“Dennis.” Daphne felt cold uncertainty wash over her. She’d seen spirits before, but they’d never spoken through her like this.
“Dennis, we welcome you to our table,” Florence went on. “What would you like to tell us?”
Daphne waited. No words came. Maybe he was gone? Maybe—
Suddenly, Daphne’s hands whipped away from Abigail and Florence’s, clawing at the table. Abigail quickly moved the pad and pencil in front of her. Daphne clutched it and scribbled.
Panic bubbled up in her chest. Her arms and hands were no longer connected to her body but were acting of their own accord. She finished one page and flipped to the next. She tried to stop—she couldn’t.
Jaw clenched, she looked up at the other two, pleading with them to help her. Abigail’s hands covered her lips. Florence’s mouth hung open.
Daphne flipped another page.
“Daphne, are you—” Abigail began to rise.
“Stop!” Florence bellowed. “Don’t break the circle. Let her finish.”
“But is she—”
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Daphne’s hands were once again her own. She clasped them in her lap, as if forcing them to behave. Her heart still pounded, but there was something else too. Now that it was over—and she knew that at least for the night, it was—the panic was beginning to shift into pure exhilaration.
She laughed aloud. “My goodness!”
Florence pulled the papers to her. She read one or two lines, and her eyes returned to Daphne. They held something Daphne wouldn’t have expected: fear.
“Well, my darling.” Florence set the papers down again. “I’ve never seen anyone contacted so quickly.” Now there was admiration in her expression. She beamed at Daphne. “It looks like you’re a natural.”
Chapter 15
The parlor had been transformed for cocktail hour. A fire roared in the stone fireplace and taper candles flickered on the central coffee table. A makeshift bar had been set up by the window. Yana stood next to it in a tight mint-colored jumpsuit, glowering at no one in particular.
I could feel Wren’s presence on the far side of the room. It was like having a crush, when you could track them at all times without looking at them. I glanced over. Near the window, she and Poppy leaned towards each other, tittering like teenagers.
“Hi.” I approached Yana at the bar. Her ponytail was so tight, it pulled back her forehead, but she still managed to lower her drawn-on brows in a glare. “Um, could I have some red wine, please?”
Without answering, she picked up a glass and poured.
“Thanks,” I said, but she was already back to ignoring me. Her commitment to inhospitality made me smile as I made my way to Taylor and Keira, who were sitting on the leather couch. They were discussing someone with great intensity. It took me a few minutes to realize it was a character from Keira’s book.
Roza arrived fashionably late, despite her stern warning about being on time. She’d changed into a long, dramatic maroon dress and she trilled hellos as she swept into the room.
“The writing’s going well?” Taylor asked, straightening.
“Very well, my dears.” Roza received a glass from Yana and plopped into a velvet chair. Poppy and Wren came over and we listened to Roza hold court. She was in a fantastic mood. For once, I didn’t feel like I needed to impress her, or anyone. I knew she liked what I was working on, and that was all that mattered.
Drinks rolled into dinner, which rolled into after-dinner drinks back in the parlor. By this time we were full, stuffed with food and wine, but when Roza poured the familiar Unicum into small glasses, no one refused.
“Well.” Roza settled herself into the same chair, tucking her bare feet underneath her. “Tonight we will play our first game.”
The wine had made me feel almost obscenely relaxed, but now I tensed up. I was not a game person. It tended to bring out my insecurities, especially when I had to do something like perform. Wren had often pushed charades at parties when she was drunk and restless.
“Awesome.” Taylor rubbed her hands together. She, Keira, and I had returned to our same spots on the couch, while Poppy and Wren were on the love seat. Wren and I had successfully ignored each other throughout dinner, sitting as far away from each other as possible.
“It’s not for the faint of heart.” Roza’s eyes glinted. “It’s a parlor game from Japan. Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai, or A Gathering of One Hundred Supernatural Tales. Beautiful name, isn’t it? There will be one winner, who will get to have a nightcap with me.”
A slight edge entered the room. Taylor started twisting the golden rabbit at the end of the chain. She’d continued to wear her necklace over the past two days, though it looked discordant against her loose sweatshirts.
“This will take creativity and nerves,” Roza went on. “And it will go like this. You will tell a ghost story. You can make it up completely or tell one that happened to you or someone you know. We will guess whether or not it was ‘real,’ at least to the person who experienced it. I trust that you will all be honest. If we guess wrong, you will get to carry a candle in the next phase. If we are right, you will have to go in darkness.”
“What’s the next phase?” Keira asked, pushing up her red glasses.
Roza just smiled. “You’ll see, darling. Of those who complete the task, I’ll choose the best story.”
Ghost stories: they reminded me of long-ago sleepovers, whispered tales in the dark, the delicious fear that would climb up your spine as you snuggled in your sleeping bag.
Still, I felt nervous. Normally I’d tell my best story—the story of going into the woods with my best friend and what we’d seen there. But I’d turned that into an actual story and Ursula had sent it to Roza, who’d said she loved it. So that one was out…
“Who would like to go first?” Roza set her drink on her knee. “Trust me, it’s better to go earlier rather than later.”
“I’ll go,” Wren said. She glanced at me. “But Alex has heard it.”
“Good point.” Roza gestured at me. “Alex, you sit this one out. Okay?”
“Sure.” Wren’s confidence had given me a tingle of nervousness.
“So I was a kid,” Wren started. “Nine years old. And at the time my family was living across from this giant forest.”
The words took a second to sink in. Wren had grown up in Manhattan. Central Park wasn’t giant, at least compared to natural forests. So she must be making this story up.
“I used to be friends with this girl down the street named Christina,” Wren went on. “She had this beautiful long, wavy hair that went all the way down to her butt. I was so jealous of it.”
I stiffened, staring at Wren with amazement. This was my story. Wren was telling my story as if it was hers. I looked at Roza, but she was smiling, just taking it in.
“On the Fourth of July one year, her parents were having a barbecue. She and I got bored and decided to go for a walk. We hung out in the woods all the time, but we’d never gone at night before. We weren’t allowed to. But with the party happening and with the adults getting tipsy and setting off fireworks, we didn’t think anyone would notice. So we grabbed a flashlight and took off.”