Some people spend their Saturday nights watching sports, drinking beer, maybe indulging in a little reckless online shopping.
I spent mine sitting around a wobbly dining room table in a dusty antique shop, participating in what was billed as a “Traditional Victorian Séance Experience.” Traditional in the sense that it involved costumes, bad accents, and no discernible dignity.
The room was lit by dozens of flickering fake candles, because apparently even ghosts have to comply with modern fire codes. The table was crowned with a crystal ball roughly the size of a bowling trophy. Heavy velvet drapes had been tacked haphazardly over the windows, and the air smelled faintly of mothballs and desperation.
We were a group of thirteen — mostly women in flowing scarves and men who looked like they had lost significant bets. Our “medium,” Madame Althea, arrived wearing a floor-length black dress, a comically large beaded turban, and the expression of a woman determined to take herself extremely seriously.
She opened the session by asking us to join hands and “focus our energies toward the spirit realm.”
My neighbor — a man named Bryce, who smelled faintly of patchouli and regret — squeezed my hand like he was trying to extract my aura by force.
The lights dimmed further (Madame Althea dramatically twisted the dimmer switch with a theatrical flourish), and she began humming tunelessly under her breath.
Then she spoke in a low, trembling voice, informing us that “a presence is near.”
Everyone leaned forward, breathless.
The spirit, according to Althea, was a woman named Clarissa who “perished tragically in 1872 from a broken heart and a suspicious infection.”
Clarissa was “eager to speak” — but, inconveniently, only through yes-or-no answers conveyed via loud rapping sounds on the table.
The rapping sounded suspiciously like Althea kicking the leg of the table with her boot under her voluminous skirts, but who am I to doubt the methods of the ancients?
When asked what messages Clarissa had for the group, she reportedly wanted us to know that “love transcends time” and “authenticity can only be found within,” both of which sound remarkably like the taglines printed on inspirational throw pillows available in the lobby for $34.99 each.
By the time Althea attempted a full-body “channeling,” which mostly involved gasping theatrically and slumping sideways in her chair like a deflating air mattress, I was calculating whether I could fake a bathroom emergency and make a clean escape.
I stayed, because I’m a professional. Also because Bryce still had a death grip on my hand.
The grand finale was a “spirit manifestation” involving a sudden, gusty breeze that conveniently coincided with the portable fan hidden behind the credenza turning on at full blast.
Althea collapsed dramatically into the arms of her assistant, who was absolutely not supposed to be visible but absolutely tripped over the fake candelabra and went sprawling into the folding chairs.
If there were any real spirits present that night, they were undoubtedly weeping for the degradation of human intellect — and probably mocking me personally for sitting through it.
If you go, bring skepticism, patience, and a well-practiced fake coughing fit so you’ll have an excuse to leave.