Oh?
“Oh-my-goodness-Silas-I’m-so-glad-to-see-you!”
Rhonda Milner’s arms shot out to pull me into a—not necessarily desired—hug as we stood in the doorway of her mansion.
As a kind person, a professional—and mostly as a guy with bills to pay—I accepted the hug, reaching up to rest my hands lightly against her back.
Briefly. When Rhonda pulled away, her unnaturally white veneers on high beam, I returned her smile.
She grabbed my hands in hers and pulled me into her home.
Closing the door with the swivel of an elegant hip, swathed in a pencil skirt comprised of a material I probably couldn’t afford, Rhonda dragged me towards The Parlor.
Her silk blouse was cool against my arm as she laced hers through mine.
The Parlor was the room at the front of her house that most normal people would call the living room, but was actually that what rich people called…
The Parlor. Basically, a rich person’s front room where they entertain those guests that they feel are not worthy of being invited into the innermost parts of their house.
“Oh, Silas!” Rhonda cooed as she pulled me into the room. “I had a dream last night! A prophetic dream!”
“Oh?”
She pulled me over to the sofas that faced each other.
“Yes!” She practically shoved me onto one sofa and lowered herself onto the one across from me. “Last night, I went to sleep—and slept like a baby for the first time in months! My dream told me that today is the day that Harlan will finally speak to us!”
Forcing myself to not grumble uncomfortably, I repositioned myself on the sofa and laid my hands on my knees.
Rhonda was smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt as she settled into the couch, her eyes focused elsewhere.
I took a moment to assess The Parlor. She’d added more candles.
The temperature in the room, compared to the grand foyer, was noticeably higher.
A cough nearly escaped my throat as I did my best not to pull at the collar of my shirt.
Rhonda seemed unbothered by the oppressive warmth put off by the candles in the space.
Cozy spaces during autumn are one of my favorite things, but Rhonda’s front room was pushing the limit.
Warm, fuzzy blankets in front of a fire was a vibe I could enjoy.
Roasting in the pits of Hell for all of my sins was not.
Of course, I wasn’t actually certain Hell even existed.
If there are so many spirits hanging around, I was beginning to believe they had nowhere to go until their business was finished.
After that, well, I had no idea what happened to ghosts I stopped seeing after a time.
“Well,” I said slowly, “that’s definitely something, right?”
Rhonda was bobbing her head like she was glued to a car’s dashboard.
Certainty that a loved one who has passed is trying to reach us from beyond the grave is not a unique experience.
Everyone I’ve ever known—including myself—has done their best to find signs in everything from dust patterns on their credenzas to dreams to scorch marks on their toast.
As an authentic and professional medium and clairvoyant, I do my best to comfort the grieving and help them the best I can.
Ease them into acceptance that their loved one is never going to return, even if they are still possibly lingering around in a plane of existence most can’t see or fathom.
It’s much better than telling them they’re batshit crazy, after all.
First things first, most ghosts are not powerful enough to physically manifest some evidence of their existence.
Secondly, the greater majority of the human population will go their entire life without ever realizing they’ve had a ghostly experience.
Around ninety-five percent of the people who have actually had an experience with the deceased chalked it up to drowsiness, inebriation, hallucination, or some natural phenomenon they can’t quite explain.
Because of these first two points, most people don’t believe that I, an actual medium who can see ghosts, is actually seeing ghosts.
They certainly don’t believe I can commune with them.
So, getting someone to believe I have a message, then convincing them to receive the message so the ghost can drop their mission, is an uphill battle.
Worst of all, if the person finally comes around and accepts the message, and that it’s genuine, they tend to begin to believe that they can then commune with their ghostly loved one as much as they want moving forward.
When I try to explain it doesn’t work like that—though I have no idea why ghosts lose interest or disappear after delivering certain messages—they once again accuse me of being a charlatan.
It’s a no-win situation sometimes, being a medium.
Thirdly, and possibly worst of all, is finding a true believer like Rhonda Milner and having to tell her that her loved one simply isn’t showing up when called.
Sometimes, though it’s rare, certain ghosts have no interest in being summoned to deliver a message to a loved one.
