Mitzi places a small heart-shaped planchette in the center of the board and invites me to rest my fingers on one side. The bottom of the planchette is equipped with three small wheels on tiny brass casters; the slightest touch makes it roll away from me. “Steady now, you don’t want to push it,” Mitzi says. “Let the tool do all the work.”
I flex my fingers, trying to relax them. “Sorry.”
Mitzi rests her fingers on the opposite side of the planchette. Then she closes her eyes.
“Okay, Mallory, I’m going to start the conversation. I’ll make contact. But once we have a good rapport, I’ll let you ask your questions. For now, just close your eyes and relax.”
I’m nervous and a little self-conscious, but Mitzi’s voice is reassuring. I find myself mirroring her, matching her posture and breathing. The incense relaxes my muscles and quiets my thoughts. All my everyday worries and concerns—Teddy, the Maxwells, running, sobriety—everything starts falling away.
“Welcome, spirits,” Mitzi says, and I jolt back in my seat, startled by the volume of her voice. “This is a safe space. We welcome your presence. We invite you to join us in conversation.”
Outside the cottage, I can still hear the sounds of the swimming pool—the sounds of frenzied kicking and splashing. But then I concentrate harder and manage to block them out. I relax my fingertips, keeping contact with the planchette without applying any pressure.
“Annie Barrett, we wish to speak with Annie Barrett,” Mitzi says. “Are you there, Annie? Can you hear us?”
The longer I sit in the hard wood-backed chair, the more I’m aware of all the points where it contacts my body—the seat beneath my bottom, the crossrail pressing on my shoulder blades. I study the planchette, waiting for the slightest signs of movement. The burning sage crackles and pops.
“How about Anya? Is there an Anya present? Can you hear us, Anya?”
My eyelids feel heavy and I allow myself to close them. I feel like I’m being hypnotized, or like I’ve reached those final moments at the end of the day, when I’m lying in a warm bed under a comfortable blanket, ready to drift off to sleep.
“Are you there, Anya? Will you speak with us?”
No answer.
I don’t hear the noises in the backyard anymore. All I hear is Mitzi’s labored breathing.
“Let us help you, Anya. Please. We’re listening.”
And then something brushes the back of my neck. As if a person has passed behind my chair. I turn and no one’s there—but when I look back at the Ouija board, I feel someone behind me, leaning over me. Soft long hair falls past my cheek, grazing my shoulder. And then an invisible weight pushes down on my hand—a gentle, prodding pressure, nudging the planchette forward. One of its wheels makes a tiny squeak, like the soft cry of a mouse.
“Welcome, spirit!” Mitzi smiles at me, and I realize she has no idea what’s happening; she clearly doesn’t see or sense whatever’s behind me. “Thank you for answering our call!”
Warm breath tickles the back of my neck and goose bumps spread across my skin. There’s more pressure on my hand and wrist, guiding the planchette across the board in slow sweeping circles.
“Is this Anya?” Mitzi asks. “Are we speaking with Anya?”
The board is illustrated with a standard alphabet and the numbers zero to nine, and the top corners have the words YES and NO. I watch passively, spectating, as the planchette stops briefly at the letter I, then moves back to G and then E. Mitzi keeps four fingers on the planchette, but she’s holding a pencil in her free hand to transcribe the results on a notepad: I-G-E? Sweat beads across her forehead. She glances at me and shakes her head, undaunted.
“Speak slowly, spirit,” she says. “We have plenty of time. We wish to understand you. Is this Anya?”
The planchette moves to N and then X and then O.
“You’re leaning,” Mitzi whispers, irritated, and I realize she’s talking to me.
“What?”
“On the table. You’re pushing, Mallory.”
“It’s not me.”
“Sit back in your chair. Sit up straight.”
I’m too scared to argue with her, to tell her the truth. I don’t want to interrupt whatever’s happening.
“Spirit, we welcome your message! We welcome any information you’d like to share.”
There’s more pressure on my hand and the planchette moves faster, veering across the board, stopping at one random letter after another, a string of spiritual static: L-V-A-J-X-S. Mitzi is still recording everything but she seems more and more annoyed. The results look like alphabet soup.