Out of the Mist Read online

  “You and your Uncle Ted and that bloomin’ dog gave us quite a fright at one of Mrs. Grimes’s séances.”

  “I remember. Everyone panicked in the dark. Mrs. Grimes hoped to communicate with the dead, especially her son, Michael, shortly after his destroyer was torpedoed in the Atlantic.”

  “Yes, but others in England, your relatives included, wanted to contact the loved ones they lost in the war. But whew! What a panic when the séance got out of control.”

  I grinned. “Even now I remember the screams.”

  Lilly carefully wrapped a cloth around the board and returned it to the trunk.

  “It’s a nice crystal. I think I’ll keep it out for use at the condominium.” We lapsed into silence for a few minutes, Lilly, sorting and packing, but both of us thinking about the frightening encounter with the supernatural that happened one evening early in 1944.

  On the occasion of the séance, my family and their guest of honour, Mrs. Grimes, family friend and medium, settled around the dining room table drinking tea or sipping sherry while waiting to be served dinner. Even Uncle Raymond, a medical student, attended because he had been a close friend of Mrs. Grimes’s son, Michael.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Grimes’s cup fell into its saucer. Her hand thrust forward as if to fend off a confrontation. “No, no, not yet! Can’t you see, we’re drinking tea? Come back later, Dearie, when I’m having my trance.” She placed the cup and saucer on the table remarking, “Oh, they can be so impatient. You have to let them know when you’re ready.” Family and friends sat in an awkward silence for a few moments. The air raid sirens went off. “Ignore them,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Our friends up there are already telling us that we’ll be safe for tonight.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” remarked Grandma. “Let’s carry on then. I’ll set up Lilly’s Ouija board on the smaller oak table. We can move from the dining table to it when Mrs. Grimes begins the séance.” She moved over to a round oak table, next to our family dining area, and set up for consultations with the spirits.

  Quickly, the waitresses, using their backs, pushed open the frosted glass door from the kitchen to the dining room and backed in with trays carrying hot bowls of soup and tureens filled with potatoes and steaming cabbage. Giggling, turning to approach the dinner table, they negotiated their way between the candles in the flickering light, and set down the trays.

  “Did you get a bet on the grand national, love?” Lilly directed the question at my Grandfather as she loaded plates with food.

  “Mr. Sims took it on the phone. I put five pounds to win on Hot Toy. We’ll see if Mrs. Grimes’s last consultation with the spirits pays off.”

  “Now, darling,” responded Mrs. Grimes, who had just wriggled her enormous self into place next to Grandmother. “They judge horses like we do. There’s nothing special about their ability to predict a winner.” She set a small, red, battery powered light on the card table. Someone switched out the overhead lights. Combined with the candles, the red light gave the room an eerie presence.

  “Ere ‘ang on ta this, love.” Lilly handed out plates loaded with vegetables to the adults. “Well, I put a quid on Hoof Hearted.”

  “Nice to hear you using your H’s for a change! Got a tip straight from the horse’s arse did ya?” Grandfather roared with laughter at his joke.

  “Billy,” uttered Grandmother disapprovingly.

  “Gawd, no! Young ‘arry ‘ere told me it was a winner. And you know he picked last year’s wiv 20-20,” Lilly replied, ignoring Grandfather.

  “Uhh uhh…” Grandmother, open mouthed, pointed to a cup rising from the table; its shadow from the candlelight flickered on the wall.

  “Bleedin ‘ell.” Lilly dropped a plate on the floor and fled to a corner of the dining room.

  The cup twisted erratically as it ascended, a trace of white cotton thread glittered in the candle light. It was above Uncle Ted, who had a benign smile on his face. Mrs. Grimes went into a trance, eyes turned upwards, lips flapping, jaw quivering, her puffed cheeks turning gun metal grey.

  “Be gone, be gone, we’re not ready,” she commanded. The cup descended. Ted, still smiling, reached up and gently, with one hand, guided it back into its saucer.

  “Good thing my tea hadn’t been poured,” he snickered.

  Mrs. Grimes hastily emerged from her trance. “Betty,” she addressed Grandmother. “How can I be expected to make contact with children present?”

