Jerome Mendleson

Jerome Mendleson was a renown psychic with an ego as large as he was. One of his proclaimers said, “He really filled a doorway.” Perhaps that was true, but there was no doubt about his psychic talents.

“Ah, this coffee is splendid.” He would sit at an outdoor table at the Hawthorn Café for his morning cup of coffee. “I despise tea.”

It was rather uncommon for a man of his prestige to make such a proclamation as he was a Londoner through and through. His father, Mr. Waldo Mendleson, a wealthy investor, figured he had done something wrong raising his son who loathed tea when he could not start his day without some Earl Gray. His son also poo-pooed the lucrative family investment business. As he saw it, the nineteenth century was about to end in three more years and the economy was going to boom according to Waldo Mendleson’s forecast.

“Father, I do see a rise in your investments.” He sipped his coffee while his father clanked his spoon in the cup of tea before him.

“How much?” His father raised his shoulder before cuddling his tea and blowing on it.

“I see a great fortune bestowed on you.” Jerome closed his eyes as if trying to set his senses into a physic trance as he often did during his nightly seances.

“How much?” His father squeezed his tea back with his spoon.

“The visions do are not specific as far as the exact amount.” He said before sipping his coffee.

“You abilities are trifling.” He waved his hand at his son. “Your customers are fools for listening to you.”

“You doubt me, but I have been right on a number of my predictions.” Jerome hated when his father cast doubts about his abilities to see into the future.

“Luck.” He chuckled as he sipped his tea.

“Luck is what fools bet their life savings on.” He sat back and laughed.

“There are speculations that come with my business.” He put his tea cup on the saucer.

“I like this place, because it serves both tea and coffee.” Jerome dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. While both his hands resembled large meat hooks, his mannerisms were dainty, almost effeminate. His pencil thin mustache appeared as nothing more than a smear of dirt he forgot to wash off from under his lip. He wore a fashionable jacket and bow tie that he could tug at from time to time which was a nervous tic of sorts.

“Yes, yes.” His father wagged his head as he peered out on the street as busy people strode in bustling crowds of the busy city avenues.

“Are you Jerome Mendleson?” A passerby stopped to ask Jerome as he tugged at his tie.

“Why yes I am.” He smiled.

“I went to one of your seances.” The gentleman acknowledged.

“And what did you think?” He put his chin on his cupped hands.

“My wife made me go.” He shook his head, “I don’t much go in for that sort of occult, but I was amused.”

“Bless you, sir.” Jerome gritted his teeth.

“Good day.” The man tipped his bowler.

“And a good day to you sir.” Jerome slightly bowed his head as the man quickly walked away.

“So, that was quite an endorsement.” His father smiled, “Well, I must be off. Meeting first thing this morning.”

“Have a good day.” Jerome wished his father as he walked away. He left a couple quid on the table to cover the tab and a generous tip for the waiter. Coming to his feet, Jerome proceeded to his parlor as he called it.

Back at the turn of the century, the occult was a thriving business. People who wanted to believe in an afterlife readily accepted the parlor tricks that most of the mediums practiced on their clientele. Under his parlor table, Jerome had placed an undetectable motor that made the table move and vibrate as if a poltergeist was attending the séance. He would put a turban on his head like the swamis from India wore when he was sent there as part of regiment to put down some of the religious riots in Calcutta. According to his version, the city smelled bad, but the streets were filled with swamis who seemed to have psychic powers he tried to imitate. On the turban above his forehead was a crescent moon and a single yellow star.

When he entered the parlor, he wore a long purple robe covered in moons and yellow start. Moving to the table, he appeared just like one of the holy soothsayers he had seen during his time in the Royal Army. Jerome purchased his crystal ball through the East Indian Company on the guarantee it was authentic.

During the proceedings as his table did a bump and grind, he would let his eyes roll back in his head, creating a rather disturbing visualization. He would then speak in a garbled language that sounded as if a spirit had control of his tongue. Using a spot of gun powder that would create a flash burn which made the clientele jump, he would open his eyes and speak what he remember from his Latin classes at the university.

From beginning to end, it was all show to make the clientele believe they had been visited by the spirits from beyond. He loved the show. He loved watching their facial expressions. He loved listening to them whisper among themselves about their experience as they were leaving. He loved the fact that he was a good enough medium to be able to charge top dollar. While his father could brag about the success of his company, Jerome never told Waldo that his take was generous enough to keep his oldest son in the luxury he had become accustomed to.

