Who's There

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.