Fiona informs me that the full moon is tomorrow night, so we can conduct the séance right away. She tells me I’m lucky we can get it done so quickly.
I don’t feel lucky. I feel cursed. I don’t say that aloud, however, because I don’t want to tempt fate into proving it.
I spend the rest of that day and the next in a state of high anxiety, every so often glancing at my left hand. I’m surprised each time to find my wedding band still there on my ring finger.
Aidan was correct when he guessed that I’d taken it off right before I answered his text. I won’t lie to him again, so I had to get creative. But I put it back on when he didn’t answer me, and I still can’t figure out why.
Though I’d never admit it to him, something felt wrong when I took off that ring.
It felt as if the house itself sucked in a breath of horror.
Which is obviously a figment of my overwrought imagination, but that’s how it felt. At some point over the past few months, the house has become more than simply a collection of rooms under a leaky roof. It’s taken on a presence I can physically feel.
This house has a pulse, and its dark heart beats for me.
I think it wants something.
I think it’s trying to send me a message.
Another blue jay committed suicide on my office window. It felt symbolic, so I looked up the meaning of a dead blue jay online. Yes, I’m now so desperate, I’m hitting up the internet for help. Anyway, it turns out those particular birds have strong spiritual associations and were often considered by Native Americans to be messengers from the gods. Seeing one is supposed to bring good luck.
Unless it’s dead, in which case it means that you’re running away from your problems.
If only I could run faster.
“Hello, Kayla. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Claire.”
I stand in the open doorway looking at Fiona’s sister and thinking I must be seeing double. They look exactly alike, right down to the dimples in their cheeks. Same short gray hair, same bright blue eyes, same stout legs and cheerful smile.
They’re so similar, it’s eerie. If Fiona was sick one day and sent Claire to clean the house in her place, I’d never know it. The only difference is that Claire’s carrying a black duffel bag and Fiona has an umbrella.
“Nice to meet you, too. Please, come in.”
I stand aside to let the pair enter the foyer, then shut the door against the blustery evening. “You didn’t tell me you had a twin, Fiona.”
She drops her dripping umbrella into the stand next to the console table and smiles. “We’re not twins.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
Claire pats her hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m much prettier than she is.”
They share a fond glance, then remove their matching blue wool overcoats in moves that look synchronized. While Fiona takes both coats and hangs them in the hall closet, Claire turns to me and looks me curiously up and down.
“What?” I ask nervously, wondering if I have stains on my shirt or spinach in my teeth.
Her smile is kind. “Fiona has told me so much about you, I already feel as if we’re old friends.”
“Oh. Well, I could use a few friends right now, to be honest. My life is pretty chaotic.”
She chuckles. “Don’t worry, my dear. You’re in good hands. I’ve been communicating with spirits since I was four years old, so we’ll see what this one wants and have her on her way in no time.”
Bypassing my shock that this poor woman has been carrying on conversations with dead people her entire life, I say, “Great. Except the spirits haunting me are male.” My laugh is nervous. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Ah, yes, excuse me. I have two other séances to perform tonight, and the details get mixed up.”
“Two?” I repeat, astonished.
She gestures toward the ceiling. “The full moon is a very busy time for me. And forget about the solstices and the equinoxes! I’m booked a year in advance for those.”
When she sees my expression, she explains, “Experienced mediums are in high demand. You wouldn’t believe the amount of people who die and refuse to move on to the Other Side.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, but I feel as if it deserves a polite reply, even if it is nuts. “I’m glad to hear business is booming.”
Fiona returns and asks Claire, “Would you like to do a sweep of the house before we begin to see if you sense anything?”
Claire shakes her head. “That won’t be necessary. I’m getting very strong energy already.” She points toward the hallway. “What’s down there?”
“My office. And my husband’s.”
She and Fiona share a meaningful look.
“You guys can’t go all twinny telepathic on me. I’m freaked out enough already. What was that look for?”
Claire says, “I don’t want to alarm you, dear, but…” She hesitates, making a face as if she needs to run posthaste to the nearest toilet.
Sweet baby Jesus, if this gets any worse, I’ll climb up to the roof and throw myself off.
“Go on.”
“I think we should conduct the séance in your husband’s office.”
A distant boom of thunder rattles the windows. Of course it would happen right then, because even the goddamn weather wants to see me go crazy.
“Why?”
She and Fiona share that weird look again. “Because I sense that’s where the spirit wants to have it.”
We stare at each other. Nobody says anything for a while. Then I say, “Claire, I’m going to ask you something now, and I want you to be completely honest with me.”
“Yes?”
