The Forgotten Child

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  It. The Ouija board.

  Becca had scurried off when Mrs. Romero headed in their general direction.

  No, I can’t, Riley had wanted to say. But she would have looked foolish saying that to a bank of lockers, so she ended up at Becca’s house that night even though her gut still told her not to.

  After school, Riley hopped online to research Ouija boards. The more she read, the louder her mind screamed at her. No, no, no.

  Gateway. Demons. Unpredictable.

  Several people said that even if something nasty came through, as long as you forced the little plastic thing—the planchette—to “goodbye,” it shut down the connection and kept the creepy stuff from haunting you.

  An hour later, she ran into the living room to tell her parents she was going to have dinner at Becca’s.

  “Oh, is that my daughter?” her father asked from the couch, a bowl of popcorn between her parents as they watched the local evening news. “I was starting to forget what you looked like.”

  “Ha ha,” Riley said. “I’ll be back after.”

  “Homework done?” her mom asked.

  “Most of it.” None of it. “I’ll finish when I get back. I need help on algebra again.”

  “It’s a date.”

  Riley dashed across the street. She let herself in, like usual, called a hurried hello to Ashley, and took off up the stairs. Ever since the night Mariah showed up at the dinner table, Ashley watched her closely, as if she expected Riley to strike up a conversation with her deceased daughter at any moment. Riley hadn’t seen the little girl since, but had woken up out of a dead sleep a few nights, vague dark shapes bleeding back into the shadows as her eyes adjusted.

  “Geez!” Becca yelped from her spot on the floor, a hand to her chest as Riley came barreling through the door. She looked like a mini version of Ashley. “I thought you were Mom.”

  “Should I lock the door?”

  Becca painstakingly took the Ouija board out of its box and laid it on a white towel she’d spread out on the floor. The planchette was placed delicately on top, as if it were made of glass. “Yeah, lock it. Mom is making lasagna from scratch, so she won’t be done for a while. I think I saw her get the pasta press out. Who makes pasta by hand?”

  Riley locked the door, but just stood there, bunching up the bottom of her shirt in her fists. The board looked innocent enough.

  “C’mon, you chicken!” Becca said, still focused on the board.

  A gulp of breath puffed out Riley’s cheeks. She took her spot across from Becca.

  “Okay, so Taylor said what you have to do is ask, like, basic questions: what’s your name, how old are you, when did you die … they have to answer one letter at a time, so it can’t be anything too hard.”

  “She was just a baby,” said Riley, staring at the thick block letters spelling out the alphabet. “How can she spell stuff when she wasn’t even old enough to talk yet?”

  “You didn’t see a little baby though, did you?”

  No, Riley definitely saw a toddler. Could toddlers spell?

  “Let’s just try it and see what happens.”

  The girls sat cross-legged, leaned forward, and lightly placed their fingers on the planchette. Riley bit her bottom lip.

  Nothing happened.

  “You gotta ask stuff!” Becca whisper-hissed.

  “Why me!”

  “You’re the one who made contact!”

  “This is stupid!”

  “Ask!”

  “Ugh! Fine.” Riley cleared her throat, trying to remember the things she read online. “We would like to speak to Mariah Green. Are you here?”

  “Oh, that’s good,” Becca said, gaze zeroed in on the planchette.

  Riley held her breath for so long waiting for a response, she was worried she’d pass out. Then the planchette slowly started to inch its way across the board.

  “Are you doing that?” Becca asked, eyes wide.

  “No! Are you?”

  “No, I swear!”

  YES, the board said.

  “Oh god oh god oh god,” said Becca. “Ask something else.”

  Riley swallowed, sure pools of sweat would soon form below her hands on the board. “What’s your name?”

  Slowly, it spelled out: M-A-R-I-A-H.

  “Oh god oh god oh god.”

  “Are you okay?”

  YES.

  “Can you show yourself to your mom, like you did with me? She wants to know you’re okay, too.”

  There was a long pause and Riley shared a look with Becca. Then the planchette started to move again.

  NO.

  “Why not?” asked Becca. “Just show up and wave at her like you did with Ry.”

  NO.

  Becca took her hands off the planchette and put them on her hips, like a mother about to scold a child. “She misses you.”

  MISS HER.

  The planchette had moved with only Riley’s hands on it, and faster than it had with them both. Riley’s mouth dropped open after the first letter.

  “I have an idea.” Becca lightly touched the planchette with the tips of her fingers again. “Taylor was saying she watched her sister and her friend do it once, and when it got boring, they sort of … egged it on? They were kinda mean to it, you know? Pushed it to answer.”

  This was the exact opposite of what Riley read one was supposed to do. Before she could say that, Becca spoke.

  “Hey, Mariah, I know you were born before me, so you’re technically the older sister, but I’m the one here, okay? I’m the one who has to see Mom so sad. So how about you give us something we can use as proof you were here.” Her voice got stronger, more confident. “We need proof or she’s not going to be able to get past it. Go on! Prove you’re real and this isn’t just Riley screwing around.”

  “Hey!”

  “It’s just to get her to talk,” Becca whispered, as if that would keep Mariah from hearing her.

