Kitty Raises Hell

“You’re joking!” he burst. “I’m not going to be a party to this. Gary, tell her. This is ridiculous. This is insane.”

It was a Ouija board, brand new, smelling of fresh plastic and cardboard.

“Hey,” I said. “We used to play that at sleepovers in the third grade.”

Glancing at me while she opened the board on the table, Tina said, “These can be really dangerous. You were lucky nothing happened. I assume nothing happened?”

“Not really. We always caught Susan Tate moving the thing around on her own. On the other hand, did you ever play Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board? Now that was freaky.”

Gary said, “That’s a simple trick of minor hypnotism.”

“Ah, another childhood illusion shattered. But you’re telling me the Ouija board is real.”

“I’ve had a little luck with it,” Tina said.

“And what do you mean by dangerous?” I asked.

She said, “Quite a few cases of suspected demon possession have been linked—”

“It’s rubbish!” Jules interrupted. “If we broadcast this, it’ll ensure that no one from the legitimate paranormal investigation community ever takes us seriously again.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Tina said. “Trust me.”

It was easy to discount her as just a pretty face—and I really should have known better. The others stared at her, like they were thinking the same thing. Like they’d never seen her like this before.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Gary said, wary.

“I’ve been using these since I was a kid,” Tina said. “It might be a way to find out what’s really going on.”

Whether or not a person could actually use something like a Ouija board to communicate with the beyond, or whatever, I found it hard to believe you could do it with a piece of mass-produced cardboard straight out of the packaging.

I said, “The commercial version works? Shouldn’t you be using one made of ancient wood, hand-lettered by gypsies from the Orient or something?”

She threw me a look. “The trouble with the old ones is you don’t know where they’ve been, what they’ve been used for. We know this one’s clean. Besides, it’s not the tool, it’s the person who uses it.”

“Jules, if you don’t want to be a part of this, you can watch the monitors in the van,” Gary said.

“Fine,” Jules said, getting up to leave.

“And keep an eye open.”

“Of course,” Jules said brusquely. “I’m a professional.”

He marched outside to the van, where the team had set up the monitors and speakers they’d salvaged from the previous van’s wreckage.

The rest of us took seats around the table, with Tina facing the board. The planchette sat right in the middle, pointing toward her. I’d never have thought of her as a leader, but she took charge of the group without hesitation.

“Right. Here are the rules. Don’t move, don’t speak. I’ll do the talking. If you hear anything, see anything, stay seated. Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream. As long as we stay in this circle, we’re safe. Got it?”

Scream? Gooseflesh sprung out on my arms, and I’d have sworn a draft passed through the room. The low chuckle of a demonic voice. Of course, everything Tina had just said was exactly what you’d say to people sitting around a Ouija board when you wanted to totally freak them out.

Gary was studying Tina, his brow furrowed. “There’s definitely something you’re not telling us.”

“Are we doing this or not?” Tina said. She was a little flushed. Nerves. Anticipation. Her fingers, resting before her on the table, almost seemed to be straining toward the board.

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?