The Cruelest Month

The lights were out and the only illumination came from the fireplace as it crackled and threw uncertain light upon them. Some were in darkness, their backs to the fire; the rest looked like a series of disembodied worried faces.



‘I want you all to clear your minds.’ Jeanne’s voice was deep and resonant. They couldn’t see her face. She had her back to the fire. Clara had the impression she’d done it on purpose, but perhaps not.



‘You must breathe deeply and let the anxiety and worry flow out of you. A spirit can sense energy. Any negative energy will only draw the ill-intentioned spirits. We want to fill the bistro with positive, loving kindness to attract the good spirits.’



‘Fuck,’ whispered Gabri. ‘This was a bad idea.’



‘Shut up,’ hissed Myrna beside him. ‘Good thoughts, asshole, and be quick about it.’



‘I’m scared,’ he whispered.



‘Well, stop it. Go to your happy place, Gabri, your happy place,’ Myrna rasped.



‘This is my happy place,’ snapped Gabri. ‘Please, take her first, please, she’s big and juicy. Please, don’t take me.’



‘You are a birch,’ said Myrna.



‘Quiet please,’ said Jeanne with more authority than Clara would have guessed possible. ‘If there’s a sudden loud noise I want you to grab each other’s hands, is that understood?’



‘Why?’ Gabri whispered to Odile on his other side. ‘Is she expecting something bad?’



‘Shhh,’ said Jeanne quietly and all whispering stopped. All breathing stopped. ‘They’re coming.’



All hearts stopped.



Peter stepped into Clara’s studio. He’d been in it hundreds of times and knew she kept the door open for a reason. She had nothing to hide. And yet for some reason he felt guilty.



Looking around rapidly he strode directly to the large easel in the center of the room. The studio smelled of oils and varnishes and wood, with a slight undertone of strong coffee. Years and years of creation and coffee had imbued this room with comforting sensations. So why was Peter terrified?



At the easel he stopped. Clara had draped a sheet over the canvas. He stood contemplating it, telling himself to leave, begging himself not to do this thing. Hardly believing what he was doing he saw his right hand reach out. Like a man who’d left his body he knew there was no controlling what was about to happen. It seemed pre-ordained.



His hand clutched the stained old sheet and yanked.



The room was silent. Clara desperately wanted to reach out and take Myrna’s hand, but she dared not move. In case. In case whatever was coming would focus its attention on her.



Then she heard it. They all heard it.



Footsteps.



The turning of a doorknob.



Someone whimpered, like a frightened puppy.



Then suddenly a horrible pounding split the silence. A man yelled, Clara felt hands clutching at hers from both sides. She found them and held on for dear life, repeating over and over, ‘Bless O Lord this food to our use, and ourselves to Thy service. Let us be ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.’



‘Let me in,’ a voice outside their world wailed.



‘Oh, God, it’s an angry spirit,’ said Myrna. ‘It’s your fault,’ she said to Gabri, who was wide-eyed and terrified.



‘Fuck,’ wailed the disembodied voice. ‘Fuuuuck.’



A window pane rattled and a horrible face appeared at the glass. The circle gasped and recoiled.



‘For Christ’s sake, Dorothy, I know you’re in there,’ screamed the voice. It wasn’t what Clara had imagined would be the last words she’d hear on earth. She’d always thought they’d be, ‘What were you thinking?’



Gabri rose, trembling, to his feet.



‘Dear God,’ he cried, making the sign of the cross with his fingers. ‘It’s the pre-dead.’



At the mullioned window Ruth Zardo’s eyes narrowed and she gave him half a sign of the cross.



Peter stared at the work on the easel. His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened. It was worse than he’d expected, worse than he’d feared, and Peter feared big. Before him stood Clara’s latest work, the one she’d soon show Denis Fortin, the influential gallery owner in Montreal. So far Clara had struggled in obscurity creating her nearly unintelligible works of art. At least, they were unintelligible to Peter.



Then suddenly out of nowhere Denis Fortin had knocked on their door. Peter was certain the distinguished dealer, with contacts throughout the art world, had come to see him. After all, he was the famous one. His excruciatingly detailed paintings sold for thousands and sat on the finest walls in Canada. Peter had naturally shown Fortin into his studio only to be politely told that his works were nice but it was actually Clara Morrow the dealer wanted to see.