Alexandra Sokoloff - The Harrowing

Robin jumped again—and saw Lisa flinch, too—as the planchette began to move under their hands, slow, sweeping circles. Robin looked at Lisa. Lisa’s eyes sparkled back at her.

The pointer suddenly took off, racing across the board Robin watched the letters appear under the cutout circle in the middle of the planchette. The pointer spelled quickly, continuously, with slight stops in the neutral center between each word.

Lisa read aloud for the others with exaggerated import. “I… am…”

Patrick made spooky sounds on the floor. Martin glanced over in spite of himself. On the couch, Cain shook his head, flicked his Zippo to light another cigarette. But Robin saw he was smiling.

Lisa’s good, she thought. The movement of the planchette was smooth, credible—no obvious pushing. The pointer felt like it had a life of its own.

Lisa smiled into the darkness flirtatiously. “Well, hello.” She swept her hair back from her face with a ringed hand before she put her fingers back on the planchette.

The pointer instantly moved to

And then it spelled quickly

Lisa read out with the moving indicator and turned away from the table with childlike delight. “Guys, he knows my name.”

Patrick put his hands to his mouth, mock-shuddered. “It must be real.” He was grinning, clearly enjoying himself. He’d stripped down to a tank and now basked bare-armed in the heat of the fire, leaning back on a sofa cushion, watching the girls as if they were his private show. Robin’s eyes traveled up his thighs to the juncture of his legs, remembering the soft thrill of his

lips on hers, his breath hot in her mouth…. Her face flushed, and she was glad for the darkness.

Lisa shook her hair out of her face and raised her voice, addressing the board. “Do you have a name?”

The pointer jerked to life. Lisa read out with it.

The wooden piece hesitated. Robin and Lisa watched it circle aimlessly over the board, as if unsure how to answer.

Patrick chuckled from the floor. “Make it good, Marlowe.”

Then, as if inspired, the pointer spelled out quickly

Robin felt a tingle up her neck, like fingers brushing her hairline. The candlelight flickered, making the black letters seem to pulse.

Lisa’s eyes jumped to Robin’s, a quick, probing look. Then she shrugged, spoke lightly. “Nice to meet you, Zachary.”

“Charmed,” Patrick drawled over the top of another beer, then belched for emphasis.

The pointer responded instantly, smooth circles and a slight pull between letters. Robin found herself both lulled and impatient at the slow-motion conversation; waiting for the letters was like trying to run in a dream.

Lisa finished the sentence triumphantly and looked up from the board. Her eyes were sparkling. “A gentleman.” She glanced sideways at Patrick.

“Those are the ones you wanna watch, hon,” he retorted.

Lisa turned back to the table and beamed at Robin. Robin smiled back, warming to her enthusiasm. So what if it was a game? The fire was blazing, making shadows dance in the corners of the room. The circular swaying of trees through the window, the ebb and flow of the wind, the popping of the fire—all were dreamlike, seductively hypnotic, and Robin decided to play along. What could it hurt?

Lisa was addressing the board again. “Have you come to tell us anything, Zachary?” The two girls watched the board as it spelled out the letters.

Lisa smiled secretively in the flickering candlelight. She turned and informed the rest of the room. “He says, ‘Anything you wish.’”

On the floor, Patrick snorted through a swallow of beer. “Ask him who wins the game.”

Lisa seemed about to retort, but the indicator moved instantly, obliging.

Robin read it out, and Lisa finished the sentence with her.

Patrick sat straight up, pleased. “Can I bet on that, dude?” His voice was warm, hazy from pot.

The pointer moved again. Robin and Lisa watched the letters in a little island of concentration, reading out together.

The girls leaned over the board to watch the last word forming. As Robin realized Lisa’s joke, she smiled, and they called it out together in perfectly matched, stoned accents.

Robin and Lisa broke out in delighted giggling. On the couch, Cain muttered, “Pretty hip ghost.”

Patrick sat up from the floor, laughing heartily. “You should be charging for this, Marlowe.” He nodded to Lisa.

Lisa shook her head, cascading curls caught by the firelight. “I’m not doing it, I swear.” She smiled across the table at Robin.

Robin found herself wondering. Nothing that Lisa said could be trusted, obviously. It was a game, and it was working. Lisa was the center of attention, which apparently she needed to be at all times, and the boys were mildly amused, enough to keep watching. Robin was aware that even Martin was following the action at the board, not with his whole attention, maybe, but as background noise, like having music or the television on.

At the same time, Robin found a strange thing happening.

She’d played Ouija with slightly older cousins as a nine- or ten-year-old, and even though the candlelit bedroom setting and thrill of inclusion by the older girls had given the game an edge of newness and excitement, she’d also known she was the one being played, that Cousin Jeannie had been moving the pointer to spell out slightly racy hints of boys who were madly in love with whoever.

And at first, she’d been quite sure that Lisa was moving the pointer, just as her cousins had. But somewhere along the line, it really felt that Lisa had stopped and something…else…had taken over.

She shivered, and realized that Cain was sitting up on the couch, watching her, a question in his eyes.

Lisa spoke into the darkness with a strange intensity, something more than just playful curiosity. “Who are you, Zachary?”

The question hovered in the air. The planchette was still.

Lisa glanced at Robin, frowned into the silence. “Did you live here in the Hall?”

The planchette abruptly moved under their fingers, and Robin realized she’d been holding her breath. The wooden pointer slid simply to

Robin was startled by a sudden image, very clear in her mind: a young man, pale and dark-eyed, with slightly longish dark hair, slim and tall and, yes, a bit haunted. Hovering at the corners of her imagination, but for a moment quite clear and real.

And then gone. Robin snapped back to the present. The fire beside the table was crackling, almost too hot on her back. Across the table, Lisa was looking at her oddly. Robin realized, mortified, that everyone else was silent, staring at her. Outside, the wind crooned through the trees, a hollow sound between buildings.

Robin leaned forward and addressed the board. “When? When did you live here?”

The planchette jerked and then circled under their hands, as if pondering, a mesmerizing movement.

And then the letters came again, and this time so slowly, almost teasing, that both Lisa and Robin leaned forward and read urgently under their breaths, pushing the letters and guessing each word a little before it was actually completed.

Robin was aware of all three guys leaning forward, too: Cain on the couch, Patrick on the floor, Martin at his table in the back, all riveted, completely captive.