Jane sat straight on a simple kitchen chair in her apartment living room in front of her audience. She wore black—a patterned black top over a black mini-skirt—more mod than you would expect for a medium. Her eyes were closed, her hands folded in her lap and arms close to her sides—a folded butterfly not quite ready to break out of her cocoon. Her tiny figure was engulfed in an aura of calm expectation.
We’d paid her fee and sat on the well-worn oriental patterned rug at Jane’s feet—my companion in a lotus position and my legs curled under me to one side. The windows were curtained in heavy fabric. The low light revealed organized clutter—many objects and books arranged neatly—but it felt confined because of the darkness, fullness, and the musky scent of almost ancient volumes and the stale aftermath of sandalwood patchouli.
Others arrived. Some sat on chairs at the back, others on the floor near us. People whispered and rustled as they found their places. We waited. As a sense of hushed anticipation settled over the room, Jane opened her eyes and looked upward, as if preparing to speak. She made a powerful masculine movement crossing her legs and leaning her arm on her knee. She relaxed into the chair and appeared larger and more charismatic than before. She looked blankly at the group gathered around her without acknowledging our presence or existence. She groaned a deep growling moan and looked out over our heads into a space that she alone could inhabit. Then she spoke. Her voice had become a man’s voice—lower but not deep—with the inflection of male authority.
“I am Seth. I’ve come to tell you that you create your own reality. You are in control of your lives. This is a lesson that you must learn in order to achieve success in your world. …”
Seth continued to speak to us for half an hour—his voice coming from Jane’s body. We recognized him even though we were watching Jane. Was this real or was she just a fine actress? There was no way to know. Her performance was perfection, remaining in character until she collapsed exhausted and returned to herself. She rose from her chair, but paid no attention to the shuffling of people getting up and moving toward the stairway to the first floor exit.
For Jane the evening had come to an end. She didn’t speak to us as we put on our winter coats, gloves, and hats to face the chilled fall air outside—harbinger of the upstate New York winter ahead. We were the paying customers there to see her show or to hear Seth’s wisdom. I couldn’t decide which I believed. Did the deceased Seth actually come back through Jane to tell us something useful about the way to live our lives? Could we open our minds to an after-life world where its inhabitants can see our lives in a way that we can’t? Could my skepticism be assuaged? These questions began my lifelong search for evidence of something beyond—something more—but my companion, a student of Edgar Casey and anything paranormal, was hooked on Seth as manifested through Jane.
The cold dark air outside felt refreshing on our cheeks, blushed from the warmth of the overheated, upstairs room. Earlier in the evening, we’d driven half an hour to experience the medium. We had chatted about what to expect, what it would mean to us, how it would make us feel. Now we were quiet on the drive home—in a contemplative state—but not disappointed.