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The medium texted me to cancel our reading. What if she had a vision so traumatic she couldn’t face me?

Stefanie Preissner


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Stefanie Preissner

Stefanie Preissner

Stefanie Preissner

I wanted crystal balls. I wanted tea leaves. I wanted scarves and draped layers of (ideally velvet) clothing. I wanted thick-rimmed glasses, a mop of curly, unkempt hair and the faint smell of patchouli or incense sticks. That is what I signed up for when I texted a stranger in September, hoping she would be a conduit for a conversation between me and dead people.

I contacted a medium after my friend went to her back in August. “Do you want to know the good and the bad?” the old psychic whispered as she peered over her half-moon glasses. This anecdote may have become tainted by my recent rewatch of Hocus Pocus — ’tis the season, after all. My friend told the psychic that she wanted to know it all. What she found out was worthy of any paranormal movie plot. Apparently my friend’s father-in-law is going to die in March; her own mother will pass the following October and she was firmly warned not to buy her son a bike until he had passed the age of eight.


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