ACTIVE WELLNESS CREATIVE WRITING
ASSIGNMENT 17.7.17
A piece of writing
with the theme "Who's there?"
IS
THERE ANYBODY THERE?
Madame Zara sat in
front of the mirror and peeled off her costume.
First came the
soot-black wig, complete with greying strands and scarlet head scarf.
This she neatly set onto a polystyrene head, then turned her
attention to her eyelashes, which she peeled off with tweezers and
dropped in a wicker-work waste bin. The discarded lashes looked like
startled spiders in the basket. Zara next reached for a deep pore
cleanser and carefully removed the rest of her make up, the rouge,
the lipstick and the heavy mascara. Finally, she popped the dark
brown contact lenses from her eyes and placed them in saline
solution.
Julie Jones, aka
Madame Zara, Spiritualist Extraordinaire, brushed out her naturally
mousey hair and regarded her reflection with calm blue eyes. Cleansed
of her make up, she looked, indeed was, twenty years younger than
Madame Zara. Julie was glad to be rid of the old witch for another
week. Down to business, she thought.
Over a glass of
chilled white wine, Julie sorted the paperwork from her last session.
Four of her guests had paid cash - some of which she had earmarked
for a new pair of shoes - and two by cheque, made out to Madame Zara
Ltd. As an added bonus, all of her guests had left happy that
evening, one had even suggested bringing a friend to the next
gathering. She was used to getting a few disgruntled comments,
usually over missing details from a relative's past. Her excuse was
often that the spirit had had such a blissful time in Heaven, and was
so happy to be communicating with the guest, that such minor details
were occasionally forgotten by the spirit.
For all that she was
a fraud, however, Julie was at least a professional fraud. She took
her diary and wrote notes about her guests that evening. Mrs
Holroyd's dearly departed husband had written a letter to the widow
which had never been found. Mr Collins' wife was sunning herself in
Paradise's equivalent of Morecambe on Sea, which was where they had
honeymooned fifty years ago. And poor Miss Esme (Julie had never
learned her surname) desperately missed her old terrier. Julie noted
all the quirks, foibles, characteristics and, most of all, the losses
of all her guests, and their departed, so that their deep-seated
needs would not be forgotten next time.
It was three AM by
the time Julie had finished her notes - and the bottle of wine -
before retiring to bed.
===
Julie stirred in bed
and opened her eyes. Bloody neighbours' dog was intermittently
barking hysterically and whining as if whipped. It was not the first
time the dog had gone berserk at an ungodly hour. She really must
have a word with the landlord about this. Burying her head between
the pillows, Julie unsuccessfully tried to shut out the noise. She
tossed and turned for thirty minutes before sighing heavily, her
breath turning misty in front of her face, then swinging her feet out
of bed to go to the loo. The floor was freezing under her bare feet.
Goosebumps spread up her arms and icy fingers slid down her spine.
Wait a bloody
minute, Julie thought as she recoiled from the cold floor. It's
the middle of August!
A breeze circled her
bedroom. She felt it caress her skin and saw a trail of purple
sparkles trace their way across the walls. The curtains, heavy velvet
and closed against the sodium streetlight outside her window, didn't
budge an inch.
There was a small
thump and a dimple appeared in her bedclothes. It was quite small,
maybe the size of a football, or, perhaps, a small dog. The sound of
rapid panting accompanied the dimple.
Julie felt her skin
crawl and she back-pedalled up the bed, to sit against the headboard
with her knees under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins.
This can't be
happening, she thought. It's a nightmare. I'm dreaming.
With that, she pinched her left arm with her right hand. She cursed.
The pain she felt was all too real.
"Is there
anybody there?", Julie managed to say. She couldn't believe she
had just said that! Her voice sounded pitifully small in the darkness
of her bedroom.
Another dimple, this
time the size of a plump bottom, appeared on her bed. There was a
smell of perfume, not her own, in the air now.
"Surely you
know who I am?" The voice, polite and well-spoken, sounded
distant but startlingly clear. "You've been calling me for
weeks."
