Read The Shadow Séance free: the opening chapter
A free sample of The Shadow Séance: A Victorian Conspiracy. About 17 minutes of reading.
The Gathering Gloom: Fog and Facades
The fog lay thick as wool across Blackwood Manor, swallowing the stone lions guarding the gate. It wasn’t a natural fog, not precisely. It felt… weighted, clinging to the damp cobblestones and muffling the sounds of London. Old Man Hemlock, the night watchman, shivered, though not entirely from the cold. He’d worked these grounds for twenty years and knew the manor held secrets, old griefs that sometimes seeped into the very air.
Tonight felt different. Restless.
He’d been making his rounds, checking the gas lamps, a tedious task, perpetually battling the damp, when he saw it. A carriage, dark and sleek, moving at a speed no carriage had any right to maintain on these winding roads. No lamps illuminated its path, no driver visible. Just the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves, strangely muffled by the fog, and the faint rattle of the vehicle itself.
It burst from the gates, a phantom shape, and vanished into the white swirl before Hemlock could fully register what he’d witnessed. He blinked, rubbed his eyes with a gloved hand. Probably just a trick of the light, he told himself. The fog played games with the eyes. But the speed… and the absolute silence surrounding the carriage… it unsettled him.
He adjusted his cap, tightened his grip on his lantern, and continued his patrol, the unease settling in his bones like the November chill. Something wasn’t right at Blackwood Manor. Something had stirred.
Inside the manor, Arthur Finch was holding court. The séance room was a lavish space, draped in heavy velvet and lit by flickering candlelight. A large, circular table dominated the center, surrounded by ten expectant faces. Finch, a man of theatrical flair with a neatly trimmed beard and piercing eyes, was in his element.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed, his voice a low, resonant hum. “Empty your minds of earthly concerns. Tonight, we reach beyond the veil.”
Eleanor Ainsworth sat amongst the guests, arms crossed, a skeptical expression etched on her face. She wasn’t here for spiritual enlightenment. She was here as an observer, hired by a concerned friend to verify, or debunk, Finch’s methods. A former magician’s assistant, Eleanor had seen enough illusion to last a lifetime. She understood how easily grief and suggestion could be manipulated.
The room grew colder. Finch began to chant, a melodic rhythm that wound its way through the silence. The table trembled. A woman, draped in black, sobbed quietly. Another gripped her husband’s hand, her knuckles white.
Eleanor watched carefully, scanning the room for the telltale signs of trickery. A hidden wire, a cleverly concealed mechanism, a subtle cue from Finch. She saw nothing obvious. But she wasn’t convinced.
“Is anyone present?” Finch intoned, his voice rising in pitch. “Does a spirit wish to communicate?”
A moment of breathless silence. Then, a single chair scraped against the floor. A cold draft swept through the room. The candles flickered wildly, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
“I… I feel something,” whispered Lady Beatrice, a frail woman dressed in mourning. “A presence.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. Lady Beatrice was known for her overactive imagination.
Finch seized the moment. “The spirit is responding! It seeks to connect. Ask it a question, my lady.”
Lady Beatrice, her voice trembling, asked, “Is my husband… at peace?”
Finch closed his eyes, his body swaying gently. He spoke in a strained, altered voice. “He… he says he is. He misses you deeply. He sends his love.”
Tears streamed down Lady Beatrice’s face. She clung to Finch’s hand, murmuring her gratitude.
Eleanor remained impassive. It was a performance, a carefully orchestrated display of emotion and deception. She had seen it all before. Yet, a prickle of unease ran down her spine. There was something about the atmosphere tonight, something… heavier.
The séance continued for another hour, Finch weaving a tapestry of vague pronouncements and emotional appeals. Eleanor cataloged every gesture, every nuance, searching for the seams in his illusion. She found a few minor inconsistencies, but nothing conclusive. He was a skilled performer, adept at reading his audience and exploiting their vulnerabilities.
As the evening drew to a close, Finch announced that the spirit was weakening, its energy fading. The guests, exhausted and emotionally drained, began to depart.
Eleanor lingered, feigning politeness while she gathered her observations. She approached Finch as he was preparing to retire.
“An impressive display, Mr. Finch,” she said, her voice cool and measured.
