn it over in my head, the more it does not make any sense. How could the showman operate under such conditions? I don’t know of any apparatus that could overcome those obstacles.”

From her peripheral view, she caught a passing glimpse of this same companion furrowing his thick brows as he was absorbed in contemplative thought and a putrefying silence hung in the air.

“It is impossible to create the phantasms he described under the moonlight, it would be far too weak in appearance. And where might he hide any concave mirrors or transparent screens…?” the bushy-browed gentleman spoke as though only to himself.

The skeptic’s interest was entirely piqued. “In any case, I absolutely must see this phantasmagoria for myself now. Where exactly is this show and when is the next one?” he said, brimming with a scholar’s unwavering curiosity.

There was only a grumble in response. “I cannot say. He refused to tell me. All I know is that only those who are explicitly invited can attend and it is somewhere in Highgate Cemetery.”

“Highgate Cemetery? How appalling! Why use such a macabre stage?”

“It appears that the showman has a grotesque flair for the dramatic. Still, it is a desecration all the same, no matter how clever the contrivance may be.”

Victoria imperceptibly nodded her head in secret alliance, lamenting the disturbances wrought by such charlatanic trickery.

“Who is this man?” The previously skeptical gentleman was still in utter astonishment.

“An Italian fellow, I was told. I believe his name was…Giuseppe Mezzal—”

Before she could hear the full name of this mysterious man, her brother’s hand was laid gently upon her shoulder, signaling his readiness to retire for the night. Masking her grave irritation at being so provokingly interrupted, the siblings took a hackney home.

Since that most curious night of esoteric rumour, Victoria found herself unable to think of anything else as all of her thoughts were completely arrested by the impossibility of this phantasmagoria. Why had Fenwick’s testimony disturbed her so? Shouldn’t she know better, that they were simply both suffering from their own delusions?

Though she could not readily explain the uncanny phenomena, it was quite clear to her that the whole spectacle was an immoral abuse of the mourning. A notion she could not quite place burrowed into the warrens of her mind and echoed with an omen.

Ruminating on these presentiments which were yet to come, a sudden chill pervaded her bodily frame and sunk its teeth down to the marrow, freezing her over from flesh to bone during the course of an agonizing moment.

Victoria dropped her pencil in a torrent of nerves, her breath having been excavated from her lungs as the dreadful sensation at last subsided. She chastised herself bitterly for being unable to banish her morbid imaginings. Even after all this time, it would seem that her father’s teachings were for naught…

Still yet recovering from the consternation, a light knock came at the door accompanied by the mellow voice of Sarah informing her that dinner was ready. Victoria closed her sketchbook with a start and rose from her seat to make her way down the staircase to the hall, where she waited for her brother. At length, Charles descended the stairs with his usual preoccupied air, no doubt having been delayed due to working on his next lecture. She took his arm and they entered the dining room together.

Dinners had often been fairly quiet between the two siblings, as they only cared to engage in topics of their mutual interest rather than indulging in frivolous, polite conversation. On this particular night, however, she was determined to ascertain the precise nature of Fenwick’s condition.

As she sat across from Charles, she asked about his respected colleague in a voice slow and deliberate. “Have you spoken to Professor Fenwick as of late?”

At first paying his inquisitive sister no mind, he took a pregnant pause before deigning to reply, “Why, no. I don’t believe that I have, and come to think of it, he has not been at the university for quite some time now.” Charles drank the clear broth from his silver spoon, and added, “Hm. I wonder why.”

“Oh. Has he gone ill? I rather hoped to hear from him regarding his latest material.” Victoria did not mention the whisperings of the previous night, for she knew that it would only be dismissed with that same exacting wave he had inherited from their father, Dr. Grimmsworth.

“Perhaps he has. Last I heard from him he extended a most absurd invitation, which he also extended to you, oddly enough. In fact, I believe it was for this very night.”

Victoria seized at the opportunity to discover all that she could without haste.

“An absurd invitation? Don’t tell me it was yet another attempt at compelling us to his beloved curiosities from abroad?”

