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    The Medium
    The Medium
    The Medium
    Ebook208 pages2 hours

    The Medium

    By Bonnie Dee

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    To win a heart, he must risk his soul...

    Cast out of his family for being a freak, psychic Justin Crump helps others find peace by using his ability. When he’s called upon to release a distressed soul from a haunted house, a child’s angry spirit draws him into a dark mystery. Equally intriguing is the skeptical homeowner, Albert, a man who has buried his sexuality deeper than the grave.

    Albert Henderson humors his mother’s wishes by inviting the medium for a visit. While he doubts Justin’s gifts, he can’t deny one truth: the man stirs desire in him that Albert has spent a lifetime denying. Slowly, the walls of his proper life crumble. And when Justin proposes some emotion-free experimentation, neither imagines it might lead to love...and danger.

    After learning the terrifying truth about the deceased child’s persecutor, the two men pursue a perpetrator of great evil. When they coax a confession from their quarry, the vengeful spirit unleashes power nearly beyond control. To free the earthbound ghost from the past that holds it shackled, Justin must risk his own soul. And Albert must find the courage to break free of the chains of doubt that will deny him and Justin the future of which they once only dreamed.

    Warning: Contains mention of child sexual abuse.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBonnie Dee
    Release dateMay 30, 2018
    ISBN9780463793435
    The Medium
    Author

    Bonnie Dee

    Whether you're a fan of contemporary, paranormal, or historical romance, you'll find something to enjoy among my books. I'm interested in flawed, often damaged, people who find the fulfillment they seek in one another. To stay informed about new releases, please SIGN UP FOR MY NEWSLETTER. Help an author out by leaving a review and spreading the word about this book among your friends. You can join my street team at FB. Learn more about my backlist at http://bonniedee.com or find me on FB and Twitter @Bonnie_Dee.

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    4.5/5

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    • 4/5
      Ben scritto, interessante, molto dark, attenzione alle tematiche relative al fantasma, non sono adatte ad un pubblico sensibile. Leggerò sicuramente altre sue opere.
    • 4/5
      Warm, gentle, courageous main characters with a very sweet dynamic. I loved the touch of paranormal in this short, sweet romance

    Book preview

    The Medium - Bonnie Dee

    The Medium

    Bonnie Dee

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    Copyright © 2018 by Bonnie Dee

    All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

    Smashwords License Notes

    This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

    Chapter One

    Justin

    London, Summer 1895

    Mr. Crump, you should know I do not believe in spirits of the dead walking among us. It’s my mother who is convinced our house is haunted. I can’t sway her from this belief, so I’ve accompanied her today to ensure she is not taken advantage of beyond what my pocketbook will bear.

    I didn’t take offense. I’d often heard this sort of disclaimer from husbands or fathers of my mostly female clientele. I could soothe a nonbeliever, even one as firmly skeptical and distractingly handsome as Albert Henderson.

    Trust me, sir, I am no parlor-trick medium. You will not witness shaking tables, ringing bells, or disembodied voices at this séance. I am a true conduit to the other side, to which my clients will testify.

    No doubt they will, and good to hear, Henderson responded dryly. Because I would hate to discover my mother had been taken advantage of by a fake.

    Too bad the man’s appearance wasn’t as ugly as his dismissive tone. Perhaps I would’ve been able to stop staring at that beautifully shaped mouth pursing in disgust. Henderson was not going to be an easy man to deal with, but I was determined to offer the aid his widowed mother required. Eugenia Henderson was a sweet, open-minded woman, who’d reached out to me upon the recommendation of Lady Mildred Barton. The Hendersons’ newly purchased country house near the village of Mewsbury was haunted, and Mrs. Henderson was growing desperate to dispel the unhappy lingerer.

    Henderson touched my elbow, urging me into the hall and farther away from the murmuring group in Lady Barton’s parlor. I don’t begrudge these naïve people paying for a diversion to while away a few hours. Perhaps you even offer comfort after the loss of loved ones, a service for which you deserve some recompense. It’s continued leeching I will not abide. A one-time fee is all you will collect from me. Perform your mumbo jumbo to convince Mother the ghost is expelled, and then do not contact her again.

    I answered mildly, I understand your wishes, but I can’t promise to reach the lost soul in a day’s time. The spirit world does not keep to a schedule.

    Well, this spirit had better. I expect to see results quickly.

    I’ll do my best, sir. I was anxious to get away from this awkward confrontation. It seems all the guests have arrived. I must begin. But before entering the parlor, I gave my prospective employer a hard stare. "Results are usually better without a skeptic in the group. Could you at least attempt to open your mind?"

    Henderson snorted. The best I can do is to not roll my eyes or sigh too loudly.

