Alexandra Sokoloff - The Harrowing

Robin realized instantly what Martin wasn’t saying. Hitler. The Nazis . She remembered Martin’s reference to his rabbi father. We all have our ghosts, don’t we?

Martin replaced his glasses on his nose and continued. “Suddenly, a whole generation was desperate to contact deceased loved ones. In fact, this very board dates from 1920.”

He pointed to a cluster of Roman numerals beside the BALTIMORE TALKING BOARD imprint.

Robin thought, 1920 again. I wonder —

But the thought evaporated as Martin continued.

“The spirit board was a rather sophisticated technological innovation for the time. Before the advent of the board, participants in séances attempted to communicate with the ‘beyond’ through table tipping or tapping.” Robin could almost see the quotation marks in the air as he spoke.

“‘Spirits’ would supposedly rap through the tabletop”—he demonstrated by tapping his knuckles sharply on the table—”which restricted questions to those requiring yes or no answers, or forced querents to count knocks corresponding to numbers of the letters of the alphabet—A was one knock; Z was twenty-six.” He rapped a few times—four, five, six—then lifted his hands. “Well, one can only imagine how tedious it must have been, waiting.”

Lisa murmured, “Insufferable,” but everyone was riveted.

Martin passed his hands over the board like a magician. “But then one Georges Planchette invented the alphabet board and this little piece.” He picked up the wooden indicator. “The planchette eliminated the need to count knocks numerically; the board could simply spell out words, or indicate numbers. At the time, an innovation about as revolutionary as the telephone.”

Robin noticed that his voice held real admiration. But then Martin turned dismissive.

“Of course, what was really happening was automatism: the subconscious minds of the players guiding them to move the piece to spell out desired answers. Still, there are many accounts of unaccountably precognitive and extrasensory messages, just as we experienced last night.” He glanced shyly at Robin, spoke toward her. “Both Freud and Jung attended séances and studied the phenomenon. It’s as if the collective concentration on the board somehow heightens perception.”

Patrick was already busy rolling a joint on one of the coffee tables. “Well, let’s see if ol’ Zach can come up with some lottery numbers tonight.”

Lisa ignored Patrick, huffed at Martin. “This is all fascinating, Professor, but you’re completely ignoring the salient point, which is that we were talking to Zachary Prince .” She picked up the yearbook, open to Zachary’s picture, and shook it at Martin. “He was real. He died here mysteriously”—she mimicked Martin— “in 1920, in fact. And last night we got him on the telephone .” She tapped the Ouija board with a crimson nail, then leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms. “Now, tell me that was coming from my mind, or Robin’s.”

Martin pushed at his glasses. “I don’t recall any mention of a Prince—”

“Right, Zachary is just such a common name. Must be a coincidence,” Lisa shot back.

Martin frowned. “It wouldn’t be at all surprising if one of you had heard talk of a student dying—even read the yearbook. It’s been here under our noses. It’s hardly inconceivable.”

Robin suddenly realized Martin was right, and automatism might not have anything to do with it. She hadn’t read the yearbook, but Lisa certainly could have. She felt a wave of cold and heat at once, paranoia and humiliation. What if the whole evening really had been an elaborate prank? Plant a Ouija board in the game cabinet, pretend to summon a long-dead student, leave the yearbook to back up the story. For all Robin knew, they were all in on it but her….

Not Cain, though , her mind countered instantly.

And what about the game scores, the newspaper confirming them this morning? Surely that was proof—

Unless the newspaper had somehow been faked.

The thought sent another wave of paranoia through her, a feeling as shaky as nausea.

But why? Why would they do it?

Robin glanced to Patrick, studied him furtively. Though he was sprawled quite nonchalantly on the couch, he was watching Martin and Lisa intently.

He shifted his eyes toward Robin, caught her watching. The look he gave her was veiled, unreadable.

Martin was speaking loftily to Lisa. “At any rate, we have all night to test the theory and—”

He stopped mid-sentence, frowned around the room as if he’d misplaced something. “Where’s Jackson? We need to replicate the conditions.”

Lisa fished in a pocket for a cigarette, smiled secretly. “He’ll be down.”

Patrick lounged back on the couch and fired up the joint. Everyone looked toward him; he lifted his hands. “I’m replicating the conditions.”

Martin nodded. “By all means. The altered perception probably contributed to the overall experience.”

Patrick grinned, exhaled. “It sure as hell contributed to mine.” He extended the joint to Lisa, who took it, put it to her lips for an appreciative drag.

Martin continued. Almost manic , Robin thought. “Atmosphere is a huge factor in the efficacy of a séance. We had all the conditions aligned for us last night—the storm, the power outage, the fire…”

Caught up in her inner tumult, Robin had forgotten the fire she’d started to build. Now Martin noticed the unlighted logs in the fireplace. He reached for Lisa’s fighter and knelt rather awkwardly on the hearth beside Robin, sparked the lighter and ignited the newsprint between the logs. Flames licked up the paper, casting orange light on his face.

There was actually something attractive about him, Robin decided: the way he came alive when he was interested in a subject, the take-charge confidence he’d been showing all evening.

Martin turned beside her, meeting her eyes. Robin looked away quickly, flustered.

A voice came suddenly from the doorway, raised in irritation. “Okay, just stop it. It’s not funny.”

They all turned. Cain stood under the archway, looking frazzled. The others looked around at one another, mystified. Cain’s voice grated in annoyance. “The pounding? On the pipes?”

Patrick sat up from the couch. “We all’ve been here in plain sight of each other. Nobody’s been doin’ any pounding.”

Cain looked to Robin for confirmation. Robin nodded, unable to speak.

Martin rose from the hearth, brushed soot off his hands. “What exactly were you hearing?”

Cain glanced back at Robin, then to Martin. “In the ceiling. Loud . Rapping. Knocking—”

Patrick raised his eyebrows at Martin. “Funny, didn’t you just say spirits communicated through knocking?”

Lisa’s voice came suddenly from the table, breathless. “You guys—”

They all looked over. The planchette was moving under her hands.

Her eyes were wide. “He’s here.”

Robin felt a jolt of excitement, mixed with unease, doubt, a flood of paranoia again. A prank? A ghost? What were they doing?

Lisa looked up at her from the slowly circling pointer—and under the excitement, there was something helpless, even a little frightened in her eyes.

Robin bit her lips. Go , she told herself. Just go back upstairs now.

And then the longing to be part of something, something extraordinary, won out.

She sat abruptly across from Lisa, reached out to the moving planchette. Touching it was like an electric shock—there was something so clearly alive there, her breath stopped in her throat. She looked at Lisa in disbelief. Lisa met her eyes, nodded. She felt it, too.