Finch smiled, a practiced expression of graciousness. “Thank you, Miss Ainsworth. I strive to bring comfort to those who seek it.”
“Comfort,” Eleanor echoed, her lips curling slightly. “Or perhaps, a momentary distraction from their grief?”
Finch’s smile faltered. “Grief takes many forms, Miss Ainsworth. If a little illusion can offer solace, what harm is there?”
“Harm,” Eleanor said, “lies in exploiting vulnerability. In preying on the desperate.”
Finch’s eyes hardened. “You are a cynical woman, Miss Ainsworth.”
“I am a realist, Mr. Finch. I’ve seen too many tricks to believe in magic.”
He chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “Perhaps. But there are things in this world, Miss Ainsworth, that lie beyond your understanding.”
He turned to leave, dismissing her with a curt nod. Eleanor watched him go, a sense of foreboding growing within her. She didn’t trust him. And she had a feeling she was right to be suspicious.
Later that night, after everyone had left, the fog had grown even denser, pressing against the windows of Blackwood Manor like a shroud. Old Man Hemlock was making his final rounds when he found him.
Arthur Finch.
Lying face down on the floor of the séance room, a single crimson stain blooming on the velvet carpet. A silver letter opener, one of the many ornate objects that decorated the room, protruding from his back.
Hemlock let out a strangled cry. He stumbled back, knocking over a candelabra, plunging the room into darkness. He fumbled for his whistle, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
Before he could sound the alarm, he saw it again. The carriage.
It sped past the manor, heading towards the main road, swallowed by the fog. This time, he caught a glimpse of the occupant. A figure cloaked in shadow, their face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.
And a single, glinting object in their hand. Something that looked suspiciously like a silver letter opener.
The carriage vanished, leaving Hemlock alone with the grim reality of murder, and the lingering, unsettling sense that tonight, something truly wicked had taken place at Blackwood Manor. Something that went far beyond illusion.
…leaving Hemlock alone with the grim reality of murder, and the lingering, unsettling sense that tonight, something truly wicked had taken place at Blackwood Manor. Something that went far beyond illusion.
He finally managed to raise a weak, trembling whistle blast, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the oppressive fog. It felt…insufficient. As if the very air resisted carrying the warning. He ran, stumbling through the darkened hallways, towards the housekeeper’s quarters, his boots echoing on the marble floor.
The following hours were a whirlwind of frantic activity. The local constables arrived, their lanterns cutting feeble swaths through the mist that clung to Blackwood Manor like a spectral embrace. They questioned Hemlock repeatedly, his account growing more fragmented with each retelling. He insisted on the carriage, the shadowy figure, the glint of silver. But the constables dismissed it as the ramblings of an old man, shaken by the discovery of a body.
“A robbery gone wrong, most likely,” Constable Davies had declared, examining the ransacked state of Finch’s small travel bag. “The man was known to carry cash. Simple enough.”
But Hemlock knew better. The room hadn’t been thoroughly searched, only hastily disturbed. It was a performance of robbery, not the act itself. And the carriage… the speed, the purposeful direction. It hadn’t been fleeing in panic, but escaping with intent.
Eleanor Ainsworth, roused from her sleep by the commotion, observed the scene with a detached coolness that bordered on unsettling. She offered her condolences to the investigating officers, a polite, practiced gesture. She answered their questions with careful precision, noting the details they overlooked. The position of the body, the angle of the wound, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air, a scent Finch hadn’t worn.
She hadn’t seen or heard the carriage herself, she claimed. But she’d felt a distinct chill earlier in the evening, a prickling at the back of her neck that suggested she was being watched.
As dawn began to break, painting the fog a bruised, sickly grey, Eleanor stood on the terrace, staring out at the grounds. The manor loomed behind her, a gothic silhouette against the pale sky. The murder of Arthur Finch was a tragedy, of course. But more than that, it was a complication. A puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
And Eleanor Ainsworth had a knack for solving puzzles. Especially those steeped in secrets and shadows.
She sensed, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that Eleanor Blackwood’s death, and now this, were connected. And she intended to uncover the truth, no matter how deeply it was buried within the walls of Blackwood Manor.
