The Visit

One

I hear jazz music from a piano wafting down a corridor through the heavy darkness. An angelic voice is singing, though I can't make out the words. The stars, for a moment, look bright as spotlights through the transparent ceiling of the room. I hear a whispered conversation, but the only word I can make out is "never".

I must find out what is going on, see what is happening in my formerly logical world. It’s massively important.

I get out of bed, put on my slippers, slip on my dressing gown and tie it around me, and then I remember that I’ve never owned a dressing gown. It is a soft grey, with pink trim around the edges. I'm quaking with urgency though, and there's no time to ponder the contents of my wardrobe.

I walk down the stairs, the dull ordinary stairs, but it feels like they go on forever. The music has disappeared, and I wish it hadn't. It comforted me, somehow.

The stairs end and I am walking through a cloudbank. This lasts a moment, until it is disrupted by the music again. It's a loud piano playing what sounds like a funeral march. And then a chilling laugh echoes in my head. I'm pretty sure it's a man's laugh.

"Never, never! You must be joking." It's a woman's voice this time. Her speech is lovely and lilting, and I'm almost certain she was the singer.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED?!"

I start. I was sleepwalking again, and there is nothing odd, mysterious, magical, or frightening in front of me. It's just Aunt Liza in a bad mood.

"Go back to your room, Charlotte," she says in a much gentler voice, as she wraps a warm cloud-like shawl around me and guides me back to my room.

***

I never did anything in my sleep until I was ten. I vividly remember the first time it happened, for good reason. I was dreaming that I was at a ball dancing the night away, when I heard a shriek and woke up to find I had nearly walked off the roof. The second time did not come until I was thirteen, and only I knew about that one,... until I fell ill because of standing in the pouring rain.

The response of my family was to make sure I couldn't harm myself or wander into the street, and then pretend it never happened for over a decade. This only made it worse for me: I suffered through nights where I didn't dare close my eyes, out of fear that I would harm someone in my sleep (I never did). My social life was restricted as a child, and even as a adult to a lesser degree (I insisted on going to a local college when the time came so I could sleep at home). It became difficult after a while to focus on my studies or my work, and I was terrified of letting anyone get too physically close.

At this point, my family couln't pretend this was a little inconvenience I would grow out of, so when I finally decided to find a cure, they were supportive. I went to everyone and tried everything, but it all failed spectacularly. The doctors I visited gave me pills that didn't work, and the therapist I went to turned out to be nothing more than a human whirlpool of quack hypotheses.
The morning after the dream, I was reading the newspaper over warm coffee and a pungent garlic bagel, and the following ad leapt out at me:

ARE YOU SUFFERING FROM STRANGE DREAMS? ARE THEY ENCROACHING OUT YOUR DAY-TO-DAY LIFE?

Then visit Ella Helöise Perot, psychic, 4 Rue de La Chat.

That was how I found myself on the doorstep of Ella Perot, a well-known psychic (or con artist, depending on who you asked). The building was tall white brick with tall, pointed gothic windows. It was about five in the evening on A slightly warm and humid day, just as the sun was sliding out of sight. The light was turning pink, and I was being dive-bombed by blackflies.

As I stood there, I thought I saw a shadowy figure disappear behind the house.

“Hello?” I called out. “Miss Perot? Is that you?”

Nothing.

Then a chill swept over me, an ominous feeling of deja vu. I was almost convinced that I heard the laugh from my dream. I turned to run -

“Mademoiselle Dean, is it not?” A lilting voice with a soft French accent drifted from over my shoulder. I twirled around and nearly smacked Mme. Perot with my purse.

“Miss Perot! How rude of me! I apologize," I considered keeping quiet, but the question spilled out. “Is there someone else here?”

“Non, personne, Mademoiselle,” Miss Perot said, padding up the time covered pathway. She seemed more feline than human for a picosecond. “Come in, s’il vous plait.”

I entered a serene corridor, all light grey with slight blue accents. A awe-inspiring staircase faced me, with marble steps and a vine-like railing. I felt a little underdressed for the environment as I followed the psychic up to her loft.

After reaching the top, Miss Perot lead me through a long corridor before stopping in front of an blood red doors hat looked extremely old. She opened it with some effort, as the hinges creaked in protest.

I saw a charcoal grey room with big windows and a huge dark table as the focal point. On the table lay some cards and astrological charts, a crystal ball the size of a baby's head, some smaller crystals, peppermints, and a half-finished cup of coffee. Two chairs, one very modern and one antique, were awkwardly crammed against the table. A copy of Le Monde, an old issue of time, and a few unidentifiable fashion magazines were strewn across the floor. A dusty scent like that of a library clung to everything. I wouldn't feel the need for Dior in this room, unlike the entrance!

“Assez-vous, mademoiselle,” Miss Perot said, gesturing towards the antique armchair. She muttered something under her breath, and glided from the room.

I sat as she requested, and waited as a mist of dread came over me slowly. I felt oddly cold, and shook as if I had had too much coffee. I wasn't a believer in the supernatural, but I was craving answers and starting to imagine the possibilities, none of them delightful; I could be crazy after all and being cheated by this woman on the one hand, or it could be that I was possessed or cursed. A sense of being in an invisible cage settled in my mind. The laugh rang in my ears again. I felt suffocated and rushed to the corridor.

“Pourquoi vous êtes partir?” Miss Perot inquired, as she strode in with two cups of hot chocolate and a large unidentified sandwich on a tray.

“Pardon, madame,” I said, smoothing my dress. “It just feels a little stuffy in here."

Miss Perot raised one eyebrow and puffed disdainfully at a cigarette. She set down the tray and pounced to the nearest window and opened it. “Tell your story,” she said abruptly, handing me one of the cups.

I dived into my story, nervously blurting out the facts. Miss Perot showed no emotion as she listened and a wispy cloud formed around her like a grim halo.

When I finished, there was a long silence. The ticking of a beautiful grandfather clock in a far corner sounded an ominous beat.
Miss Perot grabbed the cards and shuffled them frantically. She laid them out in a cross and took notes for several minutes.

“Excuse me, but-”

“Do not disturb me now,” she snapped.

It seemed the divination was far from done. She looked over my hands with a keen eye, then picked up a crystal and adjusted so the light fell on my face.

“Close your eyes and stay calm,” she said in a soothing tone.

I felt more agitated than ever. If this was something straightforward, it would be finished, right? Or was she upping the bill and making a fool of me?

“Open your eyes and sit up.” I sprang to attention, blinking rapidly.

“A supernatural presence is trying to contact you and has been connected to your aura for some time, mademoiselle,” Miss Perot stated casually, as if she was commenting on the weather. “Take these herbs. They will help you interact with your dreams and the spirit. $25, sil vous plait.”
***
Why had I gone there?! Of course she was a fraud! She couldn't contact the thing on her own or tell me what it was, even. What a waste.

I was going to throw out the herbs, but I didn't. I just stared at the brown paper packet with white and blue twine and sighed.

“To hell with it,” I said as I got a glass of water and dumped in the contents. It looked like water from a particularly polluted swamp. I downed it, and nearly gagged at the taste, which seemed like a mixture of rotten fish and lukewarm coffee.

I put on a lace nightgown and dived into bed. All the confusion was exhausting, so I fell asleep immediately.

Author's Note

Any thoughts are welcome! I'm really not sure where to take this story, so any ideas in that area are much appreciated.