"I'm dreaming,
I'm dreaming," Julie muttered under her breath, "I'll wake
up soon and all this will vanish."
"This is not a
dream," said the voice. The temperature in Julie's bedroom
dropped still further as a figure slowly resolved itself on the
corner of the bed. The image, almost like an old black and white
photo, was of a woman in her late fifties, with greying hair, wearing
a dark dress and shoes. "You have been a very wicked girl,"
said the shade of Mrs Annette Collins.
Julie Jones fainted.
===
"I told you she
wouldn't take it very well." A man's voice, this time.
"Better than I
expected, George," replied Mrs Collins. "At least she
didn't scream the place down." She looked over at her companion.
George Holroyd wore the suit he'd been buried in, the silk tie still
perfectly knotted and his shoes had almost a mirror shine.
"Do you think
she'll be still, you know, all there when she wakes up? The other one
went stark raving mad."
"I think we
were a little forceful with him," Annette conceded. "The
poltergeist act was one step too far. Poor chap couldn't take it."
"Why do you
think she'll be any different?"
"This girl
knows she's a fraud. It makes her mind-set different to our first
chap who really believed he was a medium. When we proved him right,
he snapped. She, however," Annette gestured towards Julie Jones,
"has the sort of criminal mentality that makes her mind much
tougher."
===
Julie had overheard
much of this conversation. She had not woken up from her nightmare.
It was all impossibly real. There were ghosts in her bedroom! How
could this be? One thing irked her. "I am not a criminal,"
Julie croaked. Her mouth was dry and her stomach was turning
flip-flops.
"Ah, she's
awake," Annette said, with considerable pleasure. Then, more
sternly, "You most certainly are a criminal, young lady. You
have defrauded over a dozen people in the last year by praying on
their grief, exploiting their loss and riding rough-shod over their
emotions. It seems you have made a comfortable living out of their
misery."
Julie sat up in bed,
still with her knees under her chin. "I gave them what they
needed most. A sense of closure after a horrible bereavement."
"Keep telling
yourself that, girl," said George, acidly, "if it helps you
sleep at night."
Julie wasn't sure if
she would ever sleep at night again. She tried to justify what she
had done. "Look, I have a mountain of student debt to pay off.
My normal pay couldn't scratch the surface, so I had to improvise a
bit." Three years studying Psychology hadn't made her eminently
employable but it had given her the skills to read people, reach into
their problems and help present a solution. It was just that some
people needed solutions more radical than talking therapies. "I
helped my guests ease their grief."
"You charged
the earth for your services."
"Better that
than their GP getting them hooked on Valium," Julie retorted.
She was getting cross. "What do you want with me anyway? Are you
going to haunt me until I go crazy?"
"The thought
had crossed our minds," Annette replied, with a smile when she
saw the girl's eyes widen in fear. "But no. We have a job for
you."
===
It started small. At
her next session, Madame Zara passed on messages directly from the
spirits. Mrs Collins told her husband that Morecambe on Sea had been
such a dump back in the Sixties, she was now happily living in
Heaven's version of the Costa del Sol. Mr Holroyd's letter had fallen
behind the mantlepiece; a little work with a knitting needle and pair
of tweezers would allow her to recover the letter. And Buster, Miss
Esme's darling terrier, was happily chasing rabbits and treeing cats
through Doggy Heaven's equivalent of Epping Forest.
Thus was Madame
Zara, the grasping, cantankerous old crone, reborn as Madame Zara,
the caring, considerate, compassionate conduit to the afterworld.
Julie herself continued working at a daycare centre for the elderly,
while Madame Zara Ltd saw business booming and ninety percent of the
fees were donated to reputable charities.
The visitations
continued, with Annette and George bringing their own guests, and
seances became something of a local attraction. Madame Zara made a
few public appearances which allowed Julie to continue with her life
unmolested by Press or paparazzi.
All in all,
thought Julie one night as she finished her notes, doing public
relations for the dead was quite a rewarding career.
