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“Edith?” Maya whispers into the soft darkness.
“I’m here.”
“I saw two young girls talking in a room… Who were they?”
All around her, the bedroom’s decor dissolves, whisked away like smoke by a silent breeze. Only a vast emptiness remains, an expanse of darkness scattered with suspended white particles. They swirl slowly around her and Simon, like reflections within the obsidian stone.
She feels as though she’s been plunged into the very heart of a scrying mirror, suspended outside of time, listening. The outside world has vanished, and only this strange bubble remains, where voices alone persist. Hers—and Edith’s.
“Euphemia and I were friends since childhood. Our fathers did business together. She was always the golden child. The wonder of Blackmere Estate. Its little princess… and my queen.”
There is something ancient and tender in her voice, yet tinged with a nuance Maya can’t quite define.
“When I was little, I envied her. Later, I began to admire her. She wasn’t always kind, or gentle. But I know… I know she had a good heart.”
Maya stays silent, listening closely. She cannot afford to break the fragile thread connecting them.
“I saw Euphemia hand you a leather notebook. What was it?”
A brief silence follows, then Edith answers, emotion coloring her voice.
“Her poetry journal. She wrote her thoughts, her verses in it. She loved it. She knew Keats, Shelley, Coleridge by heart. But after her mother died, she stopped reading and began to write. And that’s when her talent exploded. Inspired by the voice of an angel, she used to say. She claimed that inspiration whispered ideas to her in moments of contemplation. She became the soul of the salons. Everyone wanted to hear her.”
Edith pauses. Her voice drops, turning rougher, more vulnerable.
“I was her first admirer, the first to ever hear her verses. But… I wasn’t the only one. Men started to chase after her with growing insistence. And she hated it. It brought out… the darkest parts of her. She needed help.”
Around Maya, the darkness begins to tremble. The pale particles drift closer, shift, gather—and a new scene takes shape.
One of the small drawing rooms on the ground floor. The air there is tense, almost electric. Golden light filters through the stained-glass windows, shattered by the sudden, violent crash of porcelain.
Maya flinches as the teapot flies across the room. She sees it—beautiful—twirling in the air before shattering against the wall with a crystalline crash. The door bursts open. Edith rushes in, breathless, her cheeks flushed, eyes wild. She steps back quickly, barely dodging a sharp shard.
“My God, Effie! What happened?” she cries. “I just passed Lord Baten in the hallway—furious—his nose bleeding!”
At the center of the room, Euphemia looks nothing like the radiant, charming girl she once was. Her bodice is undone, wrinkled, as if she tried to tear herself free from it. Stray locks have fallen from her chignon, framing her pale face, and her eyes burn feverishly, almost lost. In her hands, she fidgets nervously with her small copper mirror, while all around her, the room lies in a dreadful disarray no servant seems willing to enter and fix.
“He dared…” she breathes, fists clenched, breath ragged. “That… that pathetic suitor, that powdered puppet—he dared say my verses were nothing but the whim of a spoiled child. That once I’m married, I should put away my journals and learn to be silent.”
Her voice breaks on the last words. She takes a step back, almost stumbles, then steadies herself. Her eyes lock onto Edith’s, but they seem not to truly see her.
“I slapped him. I don’t really remember it—it’s… blurry. But he was bleeding. And I was screaming. He ran off, shouting that I was mad. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am…”
She shakes her head violently, as if trying to cast something out from deep inside.
“There’s something in me, Edith. Something that wakes when I lose control. Something dark. I can feel it… in my bones, in my dreams. I dream of awful things. And sometimes, it’s not even a dream anymore. It’s there. In the room. With me.”
She wraps her arms around herself, as if to contain an inner shiver. Her face twitches with tiny spasms, involuntary tics born of tension. Then she collapses to the floor, rocking back and forth. Edith approaches slowly, her eyes clouded with worry. Her face is tight with anxiety, each step she takes driven by the need to pull her back from the edge. She kneels before her, as if kneeling before something sacred—or shattered.
