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I had to admit, I was a bit giddy with excitement. I couldn’t wait to see if this really worked. And if it didn’t, this felt like those third-grade sleepovers. With less giggling.
“I’m sure you all know the drill,” she said. “Two fingers of each hand on the planchette. Only touch it. Take a deep breath and relax.”
We leaned forward, stretching toward the board. It was crowded, four grown people squished together to maintain contact with the plastic doohickey. You could fit a dozen third-grade girls around one of these things.
This was where séances traditionally got a little bombastic, when theatrics played a part in setting the stage and inducing a state of anticipation in the participants. Oh, spirits, we ask you to cross the veil of death to speak with us, yadda yadda. Tina didn’t do that.
“Right. We know something’s out there. We’re pretty sure it has an interest in at least one of us, and that it’s willing to go to violent lengths to make its presence known. Now, if that presence wants to talk to us, we’re here. Why don’t you come out and have a chat?”
We sat like that for a long time. The room was almost quiet. I heard faint clickings, hissings—the refrigerator under the bar, emergency lights, other electrical background noise. A car going by outside. My nerves stretched taut, waiting for some other sound, for ghostly laughter, for the scrape of plastic over cardboard. Everyone breathed quietly, almost holding their breaths, only drawing breath when they couldn’t hold it anymore. My arms, raised over the board, grew tired waiting for something to happen.
“Come out, come out,” Tina said in a taunting voice, like she was mocking any lurking spirits, daring them to show themselves.
The plastic thingy gave a little static shock and slipped out from under my fingers.
It was the strangest feeling, not at all like Susan Tate yanking it away from the rest of us and then insisting she hadn’t done anything. The plastic gave a quick jerk, just a few centimeters, then stopped. I didn’t think anyone was moving it, unconsciously or otherwise, because all of us were sitting there, our hands in midair, fingers splayed and not touching the plastic. My skin tingled with the tiny static charge. I was sure I’d imagined it.
The little arrow pointed to YES.
“Gotcha, sucker,” Tina said, lips curling in a sly smile.
“Who did that?” Ben said. “Someone moved it.”
“Quiet,” Tina said. “Everything’s under control.”
“If this is some—”
“Quiet,” Gary added. Ben clamped his lips shut and glowered.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Tina said.
The familiar and safe surroundings at New Moon suddenly became odd, strange. Unwelcome. I regretted coming here for this experiment. But maybe Tina would tell us what was causing this, and we could stop it.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch the thing again, but with Tina’s urging, we all did. My nerves were quivering, waiting for something to happen.
“Right,” Tina murmured. “I want to know who we’re talking to. Who are you?”
The plastic zipped out of our grips again. I had to admit, part of me was ready to leave the room right there. But I definitely wanted to know what was going on. Had to know.
Our hands hovering, the planchette resting untouched, we looked. The arrow pointed to NO.
“You’re willing to reveal yourself but not willing to talk to us, is that it? Not good enough,” Tina said. “What are you?”
The thing didn’t move again.
Tina shook her head. “Something’s here. I’m sure of it.”
“We can’t document gut feeling,” Gary said.
Closing her eyes, Tina touched the planchette, which slid slowly across the board. She wasn’t trying to be subtle—she might have been moving it herself. But it still seemed strange. The air temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.
With her eyes closed, unable to see what she was doing, she spelled out a word: F–I–R–E.
Maybe she’d practiced and could do it by feel; maybe this wasn’t for real. I wondered, though: If this really was working, was it because some spirit was moving the planchette? Or because one of us here believed it was? And was, in effect, subconsciously, psychically, telekinetically, whatever, moving it around because of it? Was a four-leaf clover lucky because the bearer believed it was?
Then there was fire.
A cloud of red flames billowed from the kitchen in cinematic glory, like it should have been a special effect in a movie. It washed through the room, pushing air and heat in front of it before dissipating. The table tipped, flew, and hit a wall. Ben and I dove for each other, crouching over and protecting each other. The Ouija board flew away, the planchette careening off another wall. Chairs launched and scattered, and Gary and Tina seemed to fly with them. Feeling cornered, I wanted to snarl. Wolf wanted to burst out and face the enemy. But there was no enemy, at least not one we could see. Not one we could face.