“Is this bullshit?”
“Oh, no, my dear,” she says vehemently, shaking her head. “I assure you, this is the farthest thing from bullshit.”
As more evidence of my crumbling grip on reality, I spend a moment debating with myself about the difference between the words furthest and farthest. Then I sigh and give up.
“Fine. We’ll do the séance in Michael’s office. But if the Ghost of Christmas Past shows up, I can’t be held responsible if I crack and bludgeon it with the nearest heavy object. Let’s get this over with.”
I turn and walk down the hall, listening to their footsteps behind me and wondering if it would be poor spiritual etiquette to drink wine during a séance.
I have a feeling I’m going to need booze before this is done.
I open the door to the office and switch on the lights. Stepping aside to let Fiona and Claire pass, I notice how cold it is in the room. It feels like a walk-in freezer.
Shivering, I say, “Sorry about the temperature.”
Ignoring me, Claire wanders around, looking things over as Fiona and I watch. She sets her bag down on an occasional chair and points to the round table next to it.
“Can we move this into the middle of the room?”
“What do we need that for?”
“A round table is most conducive.”
I don’t bother asking conducive to what because we’ve officially arrived in Loonyville. When in Rome and all that.
While Fiona and I move the table, Claire unpacks her duffel bag. From it, she takes a black cloth and shakes it out, murmuring something over it. I have to assume spells. She drapes it over the table, adjusting it so it’s even to the floor all the way around, then goes back to the bag and removes three white candles, which she sets in the center of the table. Next is a small bowl of unwrapped chocolates that she places beside the candles.
“What’s the chocolate for?”
“A food offering for the spirit,” Claire replies, as if it’s obvious.
I can’t resist countering this nonsense with a little logic. “How’s it going to eat if it doesn’t have a real mouth?”
“Ah, but the spirit doesn’t know it doesn’t have a real mouth, now does it?”
When I look at Fiona, she shrugs. “A little suspension of disbelief wouldn’t hurt you, dear.”
I mutter, “A little gallon of Cabernet wouldn’t hurt me, either.”
“No eating or drinking during the séance!” reprimands Claire, lighting the candles. She sends me a stern look over the rims of her glasses. “And no jewelry, either. That will have to come off.” She jerks her chin toward my wedding ring. “Along with anything else you might be wearing. Also switch off any electronic devices, please. Fiona, will you dim the lights?”
I’m expecting Fiona to shut off the main overhead light and leave the lamps on, but she kills both, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the wavering glow of the candles on the table.
The distant boom of thunder rolls through the sky again, louder this time. A sudden gust of wind howls through the trees outside. Rain patters against the windows, sliding down like silvery tears.
If Claire was going for a spooky vibe, she couldn’t have picked a better night for it.
“Everyone pull up a chair,” she says, setting a pad of paper and a pencil on the table.
I roll Michael’s desk chair over and sit. Fiona drags a side chair from one corner of the room and takes her place to my left. Claire pushes the occasional chair over, removes her duffel bag from the seat, and sets it on the floor. Then she settles herself in the chair and looks at me.
“Dear?”
“Yes?”
“You need to take off your ring.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” I slip the ring off my finger and shove it into the back pocket of my jeans.
Claire looks dissatisfied. “It can’t be on your body. Perhaps you could put it on the desk?”
I don’t know why it should be such a big deal, but I don’t want to wreck the possibility of finding out what the ghost who doesn’t exist and isn’t haunting me wants, so I take my wedding ring from my pocket and put it on Michael’s desk blotter.
Right next to the folded newspaper with the article about his death.
His face stares up at me in black and white from beneath that terrible headline.
Local Man Drowns.
My heart palpitating, I carefully move the ring to his picture. Then I nudge it over until it’s resting atop his face. I don’t know why, but it feels right. As I back up, it seems as if one of his eyes peers out from the circle of gold, following my every move.
Unnerved, I return to the table and take my seat. I wipe my sweating palms on my jeans and try to shake off the gathering sense of foreboding.
“Everyone place your hands flat on the table in front of you, please.”
Fiona and I follow Claire’s instructions. Then she does the same, looking at each of us in turn, her demeanor somber and her voice low.
“Before we begin, a word of warning. Spirits are unpredictable. Whatever happens, keep your composure. Remain silent. Don’t break the circle of energy by standing up. I’ll start by stating our intent to make contact and inviting the spirit to join us at the table. If the spirit accepts our invitation, you may hear strange noises such as knocking or taps. I’ll ask the spirit yes or no questions to begin, and if they prove amenable, I’ll ask them what they want. They might communicate through me, using my hand to draw on this pad or my voice to speak directly to you.”
