Andre M. Pietroschek

Victorian London Horror: A Seance Gone Awry!

Victorian London Horror: A Seance Gone Awry. REMAKE 2026

Adaptation, Filtering, and Audio Design copyright Andre Michael Pietroschek (pronounce: Pee_tro_shack), Nightscribe Edition 2026

Recently, a topic came up I want to address plainly: My sales-attempts failed and ended in late 2021. Formerly homeless and stuck in a precariat area, I use AI and proofreading software to improve my writing's readability. Of six stories submitted, AI created only one full draft, which I thoroughly edited, preserving my unique stylistic quirks—like awkward formulations and inconsistent comma usage. It is also literally mentioned in my novella Blood of the Damned!

A previous version was narrated long ago and is still free on YouTube. Because I was accused of copycatting, I did extensive rewrites to avoid any copyright or trademark issues. Bonus: AI rarely needs money, but I do! 🥳

Disclaimer: No warranties!

Prologue with original source:

William Dunbar, ‘To the City of London’.

London, thou art of townes A per se.
Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight,
Of high renoun, riches and royaltie;
Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght;
Of most delectable lusty ladies bright;
Of famous prelatis, in habitis clericall;
Of merchauntis full of substaunce and of myght:
London, thou art the flour of Cities all …

Andre M. Pietroschek, ‘Poetic Prologue’:

London, thou art of towns A+ held so dear.
Beloved city, more often foggy than clear!
Of highborn pride, riches, and depravity;
Of secrets kept, invaders forced to flee;
Of a disease-ridden underclass & witches;
Of the most tempting, gorgeous ladies' riches;
Of famous Jack the Ripper, Whitechapel ghost;
Of deductive Sherlock Holmes, to whom we toast:
London, thou art the Brexit Island's heart of gold!

The tale unfolds:

In an era, when spiritualism captivated the hearts and minds of the English, a time when no gathering felt complete without the presence of a renowned medium, a spirit-wrapping celebrity whose very essence promised the thrill of the unseen.

One fateful evening, I received an invitation from a friend—a fervent believer in the ethereal whispers of the spirit world—who urged me to join him for an evening steeped in otherworldly intrigue. He spoke of a remarkable trance medium, a woman of both allure and psychic prowess, whose reputation preceded her.

"A captivating and gifted spirit, you will undoubtedly find her enchanting," he assured me, his enthusiasm palpable.

Though I approached the concept of spirits with skepticism, I welcomed the prospect of an evening's entertainment without cost and thus agreed to attend at the appointed hour. Fresh from a clandestine adventure in foreign realms and indulgences that danced on the edge of propriety, I found myself in a fragile state, susceptible to the influences of my surroundings, my emotions heightened to an extraordinary pitch.

As the hour approached, I arrived at my friend’s residence, where I was greeted by a diverse assembly of guests, all gathered in anticipation of the phenomena to come. Among us were novices like myself, unfamiliar with the rituals of the séance, alongside those well-versed in the esoteric traditions, who settled into their familiar positions, bracing themselves against the impending energies that would soon manifest.

The trance medium had yet to arrive, and as we waited, we settled into a rhythm of anticipation, opening the séance with a chant. Just as we recited the second verse, the door swung open, and she entered—an ethereal figure who took her place beside me, seamlessly joining in the final lines of our invocation. We sat in silence, our hands resting upon the table, poised for the first glimpse of the otherworldly emissary.

Despite my inner mockery of the proceedings, the atmosphere enveloped me—a silence thickened by dim light, where shadows danced and flickered against the walls. The fragile silhouette beside me, her head bowed, stirred within me a peculiar blend of fear and icy dread, sensations I had never before experienced.

By nature, I was not one to indulge in flights of fancy or superstition, yet from the moment she graced the room, it felt as though a cold, iron hand had gripped my heart, stifling its rhythm and stalling my breath.

My senses sharpened, each sound amplified—the ticking of my watch resonated like a cadence of military drums, and the measured breaths of those around me echoed with an intensity akin to the gruff snorts of a great beast in a distant zoo.

It was only when I turned my gaze towards the trance medium that I felt the pull of her presence; a wave of frigid air swept through my mind, momentarily silencing the cacophony that had threatened to overwhelm me.

“She is possessed,” my host murmured beside me, a tremor of anticipation in his voice. “Wait, and she will soon reveal to us who is in our midst.”