He cleared his throat. “Oh no, no. Nothing of that sort. He invited me to a phantasmagoria of all things. Said there was some midnight show at Egyptian Avenue. He apparently wanted to see it on account of the preposterous gossip, insisting that spirits of the dead were truly being conjured. What madness! Nearly on the same level of quackery as the mesmerists, if not more so.”

Charles turned up his nose at even having to repeat the ridiculous assertions. “Fenwick and I both had a good laugh, of course. The ignorant classes do get carried away with their ill informed fancies and disordered intellects. But the bloody fool still thought it would be of interest all the same. Now, why in the world would I want to go galavanting into the cemetery like some filthy rogue of the night?” At this, he laughed. “I suppose he wanted the thrill of it. He must have caught a fever from being out in the cold. His constitution has always been weak,” he concluded with a shrug.

She mirrored her brother’s laugh. “It would seem that he possesses the same morbid curiosity of a child, despite all his learning.” Victoria was obliged to leave the conversation as it were, so that she may endeavour to further convince herself of this poor man’s affliction, and think nothing more of it.

Later that evening as she arranged her specimens of pinned moths on the shelf, her mind’s eye summoned a terrible vision of Edward’s apparition, distraught and trapped in a supernatural coil. Why would she not allow his soul to be at rest, even in her delusions? The vines of attachment to a man she could not have called her husband (or fiance for that matter) had twisted themselves around her, refusing to be released.

Just then, the cool breath of a hushed voice blew into the crevices of her ear, invasive like ergot spreading across fields of rye. In a strained rasp, it spoke as though clawing at its own throat.

“Beware the Nekromanteia…”

She turned back at once to find the origin of this strange warning, but only the open window greeted her view, and with a disconcerted sigh, Victoria pronounced her fancies altogether disordered. In the rippled crown glass reflection, a shadow swayed to and fro, prompting her to shut it instantly with an averting gaze welling with tears.

The phantasms of her youth had not only persisted, but were exacerbated by the all consuming grief of loss. Her mother passed while giving birth, so those apparitions had been far weaker, leaving only a frail impression behind. Edward, however, she had known most intimately in life, being able to conjure his likeness with perfect clarity as though he were before her now.

Deciding that her usual studies would not alleviate the hallucinations, she walked to the bookshelf and selected a Gothic novel. Ann Radcliffe had long been a private indulgence of hers, where the supernatural could be explained away by reason, rendering the frightful spectres of the night harmless to natural reality. A pang of sorrow pierced her heart as the vivid recollection of spirited discussion flooded back to her senses like a tempest at sea. Swallowing the melancholy, she sat by the warmth of the fire and allowed herself to be compelled through the dark corridors of Udolpho.

At great length, however, the spectres of her grotesque imaginings threatened to reemerge as she found herself glancing up toward the mantle clock, watching its hands tick ever closer to half past ten. Banishing the phantasmagorical images from her mind with a violent shake of her head, Victoria rose from the red velvet cushions, determined to forget it all in slumber.

In her dimly lit chamber, she gazed upon the candles and their dancing flames, absorbed by its pale, orange haze reflected in the dressing glass. Wishing to be alone with her thoughts, she excused Sarah when the expected knock came at her door. As her maid’s footsteps receded into silence, Victoria raised a hand to let down her dark hair, but just then hesitated, allowing it to fall back down onto her lap.

She had just retired the dull lavender dress of half mourning and went back to her earthy plaids that same day, signifying a supposed return from the underworld. In truth, however, Victoria did not much feel part of the living, rather, like a failed resurrection compelled to propriety. For she knew that a mere suitor need not be mourned for any longer in the public eye. Although, no one could prevent her from grieving privately within a mutinous heart.

Meditating now on the showman, indignation roiled from within, arising from the pit of her stomach to the flush of her cheeks. The absolute gall of such a charlatan to play cruel tricks on the suffering! Who could possibly be so utterly deceitful and hard-hearted?

Someone ought to expose the villainous contrivance, someone who would not fall victim to its delusions, no matter how bewitching they might be. And with a most sudden start, she stood upright, determined to unmask the knavery of this Giuseppe.

