Whistling Past the Graveyard (Nicki Styx)

by Terri Garey

  “Well,” the woman bit her lip, looking down at the board, “it’s a way to communicate with the spirits. Messages from beyond are given as yes or no answers, or spelled out in simple words.” She regarded us each in turn, serious as could be. “Some people believe it opens a doorway to other dimensions.”

  Nick gave the woman an easy grin, leaning an elbow on the counter.

  “Sounds like just the thing we need. We’ll take it.”

  “You don’t understand.” The woman shook her head, setting her dark curls bouncing. “It’s not a good idea, and besides, it’s not for sale.”

  “Look,” Nick said, pulling out his wallet. “We’re all adults here, all right?”

  I wasn’t, but Nick was over twenty-one, and I looked older than seventeen; everyone said so.

  “I’ve got two hundred bucks burning a hole in my pocket,” he said. “Do we have a deal, or what?”

  I was surprised. I hadn’t even known that Nick had a job, much less that much in the way of ready cash. Still, I’d only known him a little over two weeks, most of our time stolen when I’d been skipping classes, and spent making out in his car.

  “Alright,” the lady said reluctantly. “But you have to use one of these.” She pulled a purple crystal from beneath the counter and laid on top. “A personal condition of my own.”

  I picked up the crystal and held it to the light, admiring the play of color. It certainly looked harmless enough.

  “It’s an amethyst, the stone of power, and protection. It balances the aura and protects against evil spirits. Place it on one corner of the board to keep away ‘unfriendlies’, and don’t let it be removed until the board is closed properly.”

  I tried hard not to grin at all the mumbo-jumbo, and just barely succeeded.

  “You’ll also need this.” She turned and slipped a slender volume from the bookshelves behind the counter. It was entitled “Art of The Ouija”, and looked well used.

  “Read it first; I mean it.” The woman looked directly at me. “Above all,” she looked at Nick now, “take it seriously, or not at all. You get back from the Ouija only what you ask for, so if you treat it as a joke, you’re asking for trouble. If you use it for evil, you attract evil. Either way, if you open a doorway for a spirit, you better be able to live with what comes through.”

  My earlier amusement fled. Power crystals I could laugh at—evil spirits, not so much.

  * * *

  “Are we really sure this is a good idea?”

  I took a nervous sip of vodka as I stared at the board. I didn’t really like vodka, but Nick did, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He’d brought candles and a blanket and everything, and even though we had to sit on the floor, it still seemed romantic, in a way.

  A creepy-old-house, Ouija-board-romantic kind of way.

  Nick eyed me, grinning. “Don’t worry, Katie, it’s just a game.” He took another sip of vodka, and reached out to flick my necklace, a pewter pentagram on a chain. “I thought you liked the spooky shit.”

  I didn’t have the nerve to tell him that my necklace was from a cheap costume I’d worn for Halloween two years ago. I’d kept it because I thought it was cool, not because I was into Devil worship or anything.

  Nick leaned forward and picked up the book we’d bought from the new age lady. “Let’s read the rules, and get this party started.”

  I glanced around the empty living room, hardly believing that I was actually sitting inside the old Hoffman house. It was just as rickety inside as it looked outside, dust-covered floors and a broken-down staircase that I’d never have the nerve to climb. Nick had jimmied the old lock on the back door with a screwdriver, and we’d walked in, easy as you please.

  “I can’t believe you paid two hundred dollars for this thing.” I was nervous, never having done any breaking and entering before. “Where’d you get the money?”

  Nick shrugged, peering at the book in the gloom. “Easy come, easy go,” he said. “I stole it from my old man’s wallet; he’ll never miss it.”

  I swallowed hard, imagining how my dad would react if he found two hundred dollars missing from his wallet.

  “Bring that light a little closer, would you?”

  I picked up a candle, holding it closer to the Art of the Ouija book so that we could both read it.