  “I’m not a child,” Ted retorted. “I am almost old enough to die for my country.”

  “Ted, here’s sixpence. When dinner is finished, look after Harry upstairs until his bedtime. Oh! And take Winston, too.” Winston, who lay on the carpet, whimpered and pricked up his ears at the mention of his name. Grandmother handed over the coin, which Ted happily pocketed.

  After dinner, Ted and I left with Winston and retired to the box room. Carefully we laid out the track to Uncle Ted’s treasured Hornby OO clockwork train set.

  “You can be Paddington Station.” This required that I stand with one foot on either side of the track and pretend to be a railway station, an unsatisfying solution for my participation. I quickly tired of standing over the tracks.

  “Let me wind it up?” I inserted the key into the side of the clockwork engine and wound until it was too hard to turn. The locomotive looked convincingly real. It was painted olive-green with black trim and resembled a turn of the century steam engine. Wheels ready to spin, I carefully placed the engine on the track. Uncle Ted had improvised a small bellows above the wheels so that when they turned they inflated the bellows, activating a horn that sounded like an owl’s hoot. It performed erratically.

  “Will the engine’s horn work?” I was disappointed because so far it had failed to hoot.

  “Yes, in a minute, but the engine has to make more circuits before the bellows inflate fully. Then the horn will sound.” The locomotive efficiently made its way around the track.

  Winston’s eyes followed. After several circuits, he placed his paw on the rails blocking the engine’s progress. The clockwork locomotive struck him and clambered up his leg, its mechanism tracked into his shaggy black fur. Yelping, he fled, hoping to leave the locomotive behind. It didn’t cooperate. It wound more fur into its interior mechanisms. Uttering a tormented howl, Winston raced down the stairs with Uncle Ted and me in hot pursuit. He sought refuge in the dining room, but the glass door was closed. Ted sat on the floor beside the dog in front of the door. He put an arm around the animal’s neck and, talking softly, calmed him down. With his other hand he tackled the complicated job of extracting the animal’s fur from the engine’s clockwork.

  We heard the anti-aircraft guns booming in the distance. “Is that Granddad pounding on the table for more food?” murmured Ted. We laughed silently.

  Winston panicked and tensed his body at the sound. I comforted him more. We spoke in whispers because we knew that, on the other side of the door, they were conducting their séance. Uncle Ted’s ear pressed hard against the keyhole. I strained to look through the frosted glass panels.

  My family and their friends were seated around a table. In an armchair at one end sat Mrs. Grimes, who breathed deeply. Her face, with the red light shining directly on it, was contorted. Irregularities in the door’s glass gave everyone a distorted shape, like in the hall of magic mirrors.

  “We have a contact,” Mrs. Grimes gasped. “Can I bring him down?”

  “Who,” asked Grandmother?

  “He says he will tell you when he gets down. He’s strong now.”

  “Let him down,” chipped in Mother. “Perhaps we knew him once.”

  Mrs. Grimes writhed in her armchair. “Oh! It’s a transformation.” Chest puffed out, prominent chin extended forward, Mrs. Grimes breathing deepened. She gurgled.

  “I am here to pass on important news,” she squawked.

  “Who are you and for whom is the news?” Grandmother spoke clearly and firmly. Lilly giggled nervously from the back of the room.
r />   The locomotive buzzed into life for a moment, winding more fur into its mechanism. Winston whimpered and jerked forward but Uncle Ted, arm around the dog’s neck, restrained him. Ted’s other hand laboured on to untangle the clockwork locomotive. I continued my efforts to calm the dog by stroking his head.

  I pressed my face onto the pane of frosted glass to see more. Mrs. Grimes’s expression was twisted, her cheeks bulged.

  Mrs. Grimes, in her new voice, rasped, “Why don’t you leave me alone and bugger off?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Grandmother.

  “What do you want, you old lard pot?”

  “Who are you?” repeated Grandmother.

  “Sometimes I am a creature of the night, sometimes I am he who comes for you. I can be many things! Would you like me to be your friend?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose we would.”