His father hinted that Jerome needed a woman on his arm in Victorian England, because homosexuality was not only frowned upon, but there were criminal laws enacted to keep these perverts out of sight from the public. Jerome knew that if he kept quiet, he could remain a deviant, as his father called him from time to time.

As well as selling his psychic powers to the naïve public, he had also become an expert at spotting one of his kind lingering about trying to conceal their hidden identity. He would make his mark and make it abundantly clear that he was not above blackmail if it came to that.

One evening while dressing for a séance, Jerome looks into the mirror and in place of his own reflection, he sees, “Ahmed.”

“You would think after ten years, I would eventually disappear.” Ahmed says with a sneer.

“What are you doing here?” Jerome stumble back a few steps from the mirror on the wall.

“I wish to see what a former student of mine is up to.”

“I am preparing to have a séance.” Jerome peers out at him from a side glance.

“So, I see sahib.” He bows his turbaned head. “I can help you.”

“I don’t need any help.” Jerome stumbles as he takes another step backward. Ahmed appears before him as he had when he was the master and Jerome was the pupil.Ahmed’s beard is neatly trimmed as it had been when he was alive.

“No help? No help when you rudely dumped my body in the river after you murdered me.” Ahmed crossed his arms across his chest and tilted his head.

“It was an accident.” Jerome took another step back and bumped into the vanity.

“Accident? Now you fabricating the truth?” He pointed at Jerome, his long slender fingers were claw-like as he reached out at his retreating pupil. “It seems you have forgotten some of the tenants of my instruction. Truth being one of them.”

“You were going to make up things about me.” Jerome whimpered.

“No, I was going to tell your commanding officer about your attraction to me.” He shook his head.

“What you were going to tell him would have ruined me.” Jerome held out his finger like the gun he had murdered Ahmed with the night at dinner when Ahmed told him that he was going to go to Captain Gerrick over his indecent proposal toward Ahmed. “I couldn’t have you do that.”

“You knew I was married.”

“And you told me of your dissatisfaction with your wife.” Jerome became angry with his uninvited spirit.

“I made it very clear that I was not interested.” He tilted his head as an evil smile appeared beneath his nose. Jerome remembered that smile as an expression of an evil man at heart. “To you I was just another Indian subject there to do your bidding.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to make my way to the parlor.” Jerome attempted to push by the ghost, Ahmed grabbed Jerome’s arm, twisted it behind the rotund man’s back and pushing him face-first into the wall.

“What is this?” Jerome squealed.

“I have physical power, but Vishnu has bequeathed it to me for only a short time.” He breathed into Jerome’s ear.

“Let me go.” Jerome fought off his tears and fear.

“I could snap you arm like a twig in your British winters.” He snarled.

“Help me!” Jerome shouted, but he knew he was the only one in the flat he used as his paranormal parlor. His client, Mrs. Midred Riley, a recent widow wasn’t due in for another half hour. She wished to speak to her recently deceased husband Jack. From what she told Jerome at the time she made the appointment, Jack Riley had left her a tidy sum of money which Jerome would gladly take a substantial amount for his services.

“There is no one here, Corporal Mendleson, but I can stay and help you with your service tonight.” He eased up on his grip.

“I work alone.” Jerome managed to pull his face away from the wall.

“I can offer special effects.” His laugh came up from deep within him. “Did you ever wonder what happened to me when you let me float away in the river?”

“Not really.” Jerome spoke honestly as Ahmed released his arm. Jerome rubbed his arm where Ahmed held it.

“I was food for the crocodiles.” He laughed in such a way, Jerome shuddered.

“I had no intention of killing you until you blackmailed me.”

“Oh my dear sir, blackmail is a threat to divulge information. No, I was going to spill the beans to your commanding officer.” He howled with laughter. “You murdered me.”

“I could not have you tell on me.” Jerome swallowed hard, “If you had, I would have gone to prison. I could not do that.”

“So, the only option was to murder me?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I am not a murderer.”

“You seemed to carry it off without a hitch. Of course no one was interested in finding out what happened to me. Better to let the crocodiles have dinner, I suppose.” He put his hand to his beard.

The front doorbell sounded.

“Mrs. Riley is here.” Jerome slipped into his robe.

“You got that robe in Calcutta.” He shrugged.

“I suppose.” Jerome looked at himself in the mirror.

“Hello, is there anyone about?” A woman’s voice sounded from the parlor.

