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Half of them I don’t even like. Mika’s okay. He’s kind of quiet and bookish, but also the type to shed his introvert nature once he’s tipsy. His older brother Marty is the same age as Sunday, and he’s a pain in the ass. Loud and obnoxious, always trying to get Sunday to have one more shot or one more toke or one more line.
Yeah, the drugs are a new thing. I get it, I guess. People like to experiment or whatever, but I don’t like it. His friends quickly learned that I won’t give in to peer pressure, which resulted in them mostly ignoring me and calling me Boring Bellamy. They think I can’t hear their sly comments, but I can.
What’s even worse is that Sunday’s vocal defense has slowly dimmed to silence over the last few months. Maybe he’s just as tired of defending me as I am of hearing the insults.
When we arrive at the clearing, there are already several tents set up. Farther along is the old hunter’s cabin that Sunday and I cleaned up so we could have our own private space. I move to dump my bag in there, but Sunday pulls me to a stop.
“Oh, Ella was freaking about staying in a tent overnight, so I told Marty that they could stay in there.”
The blood drains from my face. “But—”
He brushes the hair back from my face and interrupts me. “I know you don’t care about bugs and stuff, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”
It isn’t about the bugs. It isn’t about being comfortable.
“That’s our space,” I plead.
He sighs, but it’s not a gentle sound. “Don’t start, Bellamy. Just… It’s fine, okay? It doesn’t matter.” He pecks me on the lips, taking my bag and dropping it in a nearby tent. A horrible sense of dread settles over me, slinking into my stomach and turning me cold.
I follow him like a lost puppy while he says hello to everyone, then deposit myself between his legs when he sits down by the campfire. He occasionally cards his hand through my hair, soothing the swirling pit of anxiety inside me. I nurse a can of soda and pick at the food I packed for myself as everyone gets louder and more drunk.
At some point, I excuse myself to pee, knowing I’m not going to be able to hold it all night. I walk farther than I should, but I don’t like feeling exposed. When I’m done, I walk slowly back to the party, faltering when I hear Sunday’s voice filtering through the trees.
“Why the fuck did you bring that? Bellamy’s going to flip.”
I hide behind a tree, looking at where he’s standing over a few people gathered around something on the ground. I can’t see what it is, but the temperature is dropping by the second. They probably can’t feel it, being so close to the fire.
“Let him be a baby about it, then. C’mon, Sunday, you literally live on hallowed ground. Perfect place to use it, right?”
My stomach falls straight through me and into the ground. I have a strong feeling I know what they’re talking about, and more to the point, we’re technically beyond the boundary line of said hallowed ground. I don’t realize I’m moving toward them until their heads pivot in my direction.
“Shit,” Sunday mutters under his breath, looking away and taking a long swig from his beer bottle.
“Is that what I think it is?” I sound meek and terrified as I look down and see the board on the ground. Someone has put an empty plastic cup down instead of a planchette. I know exactly what it is because I have one at home, tucked away securely, with the planchette stored separately like you’re supposed to. I bought it to help me communicate with the ghostly woman who’s been following me since our field trip to London.
“Ouija board. Gonna piss yourself?” Marty sneers at me, jostling elbows with another overinflated jock. One of the girls flops down next to them, sloshing her drink all over herself and giggling.
“Leave him alone,” Sunday says lightly, toeing his friend in the backside.
I feel sick. I stand next to the fire, watching in horror as Marty places his hand onto the cup and opens his mouth to start speaking.
It can be perfectly safe to use a Ouija board—if you aren’t a brain-dead idiot who thinks everything is a joke and rules are made to be ignored.
“Oh, spirits of old, we invite you to speak with us, henceforth!” Marty calls in an over-the-top production of a British accent.
Tingles ripple down my spine, and I sense a wave of displeasure through whatever connection I have with the other side.
To them, nothing is happening. But I have to bite down hard on my lip as strange shadows start flitting this way and that, coalescing into a humanoid shape.
My nausea intensifies as the shape bends, jerking the cup to H, E, L, lingering for a beat, then to O.
The girls scream.
The boys make various noises, trying to brush it off.
I can barely even blink as Sunday’s nervous laughter breaks through the noise, his eyes locking with mine across the board. We are the only ones standing, although my legs feel like they’re about to crumble.
Sunday shudders lightly as a spirit passes through him, but he doesn’t seem to notice it otherwise. For someone so enamored with death, he’s incredibly closed off to the spirit world. Unfortunately for me, the spirit heads straight for me, slicing through my body and disappearing. I jerk, whimpering as sharp pain stabs my chest, robbing me of my breath.