  Something in the corner of the room hit the floor and the girls yelped, pulling their hands away from the planchette. A two-shelf bookcase holding most of Becca’s art supplies had toppled over. Pens, crayons, colored pencils, construction paper, glue, glitter, and googly eyes littered the carpet. Riley felt like the floor was watching her.

  “What’s going on up there?” Tony called from downstairs.

  Riley and Becca stood side by side, hands clasped. Riley couldn’t remember when they’d gone from sitting to standing.

  They yelped again when someone banged on the door. The doorknob rattled. “What are you two doing?”

  “Girls, open up.”

  Both her parents were there now. The girls looked at the door, then each other, then the board. They scrambled forward without discussing it; they needed to stash the board.

  When they were a mere foot away from it, the planchette flew across the room and smacked into the wall.

  They both came up short. Riley slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Oh god oh god oh god.”

  Riley lowered her hand. “We have to force it to say goodbye.”

  “What?” Becca asked.

  “I read about it before I came over. We have to force the planchette thing to ‘goodbye’ to make sure we’re not haunted.”

  The doorknob rattled again. “Open up! Now!”

  “One sec, Mom!”

  “If you don’t open this door in the next five seconds, I’ll get a screwdriver and take this door off its hinges and not put it back on till you’re 35.” That was Tony.

  “I’ll get the board; you get the planchette,” whispered Becca.

  “Why do I always get the worst jobs!”

  Becca lunged for the board like it was a wild alligator she needed to wrestle into submission. Riley darted to the other side of the room where the planchette—hopefully—was lying on the other side of Becca’s bed. It had bounced off the closet door before hitting the ground.

  Crawling across the bed, Riley peered over. No planchette. “Crap.”


  Hanging halfway over the edge of the bed, she lifted the side of the comforter. The planchette sat directly under the bed. Steeling herself, she reached for the plastic triangle. The moment her hand touched it, Becca let out another startled yelp as something else crashed in the room.

  “That’s it! I’m getting the screwdriver!”

  Riley hurriedly righted herself and whirled around.

  Becca stood in the middle of the room, hands clasped to her mouth as she stared at the wall. Written hundreds of times—in what looked like black crayon—was the name Mariah. Over and over and over. It looked like little kid writing; the letters not quite all the same size. But it started at the top of the wall—higher than either of them could reach—and went all the way across and down.

  “What the hell, Becks?”

  Not taking her wide eyes off the wall, or her hands off her mouth, Becca shook her head.

  Seconds and eons later, there was a commotion at the door. Riley looked over just as the door was lifted up and out and Ashley ran in, only to come up short and gasp when she saw the wall covered in sloppy black letters.

  “What the …” Tony muttered.

  Riley scanned the room, shocked that books and Becca’s desk chair and clothes were thrown all over the room. Like a mini hurricane had swept through. Or a child just had an epic tantrum.

  Tears in her eyes, Becca turned to her parents. “I don’t know what happened. We thought we could talk to her.”

  It was then that Tony saw the Ouija board on the floor. His gaze snapped to the planchette in Riley’s hand. “Was this your idea?”

  “No … I …”

  “It was my idea, Dad. I thought we could—”

  “Enough!” Ashley snapped, snatching up the board and yanking the planchette out of Riley’s hand. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but it stops now. Riley, go home. I’ll be calling your parents within the hour.”

  “You …” Riley tried. “You have to force the planchette to—”

  “Now, Riley.”

  Raising her brows in Becca’s direction, her friend nodded.

  “Move it to goodbye,” Riley said, walking to the door. “I’m … I’m really sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Green. Honest.”

  She ran home.

  Riley received a lecture that lasted half a lifetime from her parents later—mainly from her mother. Not for “playing a cruel joke,” as Ashley had claimed, but for opening doors that weren’t supposed to be open when she had no idea what she was doing.

  The Greens experienced weird things every night after that. The final straw came when Becca woke up screaming, covered in scratches on her back and arms even though she’d been sleeping on her back. The family moved within a month. Riley and Becca tried to keep in contact, but Becca’s parents eventually forbade them from communicating. Ashley monitored Becca’s internet use and phone, blocking Riley anywhere she could.

  By the time Riley started high school, she had no idea where Becca lived. Her cell phone number was changed. They hadn’t talked since.

  Jade let out a soft snort then, pulling Riley back to the present. Jade shifted on the bed. Seconds later, her rhythmic breathing resumed.

  Ever since Riley’s experience with Mariah Green, she’d avoided actively calling on her sensitivity. It was all too unpredictable. Not just the spirits or energies, but how living people reacted to it. She didn’t want anything that happened this weekend to ruin her friendship with Jade.

  Avoid, avoid, avoid.

  She knew the circumstances with Rebecca were vastly different than the circumstances now, but she couldn’t help worrying.

  She also couldn’t sleep. It was just after midnight, according to her cell. Perhaps she could get a nightcap from the kitchen. Was the kitchen still open? It wasn’t like she could just pop over to a convenience store.

  Sighing, she crept out of bed, rummaged through her luggage, and pulled out a hoodie. Grabbing one of the keys off the table by the door, she let herself out of the room.

