The Cliff House Strangler Read Online Free PDF Page B

Madame Karpova produced a similar manifestation at the last sitting I attended.”
    A chorus of shushing noises caused Mrs. Reade to flutter in embarrassment. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disrupt the reading.”
    Even as she spoke, the balalaika seemed to vanish into thin air, much as the trumpet had disappeared before it. Madame Karpova stirred restlessly in her seat, head thrashing from side to side as if in considerable distress.
    “Another spirit wishes to come through,” the Aztec’s voice intoned. “An angry, disturbed spirit. Who are you?” Tizoc demanded. “Whom do you wish to address?”
    Outside, a particularly fierce gust of wind set the windows rattling, surprising us all and prompting several people to jerk nervously in their seats. The resulting draft caused the single candle on the table to sputter fitfully and go out, casting the room into total darkness.
    To my right, Robert whispered sarcastically, “Nice effect, don’t you think? A storm, a darkened room, an old Indian? This psychic of yours doesn’t miss a trick, I’ll give her—”
    His works halted abruptly as a wraithlike figure—all in white and faintly gleaming with an eerie light of its own—rose up from behind Madame Karpova to stand between the clairvoyant and Lieutenant Ahern to her left. Mrs. Gaylord and Mrs. Bramwell cried out and I heard Frank Ahern mutter, “What the hell?”
    Illuminated by this shimmering glow, I stared in fascination as the ghostly specter floated higher, until it towered over the medium’s still figure. Try as I might, I was unable to detect the exact shape hidden beneath what looked to be some kind of white netting. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman, much less how the thing had materialized.
    “Why have you come?” Madame Karpova asked in Tizoc’s voice.
    Silently, the figure raised unearthly arms and began gliding slightly farther to the medium’s left, until it hovered directly behind Lieutenant Ahern. It gave a low sigh and seemed about to speak, but when the room was lit by a brilliant flash of lightning. Several women at the table squealed in fright, and I heard the medium gasp as she was startled out of her trance. Then, as suddenly as the trumpet and balalaika had disappeared, the ethereal apparition was gone. Without the candle, or the strange glow that had accompanied the specter, the room was once again thrown into total darkness.
    Although I could no longer see her, I heard Madame Karpova moaning softly. “Someone, please,” she murmured, once again speaking in her own voice, “light the candle.”
    To either side of me, I felt Robert and Senator Gaylord rummaging through their pockets for a match. Across the table, Nicholas Bramwell beat them both to it. I heard the strike of a match and saw him lean forward. Once again, a pale, flickering light illuminated the table.
    There was a general murmur of relief, followed by a few nervous giggles, when Mrs. Bramwell suddenly screamed. She was on her feet, one hand clutched to her heart, the other pointing across the table in horror. Mrs. Reade followed her gaze with bulging eyes, then with a shocked gasp, she silently crumbled into a dead faint. Luckily, Nicholas Bramwell was able to reach around his mother and catch the elderly widow before she struck her head on the floor. Next to Lieutenant Ahern, Nora Ahern’s chair crashed over as she, too, jumped up and backed hastily away from the table.
    All eyes followed Mrs. Bramwell’s pointing finger. To the left of Mrs. Ahern’s fallen chair, his thick body sprawled back in the seat, lay Darien Moss. The reporter’s head had dropped onto his chest, and for a moment it seemed as if he had merely fallen asleep. The stream of blood flowing from beneath the reporter’s chin onto his starched white shirt and brown woolen jacket, however, quickly shattered this illusion.
    Carefully, Lieutenant Ahern lifted Moss’s chin, revealing the victim’s grotesque and