As we lingered through the day, the table beneath our palms shifted several times, sending ripples of unease through the air. The room echoed with strange lockings, a bizarre and chilling spectacle that left me teetering between terror and laughter. Yet, in truth, it was the grip of horror that enveloped me more completely. Eventually, she lifted her head, her hand finding mine, her voice emerging in a haunting, monotonous cadence, “This is my first visit since I departed from Earth Life, and you have summoned me here.”

A shiver coursed through me as her delicate touch lingered on my hand, yet I lacked the will to withdraw from her gentle grasp. “I can trace the spiritual residue, allowing me a fleeting glimpse into the life of the helping spirit.”

“Last week, I inhabited a body, but I met my demise in Whitechapel. I was what one might call a forsaken soul, utterly abandoned by the divine in my final moments.”

“Shall I recount the details of my passing?” The medium’s eyes remained closed, and whether it was my distorted imagination or reality, she appeared to have aged, her features marred by a veil of degradation, as if a dark, filmy mask of vice had replaced her once delicate visage. Silence enveloped us as the trance deepened. “I had wandered all day, devoid of fortune or sustenance, dragging my weary form through the slush and muck, drenched to the skin by the relentless rain.”

As I traversed the streets that night, I cast glances at passersby, but none offered a word of kindness. Work had been scarce that winter, and I must have looked far less appealing than I once did. Only once did a man—a dark-faced, middle-sized figure with a soft voice, dressed far better than my usual companions—pause to inquire about my destination, before leaving a coin in my palm, for which I was grateful.

Rushing to the last public house, I approached the bar, only to discover the coin was foreign and unrecognized by the landlord. With disappointment, I stepped back into the enveloping darkness and rain, my thirst unquenched. There was no point in wandering further that night. I made my way to the court where I lodged, intending to surrender to sleep, when I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder, as if a hand had rested there.

Turning to see who it was, I found myself alone, surrounded only by fog and the dim glow of the court lamp. Yet, the sensation of an unseen presence clung to me, tightening around my throat, rendering my voice mute as I gasped for air. In that moment, I collapsed into oblivion. When I regained consciousness, I found myself hovering outside my own shattered body, a witness to the horrific scene unfolding before me. A mangled corpse lay upon the muddy pavement, a grotesque, pockmarked face leaning over it, its claw-like hands outstretched, shrouded in fog—a half-formed specter of despair. That was the moment of my undoing, and you shall recognize it again.

“I have come for you to uncover the truth. Is he an Englishman?” I gasped as the vision faded, the room sharpening into focus once more. “It is neither man nor woman, yet it exists as I do. It is here with me now, perhaps even with you tonight. But if you desire me fervently, I can keep it at bay.”

The séance had grown overwhelmingly sinister, and by unspoken agreement, our host illuminated the gas lamp. For the first time, I beheld the medium, freed from her eerie possession—a striking girl of about nineteen, with the most mesmerizing green eyes I had ever encountered. “Do you believe what you have been speaking of?” I asked, our conversation unfolding in the aftermath of the gathering.

“What was that? About the murdered woman? I know nothing of it; I have merely been seated at the table. My awareness is a veil, obscured.”

Her dark eyes held a truthfulness that disarmed my doubts. That night, as I returned to my lodgings, I grappled with unease, delaying my descent into sleep. I was decidedly shaken, wishing I had never participated in such a disquieting assembly. With a mental vow, I hastily shed my clothes and slipped into bed, resolving that this would be my final encounter with the unholy.

For the first time in my life, I found myself unable to extinguish the gas lamp. An unsettling sensation enveloped me, as if the room were haunted by the spectral presence of a murderer and his victim, both shadowy figures locked in a grim dispute over my very being. In a desperate bid for solace, I drew the bedclothes over my head, the chill of the night pressing against me, and succumbed to sleep in that cocoon of fabric.

As the clock struck midnight, marking the anniversary of Christ's birth, I listened intently to the tolling from the distant spire, counting each echo as it reverberated through the stillness. Lying awake in that gas-lit chamber, I felt an eerie companionship on this Christmas morn, as if I were not alone in my solitude.

In the midst of pondering what had jolted me from slumber, a faint echo reached my ears, a distant cry that sent shivers down my spine. At that moment, the bedclothes were slowly pulled from me, left in a chaotic heap on the floor. "Is it the Duke Shelley?" I exclaimed, recalling the spirit séance and the name she had used when she took possession of the room. Three distinct knocks reverberated against the bedpost beside me, a summons I could not ignore.