Taking a black wool cloak from her wardrobe, Victoria put it over her shoulders in one swift motion as the weeds of trepidation spread throughout her body. With a slight tremor of her hand, she took a bonnet from out of the shelf and hurriedly tied its black ribbons under her chin. Seizing a small handlamp from her bedside table, she opened the bedchamber door, taking special care not to emit a single sound as she made her way down the narrow staircase.

Each moment that elapsed filled her with an agonizing torment at every instance of a creaking sound, feeling as though each second stretched beyond its means and would inevitably awaken Charles from his slumber. At excruciating length, Victoria reached her brother’s study, quick to procure the spare key from his drawer and abscond out of the room.

Another slow tread took her to the entrance hall, where she placed her handlamp onto the first surface in view, then turned to face the door. As silent as she could manage, she left the comfort of her townhouse behind only to be greeted by the gloom of the night air closing in around her—a stark reminder of the scandal she risked. What madness had come over her? To sneak out at such an hour was lunacy, threatening to subject not only herself, but her entire family to harsh judgement, staining the respectable reputation her father had so carefully built.

Even so, she needed to see the phantasmagoria for herself and prove its falsehood. Perhaps only then, she would at long last be able to end her gruesome hallucinations.

Now quickening her pace, she walked the short distance to a nearby cab-stand as the gas-lamps permeated throughout Woburn Place in the oppressive fog, coating it with a most lurid light. A driver who had been nodding off roused himself from his slumber upon seeing Victoria waiting on the pavement, coming out of the box seat to offer her a steady hand inside the hackney.

Not daring to look him in the eye, she accepted his assistance, and only once the driver had settled back into place did she say in a low voice, “To Highgate Village, if you please.”

The driver rode onward through the cobblestone streets without uttering a single word, not seeming to pay any mind to the unaccompanied lady as the clopping hooves of the carriage horse traveled further along with its gait at a leisurely pace. Going past Bloomsbury to the smoke filled streets that the Grimmsworths had always avoided, the shadows of drunken men sang in slurred melodies, as though in direct mockery of Victoria’s willful ignorance.

Would she be able to withstand the illusions and not allow the imaginings to rule over her senses? She could not guarantee with certainty, but nonetheless, she must endeavour to be strong-minded. The hour-long journey passed with such reflections only adding to her excessive uneasiness as the foliage from the upward climbing hill presided as the sentinels of a forbidden place. Tottering this way and that, a sickness of nausea nearly assailed her on account of the conveyance, but thankfully, the hackney stopped at her destination.

Assisted once more from the carriage, Victoria smiled politely and handed the driver his fare along with a generous gratuity for the trouble, to which he replied simply with a touch of his cap. Left alone at the edge of the village, she stared down the scarcely lit and narrow road of Swain’s Lane.

Her foolishness became painfully obvious, traveling so far out of reach just to see this phantasmagoria in hopes of somehow exposing the showman. Yet, still, she moved forward in spite of her doubt that it was even to be held that night, until at length she stopped upon witnessing a small crowd forming at the cemetery entrance, whisperings abounding in the darkness.

Only the faintest light from the gas illuminated their faces. Students of the university, a professor she only vaguely recognized, as well as two other daring ladies locked in the arms of their accompanying gentlemen. Victoria approached the group on her own, earning more than a few critical eyes, yet they did not utter a word, as their interest was rather eclipsed by the oncoming show.

Their simmering anticipation had come to a head before a sturdy man of considerable height came out from the wrought iron gates with a lantern in hand, which peeked out of the thick fog like the watchful eye of an owl.

Silently raising his leather pouch and waiting for the spectators to pay their fee, he was at last contented when Victoria placed her shillings inside.

“This way…” he said in a voice, deep and rough.

By the appearance of his begrimed attire, she presumed him to be a gravedigger who had come to the aid of the showman’s desecration, likely being persuaded with generous payment himself.

Exchanging confused glances, the group of would-be spectators looked to one another as though someone among them might hold all the answers to their burning questions. Not receiving a single explanation, the crowd followed him through the threshold of Highgate Cemetery.