  “Relaxed attitude, a quiet place, and a serious frame of mind. Check,” Nick said, raising his glass for another sip. He’d downed his first glass of vodka pretty quick, and was already half way through his second.

  “Only one person should ask the questions, keeping them simple so as not to confuse the spirits.” Candlelight flickered over the side of his face, showing his profile in relief as I read the words aloud.

  “Ladies first,” he grinned, taking yet another sip.

  “Open each Ouija session with the question: ‘Is anyone there?’, and wait with an open mind. Equally as important, close each session with a ‘good-bye’, or evil spirits may remain behind.”

  “Oooooooo,” Nick joked, “evil spirits!” He nudged me with his shoulder, making me drip candle wax on the blanket. “Are you scared?”

  “No,” I lied, and took my own sip of vodka, trying not to choke on it.

  “I think you are,” Nick teased. “But don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” He slid an arm around me, but I wasn’t crazy about his breath; it reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, and I hadn’t even known that he smoked.

  I slipped from under his arm, putting my cup on the floor. “Ok. It’s a little cold in here… let’s get this over with.”

  Nick chuckled, then crawled across the blanket to the other side, so that we were facing each other, cross-legged over the board. He put down his cup, and reached for the oddly pointed piece of wood called a planchette.

  “Wait.” I dug around in my pocket for the purple crystal the new age lady had given us. “Better safe than sorry.” I laid it on the board, close to one corner.

  Then I took a deep breath, and touched the middle and index fingers of both hands to the planchette, the way it had shown in the book.

  Nick did the same on his side. He met my eye, grinning, and gave me an encouraging nod.

  Feeling like an idiot, I looked back down at the board and spoke aloud, as though addressing it.

  “Is anyone there?”

  We waited, fingertips resting on the pointer. Nothing happened.

  I thought about what the book had said, and made a conscious effort to relax. Closing my eyes, I took a couple of deep, slow breaths.

  “Does anyone want to talk to us?”

  My hands seemed weightless. I kept my eyes closed and focused on the sensation, willing the planchette to move even as I hoped it wouldn’t.

  But it did.

  The movement brought my eyes open. Nick was staring down at the board, watching as the wooden piece beneath our fingers began to slide.

  It came to a stop over the letter ‘L’. He looked up at me, but I shook my head to the question in his eyes.

  I wasn’t moving it.

  We waited, silent, while the planchette slid again, this time to ‘I’. We watched, fascinated, as the letters ‘A’ and ‘R’ followed.

  Then it stopped.

  I whispered to Nick, “Are you doing that?”

  He shook his head. “Not me. Are you?” He didn’t seem to be as amused as he’d been earlier.

  “Not me, I swear.”

  I took another deep breath, and asked the obvious question. “Who’s a liar?”

  The planchette moved much faster this time, heading arrow-straight for Nick, where it stopped, right at the edge of the board.

  He gave me a skeptical look. “C’mon, Katie. Play nice.”

  “It wasn’t me,” I insisted. Curious, I addressed the board again.

  “What’s your name?”

  The candle flickered, as the planchette began to move again.

  “S-H-A-R-O-N”.

  Nick jerked his hands away like they’d been burned
. “That’s not funny,” he spat, glaring at me.

  Then I heard it.

  Weeping. The quiet, broken kind of weeping that speaks of hopelessness and despair, of heartbreak and loss. The fine hairs on my arms lifted, tickling me with goose bumps.

  “Oh God,” Nick murmured, and I knew he heard her, too.

  I met his eye, scared to death, yet strangely exhilarated. I wanted to know more. Keeping my fingers on the board, even though my hands were shaking, I asked, “Was this your house?” My voice was shaking, too. “Did you live here?”

  The planchette slid to ‘No’.

  The sound of weeping faded, leaving nothing but silence, nearly drowned by the pounding of my heart.

  Nick gave a sudden jerk, twitching his head to the left.

  “Something touched me.” He glanced around, eyes wild.

