What's in a nameHalfLight Séance
The candles burn higher, the mist grows colder…and the spirit world draws closer.
Lady Peeq and her guests encounter whispered chills, an unexpected flirtation, and a ghostly body that’ll haunt your dreams.
Note to Readers from A.P. Meringue
Set your snack stage for drifting spirits…read HalfLight Séance with flare. (Flame candles optional)
Mood Snack: 2 regular marshmallows—plus a few minis—per cup of root beer, or hot chocolate for thermal comfort
Instructions: Draw spooky faces on the marshmallows with edible markers, then place carefully. Watch as they drift and bob in patterns suggestive of tiny confused spirits.
A.P. Aside: Do not allow ghosts or marshmallows to wander unattended. Observation is essential.
Raise your hand(s) if you’re ready to chant.Bleak Reach, 2025
The curtain, though figurative, might as well have been stitched from velvet. The shift in the HalfLight’s atmosphere was immediate: chatter and champagne funneled into an attentive hush, eyes sliding to the woman who orchestrated it all. Lady Peeq moved among the guests like a conductor before the overture, her gestures subtle but commanding, her voice tuned to just the right note of amused mystery.
“Welcome, voyagers on the HalfLight,” she began, her smile unfurling. “You are no longer in possession of your own evening. This vessel belongs to shadow, candle, and whimsy. Should your heart race too quickly, remember…it is only a game. Should your heart fail to beat at all—” she tapped the side of her glass with one copper-lacquered nail, “—we’ll have something more urgent to discuss.”
Laughter rippled. They were hers already, hooked and reeling.
The salon glittered as if the chandeliers were tipsy too. Heavy drapes deepened the dark corners; gilt-edged mirrors multiplied every movement. Confections gleamed on polished trays like sugared relics, tempting people to watch one another more closely than the sweets. A niblet of nervous energy stirred, fueled by bubbles and sincerity.
Peeq thrived on it. This was her theater—not the stage of glossy things and velvet curtains, but the precarious threshold where skepticism brushed against belief.
The seating arrangement had been chosen with care. Couples huddled at the long table’s curve, bravado bolstered by company. The cynics clustered near the buffet, arms crossed, expressions betraying curiosity despite their best efforts. And then there was…the young man.
He arrived late, coat damp from the night, and caught her eye not for tardiness but because of his demeanor: unconcerned, a man accustomed to being worth waiting for. Too green to be in hedge funds, too well-dressed to be an idle stray. His eyes, dark and keen, skimmed her with surprise before falling like a veil. Lady P felt a tug of intrigue tighten the evening’s weave.
She took her place at the head chair, nosy specters of fog pressing against the portholes. “Shall we raise a hand to the invisible? Call forth the company of phantoms? Let us see who answers when polite society knocks.”
The eager of the bunch murmured consent at once, half in jest. A pair hesitated, glancing at one another. The impassive youth nodded last, slowly, almost lazy. His gaze held hers.
“Excellent,” Lady Peeq purred. “A consensus.”
The lights dipped. This was Dove’s doing—her fleet-footed assistant, unseen, who operated the HalfLight’s clever apparatus with the stealth of a stagehand and the timing of a magician. Candles flared. A shiver of sound coursed through the salon: the low hum of concealed speakers, whispering like distant surf.
“Close your eyes if you dare,” Lady P invited. “No harm will come to you…unless you snore. In which case, you will wake up wed to a ghost with expensive tastes.”
More laughter, but softer this time. The air had thickened, the mist outside leaning against the glass, an eager audience.
She pressed her fingertips together. “We summon not to frighten, but to converse. The dead, after all, are like us—fond of gossip, eager for company, and deeply suspicious of lawyers.”
At that, the young man’s lips tilted in the faintest smirk.
The first “phenomenon” unfurled: a candle flame stretched impossibly tall, bending sideways as though caught in an invisible wind. A few gasped, others recoiled instinctively. Peeq allowed herself the smallest nod—this was planned, a mechanism hidden in the candlestick.
The next was not.
Diet blundersA solid thump shook the floorboards, followed by a trickle of lesser bumps and scratches. Not the hollow, stage-managed rap in the corner she expected from Dove’s devices, but a heavy, deliberate thud beneath their feet. A single strike, then near-matching echoes.
