Ghost Writers

Once again, that odd date had occurred. The seventh day of the month, at seven minutes past seven p.m. But at least tonight, this year doesn’t also end in a seven. Let me tell you about that one …

July 7th, 2007 …. None of us had realized we were meeting at 7 pm on a date that was a veritable swarm of sevens, until someone looked at the otherglass and said, “It’s seven after. Shouldn’t we start the meeting?”

Absolute silence descended on us, a roomful of ghost writers. The sun was still up outside. It was too bright, too quiet. But everyone seemed calm, everything normal. There wasn’t any drama, no bloody handprints suddenly appearing on the wall, or shutters banging in a ferocious wind, unearthly moans.

I shivered, watching the bright flowers and busy little insects outside the window.  Maybe it was due to hearing the whispers that started swirling upwards as I sat at the table. They were a noisy bunch tonight. But then, they were usually a noisy bunch. Boisterous, you know, like a bunch of bright kids.

They’d start laughing at something someone had said and you couldn’t hear yourself clink. I mean, conducting oneself as a lady or gentleman had always been important, at least in my circle. Ah, those were the days. We’d seep in and stand around a big table, like this one, and the candle flames would flutter in a breeze that wasn’t there. We’d answer questions for departed relatives and long-lost friends, while the whisperers, who weren’t really expecting an answer, seemed stunned and delighted when they got one. Even if that answer was more of the ‘Keep a close eye on your new acquaintance. He may not be helpful to your business,’ type of fortune-cookie warning, the whisperers were satisfied. They’d leave the séance, looking very self-important, while we’d have a good laugh over such gullibility.

Suddenly one of the whisperers reached a hand up and grabbed my foot! I almost screamed, or fainted, or both – I heard a voice saying, “This cobweb has been bothering me! I think I got it. Anybody want some more iced tea?”

Imagine having a whisperer, a live one, actually touch you! And in the broad open daylight, adding to the horror of it all. I quickly jerked my foot–not a cobweb, thank you–away from that hand, and sat, my arms wrapped around my legs, shaking in my chair.

We decided we’d shift our meetings to another location. After all, we don’t really believe in whisperers, you know. But – something touched my foot.

And now here we are, meeting again on the seventh day of the month at the seventh hour …. I’m not really superstitious ….  Shhh. Did you hear something? 

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