"Can you speak to me?" I implored, and a response came, more an echo than a voice, sending tingles along my nerves, yet I fought to maintain my composure. "Can I see you?" I asked, only to be met with the chilling reply, "No. Feel you." Instantly, a cold, ethereal hand brushed against my brow, gliding over my face. "In God's name, what do you want?" I demanded. "To save the girl," the voice urged. "She is in danger and will perish if you do not act swiftly."

In an instant, I sprang from my bed, hastily donning my clothes, horror coursing through me, yet I felt an unseen hand guiding me through the process. On my table lay a Templar dagger, an antique I had brought back from Ceylon, its design steeped in history. I seized it as I fled the room, that invisible hand leading me out into the deserted, snow-covered streets.

I had no knowledge of the trance medium's whereabouts, yet I followed the pull of that spectral grasp through the swirling snow, navigating corners and shortcuts with my head bowed against the relentless flurries. At last, I arrived at a silent square, standing before a house that, by some instinct, I recognized as my destination.

Across the street, I spotted a man gazing up at a dimly lit window, but I paid him little mind. Instead, I rushed up the front steps and entered the house, propelled by that unseen hand. How the door opened, or if it even required a touch, I could not say; I merely found myself inside, as if caught in a dream. Ascending the inner stairs, I entered a bedroom where the light flickered dimly.

It was her sanctuary, and there she was, ensnared in the brutal grasp of a malevolent force. The scene was one of terror—a struggle between life and death, her half-clad form contorted on the disheveled bed, as the unearthly figure clutched her delicate throat. In a frenzy, I lunged at the creature with my Templar dagger, slashing wildly at its cruel claws and grotesque visage, crimson streaks painting the air.

My blade carved its path through the darkness until, at last, the entity ceased its struggle, dissipating like a nightmarish vision. The half-strangled girl, freed from her torment, awakened the house with her piercing screams, and from her trembling hand fell a strange coin, which I swiftly claimed.

With the weight of my deed heavy upon me, I descended the stairs as unobtrusively as I had ascended, drawing no attention from the other inhabitants who rushed toward the source of the screams. Back into the street I rushed, the coin clutched tightly in one hand and the dagger in the other, when suddenly I recalled the man I had seen outside. Was he still there? Yes, but now he lay in a dark pool of crimson against the pristine snow, as if fate had struck him down.

Approaching his lifeless form, I turned him over, my heart racing. His throat bore the marks of violence, slashed and stabbed, his once-human face now marred by the same dark features I had fought against. The snow around him was stained a vivid scarlet, a testament to the night’s horrific events.

As I stepped away from that grim tableau, the clock tolled one, and the distant echoes of impending consequences rang in my ears. In a blind panic, I fled into the enveloping darkness, pursued by the relentless footsteps of the police. They bore the same ominous aura, the same dark traits as the demon I had just vanquished—now transformed back into a mortal guise. I was caught in the web of my own making, thrust into a reality that mirrored the tales of infamous killers, like Jack the Ripper, forever altering the course of my existence.

Those seemingly innocuous clubs, Billy clubs—not batons—may appear laughable to the untrained eye, crafted from leather or a combination of leather and wood, when fashioned to police standards. Yet, the individuals wielding them possessed an unsettling expertise, their malicious grins revealing a knowledge of precisely where to strike for maximum pain. The tranquility of the divine dissipated the moment I chose the path of toxic self-indulgence, and unlike a true master of the occult, I was merely a prideful, selfish fool, woefully ill-prepared to confront the malevolent forces of darkness, or their mortal agents, on their sinister terms.

I met my demise, the perfect suspect and scapegoat they had only dared to dream of. I perished, because the seductive allure of that young woman ensnared me in a labyrinth of circumstances that spiraled out of control. I succumbed, blinded by my carnal desires, failing to heed the ominous signs that heralded my descent into chaos.

Thus, it was the end.

***
Fan reactions never made me do an extended edition, nor the sequel, as it was effing clear that we failed to muster the money for a short film production at least in the quality known from #Screamfest or #ALTER on Youtube. 😭

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Andre M. Pietroschek.
Published on e-Stories.org on 09/17/2026.