Maybe they’re not around any longer and have moved on.
It’s possible they have no interest in the person for whom you are summoning them.
A lack of message to give to the person in question might be another reason a ghost fails to show up.
Or the ghost might simply not want to talk to the person for personal reasons.
Ghosts can hold grudges. Once you slip away from your humanly form to your spiritual existence, your personality doesn’t simply disappear.
If cousin Ricky stole your BMX when you were twelve and never apologized, you may carry that grudge to the afterlife.
To hell with cousin Ricky. Y’all can settle up once he joins you in the spirit dimension, I suppose?
When it came to Rhonda Milner, it was clear that her deceased husband was never going to show up when I came to her house to summon him.
That wasn’t simply negativity or professional experience talking—we’d been trying for months.
Harlan Milner had decided, for his own reasons, that he did not want to talk to his wife once he’d died.
I could call him all day and night, but I couldn’t force him to deliver a message to someone if he didn’t want to do it.
The money kept flowing from Rhonda’s pocketbook to my wallet to the coffers of The Lunch Counter, so I had no plans to give up.
As long as Rhonda wanted to keep trying, I’d keep coming to her house as many times a week as she wanted to call for Harlan Milner to come talk to his wife.
As frustrating as it was to put on a show so often for Rhonda, it helped fund an important cause.
Continuing to show up and do my best was my plan for the foreseeable future, even if I knew there was no point in any of it.
“Maybe we try a different relative today?” I cleared my throat and sat forward on the sofa. “A grandparent? Cousin? A parent? Maybe a friend?”
Rhonda was shaking her head before I could finish my questions.
“I want to talk to Harlan,” Rhonda stated firmly. “My dream told me that today is the day. Now, if anyone else shows up, that’s fine. But I want to keep trying.”
“Okay,” I said evenly. “I’ll do my best, but—”
“I know you’re trying, Silas,” Rhonda said, reaching across to take my hand and give it a brief, reassuring squeeze. “He’ll show up when he feels the time is right.”
I gave a one shoulder shrug and produced my most boyish grin for Rhonda.
“It’s your time and money,” I said. “I certainly won’t tell you how to spend either.”
Her smile lit up the room once more.
“Excellent!”
After meeting Rhonda’s eyes and giving her another smile, I eased back into the sofa and took a deep breath.
Rhonda perched on the edge of her sofa and watched me with an intensity I’d become familiar with over the months.
Taking a deep breath and shaking my head as if to clear my thoughts—mostly for show—I finally spoke.
“I’m here to commune with the spirit realm,” I said, trying not to laugh at myself. “I call on Harlan Milner, if he is here, to step through the veil and speak with me on behalf of his beloved wife, Rhonda Milner.”
Harlan wasn’t going to show up, I already knew that. However, I closed my eyes and pretended to concentrate on summoning him. For Rhonda’s sake. After several tense moments, I opened my eyes and looked around.
No Harlan. Again.
However, it hadn’t been a total waste. There was one ghost in the corner of The Parlor, tapping her foot, her arms crossed over her chest. The thin, elderly woman with a chignon of white hair, wearing what looked like a Chanel suit, looked ready to clutch her pearls.
She was staring directly at me, probably appalled that I was sitting on such a nice sofa in jeans and a t-shirt and a secondhand jacket.
“No Harlan,” I said with an exhale as I looked over at Rhonda.
She slumped slightly, her shoulders collapsing as her eyes went to her lap.
“Your mother is here again,” I said.
Rhonda’s demeanor changed immediately. She gripped her knees and her head lifted, a glower on her face. Through gritted teeth, she muttered a reply.
“I will not speak to that woman. Even in death.”
I shrugged. “Your dime.”
Looking over Rhonda’s shoulder, I made eye contact with the apparition of her mother.
“She still doesn’t to talk to you,” I said.
‘I CAN HEAR HER!’ Her mother’s ghost wailed.
Shrugging, I said, “Okay. Well, she doesn’t want to hear anything you have to say. Sorry.”
Rhonda, watching me closely, fascinated by my one-sided conversation, was sitting on the edge of the sofa.
“Maybe some other time we can—” I began.
