1) Sunday 8th

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Yawning sleepily, Julie walked from her bedroom to the kitchen, stopping briefly in the small hallway to crank up the central heating's thermostat. Ever since 'that night', as Julie still thought of it, her flat had acquired an almost perpetual chill. Even the heating engineer her landlord had sent to investigate could find nothing wrong with the gas boiler and radiators.

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Her bare feet touched the cold tiles of the kitchen floor as she moved towards the coffee pot. With a splash, her left foot hit a small pool of water on the floor.

 

"Oh, bloody Hell!" Julie swore. "Buster, if I ever see you, I'll boot your hairy behind into next week." Julie was, of course, referring to Miss Esme's little brown and white terrier, who kept leaving puddles of ectoplasmic pee all over her flat. Fortunately, the liquid, if that's what it was, didn't smell of dog urine and evaporated quite quickly. Julie had never seen the spirit of the little dog but, in her mind's eye at least, she got the impression that Buster was sniggering like Muttley, the cartoon dog she remembered from her childhood.

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"I told you she was more of a cat person," said a man's voice from behind her.

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Julie didn't turn. She was on morning autopilot, going through the motions of making coffee, fiddling with the radio and pouring muesli into a bowl. 

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"Morning, George," Julie replied, if a little testily. She was getting used to these unannounced appearances. It was as if her flat, once warm and welcoming to guests, was turning into a doss-house for the dead.

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The male voice chuckled as Julie turned. Sitting at the table, looking for all the world like they were waiting for breakfast to be served, were the spirits of George Holroyd and Annette Collins. 

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"Good morning, dear," said Annette, quite brightly. "Aren't you a little chilly wearing just that?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, noting Julie's rather skimpy nightwear. 

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"I've got the heating turned way up," Julie answered, over the rim of her coffee mug. "It'll be like the Bahamas in here soon." Her brow furrowed. "Do you lot even feel the chill?"

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George harrumphed. "That'll be enough of that, Julie," he said, sternly.

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Annette looked a little cross. Julie could be rather prickly early in the morning but such comments smacked of discrimination against the dead. They were, or at least had been, people, too. Temper had never been one of Annette's faults when alive, so she left Julie's question unanswered and turned to the matter in hand. "It's about next Friday which, I'm sure you already know, is the thirteenth."

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Julie looked blearily at the calendar magnetted to the fridge door. There was a circle in green felt-tip around that date. That was her short hand for bringing Madame Zara out of her semi-retirement and hosting another gathering. Julie steadfastly refused to call them seances. "So it's the thirteenth. What's so special about it?" 

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"That's always been a troublesome date for people like us," George put in. "All sorts of problems seem to happen on the thirteenth."

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"Don't tell me you've gone all superstitious!" Julie almost gagged on her coffee.

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"Superstitions are rooted in fact, Julie," Annette replied, "sometimes going back centuries."

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"Or further," added George, darkly.

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"Quite. The first recorded time a seance, one involving real spirits, not just Victorian parlour tricks, was held on Friday the thirteenth happened in the sixteenth century, during the reign of Elizabeth I. The medium went mad and three of the guests later died in mysterious circumstances. Bad luck followed the surviving guests for years afterwards."

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"Two of the spirits," said George as he leaned closer, "were rooted to this world as poltergeists and had to be exorcised, which, we're told, is extremely painful to a ghost. So you see, it's not just the living who suffer if something goes wrong on the thirteenth."

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"All we want you to do is cancel or reschedule the sitting for next Friday," Annette said. 

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"Can't be done," Julie replied, firmly. "I've got guests coming from London on that date. They'll be furious if I cancel." Not to mention demand a refund! 

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The temperature in the kitchen dropped suddenly. Frost started to crystallise on the window and Julie's breath formed a small cloud over the rim of her mug. Her breakfast bowl lifted six inches off the table and started floating around the room.

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"You don't scare me with all the theatrics." Julie hoped she'd sounded defiant but her voice came out as a squeak. In truth, she was terrified: the hairs on the nape of her neck were prickling and her pulse had started hammering. In her gatherings, she had experienced a number of very odd sensations, some of which she knew had been Annette's doing, but this was the first time the spirits had resorted to bullying her.

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"We're not trying to scare you, dear," said Annette. "We're just showing you some of the things which could happen if things go wrong on the thirteenth."

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George made a chopping gesture with his left hand. Whatever force was holding up the bowl vanished and Julie's breakfast shattered on the floor in a spray of china, milk and muesli.