The autumn leaves crackled underfoot as Victoria entered last, surveying the path with only the gravedigger’s lantern to guide the way. Sepulchres of the dead and their adorning angels seemed to be looking down at her, though she could not say whether they had approved of her undertaking. A cold wind brushed past the crowd, prompting them to cluster together as if it would keep them from imminent danger as all of life was siphoned from the surrounding Gothic landscape.

Leading the spectators now to the lotus headed columns of Egyptian Avenue, an old gentleman’s form became just visible in the feeble light. Though he was respectable enough in his black and accented gold tailored suit, Victoria detected the subtle impression of a wicked smirk underneath his long, grey beard and an eccentricity about his manner which perturbed her to no end.

Waiting for the phantasmagoria to begin, the spectators did not stir and simply regarded the showman with great interest, who said nothing as he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, drinking in the excitement of the crowd.

She studied the apparent stage for any sign of an apparatus being obscured. Perhaps behind her in the shrubbery? No. That would not do. It would be far too weak and the leaves would disrupt the illusion. She did not presume it would truly be in the open air. If the apparitions were as vivid as Fenwick claimed, then how was it possible?

Before her curiosity could be satisfied, the only lantern in sight went out with a brisk movement of the showman’s hand, eliciting terrified gasps from the spectators as they were overtaken by the all consuming darkness of midnight. In a succession of resounding claps, encircling lights reignited and cast a luminous glow throughout the whole venue, causing Victoria to scrutinize the entire affair even more fervently. What unknown mechanisms did this man have at his disposal?

As though he were able to hear her thoughts, the old gentleman met her inspecting gaze and announced in a bellowing voice through a thick, Italian accent, “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a phantasmagoria never before seen in this burgeoning age of science. I—Giueseppe Mezzasalma—will be your guide for tonight beyond the veil into a world of visionary spectres. Every one of you has been explicitly invited here to witness the greatest feats which are beyond the mortal realm. Tonight, you will see graceful phantoms rising from their graves with your very own eyes, resurrected for your viewing pleasure, in a spectacle unlike any other across Europe and abroad.”

Animated whispers burst forth from the graveyard like shattered glass as the pale lustre of the newfound glow cast his imposing shadow, ascending far taller than it ought to according to where the lanterns sat. Victoria, undeniably fascinated by such display, moved to the front of the crowd and wondered at the manipulations he had performed. Giuseppe whistled softly in a whimsical tune, and the shadow of a young boy emerged from the bottom of the right pillar, skipping upward to the top of the arch with a spritely step. His joyful laugh echoed as though trapped within a tin box, reveling in the joyful music which appeared to be coming from nowhere.

Quite bemused, Victoria turned every which way to ascertain the tricks at hand. Had it been some kind of puppetry at work? If so, where were the paper dolls being hidden? And who was operating them? Its lifelike motion was utterly remarkable, as if the boy truly was alive and at play. Her rationality curdled under the incessant considerations, failing to make any sense of it as she turned it over and over in her mind like the faulty cog of a watch.

Attempting to theorize about the nature of such contrivance, the shadow of a young girl playfully pranced along the left pillar to meet the boy at the crown of the arch. Their collective giggles coalesced into a near deafening sound and their shadows grew larger, appearing to almost jump out of the stone and at the crowd. A gust of wind blew most suddenly, small clumps of dust spilling into the air as the sound of small, pattering footsteps made its way through the spectators.

Victoria stepped aside, as one did when children were running about them at their feet—and yet, there were none to be found. She examined every aspect of the great Egyptian pillars, desperate to unveil any sign of machinery that could cause these most singular effects to occur.

And where had the music been coming from? A glass harmonica, ringing bells, a soft violin…Was it possible to hide all the musicians required for such melodies?

Observing how the spectators had forgone all suspension of belief, allowing themselves to fall completely under its phantasmagoric spell, Victoria’s heart beat rapidly as she failed to provide any explanation for the phenomena she had witnessed—though she quite refused to be enchanted.

At catching sight of her panicked countenance, that same wicked smile returned to his expression. “Ah, I see those scrutinizing glances! We appear to have scholars among us tonight. Now, is this mere optics?” A glint flickered in his eyes, and at raising his hands with the utmost precision, he snapped. The brilliant stage grew dark as pitch once more as two orbs of a pale, ghostly lustre materialized beside him like stars in the vast heavens. “Or, perhaps, is there something more at play?”