  I sat back, away from the board. “You’re just trying to scare me,” I accused.

  “Don’t you feel her?” He backed up, kicking over his cup of vodka. It spilled across the blanket, getting the board wet.

  “Calm down,” I said, not having the least bit of fun. “Feel who?”

  “Sharon!” he yelled, getting up. “She’s here! She knows what I did!”

  “What are you talking about? Who’s Sharon?”

  “That bitch,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “She made me do it, I didn’t mean to.”

  I was getting more scared by the minute, and not just because of the Ouija board. Nick seemed like a stranger all of a sudden, a wild-eyed, angry stranger.

  I scrambled to my feet, ready to leave, but a rattling sound drew my eyes back to the board. The purple crystal was moving, all by itself, vibrating and jittering with an energy that astonished me. Within moments, it exploded, shattering with a loud pop. Tiny slivers of stone rained everywhere, as I fell back with a cry, covering my eyes.

  The weirdness wasn’t over, though, as the Ouija board flipped up and over and onto the bare floor, the planchette coming to rest several feet away. I lowered my hands from my face, speechless, and met Nick’s equally shocked gaze.

  At that moment, the back door slammed open, hitting the wall with a violence that astonished me. A dark figure loomed in the doorway, emitting a menacing growl that chilled my blood.

  Nick shrieked like a girl, then turned and ran. He headed straight for the front door, tearing it open in a panic, and pounded down the front steps before I’d barely had a chance to move.

  I backed away, terrified, as the dark figure loomed closer.

  “What the hell are you doing out here, Katie?”

  Hearing my Dad’s voice made my knees weak with relief.

  “Dad, I—”

  “Have you been drinking?” He leaned over, snatching up the cup of vodka, and gave it a sniff. “Katherine Michelle O’Callahan… you are in big trouble, girl.”

  Outside, a car engine rumbled to life. Gravel crunched and tires squealed as Nick, my former boyfriend, tore off down the street, leaving me to my fate.

  “Blow out those candles, and let’s go.”

  I looked down at the blanket, the flickering candles, and the facedown Ouija board. The book was still there, as was the planchette. “I need to say, ‘good-bye’”, I said weakly, thinking of the instructions in the Art of the Ouija.

  “I think your boyfriend already said it,” Dad growled dismissively. “And if he comes near you again, he’ll wish he’d never been born.” Face like thunder, Dad leaned over and picked up the candles himself, blowing them out. Then he took me by the arm and led me, unresisting, from the house.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, I ditched school and made my way back to the Hoffman house. It looked even worse in the daylight than it had in the darkness, front porch sagging, windows broken. I snuck around back, through weeds as tall as my knees, and went in the back door, which was still ajar.

  Everything was still there, including the Ouija board, lying face down on the floor.

  I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to touch it, or even look at it. I’d wanted to believe it was only a game, but now I knew that it wasn’t, and it never had been.

  Nick’s car had been found upside down in a ditch the morning after we’d used the board. Rumor was that he’d been drinking, which was true, and that he’d fallen asleep at the wheel. I’d believed it myself at first, spending those first few days in a haze of shock and grief. It was my first experience with death; I’d never personally known anyone who died.

  Then, two days after Nick’s funeral, I’d starting hearing the sound of a woman crying.

  I’d be in my own room, in my own bed, when it happened. At first I thought I was imagining it, but it happened over and over, night after night. My parents thought I was just freaking out because of what happened to Nick, but I’d heard that crying before, right here, in this house. Then, last night, someone had said my name, whispering it from the shadows, and I knew I had to do something to make it all go away.

  With shaking hands, I picked up the Ouija board and turned it over. Then I got the planchette and sat down with them both, resting my fingertips lightly on the wooden triangle.

  “Is anyone there?”

  The planchette sped to the word yes.

  I swallowed hard, gathering my nerve. “Sharon?”

  The planchette moved in a wide circle, returning to the word yes.