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Her anger overrode her fear. That had been her favourite bowl! "I won't cancel," she said, crossly. "There are important people coming next Friday."  
 
"For 'important' read 'rich'," said George with a snort.

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"That's beside the point," retorted Julie. "One of them is trying to contact a departed daughter. The poor woman was distraught when I book-, I mean, talked to her last Tuesday."

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"Which makes the whole gathering doubly risky," Annette countered. "Would you endanger the spirit of a child when you know what could go wrong?"

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"She wasn't a child when she died. She was about the same age as you, Annette. Her mother must be into her eighties and really needs closure on the whole distressing episode." Maybe the old bat was about to kick the bucket herself, thought Julie, and just needed to know her daughter was waiting on the 'other side' or if, indeed, there was an 'other side'. She hoped that the spirits' box of tricks didn't include mind-reading.

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"I can see you won't change your mind," said Annette, coldly. "Proceed if you wish but remember our warnings. On your own head be it if something goes wrong."

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2) Friday 13th

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Julie sat at her dressing table and stared into the large, oval mirror. She reached for a cotton wool ball and began her transformation into Madame Zara. While she worked, she reflected on the past week.

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What a God-awful week it had been. Work had been maddeningly stressful. Normally, the elderly clients at the daycare centre were quite fun-loving, always willing to take part in activities like singing, gentle aerobic workouts, art projects and board games. They would often putter around in the garden but the weather had been against them all week; something about an early Autumn cold front playing havoc with what should have been a pleasant Indian summer. The bad weather had kept them all indoors and the mood had dropped to one of despondency, grumpiness and, in one case, an all-out argument. 

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Julie even counted the minutes until the day would finally be over and she could go home to lose herself in a glass or two of wine and a good horror movie. But, of course, home wasn't very homely, either. The flat was colder than it had ever been. Buster had left more puddles on the floor and these had not evaporated spontaneously: the smell of bleach permeated the flat where Julie had struggled to clean up the mess. Things had been moved about while she had been at work. The TV remote control, for example, had disappeared three times and the radio had been tuned to some weird long wave station, which was more high pitched whistles than music. 

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More chillingly, after her last visitation by Annette and George, the message "You're on your own" had been left scrawled in lipstick on the dressing table mirror. Annette and George had not reappeared. Deep in a funk after a terrible week at work, Julie had had to admit to herself that she actually missed the visiting spirits - even Buster. 

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She sat back and blinked at her reflection as the brown contact lenses settled over her blue eyes. "Sorry," whispered Madame Zara to the empty, chilly air of the bedroom.

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3) The Gathering Friday 13th

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Her guests arrived at 7.30 on the dot. Madame Zara greeted all six of them, including the two from London, with a gracious smile, a small but tasty buffet and drinks all round. The group sat for a while in the living room, chatting about their days, their journeys and their hopes for this evening. Madame Zara asked gently probing questions while Julie Jones kept rigorous mental notes. 

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"My daughter Susan," said Mrs Fletcher, the octogenarian from London, handing Madame Zara a somewhat worn photograph.

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"She's very beautiful," said Zara, peering closely at the photo. It seemed to have been taken at a pebble-strewn beach. "Could this have been Brighton?" she enquired.

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"It was," Mrs Fletcher beamed. "We holidayed there many times. So many happy memories. I miss her so much," the old lady finished sadly.

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"I am sure she misses you just as much and will be here to speak with you soon."

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Madame Zara escorted her guests to the reading room, the flat's second bedroom, which had been redecorated with dark red flock wallpaper, floor-length red velvet curtains, a deep-pile red carpet and numerous candles. Taking centre-stage (so to speak) was an octagonal green-baize table and dark wood chairs. A small chandelier cast dim light over the table and barely penetrated the shadows in the corners of the room.

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"I traditionally offer up a small prayer to those who will be visiting tonight," said Zara (Julie had thought this to be a nice touch when she'd come up with the idea after half a bottle of wine). "Please, close your eyes, envision your departed, and pray that they will come to you."

The guests did as Zara suggested, some whispering Hail Marys and Our Fathers under their breath. A gentle tranquillity descended over the small gathering.

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Showtime, thought Julie Jones.

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4) The Sitting Friday 13th

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Where in God's name are they? thought Julie. Over the last few weeks, Annette and George had arrived quite promptly, bringing with them their own spiritual guests and those the mortal guests were seeking to contact. The thought that they had abandoned her, at this of all times, made Julie worried and even cross with the spirits. Would this even work tonight? Butterflies weren't just fluttering in her stomach, it seemed they were waging all out war.

