“Huh,” Nelson said. “Maybe she can feel something after all.”
“Get back in the kitchen,” Hugo muttered as he walked by them, carrying a tray of tea. Wallace glanced back toward the kitchen to see Mei glaring daggers at them through the portholes.
“What was that?” Desdemona asked. “Did you say something, Hugo?” She looked into the camera again. “Followers of my channel will remember Hugo from our last visit. I know he’s very popular with some of you.” She giggled as Hugo set down the tray next to the Ouija board. Wallace wanted to gouge out her eyes. “A dear man, he is.” She trailed a finger along Hugo’s arm before he could pull away. “Would you like to stay and take part in what is surely to be the paranormal event of the decade? You could sit right by me. I wouldn’t mind. We could even share a chair, if you’d like.”
Hugo shook his head. “Not this time. Is there anything else I can get you, Ms. Tripplethorne?”
“Oh, there is,” she said. “But children watch my videos, and I don’t want to corrupt their precious minds.”
“Oh my god,” Wallace said. “How is she a person?”
Hugo coughed roughly. “That’s … what it is.” He stepped back. “If there’s nothing else I can get for you, I’ll get out of your way. In fact, if there was anyone else left in the room aside from you three, I’d tell them the same thing. Get out of the way.”
Wallace snorted. “Oh, yeah. I’ll do just that. Watch. Hugo. Are you watching? Look how much I’m getting out of the way.”
Hugo glanced at him.
Wallace flipped him off.
Nelson cackled before doing the same.
Hugo wasn’t pleased. He went back around the counter, took a rag out, and began to wipe it down while pointedly staring at Wallace and Nelson. When Desdemona and her lackies were distracted, he pointed two fingers at his eyes and then turned them toward Wallace. Stop, he mouthed.
“What was that?” Wallace said, raising his voice. “I can’t hear you!”
Hugo sighed the weary sigh of the put-upon and furiously wiped the counter while mumbling under his breath. It probably didn’t help that Mei was still at the window, but now had a large butcher’s knife that she pretended to draw across her neck, eyes rolling back, tongue hanging out of her mouth.
As Squat Man continued his trek around the tea shop （agreeing rather quickly that he shouldn’t step behind the counter when Hugo glared at him）， Thin Man pulled out another pad of paper and a fountain pen from the briefcase. He stood next to Desdemona, ready to take notes of some kind. He wasn’t aware of Apollo next to him, the dog lifting his leg, pissing on Thin Man’s shoes. Wallace was momentarily distracted by the stream of urine that Thin Man didn’t seem to be aware of, but then Desdemona put her hands back on the planchette and cleared her throat.
“Spirits!” she said again. “I am but your vessel. Speak through me and tell me the secrets of the dead. Be not afraid, for I am here only to help you.” She wiggled her shoulders, fingers flexing on the planchette.
Wallace snorted. He rolled his neck side to side and cracked his knuckles. “Okay. Let’s give her the ghostly experience she so desperately wants.”
“Ooh,” Desdemona breathed. “I can feel it.” She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s warm and tingly. Like a caress against my skin. Ooh. Ooh.”
Wallace took a deep breath, shaking his hands before settling them on the opposite side of the planchette, ignoring the feather quill. At first, his fingers went through it, and he frowned. “Unexpect,” he whispered. “Unexpect.”
The planchette grew solid against his hands. He jerked in surprise, knocking the planchette slightly to the side.
Desdemona gasped, pulling her hands back quickly. “Did … did you see that?”
Thin Man nodded, eyes wide. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” She leaned forward, face inches from the Ouija board. She then seemed to remember she was being recorded as she looked back up at the camera and said, “It begins. The spirits have chosen to speak.” She put her hands back on the planchette. “O, dearly departed. Use me. Use me as hard as you can. Deliver unto me your message and I will reveal it to the world.”
Wallace was not a fan of Desdemona Tripplethorne. He pushed against the planchette, trying to move it, but Desdemona had a firm grip on it. “It’s moving,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth. “Get ready. This is going to get us four million views and a TV deal, I swear to god.”
Thin Man nodded and scribbled on the pad of paper.
“What should we say?” Wallace asked Nelson.
Nelson’s face scrunched up before smoothing out, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Something terrifying. Skip the yes or no on the board. That’s boring. Pretend you’re a demon, and you want to harvest her soul as well as her larynx.”
“No harvesting souls,” Hugo said loudly.
Desdemona, Thin Man, and Squat Man all turned to stare at him. “What was that?” Desdemona asked.
Hugo blanched. “I said … I’m thinking about offering burrito bowls?”
“Not in my tea shop you won’t!” Mei shouted from the kitchen. She’d somehow found a second knife, and it was bigger than the first one. She looked quite the fright through the porthole. Wallace was impressed.
“She’s right,” Desdemona said to Hugo. “That wouldn’t fit with your menu. Honestly, Hugo, know your consumer base.” She turned back to the board, the tips of her fingers firmly pressed against the planchette. “Spirits! Fill me with your ghostly ectoplasm! Leave nothing to chance. Let me be your incredibly sensual voice. Tell me your secrets. Oooh.”
“You got it, lady,” Wallace said, and began to move the planchette. It took more concentration than he expected. Clothes were one thing; moving chairs was another. This was small, and yet it was more difficult than he thought it’d be. He grunted and if he was still capable of sweating, he was sure it’d be dripping down his forehead. Desdemona gasped as the planchette moved from side to side before it started spinning in slow circles.
“You actually have to pause on the individual letters,” Nelson said.
“I’m trying,” Wallace snapped. “It’s harder than it looks.” He furrowed his brow in concentration, tongue sticking out between his teeth. He moved slower, and it took only a few more moments before he got the hang of it.
“H,” Desdemona whispered.
“H,” Thin Man repeated, writing it down on the pad.
“I.”
“I.”
Wallace stopped.
Desdemona frowned. “That’s … that’s it?” She looked up at Thin Man. “What did it say?”
Thin Man paled as he turned the pad toward her, hands trembling.
Desdemona squinted at it before rearing back. “Hi. It says hi. Oh my god. It’s real. It’s really real.” She coughed roughly. “I mean, of course it’s real. I knew that. Obviously.” She grinned at the camera, though more tightly than before. “The spirits are talking to us.” She cleared her throat once more. “Hello, spirits. I have received your message. Who are you? What is it you want? Did you die horribly, perhaps by being bludgeoned to death with a hammer in a crime of passion, and have unfinished business that only I, Desdemona Tripplethorne of Desdemona Tripplethorne’s Sexy Seances （trademark pending）， can help you with? Who is your murderer? Is it someone in this room?”