  The hallway was deathly quiet.

  Flames danced in their glass enclosures as she made her way down the stairs. Angela wasn’t manning the reception desk anymore. The investigation team and their bag of ghost hunting gear was gone.

  But, lucky for her, Michael and his companions were still in the lobby. His sister and her wife sat together on a sofa, busily looking over a book. Michael warmed himself in a chair by the fireplace, a mug in hand. Another chair sat beside it, the armrests touching.

  Riley plopped into the open chair. Michael gave a start.

  “Sorry,” she said, tamping down a smile.

  He smiled as he recognized her. “Well, hello, fellow skeptic. Riley, right?”

  “Good memory, Michael.”

  The smile turned to a grin. He took a sip from his mug. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  Riley shook her head. “I’m a bit of a night owl.”

  “Ah,” he said, nodding. “A party girl.”

  “If you call binging Tiana’s Circle for the third time a party, then damn straight.”

  He laughed. “Can’t say I have the foggiest clue what that is. Granted, my old ass is rarely hip to what the youths are into these days.”

  Riley snorted unexpectedly, startling the pair on the other side of the room. They smiled at Riley and waved, then went back to their book.

  Michael, when he smiled, had a dimple in one cheek.

  “You can’t be that old,” said Riley. “Though only geezers say foggiest clue.”

  “I’m pushing thirty-one.”

  “Five-year difference … yep, definitely a geezer.”

  Michael sat up a little straighter and leaned toward her just a smidge. “You’re twenty-five? I swear I thought you were seventeen.”

  “Ha!” she said. “I get that a lot. Young face.”

  “Well,” he said, reclining in his chair again, “at least I don’t have to feel like a pedophile anymore for thinking you’re gorgeous.” He flushed. “Christ, did I really just say that out loud? I think I said that out loud.”

  Riley flushed too. “You definitely said that out loud.”

  Michael sat there holding his mug with both hands, staring into it as if he hoped he’d fall in and drown.

  “What on Earth is in that cup of yours and can I have some too?”

  That broke the spell and he focused on her again. “I raided the kitchen and made myself a White Russian.”

  “Well, aren’t you fancy.”

  “Want one?”

  “Yes.”

  “C’mon.” He walked toward the pair across the way so he wouldn’t have to shout. “I’m gonna take Riley into the kitchen and make her a drink.” He kept moving, waving over his shoulder for Riley to follow him.

  “Literal or euphemism?” one of them asked.

  “The latter, if he plays his cards right,” said Riley.

  Michael stumbled over the edge of a rug, almost spilling his drink.

  The ladies both laughed. Michael arched an eyebrow at her.

  “Literal, old man,” said Riley. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Too late.”

  Michael led her past the dining table and through the double doors at the back of the room. The place was pitch black until Michael flipped on a switch.

  Two refrigerators sat against the wall directly opposite the doors she’d just come through. The wall to her left had gas-burning stoves, low cabinets, and a ton of counter space. A large steel island took up a sizable chunk of the room. Sparkling pots and pans hung from the bar above the island, and even more hung below it.

  Her father would love this kitchen. The man fancied himself a chef mainly because he’d watched an ungodly amount of the Food Network and owned nearly every appliance and cooking utensil one could imagine. The industrial kitchen was all stainless steel, every surface gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

  Riley let out a low whistle.

  “Right?” said Michael, heading for the fridges. “Guess they
need the big guns for when they host large events.”

  Resting a hip against the island counter, she said, “I feel like I shouldn’t even breathe in here.”

  Michael collected the necessary supplies, then placed the mug, milk, coffee liqueur, and vodka on the counter next to her. He mixed the drink with the ease and speed of a professional.

  “I’m very impressed right now.”

  “Don’t be,” he said, sliding the finished product toward her. “I was a bartender for, like, five years. It helped put me through college.”

  She took a sip. “Oh, that is good.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, then flushed again. “I’ll, uh … just put this stuff away.”

  She smiled to herself as she took another sip. When he was done and heading back toward her, she said, “So what was this bet you lost?”

  He groaned. “I was hoping you’d forget about that.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s the kind of stuff I latch onto.”

  “Good to know.” He huffed, then rested his hip against the counter, too. “It’s … it’s embarrassing.”

  “If you’re trying to get me to be less interested, you’re one-hundred-percent going in the wrong direction,” she said.

  “Less interested in the story or in me?”

  “Man, get one White Russian in you and you’re unstoppable.” She winced. “That sounded dirtier than I intended. But … both.”

  His dark brows shot toward his hairline. “Well, in that case …” He walked around to her other side, then hopped up on counter, his legs dangling off the side. He patted the spot beside him.

  Riley managed to hop up next to him without spilling her drink. Though she was warm in her hoodie, her pajama pants were thin and she shivered as the cold metal touched the backs of her legs.

  “So,” Michael said, “my sister, Donna, is a year older. We’ve always been a bit competitive—over nearly everything—and we have this really dumb tradition that we’ll challenge each other to eat something particularly offensive at every major holiday gathering. Whoever spits it out first, can’t swallow it, or vomits first, loses the bet.”