Oh fuck. If I witness a dead guy speak through this nice old woman, I’ll never be right in the head again.
Frightened now, I swallow and press my hands more firmly against the tabletop to try to get them to stop shaking. It doesn’t work.
“When the séance is over and you have no questions left, I’ll thank the spirit for coming. Then we can turn on the lights and discuss what happened. Are you ready, Kayla?”
I nod, though I don’t feel ready at all.
“Then let us begin.”
Claire closes her eyes. With her face tilted toward the ceiling, she says in a hushed voice, “We gather tonight under the full moon to seek guidance from the spirit world. We welcome any spirits nearby to join our circle. Please make your presence known.”
The following silent pause is the longest of my entire existence. It might only last sixty seconds, but it seems like lifetimes. My pulse accelerates. My breathing turns shallow. My teeth start to chatter. I feel lightheaded, queasy, and impossibly cold.
When nothing happens, Claire repeats, “We welcome any spirits nearby to join our circle. Please make your presence known. Are you with us? Give us a sign.”
Michael’s framed college diploma slides off the wall and lands with a clatter on the floor.
I gasp. All the hair on my arms stands on end. I sit frozen, my back ramrod straight and my eyes wide and unblinking. My pounding heart is the only muscle in my body able to move.
“Remain calm,” says Claire quietly, her eyes still closed.
Calm I am not. Calm I might never be again. Calm is for people on lovely beach vacations with their toes in the sand and a daiquiri in hand, not for people in imminent danger of having proof that their dead husband is reaching out from beyond the grave.
I’m so not calm, I’m about to fucking explode.
A clap of thunder makes me jump in my seat. It’s followed by a crackle of lightning that burns white fire through the black night sky. The room is briefly illuminated in theatrical brightness, then plunged into disorienting darkness again like a carnival funhouse meant to terrorize kids on Halloween.
“Spirits,” says Claire, “thank you for joining us. Are there more than one of you? Please knock on the table to answer. Once for yes and twice for no.”
The wind outside increases. The temperature in the room drops another few degrees. Rain batters the windowpanes with a sound like hail.
And my heart. Jesus, God, my poor fucking heart is screaming bloody murder, because through the room echoes the unmistakable sound of two loud knocks.
“One of you, then,” murmurs Claire. “Welcome, spirit. We’re honored by your presence.”
Her voice has slowed, along with her breathing. She appears to be going into some kind of a trance.
Whatever the opposite of a trance is, that’s what’s happening to me. I’m about to piss myself. Nerves I never knew I had have woken up and started shrieking. I might puke.
“Michael?” I whisper, my entire body shaking as I look wildly around the room. “Michael, are you here?”
Nothing happens. There are no knocks on the table. No pictures fall off the walls.
Claire says, “Spirit, do you know any of the people in this room?”
Knock.
“Did you know them when you were alive?”
Knock.
“Is it me?”
Knock. Knock.
“Is it Fiona?”
Knock. Knock.
“Is it Kayla?”
The answering single knock is so forceful, I flinch and whimper.
“Do you have a message you want to pass along?”
KNOCK!
The sound of my labored breathing is even louder than the wind. By now, I’m shivering uncontrollably.
Claire reaches out with her eyes closed, blindly hunting for the pad of paper on the tabletop beside her. She grasps it, finds the pencil, and whispers, “Tell us, spirit. What is the message?”
Gripping the pencil so hard her knuckles are white, Claire’s hand hovers over the blank page of the pad.
Fiona sits across from me with her eyes closed and her hands flattened on the table. I think if I closed my eyes now, I’d die instantly from a heart attack.
I’m so scared, I’m on the verge of bursting into tears.
“Spirit, what is your message?”
Seconds turn into minutes. The storm rages outside. The three of us sit silently at the table in wavering candlelight, waiting for a response that never comes.
After a long time where nothing happens, Claire says, “Let me rephrase the question. Spirit, what do you want?”
Her hand holding the pencil tenses. Then it twitches. Then it begins to tremble uncontrollably. I watch in fascinated horror as Claire’s forearm starts to move, jerking back and forth over the paper in short bursts.