  “Then prove it,” the voice squawked. Sweat poured down the sides of Mrs. Grimes’ face. “We can prove our friendship through action,” squawked Mrs. Grimes. Grandmother looked concerned.

  Mrs. Grimes lurched forward in her chair, her transformation now a frightening caricature, her contorted voice rasped, “Action. Action! I’ll give you action.” Eyes wide, Mrs. Grimes stared at the door. Could she see my face pressed against the frosted glass panels?

  “End it now, please. He’s up to no good.” Mother’s voice faded into a whisper.

  “Ooh! I want to spend a penny,” added Lilly.

  “Gertie, I think we should stop this now. Come out of the trance,” urged Grandmother. Once again the clockwork whirled, pulling in more fur. Winston growled, fear changed to anger, anger turned to action.

  Winston’s limbs stiffened, then silently, with a thump, he lunged forward, breaking from Ted’s grasp, paws scratching on the door. Lilly screamed, “See, oh Gawd, an ‘orrible face in the door!” Everyone turned to look. Did she mean me?

  The red light crashed to the floor, making the room darker. It flickered on and off, casting eerie shadows from its new angle.

  In the semi-darkness, Winston, breaking away from Uncle Ted, forced the door open; his long, sleek, black form, a fast moving blur, streaked into the dining room and headed for Mrs. Grimes.

  The clockwork engine’s horn activated for the first time, emitting sharp, eerie hoots. Winston leaped onto Mrs. Grimes and licked her face. In panic, she snapped out of her trance crying, “Aaah! Oh my Lord! Bealzebub’s among us! He has materialized!” Shrieks and yells filled the darkness, chairs tipped, and crockery crashed.

  My last view of these events was of Grandfather, arms extended, face illuminated by a dull red flickering glow, calling out, “Jesus Christ. Why? Why me, Lord? What have I done to offend you?” He looked upwards. “Jesus, what did I do to deserve this?” The palms of his hands were open and facing the heavens. Were they waiting for nails to be hammered through? Was he waiting for the crucifixion?

  Uncle Ted and I fled via the stairs to the box room, hoping to avoid detection.

  “Quick, let’s play with the train set and pretend that we know nothing.” A great idea, but we lacked one important item: the engine.

