The Invited (ARC)

by Jennifer McMahon

  She just didn’t want to hear her voice. No, she didn’t ever want to hear that sound again.

  “Please, Hattie,” Helen said. “Let us know you’re here.”

  Prove I’m not crazy.

  Prove I didn’t imagine you.

  Come back.

  The planchette twitched to life under her fingers.

  Helen had found a section in one of the library books—Communicating with the Spirit World—about Ouija boards. The book warned to be very careful—that using a board was like opening a door and you could never be sure what might come through.

  “Be clear of your intentions,” the book had said.

  But what were her intentions?

  To make contact. To learn about Hattie. About this place. It was more than intentions: it was a need, a compulsion that she felt pulling her along, begging her to work harder, to find out all she could by whatever means necessary, even if it meant talking to ghosts with a Ouija board.

  “Is that you?” Helen asked Riley as the plastic zigzagged around the board. “Are you moving it?”

  “No,” Riley whispered. She was studying the little clear window on the planchette, noting which letters it rested on for a moment before swooping off to the next.

  “B-C-A-W . . .” Riley read out. The planchette slid almost off the corner of the board closest to Riley, Helen having to stretch to keep her right hand on it. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The planchette looped back to the alphabet and continued to spell. Now Riley and Helen read in unison.

  “O . . . F . . . U.” The planchette sketched out a final large circle and then settled on the image of the moon in the upper right corner and was still. There was a damp, rotten smell in the air that clung to the back of Helen’s throat.

  “That doesn’t spell anything,” Helen whispered.

  Riley repeated the letters again, trying to pick words out. “B caws . . . of u,” she said. “Holy shit, Helen, she means ‘because of you’!”

  This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be real, could it?

  The damp rotten smell intensified.

  “Be wary, when using a spirit board,” the library book had warned. “Remember that spirits, like the living, can easily lead you astray.”

  Riley spoke again.

  “Because of who, Hattie? Because of Helen?”

  The planchette slid swiftly left, stopping at the word Yes.

  “What’s because of Helen?” Riley asked.

  The planchette moved quickly now and they read the letters together: C-O-M-B-A-K.

  “ ‘Come back,’ ” Helen said quietly. Her mouth was bone-dry and her voice sounded creaky to herself. “You came back because of me?”

  Yes.

  The thrill of it hit Helen like a jolt, making all the hairs on her arms stand on end. And it wasn’t just that Hattie was speaking directly to her; it was the change in the air—the coldness, the crackling hum like the whole room was full of strange electricity.

  She was talking to a ghost. The spirit of a woman who had lived and died here, on these lands.

  “The spirit board is one of the most effective methods for communicating with the spirit world,” the book had told her, but she hadn’t dared to believe it would actually work. Not like this.

  “Was it because we put up the beam?” Helen asked. “The wood from the hanging tree?”

  Yes.

  The planchette moved again, making Helen’s fingertips tingle. P-L-E-E-Z.

  “Please?” Helen said. “Please what? Is there something you need? Something you want me to do?”

  What would Hattie ask? More important, what was Helen willing to do for her? Anything, she thought right now. I’d do anything she asked me to.

  Riley was watching her with a mix of awe and worry. “Helen, I’m not sure . . .” she started to say, then the planchette moved beneath their fingers, gliding smoothly around the board. Helen watched as it stopped with the little window over letters, Riley reading each one out loud.

  “G-O-T-O-D-O-N-O-V-O-N-A-N-D-S-U-N-S.”

  Then the planchette moved to GOODBYE.

  “Does that mean anything to you?” Helen asked Riley.

  “Not sure,” Riley said.

  “ ‘Got odono von and suns . . .’ ” Helen said.

  “ ‘Go to,’ ” Riley said. “It could be ‘go to.’ ”

  “ ‘Go to donovon and suns’?”

  “Oh my god! Donovan and Sons!” Riley said. “Maybe it’s the old mill. Is that what you mean, Hattie? The old mill in Lewisburg?”

  The planchette did not move.

  “I don’t think she’s here anymore,” Helen said.

  “Hattie?” Riley said again. “Are you with us?”

  No. The planchette held still, no longer full of the thrum of energy Helen had felt, just a piece of lifeless plastic. The damp rotten smell had dissipated. The air felt warm and thick. Used up.

  Hattie was gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  Olive

  S AUGUST 3, 2015

  “Mr. Barns,” Olive said.

  “That’s me,” he said, squaring his broad shoulders. “But who the hell are you and what are you doing up here?”

  “I was looking for you,” she said.

  But now that she’d found him, she wasn’t sure what to say, what to do. Seeing him there with his gun, the strange symbol chalked on the floor, the covered mirror, she felt her nerve slipping away.

  Maybe she should tell him she was looking for something, an “antique” of some kind? She looked around for inspiration but nothing seemed plausible—a chair? But what if he tried to sell her one of those chairs in the circle . . . ?

  “You’re not supposed to be up here,” he said. His teeth were straight and perfect, like movie star teeth. He looked like he could have walked straight off the set of some old western. Like those Clint Eastwood movies her dad sometimes watched.

