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Later, once we’ve piled our plates with fruit and stale pastries, Dante goes over the plan one last time.
“Beatrix is what we would classify as an interactive ghost; the writing on the mirror confirms this,” Dante explains.
“She’s doing these things because she wants you to pay attention to her. So, tonight, we’ll let her think we’re playing her game. That’s why we collected so many of her things. It’ll help call her energy forth and cast her out once and for all.”
“Well, good fucking riddance,” I mumble.
We finally checked out of the hotel around noon, and I’ve never been more relieved to see Idylewylde Hall’s stately facade looming in the distance. Idylewylde Hall has always been beautiful, especially during the holidays. My mother hung a massive pine wreath on the front door. The porch is dusted with snow, and long swathes of garland are wrapped around the porch railing. I can see the Christmas tree glowing from the living room window with those cheap, plastic bulbs my mother’s had since the seventies.
“Home, sweet home,” I say. This time, I’m only partially sarcastic.
Eleanor and I unpack our suitcases, and then Eleanor and my mother spend the rest of the day frantically arranging preparations for tonight. Eleanor paces and lists items while my mother sits at the kitchen table, crossing everything off with a yellow legal pad in hand. It sounds like a demented version of the Twelve Days of Christmas.
“You’ve got three black candles?” Eleanor asks.
“Yep,” my mother affirms.
“Clear quartz for grounding.”
“Yep.”
“An EVP reader?”
“I think so? This came for you.” My mother hands Eleanor a small, brown cardboard box. Eleanor retrieves a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and opens it, “And one state-of-the-art EVP reader.”
“We’re ready,” my mother states confidently, punctuating the sentence with the click of her pen.
Dante suggested we meet on the Solstice because the veil is thin, and it’s the week before Beatrix’s death day. He hypothesizes that since she’s usually more active as her death nears anyway, this will give us easy access.
I can’t argue with him at this point. Over the past few weeks, I’ve realized that Dante is brilliant, even if that brilliance is disguised via crystals and bundles of ethically sourced sage. He answers every question Eleanor has, no matter the time of day. He shows up around six wearing a blue velvet suit.
The holly Iphigenia pinned on the mantle makes tonight feel like a macabre Christmas party.
“Greetings! Evan’s parking the car. Eleanor, I’ve got the goods.”
Eleanor greedily rubs her hands, “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” They’ve struck up quite the friendship these past few weeks, texting links to various metallic hunks of ghost-hunting equipment. If Eleanor didn’t get such a generous stipend from the Idylewylde Foundation, I’d suggest they start a ghost-hunting side hustle together. The residents of Weatherby Island have more than their fair share of paranormal house calls.
“Now, why do we need this again?”
“It’s an EVP reader. If we get any contact, Beatrix will be able to communicate with us through the radio waves,” Dante says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
He places it squarely in the middle of the dining room table and cranks the silver knob to the left. The sound of static fills the room.
Eleanor grabs hers and places it next to Dante’s.
He retrieves a handful of tiny sachets from his coat pocket, “Party favors.” He hands one to Eleanor, then me. It’s a tiny mesh bag filled with something that looks like dirt and another random crystal.
“Black salt for protection, clear quartz for grounding,” he explains when he takes in my puzzled expression.
Evan enters and takes the time to kick the snow off his boots. He’s wearing a festive burgundy sweater with a knit Christmas tree emblazoned on the front, complete with plastic light-up bulbs. He’s carrying a cardboard box with a cake balanced on top.
“Eleanor, I’ve got the diary and everything else you asked for!”
“Perfect, babe. Put ‘em next to the EVP reader,” Dante instructs.
Evan places the diary, a long, dark piece of ribbon, and a small pile of Beatrix and Martin’s letters next to the EVP reader. Then, he sets a long, brown cake on the other end of the dining room table. It’s decorated with tiny pieces of red candy and globs of frosting that are supposed to look like leaves.
“What’s with the cake? Is that a Yule log?”