A Night of Shadows
The carriage wheels crunched on the gravel drive, a sound swallowed almost instantly by the dense fog. Amelia Blackwood shivered, pulling her sable wrap tighter around her shoulders. Blackwood Manor rose before her, a forbidding mass of grey stone, its many windows like dark, watchful eyes. It wasn’t a welcoming sight. It was a statement. A warning, perhaps.
She hadn't been back to the manor in nearly fifteen years, not since her grandmother's passing. The estate had remained mostly unoccupied, overseen by a caretaker and a small staff. Her cousin, Lord Ashworth, had finally decided to restore it, to breathe life back into the old place. He’d sent for her, claiming a need for her… artistic sensibility. Amelia, a portraitist of some renown, suspected the request was less about art and more about filling the house with a comforting presence. A distraction from the recent unpleasantness.
The carriage lurched to a halt before the towering front doors, and a footman, his face pale in the gloom, hurried to open them. The entrance hall was vast and cold, the air thick with the scent of dust and beeswax. A single gas lamp flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the polished stone floor.
“Miss Blackwood,” a voice boomed.
Lord Ashworth stood at the foot of a grand staircase, a tall, imposing figure with a stern expression. He extended a hand, his grip firm but lacking warmth. “Welcome home.”
“It’s been a long journey,” Amelia replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She hadn’t realized how unsettling the manor would be, even after all these years.
“Indeed. I trust you weren't disturbed by the… events of the evening?” He glanced towards a closed door at the end of the hall, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face. “A most unfortunate incident.”
Amelia knew. She’d heard the whispers on the train, the rumors about the medium, Arthur Finch, found dead during a séance. It was the talk of London, a scandalous affair even before the fog had descended.
“I gathered there was some trouble,” she said carefully.
“Trouble is a mild word, my dear. A tragedy. And a nuisance, frankly. It has brought unwanted attention to the manor.” He gestured towards a man standing silently nearby. “This is Mr. Grimshaw, the housekeeper. He will see to your needs.”
Grimshaw, a gaunt man with a perpetually worried expression, nodded curtly. “If you’ll follow me, Miss Blackwood.”
Her room was large and opulent, but equally cold. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth, offering little warmth against the pervasive chill. The furniture was antique, heavy and dark, shrouded in dust covers. A four-poster bed dominated the room, its crimson drapes lending a somber air.
Amelia crossed to the window, peering through the fog-streaked glass. The gardens were obscured, a ghostly landscape of trees and shadows. She could hear the wind whistling through the branches, a mournful sound that echoed the unease in her own heart.
“Dinner will be served in the dining room at eight, Miss Blackwood,” Grimshaw said, his voice hushed. “Lord Ashworth wishes to speak with you afterward.”
“Very well,” Amelia said, turning from the window. “Thank you, Mr. Grimshaw.”
He bowed slightly and retreated, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She unpacked her paints and brushes, a familiar comfort in this strange and unsettling place. She tried to focus on her work, to lose herself in the colors and textures, but the image of the manor, looming against the fog, kept intruding on her mind.
She felt a presence, a subtle shift in the air. A prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She turned quickly, but the room was empty. Just the shadows, dancing in the firelight.
Dinner was a strained affair. Lord Ashworth, preoccupied and distant, barely spoke. The other guest, a Mr. Hawthorne, a solicitor and family friend, attempted conversation, but his efforts were met with polite, monosyllabic replies.
The dining room was vast and imposing, the table laden with silver and crystal. The food was exquisitely prepared, but Amelia found she had little appetite. The atmosphere was heavy, suffocating. It felt as if the very walls were listening, absorbing their words.
“So, Amelia,” Hawthorne said, breaking the silence. “Your cousin tells me you’ve had some success with your portraits. Very impressive work, indeed.”
“Thank you,” Amelia replied, forcing a smile. “I enjoy it.”
“Lord Ashworth hopes you might consider painting a portrait of the manor itself. He believes it would capture its… character.”
Amelia glanced at her cousin, who nodded in agreement. “That sounds like a pleasant task,” she said.
“Excellent. And perhaps, a portrait of the family? We’ve been rather lacking in recent representations.”
Amelia sensed an ulterior motive behind Hawthorne’s suggestions. He wasn’t simply interested in art. He was testing her, gauging her willingness to become part of the manor’s atmosphere.