  “I’m sorry. I thought this was a store,” she said.

  “Downstairs only. Didn’t you see the sign?”

  There hadn’t been any sign telling her to stay downstairs, no roped-off area or curtain.

  “No. I’m sorry—I guess I missed it? I came in and called out, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

  “I’m closed anyway,” he said, scowling at her.

  She remembered the Open sign on the front door. But she didn’t want to argue. Not with a man who had a gun strapped to his waist.

  “I’m not here to shop,” she admitted.

  “Well, what is it you want, then? If you’re doing some school fund-raiser, selling cookies or raffle tickets or some shit like that, I’m not interested.”

  “No. Nothing like that. I’m Lori Kissner’s daughter.” She watched him, hoping these would be the magic words, the key that unlocked the door; that he might even smile, say, Oh, of course, you’re Lori’s girl, what can I do for you?

  He stared at her, poker-faced and silent.

  “I heard,” she said, “uh, I heard you two were friends. That she came here sometimes?” She hated how small and unsure her own voice sounded. And it seemed absurd, really. The idea that her mother actually came here, spent time with this man she and Daddy had always made fun of.

  Her eyes went to his gun again.

  She thought of what Mike had said earlier: It’s the crazy man with the gun.

  “A gun is a tool,” her daddy always told her. “But it’s also a deadly weapon. Guns deserve our respect. They demand our focus. When there’s a gun in the room with you, you give it your full attention, Ollie.”

  So this is what she did now. She gave that gun her full attention while trying real hard to pretend that’s exactly what she wasn’t doing. She kept it in sight at all times without looking right at it.

  “I know Lori, sure. Everyone knows Lori
,” he said with a sly smile that made Olive’s skin crawl. “But I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

  “But she came here sometimes, right?” Olive persisted.

  Was it her imagination, or did he flinch a little here?

  He looked from her to the covered mirror, like maybe the answer was there. Maybe the mirror would speak, voice strange and muffled from the heavy drapery-like cloth that covered it. The mirror would tell her the truth.

  This man, she knew, was going to lie. She felt it in the way her skin tingled, like she had her very own built-in lie detector. And what was she supposed to do, tell a grown-up who carried a loaded gun everywhere he went that she knew he was full of shit?

  “Lots of people come here looking for lots of different things,” he said.

  “To talk to dead people?” Olive asked. “Isn’t that what you do here?”

  He narrowed his eyes, squinting at her like he was trying to make her smaller and smaller, like if he closed them enough, she might just go away completely.

  “Sometimes people come looking for the perfect armoire,” he said. “And sometimes because they have unfinished business with those who have passed.” He started walking, gesturing with his arms, moving in a slow circle. “They have questions they want answered. One final thing they want to say. We offer that opportunity.”

  “Is that why my mother came?”

  “Your mother,” he said, voice soft at first, then hardening, “she didn’t come here. The only time I ever saw Lori Kissner was when she bagged my groceries over at the market.”

  She looked around the room and smiled. “Sorry I bothered you,” she said. “I can see you’re real busy.” She turned to go.

  “I’ll walk you out,” he said, following her out of the lounge, down the hall and the curved stairs with their broken banister, through the crowded mess of the lobby, and all the way to the front door, making damn sure she was leaving. She didn’t turn back to look, but she heard him behind her, his footsteps heavy, his breathing raspy. He smelled like stale cigarette smoke and spicy-sweet cologne. When they were out on the porch, he pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from his shirt pocket and shook one out. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket, started to look at it, the three mannequins behind him seeming to peer over his shoulder.

  “Mr. Barns?” She stopped on the rickety front steps and turned back to him.

  “What is it?” He took his eyes off his phone, looked down at her, clearly irritated.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my mom isn’t around anymore. She left me and my dad.”

  He nodded. Of course he knew. Everyone knew.

  “People in town, they say all kinds of terrible things about my mother. But I just . . . I just wanted you to know that most of that stuff, I don’t think it’s true.”

  He looked at his unlit cigarette, seeming more interested in it than Olive.

  “You said before that the reason people came here, the reason they want to make contact with dead people, is that they have questions they want answered. That’s why I came here today. Not to ask any ghosts or spirits or whatever, but to ask you, an actual living person, if you can help me figure out the truth about my mother.”

  He lit his cigarette, took a drag, and watched the smoke that drifted out of his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry in the least. “I can’t help you.”

  “Okay,” Olive said. “Sorry to bother you.” She hopped down the steps and headed for Main Street, back toward the village, half thinking she’d see Mike hiding and waiting for her. But he was long gone. “Coward,” she muttered.

  When she got to School Street, she turned and doubled back to the old inn, sneaking across people’s backyards. She came up behind the building and walked along the side until she was almost to the porch. She could hear Dicky pacing across the rotten floorboards. She peeked around the corner and saw he was on his phone.

  “Well, her daughter was just here!”

  Olive’s heart thumped hard in her chest.

  “I don’t know,” Dicky said, agitated, practically shouting. “But she was asking questions. She knows something. I don’t know who she’s been talking to, but she knows Lori used to come here.”