    I couldn’t help but smile at his succinctly scornful reply. I’ll accept that.

    Lady Barton had pulled the drapes to block out the sun and lit so many candles, the parlor was smoky. I had told her this sort of theatricality was not necessary. My ability to connect with the astral realm had nothing to do with darkness, incense, or candles. That attuned consciousness was simply an attribute I’d been born with, to the dismay of my family.

    I had always seen things others couldn’t and communicated with entities visible only to me. I’d spent most of the earlier part of my childhood stubbornly refusing to hide that fact, making my life difficult by not keeping quiet. It wasn’t until I entered the rough and tumble of boarding school I’d finally learned to hide parts of myself in an attempt to fit in. Only later, after my entire world exploded, did I fully embrace all of my true nature. This led to a new life in London, living under an assumed name, and befriending people who took a broader view of life in all its forms.

    I moved to the chair left empty for me and smiled around at the assembled spiritualists and one avowed skeptic at the table. Friends. We are gathered here to commune with those dwelling on the other side of the veil. If you hold any reservations, please set them aside if only for this one afternoon.

    I gave Mr. Henderson a pointed look. He stared at me, but it wasn’t quite a glare, and his lips twitched as if he were amused. Disbeliever though he may be, he didn’t seem to be a harsh man. After all, he was willing to humor his mother by coming here. Many men wouldn’t pay the women in their lives half as much respect.

    Please join hands, I began. Most of the group was well versed in the routine and had already done so. Even Henderson seemed to know what was expected. He grasped his mother’s hand and that of Lady Barton on his left. I wished he were seated beside me, for I would have liked to feel his grip for the next thirty minutes or so.

    I shut out the darting thought and closed my eyes, inhaling wax-scented air. Candlelight flickered through the thin curtain of my lids, an orange glow upon which I focused. The low-grade vibration ever present in the background of my consciousness grew clearer as I tuned in to its frequency. The space between the physical and ethereal worlds, as impenetrable as stone to most people, became sheer as rice paper to me. The undercurrent energies that make up all objects and creatures in our dense world became visible, and another, subtler world took form. Luminous beings without the cumbersome trappings of flesh existed there.

    I recognized one spirit in particular who’d been drawn to our circle, Lady Barton’s son Fred, who had passed away from a fever last year. Perhaps he lingered because his abrupt death had taken him by surprise or perhaps because his mother continued to desperately cry out to him, binding him to this plane of existence.

    I mentally greeted him. Human words were unnecessary here, only pulses of feeling or thought. Fred emitted an aura of jumbled confusion. He did not know where he was or why and was incredibly distressed. I could not seem to reach him although I’d tried numerous times.

    Recalling my physical audience, I spoke aloud. Fred is here today and sends his greetings. I became the liar Henderson took me for. What good would it do Lady Barton to know her son felt utterly lost and miserable? Wasn’t it kinder to let her believe he experienced peace?

    I lifted my lashes enough to see Albert Henderson through the fringe. He watched me intensely as if seeking out subterfuge. His scrutiny made me realize I couldn’t keep placating Lady Barton by telling her Fred was fine and sent his love.

    Tuning out other presences both physical and astral, I shot a powerful ray of thought at Fred. Stop whining! Hear me.

    As if I’d slapped a hysterical person out of a panic, Fred’s confused miasma cleared. He turned his full attention upon me.

    Truthfully, all is not well with Fred, I said. He misses this life and lingers when he should move on to the next plane of existence. I ask you all to concentrate and support him by letting him know he may let go. I spoke mostly for Lady Barton’s benefit, as she was the one who shackled her son to the life he’d left behind. It is time for him to release his attachments here and travel on.

    To where, I didn’t know exactly. This portion of the ethereal world was but a tip of a proverbial vast iceberg, a mere foyer to some deeper state of being beyond what I could fathom.

    A murmur of well wishes came from those around me. One woman began to sob quietly. Lady Barton squeezed my hand so hard, her rings pressed into my flesh. Oh my dear heart, my darling son, she whispered. Do not be afraid or cling to Mother. It is time to say goodbye for the final time. I must let you go.

    Every time I heard words of farewell from a grieving family, it wrenched my heart. How could one not be moved by such a display of love? I blinked back tears of my own as I mentally addressed Fred. Do you hear? You are loved, but you are no longer a part of this world. It’s time to go on. Free yourself.

    For a moment, his entity grew more solid in my inner vision, taking the shape of the young man who matched the photograph in Lady Barton’s locket. Mother, don’t cry.

    His response to his mother flowed through my lips. I love you. I’m sorry for the times I dismissed you or gave you heartache. In the end, it was you by my bedside, holding my hand. I am ready now and no longer afraid.