“I’ll be right there, Mrs. Riley.” Jerome answered. “Just have a seat at the parlor table.

“Very well.” She said. Jerome could hear her move the chair across the wooden floor. He turned to Ahmed, “I must go. I wish you would do the same.”

“Where am I to go?” He shrugged.

“Back to whatever level of Hell you ascended from.” Jerome shook his head as he put his turban in place.

“I assure you, I will not be any bother.” Ahmed smiled as he vanished right in front of Jerome.

“Are you still here?” Jerome asked.

Silence.

Satisfied, Jerome smiled, brushed himself off with his hands and walked through the door into the parlor where Mrs. Riley was patiently waiting.

“Good evening, Mrs. Riley.” He said upon entering the parlor with a flourish

“Master Mendleson.” She rose to her feet.

“You have come to speak to your late husband, Jack, correct?” He smiled.

“Correct.” She clasped her gloved hands together, “It’s almost as if you are reading my mind.”

“Perhaps I am.” He chuckled, “Please have a seat and let us begin.”

“Very well.” She smiled as she sat.

“Did you bring the money we talked about?” He asked nodding.

“Yes.” She fondled her purse and pulled out a wad of bills, “As we agree upon.”

“Very good, Mrs. Riley.” He picked up the generous stack of money, but when he went to put it into his pocket, the bills disappeared. “What?”

“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Riley asked.

“The money…it’s gone.”

“That can’t be. I handed you the money.” She insisted.

“I know, but…” His eyes flashed up and saw Ahmed standing behind Mrs. Riley. He winked at Jerome. Holding up his hand, Ahmed had the money in his hands. Jerome’s expression changed to one of distress. “Never mind. Shall we begin?”

He put his foot on the pedal that controlled the motion of the table and the gas lanterns overhead. The room got dark as the table began to move in a syncopated manner. Mrs. Riley was startled at first, but once the table began to sway, she smiled.

There was a low moan. Jerome’s eyes popped open since this was not one of his effects. Even in the dark, he could see Ahmed smiling his evil smile.

Another moan.

“Is that you, Jack?” Mrs. Riley asked with her eyes still closed.

“Yes, it is me.” Came an answer.

“No, it’s not.” Jerome muttered to himself.

“Jack, I am here to speak to you.” Mildred said with her eyes still closed tight.

“What do you need. I am only here for a short time before I have to take the elevator down.” The low voice hovered in the stale air of the parlor.

“Down?” She opened her eyes.

“Yes, I was a bit of a scoundrel.”

“What do you mean, Jack?” She hissed.

“I did not play by the rules, I’m afraid”

“Oh my, you don’t say.” She shook her head as Jerome glared at Ahmed who was having fun with the entire séance.

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

“I was looking forward to being with you soon.” She was fighting off her tears.

“Do you remember our housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Smith?” Mildred put her gloved hand over her mouth that was agape.

“Well, she went to Southampton for a procedure.”

“You don’t mean-“

“I’m afraid so.”

“This is an outrage.” Jerome stood up.

“I am aware of that.” Mrs. Riley stood up wiping her tears with the back of her gloved hands. “I wish for a full refund, Mr. Mendleson. You shall be hearing from my lawyer.”

With that said, Mildred Riley stormed out of the parlor as Ahmed was doubled over in laughter.

“Amused are you?” Jerome threw his turban down on the table next to the undisturbed crystal ball.

“It makes up for all that I had to put up with you.” Ahmed’s hands were on his knees as he continued to laugh.

“My money?” Jerome held his hand out.

“Oh I don’t have it.” He shook his head.

“Where is it?”

“In a place I’m sure you’ll be visiting shortly.” Ahmed shook his head, “Do not wear any warm clothing when you go there, because it’s plenty warm enough.”

There was a bright flash as Jerome was left standing alone in his parlor.

“So, you are drinking tea?” Waldo noted as Jermone dipped his tea bag in the hot water.

“Yes, yes.” He shook his head.

“What has brought you to this low estate?” His father chuckled.

“I wish to try new things.” He sighed.

“Well, here’s to you and your courage in that undertaking.” His father raised his tea cup in the air to properly salute his son, Jerome. “That’s the spirit.”

“I wish you hadn’t said that father.” Jerome blew on his tea. Jerome could not help but noticing one of the gargoyles who happened to be wearing a wicked grin on the cathedral across the street bore a certain resemblances to someone he once knew quite well.