After dinner, Lord Ashworth led Amelia to the library, a cavernous room lined with bookshelves that reached the ceiling. The air smelled of old paper and leather. A fire blazed in the hearth, casting a warm glow on the room’s ornate furnishings.
“I wanted to speak with you privately, Amelia,” he said, settling into a leather armchair. “About the circumstances surrounding Mr. Finch’s death.”
“I heard it was a… violent end,” Amelia said cautiously.
“Indeed. He was found stabbed, in the séance room. A most peculiar scene.” Ashworth paused, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. “The police are baffled. They suspect a robbery, but I have my doubts.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The room wasn’t thoroughly ransacked. It was staged, I believe. And Finch… he had enemies. Powerful enemies.”
“Enemies?”
“He delved into things he shouldn’t have. Secrets. Blackmail. He was a medium, Amelia. He dealt with the vulnerable, the grieving. It attracts a certain type of person.”
Amelia felt a familiar chill creep over her. She’d encountered similar situations in her past, in the murky world of London’s theaters and music halls. Deception, manipulation, greed. It was a dangerous combination.
“You think his death is connected to his work?”
“I do. And I fear that whoever killed him may still be here, lurking in the shadows.” Ashworth leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I need you to be careful, Amelia. This house… it holds secrets. And some of them are best left buried.”
He looked at her intently, his eyes filled with a strange mixture of fear and desperation. Amelia realized that she had stumbled into something far more dangerous than she could have imagined. Something that went beyond a simple murder.
As she met his gaze, a sudden, sharp crack echoed from the hallway outside the library. Both of them froze, listening intently. Grimshaw’s voice, strained and urgent, called out.
“My Lord! Come quickly! It’s happened again!”
The Ainsworth Legacy
The crack from the hallway still hung in the air, a splinter of sound in the heavy silence. Ashworth rose, his face pale, and Amelia followed quickly as he strode toward the sound. Grimshaw, the butler, stood rigid before a closed door, his knuckles white as he gripped a silver candlestick.
“What is it?” Ashworth demanded, his voice sharper now.
Grimshaw swallowed hard. “It’s Miss Hawthorne, my Lord. She’s… she’s discovered something in the east wing.”
The east wing. Amelia remembered Ashworth mentioning it was rarely used, mostly filled with family portraits and forgotten relics. A shiver traced its way down her spine. This house was a labyrinth of secrets, each hallway and room seemingly guarding its own piece of the puzzle.
Ashworth pushed past the butler and threw open the door. Amelia found herself in a long, narrow gallery, lined with portraits of Ainsworth ancestors. The air here was colder, thick with the scent of dust and something else… something faintly floral and unsettling.
Miss Hawthorne, a frail woman with haunted eyes, stood before a large portrait, her hand pressed to her mouth. She was trembling.
“What is it, Clara?” Ashworth asked, his voice softening with concern.
Clara pointed a shaking finger at the portrait. It depicted a woman in a dark velvet gown, her face partially obscured by shadows. A striking woman, even in the dim light, with a determined chin and piercing eyes.
“Look at the eyes,” Clara whispered, her voice barely audible. “They… they weren’t like that before.”
Amelia moved closer, examining the portrait. At first glance, it seemed unremarkable, a typical Victorian depiction of a wealthy woman. But as she studied it, she noticed something strange. The woman’s eyes seemed to follow her, shifting slightly as she moved. And there was a flicker of… something else in their depths. Not malice, exactly, but a deep, sorrowful knowing.
“It’s just a trick of the light,” Ashworth said dismissively, though Amelia could sense his unease.
“No,” Clara insisted, her voice gaining a little strength. “I’ve been admiring this portrait for years. I know it well. The eyes… they’ve changed. They’re accusing.”
Amelia, despite her skepticism, felt a prickle of gooseflesh on her arms. It was a subtle effect, easily explained by the play of shadows and the power of suggestion. But there was something undeniably unsettling about the painting.
“Perhaps you’re simply overwrought, Clara,” Ashworth said gently. “This has been a difficult night.”
“No, it’s more than that!” Clara cried, her voice rising. “This portrait… it’s connected to everything. To the séance, to Arthur’s death. It’s a warning!”
Ashworth sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Clara, please. You’re letting your imagination run away with you.”
He turned to Amelia. “Perhaps you could escort my sister back to her rooms? I need to attend to the police.”
