Dicky cleared his throat and continued. “I reckon you could say learning to read signs from the spirits is a little like learning to speak another language.”
This got him more nods of agreement.
“It’s about picking up on patterns, learning to be more receptive to the signs we get from our departed ones every day. We’ve all gotta be on the lookout for those patterns. You all know the stuff I mean: dreams we have again and again, numbers that come into our lives over and over, a song on the radio, an image we can’t shake. Reality…it ain’t random.” He shuffled his feet in the pointy-toed boots. “The spirits, they have the power to manipulate the world around us. To send us signals. It’s up to us to keep our eyes open. To listen to what they’ve got to say.”
Was it Helen’s imagination, or was Dicky looking right at her when he said this?
“I keep seeing that pileated woodpecker in my yard,” a man Helen recognized from the pizza and sub shop said. “It was my brother’s favorite bird. I’m sure it’s him.”
There was a general murmur of agreement from the group, followed by more discussions of coincidences, serendipitous moments, and signs they’d all received: repeated license plate numbers that were actually a code, voices with important messages picked up on the static in between radio stations, recurring dreams.
Helen said nothing.
Dicky looked at her. “Tell me, Helen, have you experienced anything like this?”
She squirmed, looked at Riley, who gave her a little nod.
“Well,” Helen began, “I do find myself waking up at the same time in the night. Three thirty-three.” She didn’t tell them she woke up and saw ghosts. Though she was sure this was exactly the sort of crowd that would be eager to hear such a thing, she wasn’t willing to trust this detail to a group of strangers.
The old woman beside her nodded. “It’s the spirits waking you. That’s a powerful number. The number three is the number of communication. Of psychic ability. It’s the number of mediums.”
She looked at Helen, gauging her response. “What happens when you wake up, dear? Do you see any visions? Have any particular feelings?”
“No,” Helen lied. “I just go back to sleep.”
The woman nodded. “Stay up next time. Stay up, keep your eyes open, and listen. If they’re waking you up again and again, there’s a reason.”
More murmured agreement from the group. Helen felt everyone studying her.
“We can begin,” Dicky said. He reached out, took the hands of the two people sitting on either side of him, and then the whole circle joined hands. Helen took Riley’s hand in her right and held the old woman’s hand in her left. The woman’s hand felt light and fragile and fluttered slightly like a small bird in Helen’s hand. Dicky closed his eyes and bowed his head, and the others did the same. Helen tilted her head down but kept her eyes wide open, watching.
“We bring only our best intentions into the circle,” he said.
“We bring only our best intentions into the circle,” the others echoed.
“We open our hearts and minds to those we can feel but cannot see,” Dicky said.
“We open our hearts and minds to those we can feel but cannot see,” the group echoed.
“We ask the spirits to join us here in the room, to come forward.”
This time, there was no repeated refrain. The musty room was still. All Helen could hear was the others breathing.
“Are there any spirits here among us now? Give us a sign,” Dicky called.
There was a loud rap that came from somewhere behind Dicky, near the old fireplace. Helen jerked her head up, searched the shadows.
“Welcome,” Dicky said, smiling, eyes still closed. “Come forward. Do you have a message for us? A message for anyone here?”
There had to be another person in the room. Someone hiding behind the wall, listening. Someone playing ghost. Giving these people what they’d come for.
Disappointment flooded through Helen. It was a sham. These people couldn’t really call the spirits.
The old woman sitting next to Helen squeezed her hand tighter. “I’m getting something,” she said, her voice a dull crackle. “It’s a message for Kay.”
A middle-aged woman in a red sweater leaned forward, said, “For me? Who is it? What do they say?” Her hair was a washed-out blond; her skin looked yellow and sickly in the candlelight. She had on thick blue eye shadow all the way up to her eyebrows.
“It’s your sister, Jessa.”