Giueseppe paced around the crowd who were still huddled together for safety with Victoria endeavoring to keep her gaze on him in spite of the faint illumination.

“You are men of science and of reason. You do not believe in such things as spectres or demons. How absurd it would be to believe in things that go bump in the night, in beings that remain tethered to the earth. Most remain quite ignorant of the realm beyond, while others…” At this, he paused and met Victoria’s gaze. “Well, let us just say that others are born with a…natural inclination.”

As he spoke these words, a shiver ran through Victoria’s spine with exceptional strength and several voices rang inside the caverns of her disordered mind. Men and women, young and old alike, engrained her senses with a troubling, discordant chorus.

“Feel us…Hear us…See us…”

The subtle light revealed a most pleased smirk upon the face of the showman.

Victoria strove to keep her composure, to eject the feeling from her viscera and shut out the voices, but they did not cease, the atmosphere growing heavy as lead with their presence. How would she be able to explain this away? Was she still in the inviting warmth of her bedchambers and simply trapped in a vivid nightmare? A vortex of cries and laughter, of pain, of joy, and of fear enveloped her entirely. Pale, ghostly orbs appeared around the spectators as though they were all part of a hanging chandelier as Giuseppe stood right before Victoria (who struggled to stay upright) and made a theatrical gesture of swinging his arms like a grand orchestrator of the opera.

The music which did not have any discernable source swelled in tune with his motion as radiant spectres formed out of each ghostly orb one by one, creating a ballroom of visionary wonders. Arrested with amazement, the crowd applauded at the most superior assemblage of novelty.

Victoria reeled back in agony at seeing a spectral gentleman dressed in formal black attire hovering near, staring back at her with his dark eyes of a vacant and melancholic pallor, as though he were but an afterimage of what he had once been in life.

“Edward?” she croaked out, helpless before him and overflowing with violent tears. He looked almost exactly as he did on their last night together, when he had proclaimed his undying devotion to her happiness and made an unspoken promise of their future engagement—all while withholding the surprise. But it was just as she feared. He had been ensnared in a purgatory of torment and was unable to move on, at the whim of this…this villain!

No. She must keep her wits about her. She mustn’t fall for this charlatanic trickery and become yet another victim of delusion like poor Fenwick. Though how the showman had managed to conjure up such an uncanny likeness to the man she had formed so strong an attachment with was beyond her comprehension. Did the others see him as well?

Under her breath, she repeated the words like dogma. “Bereaved states of mind induce optical illusions. Bereaved states of mind induce optical illusions. Bereaved states of mind induce—”

The ghost of Edward extended his hand for a dance, as though he were fixed in an everlasting cycle of their final moments together, compelling her to reach out, but when she merely phased through him, the weight of his absence struck like a cruel storm.

Victoria did not take any notice of the graceful phantoms fluttering around her, failing to be enthralled by them as the other spectators had. Instead, she stayed entirely transfixed by the spectral impression of her lost love. Nor could she stop the restless sobs of mournful anger that rose to her flushed cheeks as the ballroom spectres disappeared at once into smoke. Reaching out to grasp at nothing, wisps of grey, gossamer clouds fell between her fingers.

With a vicious fury, an overlapping curtain of wailings, whisperings, and screams reverberated in the chamber of her thoughts, prompting Victoria to seize her head and cry out in desperation for it to stop. Falling to her knees, she was utterly powerless against the dreadful rising and falling sensations.

Giueseppe approached her in a lively step, redirecting all lights to fall upon Victoria and drawing every eye on them both. Yet again enlarging beyond its natural means, the shadow of the showman formed creeping tendrils which he did not materially possess as a low, grumbling roar manifested from the very earth, striking the crowd with horror and causing one lady among them to nearly faint, had it not been for the accompanying gentleman catching her in his arms.

“Now, my good audience, witness as I conjure spirits of the dead to speak with us tonight through my lovely assistant who will make for a most excellent vessel,” he said with that same rumoured grotesque flair for the dramatic while the darkness wriggled in excitement behind him. Swinging his arm over her like a dancer on a gilded stage, his own shaded silhouette extended to envelop Victoria entirely.