  Poor Uncle Ted. He was in serious trouble. Later, the whole household heard Grandfather, who refused to listen to Ted’s explanation of what happened, loudly lecture him on the honourable treatment of household guests.

  ~~~***~~~

  Tim’s Dinner

  Phil Yeats

  Many years ago, a new family with two young children and two cats moved in next to us. Tim, the older of the cats, was a large ginger tom with a confident air, tattered ears, and other battle scars that showed he was a force to reckon with. He quickly asserted ownership of our house and yard, and began periodic visits of inspection. He would sit outside the patio door leading from our kitchen to the back deck, staring into the house. If we didn’t open the door quickly enough, he would scratch on the glass to get our attention. After a greeting that seemed more like a scolding if we didn’t let him in promptly, he would do his inspection before leaping onto one of our living room chairs for an afternoon nap. Around dinnertime, he would sit meowing by one of the doors until someone let him out.

  These visits occurred two or three times a week for almost five years, from the time he arrived in the neighbourhood until shortly before he died at the ripe old age of 18.One day, about six months before he died, Tim came as usual for a visit. Climbing the stairs onto the back deck had become difficult for him, and his inspections were now curtailed. He no longer went to check out the basement, and only wandered through two or three of the main floor rooms before settling down in his favourite chair. Climbing onto the chair, only 15 inches above the carpet, had become a struggle for the arthritic old cat. On this particular day, he slept in his chair for several hours. None of us gave him any thought as we started preparations for dinner.

  “How about the Spanish noodle skillet dinner from the Mennonite cookbook?” Linda suggested to our daughter and me from the living room doorway. Amelia had her head buried in a text book and didn’t respond.

  “Fine with me,” I replied. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Cut up the onion and green pepper, and brown the hamburger after I get the bacon cooked, please.”

  Twenty minutes later three crisp pieces of bacon were set aside on a paper towel, the hamburger was browned, and the cut up vegetables, as well as the spices and a can of stewed tomatoes, were all added to the fry pan. We both left the room while the concoction simmered.

  “Tim, you monster!” Linda yelled from the kitchen, just minutes after I left. “Get down off that counter immediately!”

  I heard the patio door slide shut as I hurried into the kitchen. Linda was bent over laughing, and pointing at Tim outside the door. He had a stunned look on his face and a piece of bacon protruding from his mouth. The wily old warrior had taken advantage of our absence, and proved he still had some life in his old legs.

  “Man, was he up on the counter?” I exclaimed.

  “Yes. He stole a piece of bacon, and was calmly chomping it up as if there was nothing wrong.”

  “Wow, a few hours ago he could barely climb up on one of the living room chairs and now he has the strength to leap three feet onto the counter.”

  “I’m not the least bit surprised,” Amelia said from the doorway. “If I was a cat, I’d jump twice that high for some bacon. What are we going to do with the other two pieces?”

  “No way I’m eating them after Tim’s been sniffing around,” Linda replied.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” Amelia said, biting into a rasher and offering the other to me.

  “Groossss!” Linda dragged out the word as she headed to the fridge for more bacon.

  From that day onward, we called Spanish noodle skillet, “Tim’s dinner”.

  ***

  Many years have passed and Tim is long gone. Amelia has a family of her own living in another city, but Linda and I have remained in our family home. Every month or so we have Tim’s dinner for our evening meal, and whenever we do, I swear I hear a little scratching noise at the patio door in the kitchen. When I go outside to see if a tree branch is rubbing against the door or the adjacent window, there’s nothing to be seen. But once the door is open, I always have the impression that something passes me as I go out.

  I know it makes no sense, and Tim’s ghost cannot have entered, but I always break one or two pieces off the rashers of cooked bacon waiting on the paper towel, and place them aside for Tim to find. Later, when it is time to crumble the bacon and return it to the fry pan, those pieces have always disappeared.

  “Did you eat the bits I left for Tim?” I invariably ask Linda.

  She always replies, “Of course not. You and Amelia are the only ones crude enough to eat bacon a cat’s been sniffing.”

  But they’re never there. I know I haven’t eaten them and Amelia lives 4,000 miles away, so where have they gone?

  ~~~***~~~

  Room 428

  Ca
therine A. MacKenzie

  Ocean’s End Hotel, Cape Chignecto, Nova Scotia

  1890

  Alice gazed out the window, watching the distant fog slowly advancing over the water toward the hotel. Smudges and water stains distorted the glorious view of the Atlantic Ocean and added to her foreboding. Mason, her husband’s son, was riding, which he did every day. He'd come into view soon; she could count on him like clockwork. Him and his horse, Chamois. She thought Chamois a silly name for a horse.

  The previous year when he’d purchased the mare, he had said it was the perfect name for her. "Just feel her. She's so soft, like a baby's breath, gentle, beautiful....”

  She saw something akin to lust in his eyes, and jealousy spread through her. "It'll turn on you someday," Alice said. She—Alice—should have been enough for him. His eyes should have been on her, not on some dratted animal.She sighed, her heavy breath making a perfect circle on the glass.

  Eventually, Alice gave up waiting, donned her husband’s hat and coat, and ventured to the balcony where she sat on a weathered chair. She pulled a cigar from the pocket of Freeman’s trench coat and took her first drag of the day.

  She’d been dying for that moment. While Alice took another puff, and another, and another, she watched for Mason.

  ***

  Mason struggled with the reins. Chamois was acting ornery. Mason tried to pull her in, but the animal was determined to have its own way. "Whoa, girl. Calm down. Steady, steady.” Mason’s words were in vain, and Chamois veered away from the well-trampled path and toward the cliff’s edge, east of Ocean’s End Hotel.

  Chamois galloped closer and closer to the cliff. The waves below whipped against the boulders, the sound not unlike hundreds of frenzied fathers attacking screaming children with endless belt lashes. Mason bit his lower lip, tasting blood mixed with the salty mist. Menacing clouds scudded above him as if racing away from danger. Several colossal crows circled and chanted their incessant, piercing caw caw caw!