Amelia nodded, offering Clara a reassuring smile. “Of course.”
As they walked back through the gallery, Clara spoke in hushed tones. “Our family… we’ve always been different. We’ve always had… gifts.”
“Gifts?” Amelia asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The ability to see things others can’t. To sense things. My grandmother was a renowned Spiritualist. She held séances here, in this very house. She said we were descended from a line of seers.”
Amelia felt a familiar wave of cynicism wash over her. Spiritualism. She’d seen it all before, the theatrical displays, the clever illusions, the exploitation of grief.
“And you believe in these things?” she asked.
Clara stopped, turning to face Amelia. “I’ve seen too much not to. I’ve felt too much. There are forces at play in this world, Miss Ainsworth, forces we don’t understand.”
Back in the library, Ashworth was pacing anxiously as he spoke to a constable, a young man with a ruddy face and a skeptical expression.
“I assure you, Constable Davies, I’ve searched the grounds myself. There’s no sign of forced entry. It’s baffling.”
“Baffling, sir, or convenient?” Davies asked, his eyes scanning the opulent room. “A man is stabbed in a locked room. Seems to me someone inside the house is involved.”
Ashworth stiffened. “That’s a rather serious accusation, Constable.”
“Just stating the facts, sir. And the facts are… well, the facts are thin on the ground. No witnesses, no obvious motive. It all smells a bit fishy to me.”
“My family has been prominent in London society for generations,” Ashworth said, his voice laced with indignation. “We are not accustomed to being subjected to such suspicion.”
“With all due respect, sir, wealth and status don’t exempt anyone from the law. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with the other members of the household.”
Davies left the library, leaving Ashworth seething with anger. Amelia watched him, her expression unreadable. She knew Ashworth was used to getting his way, to commanding respect. This investigation, and the scrutiny it brought, was clearly chafing him.
“He doesn’t believe a word of it, does he?” Ashworth said, turning to Amelia.
“Constable Davies?” Amelia asked. “He seems to be doing his job.”
“He’s a simple man. He doesn’t understand the complexities of this situation.”
“Perhaps he understands the complexities of human nature,” Amelia said quietly. “And the tendency to protect one’s own.”
Ashworth glared at her, but said nothing. He seemed to realize that Amelia wasn’t easily intimidated.
Later that evening, after Davies had finished his initial questioning, Amelia found herself alone in the library, pouring over old Ainsworth family records. Ashworth had reluctantly granted her access, hoping she might uncover some clue that the police had overlooked.
The records were extensive, detailing generations of Ainsworth births, deaths, marriages, and business dealings. It was a dry, meticulous account of a family’s rise to prominence. But as Amelia delved deeper, she began to notice something strange. Gaps. Omissions. Entire branches of the family tree that seemed to vanish without explanation.
She found a reference to a distant cousin, Eliza Ainsworth, who had been declared “unstable” and sent away to an asylum in the early 1860s. The records offered no details about her illness, or the circumstances surrounding her confinement. Only a brief, chilling note: “Subject to fits and visions. Considered a danger to herself and others.”
Then, she discovered a series of letters, written by a family solicitor to Ashworth’s great-grandfather. The letters concerned a disputed inheritance, involving a valuable estate in Cornwall. The letters hinted at blackmail, threats, and a possible cover-up. The solicitor warned that the estate was tainted by a dark secret, something that could ruin the Ainsworth family’s reputation.
Amelia felt a growing sense of unease. The Ainsworths were not the respectable, upstanding family they appeared to be. Beneath the veneer of wealth and sophistication lay a history of madness, secrets, and deceit.
As she continued to pore over the records, she noticed a recurring symbol, a small, stylized crescent moon, appearing on various documents and letters. It was a subtle detail, easy to miss. But Amelia, with her trained eye for observation, couldn’t shake the feeling that it was significant.
She traced the symbol with her finger, a cold dread creeping into her heart. This was more than a murder investigation. This was a descent into a family’s dark past. A past that refused to stay buried.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind her. Amelia whirled around, her heart pounding. Standing in the doorway was Grimshaw, the butler, his face pale and drawn.
“My Lord asks you to come to the west wing, Miss Ainsworth,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “There’s been… another incident.”
The sample ends here.