Consumed by his dark shadow, she was thrown into the abyssal well of her mind, forced to witness her own body go limp under his manipulation as all of her consciousness eluded her. How had she fallen so deeply into the delusions? All the voices she heard, the lantern trickery, music with no discernable origin, Edward’s spectre…it had all felt so unequivocally real, though her pragmatism knew better, or ought to. Yet, there she was, completely submerged at the bottom of a great well, looking up at herself and turning into nothing more than Giuseppe’s puppet.

The presence of another woman penetrated her mind and a life which was not her own was relived in a single instant, suffusing itself with her very being in a wild deluge. Unrealized dreams of becoming a mother, a husband who resented her to no end, drinking bottle after bottle of laudanum in an attempt to soothe the pain of losing a third child, and a lifetime of heartbreak, of neglect, that persisted until the very last bottle put an end to her life.

Victoria’s body let out a shrieking sob that pierced through the air like savage talons, urging the spectators to back away in alarm.

A voice which did not belong to Victoria came out of her throat, ragged and distorted. “My baby. My poor, sweet baby! Oh, do come back to me. Please, I beg of you, come back to me!” Victoria’s possessed body lifted its head, glaring up at a young student with vengeful tears forming in her eyes. “What have you done to my baby? What have you done?!”

Even as she beheld herself acting as a vessel from afar, the grieving rage which coursed throughout her very soul was far too much to bear, far too much to withstand. A primal and motherly wrath overcame her, and the miserable woman screeched fiendishly, clawing at the young man who shrank back in horror.

With a snap, Giuseppe beckoned the spirit out of Victoria and the shadow flew off into the night, leaving her body to collapse on the gravel. Before she might be able to recover, however, yet another dark silhouette crawled over to enfold her once more.

This time, it was a gentleman who emerged.

Her eyes rolling back in a frenzy, she sat upright and bellowed in the rasping voice of a man, “You wretched whore! You’ll get what’s coming to you!” Victoria’s body convulsed with an anger that demanded satisfaction after he had been made to suffer an affront to his manhood. A young prostitute trembled in fear before him and attempted to fight back, but her feeble strength could not subdue him.

The gentleman’s tailored suit was stained in the young woman’s blood as retribution for fighting back against his rough treatment of her body, which he saw as entirely his right to do with as he pleased. His bloodlust became her own, overwhelming Victoria to the point of despair, as she experienced the craven man destroying himself to avoid capital punishment. She no longer belonged to herself, violated by the most horrid memories of these spirits, and controlled by the knavery of a showman.

Allowing the pain to linger for the crowd’s morbid pleasure masked as shock, Giuseppe at length beckoned the spirit out of her body, leaving the now empty vessel to collapse before them.

“Would you like to learn how to control this natural inclination of yours, Miss Grimmsworth?” His voice resounded mockingly as she sank further into the deep waters, suffocating from the power he loomed over her. She had failed her purpose, failed to be strong-minded. Instead of exposing his charlatanry, she had become yet another victim. Edward may not truly have been trapped in the supernatural coil she so feared, but every sensation she endured seemed to suggest otherwise. Had Fenwick’s hallucinations been as vivid, or felt so real? She could not say.

Though she knew not a soul would hear her screams, she exclaimed as loud as she could manage, “Make it stop! Please…Please, just make it stop!”

The showman turned to the crowd, clicking his tongue with disappointment. “Ahhh…this one rejects her gift. How unfortunate.”

Exchanging puzzled glances, the spectators continued to watch with great, arrested interest. Giueseppe faced her once more, and spoke so only she could hear, “I’m afraid it is much too late for that, my dear. Once the door has been opened, there is no going back.”

Dispersing from the crowd, shadows flew all about her at great speed with her at the center of a great vortex as an eruption of derisive laughter rose.

“The young miss thinks herself a scholar, does she?” one lady sneered.

An old gentleman chimed in, “And of the natural world, no doubt.”

“Yet, she remains so willfully blind to the supernatural, which has been right before her eyes this many years?” taunted another.