“Oh, Effie…” she breathes, her hands reaching out, trembling with tenderness. “My God, my sweet Effie…”
Euphemia crumples into her arms, all the tension vanishing from her body at once, as if Edith’s mere presence is enough to break the dam of her despair. Edith holds her tightly, arms wrapped protectively around her—one hand stroking her loosened hair, the other cradling her shoulders.
Euphemia sobs, her head tucked against Edith’s chest.
“I’m cursed. I can feel it, I know it. These poems, these urges… they’re not mine. They don’t come from an angel, but a demon. A demon hiding under my skin,” she whispers, fevered and muffled. “When I write, I feel transported… but it’s as if something else is writing through me. Something older. Darker. And it frightens me, Edith. It frightens me so much.”
She lifts herself just slightly, her haunted eyes clinging to Edith’s gaze.
“If anyone knew… they’d lock me away. In one of those asylums… with the madwomen and the inconvenient wives. They’d say I’m possessed. Or sick. And maybe they’d be right. Maybe I am.”
“Don’t say that…” Edith murmurs, pressing her forehead gently to Euphemia’s. “I’m here. And I’ll never leave you. Never, do you hear me? We’ll find a way. Together. I won’t let you slip into the dark alone. Let’s not talk about it for now… and maybe I could bring in Madame Kali?”
Euphemia curls more tightly into her, like a child seeking shelter from an inner storm.
“I love you, my Edith. I love you so deeply… Only you understand me.”
Edith rocks her gently, her arms enfolding everything Euphemia is trying to contain, to flee, to bury. Then, with a soft smile, she whispers:
“And what if you quoted me one of those Greek verses you love so much? From that poetess you always say would have understood you better than anyone…”
Euphemia lifts her tear-bright eyes to hers, her voice trembling but clear—almost sacred in this suspended moment.
“Never leave me, Edith. You are my light. You are… the very beauty of my creativity. My muse. My breath.”
And with a voice woven of pain and grace, she recites:
Again love, the limb-loosener, rattles me
bittersweet, irresistible,
a crawling beast.
As a wind in the mountains
assaults an oak,
Love shook my breast.
Edith closes her eyes and holds Euphemia a little tighter, as if those words have revealed a truth deeper than anything they could have spoken.
Once again, the scene dissolves like a dream upon waking, leaving behind only the distant echo of faded voices and the lingering scent of ancient memories. Maya finds herself back beside Simon in this spectral in-between, bathed in a gentle darkness streaked with suspended white particles. They swirl slowly around them, as if time itself has forgotten to move forward here.
The young woman stands tall, her features tense with focus. She is still inhabited by the vision—the weight of emotion, the tension in the voices, the burning intimacy of a memory that isn’t hers, yet one she has felt in every fiber of her being. Everything feels incredibly real. Too real.
“Edith?”
“I’m here.”
Maya keeps her eyes half-closed, grounded in this strange mirror of shadow and light.
“I saw you. You and Euphemia. She had just had a breakdown. What happened?”
Edith’s silence is heavy with melancholy and aching tenderness.
“Effie… was always prone to those episodes. She was sensitive… raw. What might have been a minor inconvenience to others became a cataclysm for her. She could remain curled in on herself for hours, days, consumed by emotions she couldn’t name. But… after her mother died, it got worse. It was as if she had no foundation left, no anchor. She felt… devoured. She told me she was afraid of losing her mind. A fear that was visceral, irrational, but relentless. She was terrified it would show, that people would know. That she’d be locked away.”
Edith pauses, and her voice drops, growing tighter.
“But that particular episode… it was different. For the first time, she wasn’t just overwhelmed—she was afraid. As if… as if there was a presence that terrified her. Something inside her. And I don’t know why, but I believed her.”
Maya frowns slightly, her focus sharpening. A word had caught her attention for its Indian connotation—or so it seemed to her. And this whole story feels deeply linked to India.