“I will never speak to her,” Rhonda insisted from the other sofa.
The ghost in the corner looked at the back of Rhonda’s head and flipped her the bird. Then she gave me one for good measure. And she was gone. My eyes went back to Rhonda.
“She’s nice,” I said simply.
Rhonda chuckled. “I don’t want to know.”
“You know,” I said slowly, “it’s possible she’ll never, um, move on, if you don’t hear what she has to say. She might keep lingering around here until—”
“Ler her suffer.” Rhonda sniffed, going rigid. “She would have done the same to me.”
I examined my client for a moment. It had to be a difficult life, being unable to let go of the past and hurt caused by others. But I was a medium, not a therapist.
“Totally up to you,” I said.
“Can we try again?” Rhonda asked. “Just once more?”
“You have me for an hour,” I said. “I can keep calling to Harlan as long as I’m on the clock.”
Rhonda smiled. “Good!”
Regardless of Rhonda’s optimistic outlook on all things related to her husband’s spirit, the rest of the hour proved to be fruitless.
Once her allotted time was up, I was once again faced with giving Rhonda the bad news.
Harlan Milner, her husband who had passed away four months prior, was still a no show.
His interest in speaking directly with his widow was nonexistent.
Fortunately, Rhonda took the news as well as she did in every other session, and thanked me profusely for my time.
Furthermore, she had allowed me to pass along a message from a long-lost cousin who decided to show up during the session, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.
As Rhonda was showing me out the front door moments after the session had ended—no point in letting The Help linger—all evidence of spirit was gone from her house.
One thing to know about spirits—they’re almost everywhere at all times.
As a medium, I find that discovering a space where a spirit doesn’t wander through from time to time is unusual.
Rhonda Milner’s house was one such space.
Unless I was present, calling out to spirits, her house seemed to be a crypt.
I shivered as I stepped out of the house, thinking about how quiet the place must be for a widow.
“Now,” Rhonda said, filling the doorway to speak to me as I turned to her, “I’ll see you again tomorrow?”
Seeing her small frame take up the entire entryway was an obvious message. Unless I was there on business, I wasn’t welcome. Rhonda Milner was actually, regardless of all her niceties and pleasantries, an elitist. I was a poor young man who spoke to spirits and ran a charity for the hungry.
You do not belong here unless you are being paid, Rhonda’s position in her doorway announced.
“It’s Friday,” I said. “See you Monday?”
Rhonda reached up and laid a delicate hand against the side of her head and grinned, her eyes sliding shut dramatically.
“Of course, of course!” She chuckled.
“But I will see you on Monday,” I replied.
Rhonda opened her eyes, her mouth sliding open to respond, but the sound of a truck engine and tires on pavement stopped her short.
Her gaze shifted to the gate that led into the driveway that ran alongside the house.
Turning on my heels to check things out for myself, I immediately recognized the dual-cab pickup that was waiting for the tall wrought-iron gate to slide out of the way and admit entrance.
Before anything could be said, I turned back to Rhonda and gave her a nod of my head.
“Well,” I said, “since you have company, I’ll be on my way. Crossed fingers for next time!”
Rhonda glanced back at me, smiled, and held up a pair of crossed fingers, her attention not really on me.
I turned away once again and dashed across the porch at a pace that, I hoped, didn’t read as panic.
I skipped down the steps, doing my best to keep my eyes forward, on the path towards the gate, as I made my way from the house.
Never one to leave well enough alone, once the driveway gate was fully open, and the truck was pulling up the drive, I couldn’t help but glance over.
Without even trying, my eyes connected with the truck driver’s and I quickly whipped my head back around.
A second later, I was at the gate, and I pushed it open and dashed through, making my escape.
I made sure the gate closed behind me, but I kept my eyes on anything but Rhonda’s house, the driveway, the truck, and its driver.
Once I was certain that it was shut securely behind me, I dashed down the sidewalk and away from my client’s house.
The money that Rhonda Milner tossed at me five days a week to try and summon her dead husband was a boon for The Lunch Counter.
However, it wasn’t enough to deal with some things that came with being her client.
So, like an adult, I avoided those things.