  Olive continued to watch, crouched down, peering around the corner. Dicky’s boot heels banged against the worn floorboards as he paced back and forth.

  “I don’t think so. No. We need to meet again and figure out what we should do. All of us.”

  He waited, listening.

  “I know what we agreed to! I’m not a fucking idiot! Don’t give me this unsafe shit. Don’t you think we’re already unsafe?”

  He listened again.

  “Well, how much time do you need for that?”

  He paced faster, boot heels clicking.

  “Jesus! That’s too long. I’m telling you, this kid is suspicious and who knows who she’s been talking to.”

  She heard his lighter flick, an inhalation, then smelled the sharp tang of cigarette smoke.

  “Okay. Okay. I guess I don’t have a choice. I’ll have to trust you, but you better be right about all this. I’ll wait till then, but I’m not happy. Yes, the second Sunday in September. Yes, here, where the hell else? Okay. Yes. Same time as usual. Spread the word. Get everyone here. Everyone. And make sure you bring the diary!”

  Olive pressed her back against the building, listened to the front door open with a jingle, then slam closed.

  The second Sunday in September. She had to be here, to find a way to sneak in and hide. To see who was coming and what they were up to.

  And what they might say about her mother.

  CHAPTER 19

  Helen

  S AUGUST 4, 2015

  “Did you tell Nate what happened with the Ouija board last night?” Riley asked when Helen called her the next morning.

  “Oh god, no,” Helen said. She could only imagine his derision, talking about unconscious micro-movements of the muscles and whatnot. She pressed the phone against her ear. “But I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I want to drive out to that Donovan and Sons place. How far is it?”

  “It’s about an hour away. It’s been closed for ages. I’d actually be interested in taking a ride out there to take a look, but I can’t go with you this morning. We had two guys call out sick at the salvage yard and I’ve got to go in. But you should totally go check the mill out. It’s really easy to find—you basically take Route 4 all the way up to Lewisburg and it’s right in the center of town.” She gave Helen basic directions, then went on to say, “I did a little research online last night. The Donovan and Sons Mill used to make heavy canvas—they had a big military contract. There was a terrible fire there back in 1943. A dozen women and one of the foreman died. The mill closed right after, stood abandoned for ages, but it looks like they’re turning it into condos now.”

  “I’ll take a ride up there and let you know what I find,” Helen told her, hanging up and looking out the window to see if there was any sign of Nate yet. He’d crept off early in the morning while Helen was still in bed with his binoculars, camera, and wildlife notebook. Bird-watching, or maybe out looking for his white deer.

  That was Hattie. Riley’s words echoed in her brain. Nate should be careful.

  Helen wrote him a note saying she was going to do errands and would be back by lunchtime and that she thought they could finish up the plumbing.

  She couldn’t very well tell him she was going to visit a mill because the Ouija board told her to. He’d be making her an appointment with the nearest shrink, talking about stress and delusions and Riley being a bad influence. She felt a little pang of guilt. This was the first time she’d ever told a little white lie to him, ever omitted the truth.

  But it was for the best, really.

  . . .

  The drive was pretty and didn’t take nearly as long a
s she’d expected. On her way out of town, she passed Ferguson’s, the pizza and sub shop, and, on the outskirts of town, a place she and Nate hadn’t ventured into yet: Uncle Fred’s Smokehouse—advertised by a sign with a smiling cartoon pig holding a plateful of bacon, which seemed profoundly wrong to Helen.

  She drove through forests, past green fields full of white-and-black Holsteins grazing, and through tiny, picturesque villages with gazebos and little white churches. It was all postcard perfect: a landscape without the billboards, big-box stores, strip malls, and eight-lane highways she was used to in Connecticut. She thought of her father and how he always talked about building a cabin out in the woods, someplace where he could hear himself think. He would have loved this: all the forests and fields, how the air smelled fresh and green. It was like going back in time. She imagined the landscape had changed little since Hattie’s time. There were paved roads and power lines now, but the hills, mountains, and fields were no doubt the same. Had Hattie ever come this way, riding in a Model T perhaps, or on the train, along the old tracks Helen spotted running beside the road here and there?

  After forty-five minutes, she saw the sign welcoming her to Lewisburg, home of the state champion lewisburg lions! She found the old mill without any problems: a sprawling brick complex along the riverbank. There were construction vehicles of all sorts: a bulldozer and crane, trucks full of lumber, a fleet of electrical contractor vans. Helen pulled up alongside a sign advertising one-, two-, and three-bedroom condos and commercial spaces for rent. She parked the truck and got out.

  “All right, Hattie,” she muttered to herself as she stood looking at the brick building nearest her. “What am I doing here?”

  She walked down a brick-lined path to one of the buildings, where a sign on the front door warned, hard hat area. authorized personnel only.

  “Applications are over at the office,” a voice behind her said.

  “Huh?” She turned, saw a tall, wiry guy in a white hard hat. He was wearing clean khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt and carrying a clipboard. A foreman or manager, she figured.