“I heard the name Madame Kali. Who was she?”
“A strange woman,” Edith replies cautiously, as if speaking of her is forbidden.
“She called herself a medium, a spiritualist… She would appear at salons, dinners, society gatherings. I saw her once, at my parents’ house. She claimed to speak with the dead, to read souls.”
Maya tilts her head, unable to suppress her intrigue. Was this woman someone like her? Or just a charlatan peddling sensationalism?
“When you said all of this brought out the darkest parts of Euphemia… was it connected to Madame Kali?”
“Effie was convinced she was haunted, that something lived inside her, lurking just beneath the surface. She said her poems… her words… no longer came from her alone. That her inspiration felt like an intrusion, that she heard voices in her dreams.”
Edith’s voice trembles slightly.
“I wanted to help her, even without understanding. I couldn’t abandon her. But without realizing it, I only made things worse…”
Maya gently clasps Simon’s hands, her thumbs moving absently over his knuckles. Despite the calm strangeness of this suspended space beyond time, her mind remains restless. A part of her stays irreversibly tethered to the tangible world, to what’s unfolding now in the manor. Have Jenks and Harriet reached the bedroom? Is Camille safe? And Jimmy—how is he? Worry remains a taut string stretched across her chest. She breathes in deeply, forcing her thoughts back into focus.
“Show me what happened next.”
The setting shifts instantly. Around them, a new memory takes form—darker this time. The warm glow of candlelight casts dancing shadows across the wood-paneled walls of a small sitting room. A fire crackles low in the hearth. The silence resonates, heavy, almost suffocating, broken only by the steady pacing of Euphemia.
She walks back and forth from one wall to the other, restless, her hands twisted together. Her long hair is loose and disheveled, and her gaunt face, drawn tight with worry, betrays sleepless nights. Her dress is wrinkled, her frame appearing almost too fragile in the dim light.
Edith, seated in an armchair, watches her with contained concern, her fingers clenched on the armrest.
“It’s going to be all right, Effie. I’m certain she’ll be able to help you.”
“And what if she doesn’t come?” Euphemia stops, eyes gleaming with anxiety. “What if she thinks we’re mocking her? Or worse—what if she talks? My reputation would be destroyed. Father would have me locked away or exiled to some remote corner of England, far from everything I love… far from you.”
“Don’t imagine the worst,” Edith murmurs gently. “Everything will be fine. I promise.”
Euphemia suddenly spins around and drops to her knees before her friend. She grabs Edith’s hands with fervor and brings them to her lips, kissing them. Then, she presses them to her cheeks, eyes closed, as if that simple contact could save her from the abyss.
“Oh Edith… my dear Edith… never leave me. Promise me. Say it, now. Promise me you’ll never abandon me.”
“Effie…”
But Euphemia continues, swept away by the fever of the moment, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and desperate hope.
“Let’s run away together, you and I. I’ll publish my poems, I’ll sell them, and you… you’ll sing, like you’ve always dreamed! We’ll live in Bath, or Paris, or some city where no one knows us. Far from all this, far from prying eyes. Edith… I’m begging you…”
A sharp click interrupts her. The sitting room door opens slowly, and a woman steps inside. Her gown, deep emerald velvet trimmed with black, seems to swallow the light. A heavy hood partially hides her face, which she slowly lowers as she enters. Her piercing gaze sweeps the room.
She inclines her head slightly, her voice low but laced with unmistakable authority
“Ladies… I was told the matter is most urgent.”
The vision wavers slightly, like a veil of disturbed water, and the scene shifts—darker now, more solemn. The air feels thicker, charged with static electricity, and as it settles, Maya sees the three women now seated around a round table draped in dark velvet.
At the center, a single candle flickers, casting shifting shadows across their faces.
