“I communed with the dead via a seance at Exhibition Place”

This past September, I was looking for a birthday gift for my mom, who’s big into the supernatural. When I heard that a friend of mine was organizing an outing to a seance, I figured I’d found the perfect present. It was being hosted by a self-proclaimed mentalist named Jaymes White, who was recreating a Victorian-style seance at the Stanley Barracks at Exhibition Place. He’d been doing it for years at locations across the city, and I was intrigued. When it comes to the paranormal, I’m torn between being a believer and a skeptic. My scientific side says that everything can be explained, and I have enough experience in theatre and film to know that creaking floorboards and shifting shadows can be engineered. But it can also be fun to suspend disbelief—especially during spooky season.

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The night of the seance, there were 19 of us gathered. A couple of the guests owned shops specializing in the occult, two were psychics and several others introduced themselves as ghost hunters. At 9:40 p.m., someone with a lantern came to unlock the gates to an 1840s limestone building that had once served as officers’ quarters. First, we were led into a foyer that had three very creepy dolls in it. Then, with the help of someone’s phone flashlight, we ascended a staircase into a room where we met White, who was dressed entirely in black and had slipped in silently. He handed us each a piece of obsidian, purported to ward off evil spirits, and said to keep it on us. My curiosity piqued, I settled in for the ride.

We set out down a long hallway lined with wooden doors. There was a strong, yeasty smell in the air. White claimed it was related to the building having been used to quarantine polio patients. He said angry spirits infested the place. All I knew was that the air was musty, but my group started dashing around, looking for ghosts. It was bizarre. After a few minutes, White corralled us into an empty room illuminated by a lantern. Immediately, two people said they felt some kind of uncomfortable presence. Claiming they were channelling a spirit, White encouraged us to ask them questions. I couldn’t figure out if this was real or not. It felt like immersive theatre: I was both a participant and a voyeur in a scene being acted out around me.

At one point during the night, my friend and another woman whipped around and shouted at me in quick succession, “Stop touching my hair!” But I wasn’t. Nobody was. Knowing that my friend had been hoping for a ghostly experience, I tried to joke, “Did you finally have it?” But, if I’m being honest, I was a little spooked. What could have made them feel that at the same time?

For the seance itself, we gathered around a long table covered in electric tea lights. I was nervous—enough people had felt angry spirits that I figured if we did get a visitor, they wouldn’t be pleasant. White told us to hold hands and said we weren’t allowed to break the circle no matter how scared we felt—or what forces acted upon us. One person left, too disturbed to continue. White then flicked off the candles and asked, “Who’s there? Do you want to communicate with us?”

That’s when a few people noticed a blue orb bolt under a table. I didn’t, but I did feel a rush of air, like someone was darting around us. There was a loud crash. One of my tablemates started crying and shaking. The people on either side of me had an iron grip on my hands, and others in the group were screaming. I felt bad for them—spirits or not, the experience was very unsettling.

Shortly afterward, White called the seance to a close. The evening lasted roughly two hours, but the effects lingered. Later that night, I was awoken by my husband, who said I kept making strange noises in my sleep—I must have been having a bad dream.

Looking back, my rational mind can explain everything. There could have been speakers hidden around the room or assistants lurking in the shadows. And yet, another side of me wonders, What if? I’ve decided I won’t do a seance again. If there are angry spirits out there, I’d rather not provoke them.