The next morning, my mother called. I was too dazed, confused, and exhausted from the previous night’s chaos to be irate. Or even worried. I worried about Mom a lot these days, and every phone call from her—especially when it didn’t come at her usual Sunday phone-call time—had the potential for disaster.
I answered brusquely. “It isn’t Sunday, Mom, why are you calling?”
“Well, good morning to you, too, Kitty,” she answered in that put-out voice that instantly made me feel guilty.
“I’m sorry. I’m just... I’m a little stressed out right now,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask any questions or try to fix everything, or invite me over for a dinner of macaroni and cheese. She still did things like that.
“That doesn’t seem at all surprising. I listened to your show last night.”
I braced, because I knew she was going to ask questions I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to expose her to what was happening; I’d already told too many people about the attacks. I was afraid that telling them about it exposed them to danger.
She continued, “I’m not sure exactly what happened, but it sounded serious. Are you all right?”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me that when you’re the one who has cancer,” I said, when what I wanted to say was,
“That may be true, but at least the cancer is under control.”
Months of chemo will do that, I supposed. And how could she be so calm about it?
“Why were you even listening to the show? You never listen to my show, it’s on past your bedtime!”
“How do you know I never listen to it? And I think you’re just arguing with me to avoid answering my question. Are you all right?”
Could I never win an argument with that woman? Ever? Though if I had to be honest, a little childhood part of me was jumping up and down with joy: Mom listens to my show.
I took too long deciding how best to answer her question, and every moment I delayed would only make her more worried. I didn’t want Mom to worry, not when she was still sick. Not when there wasn’t anything she could do about it. “I’m fine. Nobody got hurt last night. We’re trying to figure out what happened, and I have some pretty good leads.”
“Nothing like that is going to happen again, is it?”
Good question. “I don’t know. I hope not. But if it does, I think we’ll be better prepared.”
Mom gave a frustrated sigh. “Kitty, I worry about you.”
“I’ll tell you what: I’ll stop worrying about you if you stop worrying about me.”
Wasn’t going to happen, of course. We both wanted assurances from the other that everything was going to be okay. Just fine, hunky-dory, we weren’t in trouble, no way. Neither of us could guarantee that.
“I’ll be fine. Really. Everything’s going to be fine.” I didn’t expect her to believe it, any more than I believed her half the time. But she played along, because the conversation obviously wasn’t going to go any further.
“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, won’t you?” she said. The usual gambit at this point in the conversation.
“Absolutely,” I said. After a few more empty assurances like that, I coaxed her off the phone.
I called all my wolves, every member of the pack: Was everyone safe? Had anything else happened last night? Had any of them noticed any more signs of what had attacked us?
The answer was no. But no one had been sleeping well. Mick had gone out to the woods to Change and run off his anxiety for a few hours. I berated him for that, but only halfheartedly. He wasn’t out of control if he could get himself to wilderness first. And if it made him feel better... well, then.
I understood the impulse.
Ben and I arrived at New Moon after closing, at a bright and early two a.m., to meet the
“Do you know what Tina’s going to do?” Ben asked.
“No, but there’s something weird about her. I think she’s psychic,” I said.
He chuckled, but the sound was nervous. “Like, she can read minds? Tell the future?”
“Nothing like that, but have you seen the way she looks at us? I think she can tell what we are. I think she really did hear that noise before it happened. There’s something going on with her.”
“I suppose if anyone can help, a psychic can. But it feels like grasping at straws.”
“They’re professionals,” I argued. “I’ll take any advice, help, or straw grasping I can get.”
“I guess it can’t hurt,” he said. I felt the urge to rap on the wooden doorframe.
The street had quieted, traffic thinning to nothing after bar hours, when the
Gary had the camera crew along, as usual—“never waste an opportunity to collect material for your show” was a philosophy I wholeheartedly endorsed. By the same token, Jules wasn’t going to waste an opportunity to collect data, so he got to work setting up his standard array of cameras, microphones, and sensors in all parts of the restaurant. Just in case, he said. Tina asked us to help her clear a space in the middle of the dining room. There, we set up a large round table with five chairs. Then Tina went to the van to retrieve her equipment.
“Jules,” I said while we waited for her. “What’s she going to do? What equipment does she have that you guys haven’t already used?”
Jules grumbled. “I haven’t a clue, but this is looking suspiciously like a séance. I can’t believe we’re getting suckered into this.”
Tina returned, carrying a big plastic shopping bag. Now I was really intrigued. We—Ben and I, Jules and Gary—gathered around as she set the bag on the table.
“Out with it, Tina,” Gary said. “What are you doing?”
Sheepish, she winced. “I guess it’s sort of going to be a séance.” Jules rolled his eyes. Gary just watched, reserving judgment.
“What kind of séance?” I said, keeping my own skepticism in check. “Holding hands, table rapping—”
Jules snorted. “That’s just what we need to earn a little respect, some good old-fashioned table rapping.”
“No, not exactly like that,” Tina said, still wincing, still sheepish.
She took a long, flattish box from the bag and started pulling off the plastic shrink-wrap that sealed it. It looked like a board game. I didn’t catch the title until Jules groaned and rolled not just his eyes, but his whole head, in a gesture of disgust.
“You’re joking!” he burst. “I’m not going to be a party to this. Gary, tell her. This is ridiculous. This is
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
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
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
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.
“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