Euphemia looks pale, almost waxen; her features are tight, and her hands tremble in the grip of her companions. Edith, to her right, appears visibly tense, her gaze fixed on her friend with growing worry. And Madame Kali, swathed in her dark robes, sits silently, her eyes gleaming with an intensity that seems almost otherworldly.
Her voice, when she finally speaks, is calm but firm, laced with an authority that feels beyond question.
“I need you to explain to me exactly what you’re feeling, Miss Hall.”
Euphemia hesitates. Her throat tightens. She swallows with difficulty before whispering, her voice low, almost broken:
“I feel… like I’m fracturing from the inside. As if… something, something insidious… is slipping into me. I think terrible things. Sometimes, I catch myself wanting to hurt people.”
Her fingers tighten around Edith’s, who tries to soothe her with a soft brush of the thumb.
“Was there a specific event that marked the beginning of these sensations?”
A heavy silence falls.
“My mother’s death,” Euphemia finally replies, her voice strangled.
Madame Kali nods slowly, almost as if she already knew.
“Yes. I’ve heard of that story. She fell down the stairs, didn’t she? Have you spoken of this to your father?”
Euphemia shakes her head sharply, her lips pale.
“Absolutely not! He wouldn’t understand… he’d think I’m lying, or mad, or… worse. Please, Madame, he mustn’t know about your visit.”
“I understand. You’re not the first young woman to experience such things. The symptoms you describe… they’re more common than you think. But I’ll do what I can to help you.”
She straightens slightly, her palms still resting on those of Euphemia and Edith.
“What would you say if we tried to make contact with this… presence? This spirit that afflicts you?”
A shiver runs through Euphemia, but it is Edith who speaks, worry lacing her voice:
“Is… is that possible?”
Madame Kali turns toward her with a meaningful look. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips as she retrieves a black lace veil, which she places over her head, letting it fall to obscure her face entirely.
“Everything is possible, Miss. It all depends on what one is willing to hear. Let’s begin.”
Maya feels a strange sense of déjà vu. The woman in red had draped herself the same way. Were they the same person? No—the woman in red clearly wasn’t British. But were they both… like them?
Madame Kali slowly straightens her back, still seated between Euphemia and Edith. Her hands remain on theirs, and then her eyelids close in a slow flutter. When she speaks again, her voice drops to a low rasp, a whisper meant not for the two young women, but for the darkness itself.
Her tone becomes nearly incantatory, a murmured litany spoken to the entire universe.
“I ask for bearance. I ask you to suspend your disbelief…”
The silence in the sitting room grows almost tangible, as if it were closing in around them, swallowing every creaking floorboard, every rustle of cloth.
“Imagine your minds floating in the darkness of time… Let your imagination be liberated and roam with me back in time… Back to a time before… when the spirits walked…”
Her voice thickens, deepens, imbued with a primal power.
“I call to the speakers of the dead… Come to me… Come to me…”
And then, suddenly, her body convulses with a violent spasm. Her shoulders jerk, her back arches so sharply that a loud crack echoes through the room. Euphemia gasps, and Edith lets out a sharp cry of terror, her hands clutching around Madame Kali’s in panic.
The medium’s eyelids flutter briefly beneath her lace veil, then snap open suddenly, rolled back to reveal only the whites. Her head lolls forward, as if pulled by an invisible weight, her chin nearly sinking into her chest.
The air in the sitting room grows denser, laced with a biting chill. Even the candle appears to flicker under an unseen breeze. Edith trembles, her damp fingers clinging to Euphemia’s. Despite the fear, Euphemia remains frozen, her eyes locked on Madame Kali, transfixed by what she sees.
The woman breathes in sharp, erratic bursts, as if in a trance—then a voice escapes her throat. It is no longer her own, but a cavernous, inhuman sound that seems to echo from a bottomless well.
“Beyond the seas… beyond the lands… There stands a temple… ancient, hidden in the folds of time… a temple where the earth meets the heavens. Tall, imposing… its pillars carved from black stone, covered in the dust of centuries. The air heavy with incense, thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh.”
