Flash Fiction: The Séance

  "Only the once," the Count replied wryly, "and I've been very deaf ever since. As I'm sure you already knew."
  "I apologize, Count, if that may be true," replied Don Foi, motioning for the Count to join his hands into the circle, "though I suspect this time you may find your ability to hear..." he arched an eyebrow, "...improved."
  The light from the film projector against Foi's face trailed along it, showing the deceased, in an early role. She was beautiful, her sad eyes that were later to become her trademark projected askew along the planes of Don Foi's forehead, at the outer tops of his eyes and onto the flat wall behind him, as he sat to join the circle.

  The shot cut to another but still featured the same timeless beauty, her form graceful and as longing as her gaze had been. She was silhouetted against a stark bright sky, reaching, longing, wandering, and fretting, the film's exposure obscuring whether the brightness of the sky was meant to convey dawn or sundown.
  The Count, though not impressed with - in his opinion - a charlatan's tactics of dramatics and cheap stage showmanship, acceded to join his hands into the circle, seating himself, across from the 'magician' Foi.
  The other guests, Mrs. Ms. Wilddugo to his left, and the doctor from Hungary, Professor Dagaustino, to the magician's left and the Count's right, were assured by this, and joined their hands in.
  The Count listened to the dull hum of the magician's long and drawn out ritual, half-heartedly, though eventually did not notice his eyes begin to close.
  The flickering of the projector, the only light in the room, rhythmically pulsed against Count Rewucki's eyelids, massaging his being and calming him. Don Foi's voice became steadily quieter, and its inflections more sporadic inside the Count's ears.
  Inversely, the rhythmic flicker of the projector slowed within the Count's visual and auditory senses, coming to encompass all of his vision, and all of the very surface of all the stillness of his thoughts. His ears and eyes pulsed pleasantly along to the light, softly. Then louder. Louder. Getting louder, until filling his ears to capacity.
  The guests heard the Count say, "She is here," rearing his head back, eyes closed, biting upon his lip. Wetness was at the corners of his eyes, when he said moments later, "She is... speaking to me..."
  A long breath, then Foi's voice was an odd mix of strain and monotone: "WHAT IS SHE SAYING?"
  The pseudo-wealthy dowager turned-sometime producer, Lind Wilddugo had cracked open an eye to see all this, to peek at the magician and the scene. She glanced his eyes drawn up until only the whites were visible, and down at his hand encompassing hers, tightly, the hairs on his knuckles and lower forearm erect.
  The Count's voice was taut. A tear rolled down his left cheek, "Oh God...." another tear rolled down his right, "...her voice... I forgot!.... I tried not to forget... how beautiful... so rare..."
  "WHAT IS SHE SAYING?" the magician implored in that terrible emotionful monotone.
  Ms. Wilddugo's hand clasped tighter into the magician's and the Count's, digging nails into their palms.
  They did not seem to notice.
  Tears started to flow freely down the Count's face, "...telling me things... She's telling me... so beautiful...... ... beautiful things..."
  "REPEAT THEM FOR THE CIRCLE, COUNT," the magician demanded.
  "Yes!... such... so... beautiful..."
  The group waited seconds, the projector's spinning machinery humming loudly against the silence of the room and the expectancy in their hearts.
  After some moments, they became aware of a rattling sound, a small vibrating hissing and popping.
  Like a thunderclap - Professor Dagaustino was jolted from his seat, onto the floor, whereupon he immediately gathered himself and began to get up. While still doing so, he noticed the face of the Count by his elbow, illuminated by the flashing of the now skipping film reel.
  The rattling, in the doctor's immediate split-second assessment, had most likely been the Count, gurgling a mix of pinkish froth - a seizure? - possibly he had bitten down on his tongue or deep into lip(s). When the light in the room flashed, the Count's cheeks shone with the after-wetness of tears, his eyes enraptured, and lifeless as stones.
  Also on the floor, recovering herself, Ms. Wilddugo had the inexplicable terror that something was reaching out to get her from the darkness below the table, then from another shadow in the room, then another.
  She and the Professor shakingly glanced up to see Don Foi, swooning, supporting himself with one hand against the wall and another covering his face. The magician sporadically threw out a hand, gesturing as if to wave something back.
  "IT IS NOT SHE!" he managed, "THAT IS NOT SHE WHICH WE SEEK!"

  The film continued to skip, off its track, the edge of the cellulose ticking against the brightness in front of them, each time it skipping a visage seeming to grow larger and more clear therein.
  The doctor kneeled at the Count trying to resuscitate him, the dowager turned-producer in throes, them both gaping, open-mouthed at the wall.
  Moments later, the magician stumbled against the contraption, knocking it over, catching his breath, whispering something, and wiping spittle from his mouth.