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Madame Zara, however, was the picture of serenity and calm as she asked each guest those questions she had asked earlier over drinks. Wine loosened tongues, she knew, and the rapport she had built up earlier paid dividends. Two of her guests were pleased with the responses they received from their 'loved ones'.

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Julie relaxed a bit. Her old techniques were working. The questions and answers flowed back and forth and the 'spirits' drew the guests into what became almost a pleasant after-dinner conversation. So caught up in the charade was Julie that she failed to notice the temperature beginning to drop.

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Rather rudely, Madame Zara interrupted the conversation. "She's here," said the medium.

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The spirit of Susan Henderson, nee Fletcher, appeared in the corner of the room and almost floated towards the table. Dressed as she had been when in her thirties, just after the birth of her first child (Mrs Fletcher's first grandson), she wore a pale blue blouse and skirt in darker blue. 

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Odd, thought Julie. Her previous visitors, like Annette and George, had appeared in monochrome. Susan looked like she had just stepped out of the Nineties, though she had died of leukaemia some twenty years later. Perhaps they have ways of appearing as they were at their best? Julie wondered.

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An overjoyed Mrs Fletcher began rabbiting on with her daughter's spirit. Yes, yes, the boys (Susan had had two sons) were doing fine in their jobs and Cathy, the youngest daughter, was preparing to get married. Of course, Mrs Fletcher didn't approve of young Cathy's choice: "he's from a dodgy family. They used to be mates with the Krays back in the Sixties. And his eyes are too close together," she stated somewhat snidely.

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Madame Zara could see the spirit was getting restless, almost as if she was looking for an exit. Everyone was concentrating on the spirit, their eyes wide, looks of wonder and even fear on their faces. Madame Zara let the conversation between mother and daughter run as it would. This was the first time she had lost control of a visitation. Having seen what Annette and George could do, Julie hoped things wouldn't turn nasty. 

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Julie noticed the cold and glanced around the room. Her heart beat faster as she realised the candles were glowing with a greenish flame: they hadn't even been lit at the start of the sitting!

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"Look, Mum," Susan interrupted her mother's ramblings, "I don't have much time. I was told not to come but I ignored them because I wanted to see how the boys and Cathy are doing."

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"What do you mean you don't have much time?" Mrs Fletcher asked.

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More to the point, who told you not to come? Julie wondered. Annette and George could be interfering.

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"All I know is that it's very dangerous being here tonight." Susan nodded in the direction of Madame Zara. "She should have known not to practice tonight of all nights."

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"What's she talking about, Madame Zara?" inquired Mrs Fletcher. "I paid good money for this evening and I'm not having my daughter disappear before I've got my money's worth!"

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Julie mumbled for a moment before Madame Zara stepped in. "The divide between the worlds of living and dead is transient, Mrs Fletcher. It can be very strong or, like now, weakened by right-minded people who believe in the afterworld. People are not strong enough to keep the wall down for long and it always rebuilds."

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"That's complete tosh," said Susan, sharply. "You should know how this works. Annette and George warned you not to do this tonight but you went ahead and did it out of greed."

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Madame Zara rose to her own defence. "I did this because your dear mother was adamant about meeting you." More gently, she went on, "I did this because your mother needed to know you were happy on the other side."

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"She's right, you know," Mrs Fletcher said. "I'm not long for this world, Susan, and I wanted to know if you'd be there to meet me."

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"You've been saying that for fifty years, Mum," Susan shot back, angrily. "You'll outlive everyone in this room." Mother and daughter exchanged chilly looks before Susan went on, more kindly, this time. "Tell Cathy to ditch that shiftless layabout. He'll have his bookies after him in six months and I don't want my daughter caught up in that sort of thing. You can tell her from me that he's six thousand pounds in debt to them already and, if she wants proof, she'll find his bills in the shoebox in his wardrobe." Susan paused and smiled kindly at her Mum. "I love you, Mum. Pass on my love to the kids."

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The chandelier flickered and, with a pop!, went out. Several of the guests jumped in their seats. The candles spread their green glow across the room, though oddly, Julie noted, the light did not reach the corner from which Susan's ghost had emerged.

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With a sharp glance at Madame Zara, Susan added, "And now I really must be going." The spirit looked up at the darkened chandelier and around the room at the green candle-glow. "If it's not too late already, that is." 
 
With that, Susan Henderson's shade faded from the room. But by then, it was already too late.