"Cease your lonely haunting of this house and come to us!"
"Speak to me, Mary Adelaide Tredwell," she intoned in her full, throaty voice. Her reddish brown curls swung behind her. An expression of earnest supplication suffused her delicate-featured face. I edged behind a burgundy drape as my mother raised her arms wide and began to sway rhythmically, eyes shut, head thrown back. My story, which I believe will have its final resolution in the next few hours, was set in motion on the day I witnessed my mother, Maude Taylor, in a spirit trance, contacting the dead for the very first time. I am propped against my suitcase writing this chronicle, partly in order to make sense of all that has happened, and partly to occupy my time and steady my nerves. Now I am on a train headed toward Nova Scotia in Canada. But the events of that most remarkable day I recall as though they had been photographed.
All that I know about my life before that, I have been told by others. That day in my early childhood is emblazoned in my mind. The things that occurred in 1898 led me on a path that, as I look back on it now, seems predestined. It is difficult to know where to start such a story as the one I am about to recount, but I believe my tale has its roots in events that all occurred on a single day in 1898, well before the even more remarkable happenings of 1912. The strange circumstances of my childhood have inclined me to have faith in only that which can be proven by science or verified by research, yet this tale defies both methods of inquiry. I have never told this story before for fear of not being believed - or, worse, ridiculed.
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