    Mother, goodbye.

    In an instant, his astral form winked out and all communication ceased. I felt the gap like a missing tooth and pressed on that empty space. The great mystery of what existed beyond the level I only partially perceived continued.

    I opened my eyes, the faces around the table swimming in my vision as I got my bearings. They covered the spectrum of the social scale from Terence Mumford, a clerk in his father’s print shop who’d lost his bride-to-be only days before the wedding, to nobility such as Lady Mildred Barton. Strong mutual belief brought together this odd assortment of people.

    Some more believing than others. My gaze landed on Albert Henderson, who studied me so keenly, it was like the slice of a surgeon’s knife. His gaze suggested he’d like to cut into my head to have a good look at the inner workings of my mind.

    Is there anyone else here who wants me to try to contact a loved one? I asked.

    A soft-spoken woman named Muriel whispered, My father, Mr. Calvin Tierney. I have a decision to make, and I need his guidance. She took a photograph from her handbag and passed it to me.

    A glaring gentleman, his face framed in muttonchop whiskers, posed beside an older, fainter version of Muriel. His severe appearance and the misery in his wife’s eyes suggested he’d never dispensed kind advice. Stop sniveling, Muriel. I almost heard an echo of the man’s voice.

    I’ll do my best, but even if I’m able to contact him, I can’t promise he’ll answer your question.

    I understand, she whispered. Her demeanor was as wispy as if she were a ghost herself, not quite concrete enough to exist in this hard world.

    I closed my eyes again, shutting out Albert Henderson’s skeptical expression across the table from me, but I could still feel his negative energy.

    Although I repeatedly cast my fishing line into the cosmic beyond, I could not snag the entity I sought. After several fruitless minutes, I shook my head. I’m sorry, Miss Tierney. I was not able to contact your father today. I wish I could have helped you.

    Henderson shifted and sighed. He might as well have shouted rubbish or poppycock. He probably suspected I was trying to get Muriel to come for more sessions, thus tapping her pocketbook. Maybe if I showed him a bank statement, he’d believe I was not becoming wealthy as a medium. Mostly I survived due to a yearly stipend from my father, part of the agreement made when he’d cast me out. I wasn’t quite dead to my family, just mostly so. In limbo, like the souls I contacted.

    I ended the session and Lady Barton rose and extinguished a few of the candles. She called for refreshments, which the footman promptly carried in. Gaslights were lit, casting a much harsher light on the guests. Even in its unkind glow, Mr. Henderson’s chiseled features remained handsome.

    Eugenia Henderson came over and took my hand. Mr. Crump, I’ve never experienced anything so moving. I’m certain you will be able to help dispel this gloom that lingers in our home. I’ve not seen an apparition, but this inexplicable, powerful negative feeling comes over me. And how does one prove it is not all in one’s mind? She cast a significant glance at her son, who joined us. Dear Albert feels nothing in the house, not a chill or a mood, but to me, these sensations are absolutely tangible and not in my imagination.

    I hope I can be of use to you, I said. But as you witnessed today, the spirits aren’t always compliant. I promise if I’m not able to resolve your situation in a brief time, I will tell you so. This was intended mostly for my skeptic, who continued to look as if he’d swallowed a glass of lemonade without sugar.

    Mrs. Henderson’s fingers nervously worried the puff of lace at her throat. One wouldn’t expect such a place to be haunted. The house was only built in the last century to replace the crumbling medieval home where generations of Kingmans had resided. Sir Cyrus, the current baronet, sold it to us after the place sat empty for almost ten years. I’d hoped renovations would dispel the gloom, but to no avail.

    To no avail, Henderson repeated solemnly.

    His mother elbowed him sharply. Don’t poke fun, young man. What one is able to see, touch, hear, or taste is not all there is to this great universe.

    Yes, Mum, the tall man replied docilely.

    I didn’t know what to make of Henderson, who alternated between the scowl of a man intent on unmasking falsehood and the amusement of one taking potential hoodwinking in stride. His reaction was, to say the least, complex.

    How soon will you be able to visit, Mr. Crump? the lady continued. As soon as this coming weekend would be appreciated. I don’t know how much longer I can bear this pervading sense of unhappiness.

    Henderson took his mother’s hand and patted it. I am sorry you’re in distress, Mother. It’s wrong of me to make light of it. He turned his severe gaze on me. Whatever my mother needs to set her mind at ease is agreeable to me.

    I read the subtext to this polite phrase: Fix this. Invent whatever nonsense you must to alleviate her worries and make it convincing.

    I shall arrive on Friday, I promised.

    Albert Henderson gave a slight nod. Now I could

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