There are places where the boundary between the living and the dead supposedly thins to a whisper.
And then there’s the Grand Séance Society, where the only thing thinning is your will to live.
Billed as “a one-of-a-kind immersive paranormal experience,” the Grand Séance Society operates out of an old theater that smelled like mildew, mothballs, and whatever hope died there in 1978.
The evening promised a “live séance conducted by professional mediums” with “real-time spirit interactions” and a “guaranteed chilling encounter.”
Spoiler alert: the only chilling part was the air conditioning, which barely functioned but somehow managed to blast a persistent cold draft directly at my ankles.
The show began with all the drama of a fourth-grade production of Macbeth. Dim lights, a table draped in black velvet, and a circle of faux-Victorian chairs that looked suspiciously like they came from a conference room clearance sale.
The “medium,” Madame Isadora, swept onto the stage in layers of black lace and costume jewelry that clinked so loudly she drowned out her own dramatic sighs. She announced solemnly that “the veil was thinning” and we must all open our minds and wallets accordingly.
We were invited to “participate” by placing our hands lightly on the table and focusing our energy. This involved twenty-five people sitting shoulder to shoulder, trying not to giggle as Madame Isadora rolled her eyes back theatrically and began speaking in the gravelly tones of “Horace,” a Civil War soldier who allegedly haunted the premises.
Horace’s accent wandered freely between Kentucky, Boston, and what I can only describe as “regional dinner theater.” He warned us of “great battles yet to come,” unless we purchased limited-edition Grand Séance Society t-shirts, available in the lobby for the low price of $39.99.
Midway through the séance, the chandelier flickered. Madame Isadora gasped. The crowd gasped. I glanced sideways and saw the stagehand behind the curtain, manually fiddling with the dimmer switch.
Later, a tambourine fell off a bookshelf “of its own accord” — or, if you prefer realism, was nudged by a fishing line that was clearly visible if you had the misfortune of sitting in Row C, like I did.
The grand finale was billed as “full spectral manifestation.” Madame Isadora staggered, collapsed into a Victorian fainting couch, and a sheeted figure — yes, a literal bedsheet with eye holes cut out — drifted dramatically across the stage before disappearing behind a suspiciously convenient smoke machine malfunction.
It wasn’t the worst evening I’ve ever had. That would have been my cousin Frank’s third wedding in the clubhouse at our great-aunt Edith’s retirement community. But when all is said and done, the Grand Séance Society offers all the mystery and subtlety of a low-budget Halloween hayride without the dignity of actual hay.
If you want to see something truly terrifying, save yourself the ticket price and check out the Yelp reviews instead.