Día de los Muertos ... Part 1 ...La Catina, Dead Goddess

I know that I have died before—once in November.
― Anne Sexton

Memento Mori, Remembrance of the Dead

It rained all night and by morning the trees had turned to glass. It was a brooding, melancholy start to November.

I had another of those dreams that seemed more far more frequent now—strange rambling dialogues with a beautiful woman whose face I could never recall, let alone the details of our conversations.

Her aura persisted though, long after waking, and pervaded everything like morning mist and dampness. She was at the tip of my tongue, on the edge of my mind, hidden in lonely grey distances that harboured mystery and in rain trails blurring and marring familiar things.

I met Mireya and Rab at The Bakery hoping the steaming coffee and blueberry scones would restore a sense of normalcy, but even the morning routine seemed tinged with a sepia ambiance of another time, and I couldn’t shake the feeling.

But finally, back at the agency, amid the subdued chaos of a Monday morning, I was distracted enough to find me, and by the time Mireya phoned at noon wanting to go antiquing I enthusiastically agreed.

“You seemed preoccupied this morning, Cole—more bad dreams?”

We were browsing through curios at Bygones and Mireya was gently probing my mood while trying not to dig in too much.

“It’s not so much the dreams are bad, Mir, as they’re damned perplexing. I feel a need to recall the content, but can’t remember even one simple thing. I didn't tell her but I could remember the beautiful goddess from my dreams.

“You seemed depressed this morning,” she whispered.

“I don’t know if that’s from the dreams or this dreary weather.”

“Well, you know today is Día de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead.”

I chuckled at her Latin tendency to verge to the dark side. “We called it All Souls Day when I was growing up in Catholic parochial school and saw it as a holiday to eat our Halloween candy—that’s all.”

Her eyes were dark and somber. “Not for us, my friend, it’s much more than that—it’s the autumn rites associated with remembering the dead and the after life.”

As she was talking, my gaze fell upon an antique Ouija board with the familiar arcane letters.

“Well, speaking of the dead—look at this. “ I held up the board and said facetiously, “you could celebrate the dead, or, on the other hand, using the centuries-old tradition of a mystic table, you could go one better and summon them.”

I said it with the requisite levity and sarcasm meant to lighten her morose mood, but my words had the opposite effect.

Her eyes grew huge and she turned pale. “You musn’t joke about such matters, Cole—it’s not wholesome to contact the dead.”

“I was only joking, Mireya. Besides, these boards aren’t mystic oracles—they’re only parlour games made by toy companies from paper and plastic—quaint and dated as Spiritism and table tipping.”

A voice rasped behind me, “In this day and age I suppose it’s regarded as old technology.”

I turned to see Ella James, the proprietor, smiling at us—her eyes crinkled from much laughter and far too much cigarette smoke—the latter being another instance, no doubt, of ‘old technology.’

I smiled back at her. “I suppose folks nowadays would be more inclined to the Internet than having an affinity with ether—that so-called mysterious fifth element of alchemists and mediums.”

The older woman turned serious. “You know there’s a long tradition of linking communication with the dead to wireless telegraphy. Edison tried to build such a device to contact the dead. Back in 1898, there was even a Ouija board called The Wireless Communicator.”

“Really?” I said, growing interested. “You don’t happen to have one of those in the shop, do you?”

She gave a wheezing laugh, “Naw, can’t say I’ve seen one of those lately, but I do have a computerized Ouija board—The Gypsy, put out by Mac. It was state of the art back in the 1980’s.”

“You’re kidding! Can I see it?”

“Sure, if you’re into haunting entertainment—it was real popular back in the day.”

As the older lady went back into the stockroom to locate the device, Mireya was becoming agitated. “You should not use such instruments, Cole—they’re witch boards used to summon a demon.”

I tried to calm her fears.

“Relax, Mir—even at the height of the Spiritist Movement these games were used mostly for harmless flirtation between men and women—sitting knee to knee with the board on their laps and their fingers touching on the planchette. The questions asked were more of a romantic nature.”

She was not deterred. “That doesn’t make it right, Cole.”

Ella was back with what looked like a boxed board game tucked under her arm. “Here we are—THE MACINTOSH MYSTIC—the cyber oracle for the computer age,” she laughed.

I opened the box and perused the contents. The so-called Ouija board was blank—no letters or numbers. It looked like an oversized mouse pad.

“How does it work?” I asked.

“You create the talking board on your Mac using the supplied software and MacPaint. You can use the basic design or create your own unique board using different fonts and layouts. You can even add blinking stars and constellations to create a magical effect.”

“That’s kind of hokey," I opined, But I like the vintage version of Ouija.”

“Well, the planchette is also super-charged—it fits into a “Mouse Mover” that glides effortlessly across the board and as the cursor touches different letters, messages appear on the screen.”

“That’s kind of cool.”

“And you have the option of switching to "Automatic Writing Mode" and a blank board. Then, the planchette becomes an automatic writer.”

“I’ll take it,” I laughed, “I can’t wait to get it home and try it.”

Mireya looked glum but said nothing.

We walked back to the agency in the grey November rain—Mir morosely mindful of her Día de los Muertos, and I, keenly anticipating a different arcane ritual to honour All Souls Night.

To be continued...

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

Photo