Oh fuck. If I witness a dead guy speak through this nice old woman, I’ll never be right in the head again.
Frightened now, I swallow and press my hands more firmly against the tabletop to try to get them to stop shaking. It doesn’t work.
“When the séance is over and you have no questions left, I’ll thank the spirit for coming. Then we can turn on the lights and discuss what happened. Are you ready, Kayla?”
I nod, though I don’t feel ready at all.
“Then let us begin.”
Claire closes her eyes. With her face tilted toward the ceiling, she says in a hushed voice, “We gather tonight under the full moon to seek guidance from the spirit world. We welcome any spirits nearby to join our circle. Please make your presence known.”
The following silent pause is the longest of my entire existence. It might only last sixty seconds, but it seems like lifetimes. My pulse accelerates. My breathing turns shallow. My teeth start to chatter. I feel lightheaded, queasy, and impossibly cold.
When nothing happens, Claire repeats, “We welcome any spirits nearby to join our circle. Please make your presence known. Are you with us? Give us a sign.”
Michael’s framed college diploma slides off the wall and lands with a clatter on the floor.
I gasp. All the hair on my arms stands on end. I sit frozen, my back ramrod straight and my eyes wide and unblinking. My pounding heart is the only muscle in my body able to move.
“Remain calm,” says Claire quietly, her eyes still closed.
Calm I am not. Calm I might never be again. Calm is for people on lovely beach vacations with their toes in the sand and a daiquiri in hand, not for people in imminent danger of having proof that their dead husband is reaching out from beyond the grave.
I’m so not calm, I’m about to fucking explode.
A clap of thunder makes me jump in my seat. It’s followed by a crackle of lightning that burns white fire through the black night sky. The room is briefly illuminated in theatrical brightness, then plunged into disorienting darkness again like a carnival funhouse meant to terrorize kids on Halloween.
“Spirits,” says Claire, “thank you for joining us. Are there more than one of you? Please knock on the table to answer. Once for yes and twice for no.”
The wind outside increases. The temperature in the room drops another few degrees. Rain batters the windowpanes with a sound like hail.
And my heart. Jesus, God, my poor fucking heart is screaming bloody murder, because through the room echoes the unmistakable sound of two loud knocks.
“One of you, then,” murmurs Claire. “Welcome, spirit. We’re honored by your presence.”
Her voice has slowed, along with her breathing. She appears to be going into some kind of a trance.
Whatever the opposite of a trance is, that’s what’s happening to me. I’m about to piss myself. Nerves I never knew I had have woken up and started shrieking. I might puke.
“Michael?” I whisper, my entire body shaking as I look wildly around the room. “Michael, are you here?”
Nothing happens. There are no knocks on the table. No pictures fall off the walls.
Claire says, “Spirit, do you know any of the people in this room?”
Knock.
“Did you know them when you were alive?”
Knock.
“Is it me?”
Knock. Knock.
“Is it Fiona?”
Knock. Knock.
“Is it Kayla?”
The answering single knock is so forceful, I flinch and whimper.
“Do you have a message you want to pass along?”
KNOCK!
The sound of my labored breathing is even louder than the wind. By now, I’m shivering uncontrollably.
Claire reaches out with her eyes closed, blindly hunting for the pad of paper on the tabletop beside her. She grasps it, finds the pencil, and whispers, “Tell us, spirit. What is the message?”
Gripping the pencil so hard her knuckles are white, Claire’s hand hovers over the blank page of the pad.
Fiona sits across from me with her eyes closed and her hands flattened on the table. I think if I closed my eyes now, I’d die instantly from a heart attack.
I’m so scared, I’m on the verge of bursting into tears.
“Spirit, what is your message?”
Seconds turn into minutes. The storm rages outside. The three of us sit silently at the table in wavering candlelight, waiting for a response that never comes.
After a long time where nothing happens, Claire says, “Let me rephrase the question. Spirit, what do you want?”
Her hand holding the pencil tenses. Then it twitches. Then it begins to tremble uncontrollably. I watch in fascinated horror as Claire’s forearm starts to move, jerking back and forth over the paper in short bursts.
Abruptly, her arm freezes. She presses the pencil to the paper and writes a word in one fast scrawl from start to finish. The word is composed of heavy block letters all in caps, scratched so deeply into the paper, in some places it’s torn through to the page beneath.
REVENGE
A sudden freezing draft snuffs out the burning candles. Something cold brushes against my cheek, like a ghostly wind.
Or ghostly fingers.
I scream at the top of my lungs and run from the room.
