The notice outside the hall proclaimed that there was going to be a demonstration of mediumship on the following Saturday. ‘Only £10. This will be a wonderful show!’ it said. I was indignant. Calling it a show was disrespectful to the dead, and I didn’t agree with charging money for it either.
“If you don’t approve, maybe YOU should be the medium instead and do it your way,” suggested a ghost who was standing next to the hall.
“I don’t think this particular group would like that,” I replied by telepathy. “I would have to find someone else to put on the event.”
“How dare you!” cried another voice. “I’m the organizer of the show. All you can do is criticize.”
I looked all around me. A few people were crossing the stretch of grass in front of the hall. Either it was one of those, and he or she could talk by telepathy, or the organizer was dead or astrally projecting, or I was hearing imaginary voices now.
“I’m entitled to my opinion about how you do your demonstration,” I said, and the words I had just spoken appeared in writing on a blackboard which was propped below the noticeboard and was meant for more urgent announcements.
“What’s going on?” I exclaimed. “I expect I’ll wake up in a minute.” But I didn’t wake up. That was last week, and now it’s Saturday, and here I am in front of the hall again.