The culmination of their disharmonious voices rang in her ears as their laughter only gathered in strength, rendering her a captive within the depths of her own mind. Victoria shut her eyes most desperately, attempting to wake herself from the ghastly nightmare, yet even as she reopened them again, and again, and again, the tumultuous emotions gravely overpowered her.

Rage, pain, shame, grief…Had it truly been too late to close the door again?

What? Don’t be absurd! There is no door, but…If that was in actuality the case, why had it felt so real? Must she live with such visceral hallucinations for the rest of her living days?

Unless…they had not been of her morbid imaginings after all?

No, that could not be—it mustn’t!

What gift was this villain speaking of? Surely, it could not have been all those nights she had witnessed a spectre, heard a strange voice, or felt a cold presence nearby? Bereaved states of mind induce optical illusions…was that not so?

She must have been so deep into the hysterical trance that she would awaken at any moment by her father’s side, who would diagnose her as having a fit of nervousness, excited by that same morbid imagination she has always had since childhood.

So then, why, had this all felt so real? More than real, even?

The metaphysical nature of it all had unraveled, and yet, it offered an uncanny feeling of vindication, as though she had not been conjuring delusions at all this whole time.

But surely, she was. She must have been.

As she descended further into the abyssal well, she drowned in the never ending laughter, until, at long last, she heard Edward.

“It is too late, my love. You must accept it,” he said in a voice most soothing.

She rose from beneath the waters, gasping for air and calling out to him, but he did not say another word. Was Edward right? Would it have been better for her to accept this fate? If she did not, would she remain Giueseppe’s puppet, at his behest?

Tears streaming down her face, she took a deep inhale of breath, and with an exhale, she let go of every rationalization, every logical explanation, and yielded herself to the world beyond their own. Was this what her hallucinations had always been? A heightened sensitivity to another realm? Perhaps if she did not allow it to be cultivated, then the storm would have no hope of subsiding. In spite of the utter and complete hatred she felt for the showman who had desecrated these souls, she was urged to abandon reason as her exhaustion macerated any prior resolve.

“Pray, help me. Come to my aid so that I may learn how to control this…inclination. Please,” her voice was strained, quiet underneath the maelstrom, but Giuseppe heard her all the same.

“Very well then,” he said with an agitating nonchalance.

And with that, Victoria’s spirit reinhabited her own body as the showman clapped his hands with a smile, causing all the shadows among them to disappear, returning Egyptian Avenue to its natural state before the phantasmagoria began.

Raising her head, she gazed at the floor with the same vacancy as her beloved Edward, a silence descending upon them when the moon rose to shine its humble light over the venue. The crowd erupted into rapturous applause, chattering amongst themselves with delight at the marvelous splendour of the most singular spectacle they had all just witnessed.

Giuseppe bowed before them with a proud finesse, a smile of contentment coloring his expression.

Had they all thought this was nothing more than an elaborate show? Oh, how she envied their ignorance, how they could still hold onto both reason and wonderment!

The great showman offered his hand to the initiated assistant, and though she hesitated, she ultimately resigned herself to this new path by taking it to stand beside him and performing a single curtsey after a drawn out pause. After having been brought to the precipice only to be returned back to safety, the spectators had been thoroughly captivated and would never forget this most spectacular night.

Victoria did not meet their joyous countenances, instead staring down at the gravel as the weight of her new reality weighed upon her heavily. Only when the spectators had taken their leave did she look ahead of her, witnessing the full forms of every spectre who had participated in the show that night. Men, women, children…they were all under his control, and now, Victoria would act as their vessel.

A shiver crawled along her skin like the larvae of a moth when she perceived Edward standing before her with great sorrow in his pale, ghostly eyes, lamenting the path she had been driven to, which he had failed to prevent.

As it was nearing ever closer to the witching hour, bitter tears overflowed and the showman turned to offer his full attention at being alone in the cemetery.

“Welcome to the Order of Nekromanteia, Miss Grimmsworth,” Giuseppe said, tipping his hat with a polite touch.

Victoria did not reply.

All of her beloved reason and rigorous study of the natural world melted away before her very eyes, as the supernatural gift she had rejected for so long left her suspended in the air like an insect ensnared in a spider’s web.