People glanced around, startled and shifting in their chairs. One woman gave a thin laugh. “That’s part of it, right?”
“Of course,” Lady Peeq replied smoothly, though her pulse skipped. Her face never faltered. “Our spirits are punctual tonight.”
She studied the gathering and found the compelling gentleman watching her, not the shadows. Perhaps he had noticed the slip in her composure…or maybe he was studying her for sport. Either way, she felt she could combust—deliciously—under that look.
The séance continued, the HalfLight purring with its repertoire of illusions: mirrors clouding and clearing, faint voices stitched from hidden speakers, confections trembling on their trays as if touched by unseen hands. The onlookers tipped into it, partly trusting, half-performing their own roles as amused skeptical believers.
A sudden, eerie whisper seemed to emanate from the walls themselves: “Leave while you’re still breathing.” Some gasped, others laughed nervously, a few looked around in mock fear.
“Does someone regret eating too much bean stew and ice cream for lunch?” a comedian in the crowd quipped. People laughed, smiles glinting with amusement. “It seems our spirits and our guests have a sense of humor,” joined Lady Peeq.
The Dish raised an eyebrow, his attention locked on his hostess. “Or a sense of urgency,” he tickled the group.
Yet the true spectacle was the intensity sparking between their eyes. Hers met his again and again, a sparring of curiosity and heat disguised as accident. When a spectral draft tousled someone’s hair, she caught him watching her, not the trick. When the fog pressed harder against the windows, smearing them with condensation, he leaned forward, chin on knuckles, studying her like his favorite puzzle.
Finally, during a lull, she addressed him directly. “And you, sir. You’ve been most silent. Are you waiting for proof before you wager belief?”
The table turned toward him. He didn’t flinch.
“I was waiting,” he said, voice low and warm, “to see if you’d admit when something isn’t yours.”
A ripple of surprise—and delight—ran through the guests. A dare. Lady Peeq let a slow smile bloom.
“My dear,” she replied, her tone dripping velvet, “I’d never admit that. Not even to my creditors.”
Laughter burst, champagne flutes chimed. A glove was picked up.
The séance wound toward its climax: a final flourish of mirrors fogging to reveal, faintly, the impression of a face. Guests gasped, honed in, whispered their astonishment. Some swore they recognized the image—an aunt, a neighbor, a childhood mentor.
Peeq kept her expression unreadable, but her gaze flicked once more to the lad. He was smiling now, eyes sparkling, certain he’d found a treat he wasn’t looking for.
When the lights returned to full glow, the spell of the séance fractured into chatter, laughter, and the rustle of visitors rising. The buffet was raided for its glazed and fermented curios of days past, more bubbly poured. The HalfLight settled, as if relieved to return to ordinary festivity.
But Lady P’s pulse remained tuned to a sharper key. She caught sight of Dove through a side mirror, brows raised: they had not staged that large bump. Which meant something else had made itself known aboard—or below—the HalfLight.
And her new friend had noticed.
He approached her when the others were distracted with petit fours. “A clever show,” he said softly, bowing his head slightly, his russet hair catching the candlelight. He set his drink on the café top between them.
“Show?” she countered, one brow arched. “I was under the impression you had been attending a rite.”
His grin widened, though his look stayed dark. “Then I suppose I should have brought an offering.”
Lady Peeq tilted her head, face dancing. “Bring one next time. My table accepts only rare gifts: wit, nerve, and very fine chocolate.”
He laughed—quiet, genuine. For a heartbeat, it was only the two of them, the mist, and the faint memory of that inexplicable thunk beneath the boards.
She let the silence stretch, savoring it. The night had given her everything she required: patrons enchanted, an intriguing anomaly unsolved, and a cascade of glances with a man far too young and far too interesting.
They admired each other for a few moments, and Peeq felt electricity shiver up her back. She reached out, her fingertips covering his, sending a shiver from shoulder to shoulder.
“I think,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the din of the party, “this might be the start of something truly unforgettable.”
The lad’s mood deepened, his expression quietly burning and intense. “I think you might be right,” he replied, his voice full of temptation. He lifted her hand to a brush on his lips.
And in that instant, Lady Peeq knew that the night was far from over.
A perfect evening of phantasmic delight at L’Obscurité.
Then the landlord stepped in. “Are you ready, Peeq?”