Her hands tighten around those of the two young women, as if to guide them through this vision of another world. The candle wavers one last time, casting a quivering glow that deepens the weight of the moment.
“This temple… A pact forged. A pact for a thing coveted, but owned by none… Within this temple, where the divine and the profane meet… there were those who came seeking power, knowledge, and immortality. Some found it… others were consumed by it. And among them, the spirits… both those that protect and those that destroy.”
Her hands suddenly clench, and her body arches once more beneath the pressure of the vision. The room seems to stretch, to expand, as she continues to speak—each word an incantation, each syllable a wind that travels through forgotten ages.
“Possession… it is both a gift and a curse. It can elevate the soul, or drag it into darkness. Devas, spirits of light and creation, voluntarily accepted for a greater purpose, or bhuta, preta, and piśāca, dark, vengeful spirits… all these can possess. The good, the bad… divine or undivine… it is the will of the spirit that determines the nature of possession. It can uplift, or it can destroy.”
She shudders, and the two young women shiver with her. The walls seem to close in around them, the air growing heavier, almost tangible. Euphemia leans forward, her voice trembling but full of curiosity, cutting through the trance.
“Which kind of spirit… is haunting me?”
“It is an envious spirit, one that gives only to take. It offers glimpses of power, of knowledge, but always with a price. It feeds on your fear, your desire, and it returns to reclaim what it has left behind…”
A heavy silence follows. Edith leans forward, a flicker of hope in her eyes, though her voice trembles with dread.
“Is there a way… to get rid of it?”
Madame Kali remains still for a long moment, as if the answers are not easily given. Then her voice, still grave and resonant, replies:
“It can be banished, but not easily. The spirit must be confronted, and the pact… broken. But be warned, for to do so is to risk losing what you hold most dear. There are always consequences, always a price.”
Madame Kali slowly straightens, as if pulled upward by an invisible thread, her hands still clasped tightly around those of the two young women. Her eyelids tremble, her features contracting in painful concentration.
“A spirit is vulnerable as long as it hasn’t found a vessel of flesh… As long as it hasn’t made the transition, as long as it roams between worlds, it needs… it needs an anchor. An object. An artifact. A talisman. Something that opens the way. That is when it is most fragile. It hides in the reflections of reality. But to banish it… hatred must not be used. Hatred feeds. It binds. It anchors. What’s needed is an act of love. Pure. Selfless. An act of forgiveness. That is the only force strong enough to seal the breach.”
Suddenly, she lets out a low moan. Her body arches violently, her eyes open halfway without truly seeing, and then she collapses forward, gasping, as if drained. The flame flickers once, then abruptly goes out.
The séance is over.
The scene dissolves. Silence settles around Maya.
She remains still, still caught in the vision, her breath shallow, her throat tight. The space suspended around her and Simon pulses softly, as though the echo of Kali’s voice still resonates within the white particles swirling around them.
“For possession can be both positive and negative…”
The words loop in her mind. She’s certain she’s read them before, scribbled in the margins of one of Agatha’s notebooks, somewhere between two paragraphs on Eastern occult practices. The phrasing, the very idea, feels too familiar to be a coincidence.
Edith and Euphemia had seemed so close to a solution. They had identified the source, understood the rules. They had even received help from someone who could see beyond the veil.
So why hadn’t it been enough?
“It is the will of the spirit that determines the nature of possession. It can uplift, or it can destroy…”
Possessions—good or bad—always seemed to begin with a pact.
Maya inhales slowly, her mind still buzzing with Madame Kali’s final words. She thinks of Hugo. Of Jimmy. Of the brutal way the spirit had overtaken him. But for her… it’s different. More subtle. More intimate. Almost… complicit.
What if the bond was voluntary? What if, despite everything she believes, her spirit is not a threat, but a guide?
She doesn’t have all the answers yet.
But she is beginning to see the right question.