“Why is this in my professional wheelhouse?” he asks, looking down and he becomes visibly disappointed when he encounters a raisin in his cake.
“We saw something that may have been supernatural back then,” I explain, knowing that my patchy delivery is likely vexing, but I can’t bear to put the entire story into words. Not yet, anyhow. “My friend Juniper was injured and she feels like whatever we encountered at the hands of a Ouija Board is still here. She wants us to do it again to close out the session, or something like that.”
“No,” he blurts out, dropping his fork onto his plate, sending the culled raisins over the side onto the table. “Never use a Ouija Board.”
“But we already did,” I say, shocked by his outburst.
“Don’t do it again,” he tells me, his eyes boring into mine. “It is the most irresponsible of all paranormal tools.”
“Juniper is a clairvoyant,” I say, feeling slightly stung and compelled to defend the idea, even though I think it’s bonkers too. “She is a professional.”
“She is correct that not closing out the session properly is dangerous, but opening that door back up in order to try again is folly.” He shakes his head, visibly calming his breathing, clearly attempting to approach me with more tact. “Paranormal investigators are pros as well and you will almost never see them using Ouija Boards. You can’t control what comes through and can never be sure that you have closed the door to the dead behind you.”
“You’re very passionate about this,” I say, looking down into my tea rather than his disapproving eyes. It is just as dark, but not nearly as attractive.
“I’m so sorry,” he says quickly, picking up the unwanted raisins and placing them in a napkin before reaching across the table and grabbing my hand. “It’s just incredibly dangerous and I’m worried for you and your friends.”
“Do you think ghosts can hurt us?” I ask, finally glancing up.
“I think some things that hang around Ouija Boards can. We just don’t know for sure what capabilities those entities can have, but I have heard of many malevolent poltergeists beginning with a spirit board. It’s an opportunity to get a foothold in this world and once they have an in they stay,” he takes a breath. “If she’s a clairvoyant, I’m surprised that she is recommending this.”
“I think she feels she has no choice,” I offer, knowing that it’s true.
“Why? What will happen if she doesn’t do this?” he leans forward, searching my face. “What is this thing?”
“I...I can’t,” I say, powerless to stop myself, amazed by the power that stigma still has over me. “I’m still trying to sort through it all. I don’t ever talk about it.”
“I just want to help.” He is frustrated, and I can hear it weighing down his melodic voice and see it in his weary eyes and I can’t blame him.
“And maybe I’m an idiot for not using your expertise, but I need to process it all.” I pat his hand reassuringly. “We haven’t agreed to anything yet, so no need to fret.”
His shoulders sink, but he musters a disingenuous smile and then shrugs. “I’m here for you.”
“Do you want some of my cake?” I offer with a grin of my own, willing away the awkwardness. “It doesn’t have any raisins.”
“Bastard raisins,” he says, accepting my peace offering. “Talk about evil that could come from a dark realm.”
“It’s really a terrible thing to do to a perfectly respectable grape,” I agree, pushing my luscious red velvet cake over the table top into his waiting hands. “If they have raisins in their oatmeal cookies then I’m leaving.”
“If they have them in cookies then it’s probably why this place is so haunted,” he laughs.
“The ghosts of dried grapes, back for revenge,” I say in my best spooky voice.
“Does this mean you don’t want my carrot cake in exchange for your non-bastardized dessert?” he asks, looking hopeful that his misbegotten confection won’t be destined for the trash.
“Not a chance,” I say, reaching over to stab one last bite before relinquishing it completely.
“Kat, if you want me to help you just let me know. Two paranormal experts are better than one,” he says seriously before turning his attention to the cake.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “I may just take you up on that.”
We talk and laugh for a spell more before I steel myself to be alone upstairs. Despite the brief discomfort at his consternation about Ouija Boards, speaking to him has taken me out of my own head for a moment. His whole persona is so reassuring, and his disposition so uplifting. He’s easy to laugh and smile and our chemistry is undeniable and I wonder why I am not using his help. Because of Erik? Or because it’s all too ridiculous sounding and also so traumatic? Maybe a cocktail of all these things.
I press the button for the elevator and I’m far too excited that there is an elderly woman there with me, saving me from a lone ride.
I smile at her awkwardly and we wait for our lift in silence. As I board, I feel some detritus in my shoe. My toes are aching with discomfort, and I fight the urge to rip off my boot to inspect, especially since I also have socks on and sitting on the floor of the elevator ripping off footwear to pick at my feet is not the height of professionalism. Mercifully, my floor is first and I shoot her a friendly grin and a wave before limping out of the elevator.
What is wrong with my foot? I haven’t taken the boots off all day, what managed to slink into my sock? Inside my room I pull the boot off while hopping on one foot to the nearest chair. I have my sock off in a moment and stare
