rawer for the fleeting glimpses of her soul.
Apart from my desire to communicate with Didine, the séances were a huge success. More than that, they were shocking. Our little group had become the conduit for attracting the most amazing mindsof all civilization, who all arrived in order to speak to me and impart their wisdom: Shakespeare, Dante, Mozart, Hannibal, Walter Scott, Joan of Arc, Moses, Judas, Galileo, Napoleon, and yes, as blasphemous as it sounds, even Jesus Christ visited with us. Over one hundred and fifteen different souls, some not even figures but abstract concepts with names like India, Metempsychosis, and Ocean.
But this journal is not about the talks we had with those great sages; I’ve done other writings regarding them. The purpose of this journal is to write of the one who snaked his way into my soul and almost destroyed me. And, my dearest friend, Fantine, almost destroyed you too.
On the night of the eighth, we were seated around our table trying to raise a spirit when I heard a barking dog. This wasn’t the sound of a typical country hound howling at a chicken. This was a ferocious and yet forlorn noise. After a few moments, other dogs joined in. An unholy cacophony befitting mythology’s hellhounds. You have heard of these creatures, have you not? They are described as supernaturally fast dogs with malevolent glowing red or yellow eyes. Their duties are said to include guarding the entrance to the world of the dead, hunting lost souls and protecting supernatural treasures. It is written that if you look into their eyes three times you most surely will die. To hear them howl is an omen of death or even worse.
We were all distracted and discussed the jarring howling, conjecturing what might have happened to set the dogs off. In the midst of our conversation, my wife rose from her chair. “This situation with the dogs has unnerved me,” she said, and told us she was retiring for the evening.
I was not eager to abandon the séance and asked the rest of our party if they would like to remain and see if we could indeed summon a spirit. They agreed, and Charles returned his fingers to the stool.
“I have the sense someone is waiting to speak with us,” he said. “Spirit, are you there?”
I hoped it was Didine. I always hoped it was Didine. In those moments before the spirit announced himself, I yearned for it to be my lovely daughter. But that night, it was not she who answered our pleas. Instead came a spirit very much unwanted.
The first sign was that the air in the room became colder. My daughter Adele left the table and added a log to the fire. But it did nothing to chase away the damp chill that had invaded the room. Outside the wind picked up and blew in through the open windows, extinguishing the candles on the mantel and sideboard. The only light left to illuminate our sad group came from the blazing fireplace. The black spaniel Ponto, who did not belong to us but had adopted us, began to growl, low and deep in her throat. Our cat Grise hissed and scampered up the stairs.
“Who is there?” Charles asked.
Finally the tapping began, and with it so did the voice I heard inside my head during the séances, the otherworldly voice whose words corresponded perfectly to the translations François-Victor would later provide.
A friend who can help.
“Help with what?” I asked.
Find Leopoldine.
The chill in the room entered into me. My blood’s temperature lowered. I felt as if I were being frozen from inside and my heart were turning to ice.
“You mean bring her to us here in these sessions?”
If that is all you wish.
“What else could I wish for?”
No answer.
“Is there another way you can bring her to me?”
Perhaps.
“What do I have to do?”
Prove you are worthy.
“Is it a quest? Are you giving me a test?”
Yes.
“Who are you to demand such a thing?”
We have met before. I’m insulted you do not recognize me.
“You play games with me, sir. Reveal
Apart from my desire to communicate with Didine, the séances were a huge success. More than that, they were shocking. Our little group had become the conduit for attracting the most amazing mindsof all civilization, who all arrived in order to speak to me and impart their wisdom: Shakespeare, Dante, Mozart, Hannibal, Walter Scott, Joan of Arc, Moses, Judas, Galileo, Napoleon, and yes, as blasphemous as it sounds, even Jesus Christ visited with us. Over one hundred and fifteen different souls, some not even figures but abstract concepts with names like India, Metempsychosis, and Ocean.
But this journal is not about the talks we had with those great sages; I’ve done other writings regarding them. The purpose of this journal is to write of the one who snaked his way into my soul and almost destroyed me. And, my dearest friend, Fantine, almost destroyed you too.
On the night of the eighth, we were seated around our table trying to raise a spirit when I heard a barking dog. This wasn’t the sound of a typical country hound howling at a chicken. This was a ferocious and yet forlorn noise. After a few moments, other dogs joined in. An unholy cacophony befitting mythology’s hellhounds. You have heard of these creatures, have you not? They are described as supernaturally fast dogs with malevolent glowing red or yellow eyes. Their duties are said to include guarding the entrance to the world of the dead, hunting lost souls and protecting supernatural treasures. It is written that if you look into their eyes three times you most surely will die. To hear them howl is an omen of death or even worse.
We were all distracted and discussed the jarring howling, conjecturing what might have happened to set the dogs off. In the midst of our conversation, my wife rose from her chair. “This situation with the dogs has unnerved me,” she said, and told us she was retiring for the evening.
I was not eager to abandon the séance and asked the rest of our party if they would like to remain and see if we could indeed summon a spirit. They agreed, and Charles returned his fingers to the stool.
“I have the sense someone is waiting to speak with us,” he said. “Spirit, are you there?”
I hoped it was Didine. I always hoped it was Didine. In those moments before the spirit announced himself, I yearned for it to be my lovely daughter. But that night, it was not she who answered our pleas. Instead came a spirit very much unwanted.
The first sign was that the air in the room became colder. My daughter Adele left the table and added a log to the fire. But it did nothing to chase away the damp chill that had invaded the room. Outside the wind picked up and blew in through the open windows, extinguishing the candles on the mantel and sideboard. The only light left to illuminate our sad group came from the blazing fireplace. The black spaniel Ponto, who did not belong to us but had adopted us, began to growl, low and deep in her throat. Our cat Grise hissed and scampered up the stairs.
“Who is there?” Charles asked.
Finally the tapping began, and with it so did the voice I heard inside my head during the séances, the otherworldly voice whose words corresponded perfectly to the translations François-Victor would later provide.
A friend who can help.
“Help with what?” I asked.
Find Leopoldine.
The chill in the room entered into me. My blood’s temperature lowered. I felt as if I were being frozen from inside and my heart were turning to ice.
“You mean bring her to us here in these sessions?”
If that is all you wish.
“What else could I wish for?”
No answer.
“Is there another way you can bring her to me?”
Perhaps.
“What do I have to do?”
Prove you are worthy.
“Is it a quest? Are you giving me a test?”
Yes.
“Who are you to demand such a thing?”
We have met before. I’m insulted you do not recognize me.
“You play games with me, sir. Reveal
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