  The house was so quiet. I could hear cicadas outside in the trees, the faint sound of a dog barking in the distance.

  “I don’t know what happened to you, Sharon, but I’m sorry for it, whatever it was,” I murmured.

  The planchette began to move again, spelling out, “N-I-C-K”. A brief pause, then, “L-I-A-R”.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “D-E-A-D”.

  I wanted to run, to hide, but I knew she’d follow me, just like she’d followed Nick. She’d wait, hiding in the shadows of my room every night until dark, emerging to weep and wail until she drove me crazy. No one would ever believe me. No one would ever think such a thing could even be possible.

  “I barely knew him. I wasn’t even supposed to be with him that night. I shouldn’t have trusted him the way I did. I—I was stupid.”

  “S-T-U-P-I-D-K-A-T-I-E”.

  The hair rose on my arms, and I had to force myself to breathe. “Yes. Stupid Katie.”

  The planchette didn’t move.

  The dog had stopped barking, and even the cicadas sounded muted.

  “Could you please just­—” I blinked back tears, swallowing the lump of fear in my throat. “—just let me go?”

  Very gradually, the planchette began to move, choosing the letters with excruciating slowness. “G-O”, it said, and then came to rest on goodbye.

  I lifted my fingers, scarcely daring to believe my eyes. “Goodbye,” I whispered, and stood up.

  Then I picked up the half-empty vodka bottle and poured it all over the blanket. Pulling a lighter from my backpack, I set the blanket on fire, then ran away as fast as I could, leaving the house to burn to the ground.

  I could only hope it would be enough.

  THE WATCHER

  I see her, but she doesn’t see me.

  I see her during her early morning run, when the woods are foggy and full of birdsong. She wears headphones, blonde hair in a ponytail. Doesn’t she realize how easy it would be for someone to run up behind her and drag her into the bushes?

  I see her as she leaves for work, cup of coffee in one hand, purse slung over her shoulder. Her black Honda Accord has scratches on the door from her keys, small dents on the side where other car doors have hit it. One of her tires is low, and she doesn’t have a spare. If she got a flat some night in a deserted area, she’d be at the mercy of anyone who stopped to help her fix it.

  I see her at her desk, eyes trained on her computer screen, fingers flying across the keyboard as she types. Emails, documents, phone calls. Busy. She is always so busy. Too busy to cover the camera on her monitor,
because she doesn’t realize that people can use it without her knowledge, watching her when she thinks herself unobserved.

  I see her having lunch, usually with a co-worker, and often at the food court of a nearby mall. She likes salads with chicken, sometimes splurging on a slice of pizza, heavy with cheese. For a drink, she prefers bottled water, or tea, unsweetened. Health-conscious, not wanting those early morning runs to be wasted on empty calories. Too bad she’s not as conscious of her personal safety as she is her figure.

  I see her at the grocery store after work, stopping to pick up roasted chicken for dinner, a bottle of wine to enjoy with it. Sometimes she goes out to dinner with friends, and drinks a little too much before coming home. Drinking makes her careless—some night she might forget to lock her door.

  I see her getting ready for bed, too sleepy to close her blinds as she moves between the bedroom and bathroom, toothbrush or hairbrush in hand. Doesn’t she know that someone could be outside in the bushes, peering avidly through the window at her slender beauty as she parades it back and forth?

  I know.

  I know, and I watch.

  I watch, and that is how I become aware of the evil that creeps toward her window in the pre-dawn darkness. Bad intentions, lustful thoughts, feverishly perverted dreams of panic-stricken eyes and helpless struggles. How can a girl like that, so small and pretty, overcome the horrifying onslaught of pain and dread as such evil portends?

  She cannot. She will be swept away in a flood of violence and terror unlike anything she has ever known. If she’s lucky, she won’t survive it, for if she lives, she will be scarred too deeply to ever again be the innocent girl who runs with headphones in the foggy woods, and sometimes drinks a little too much with her friends.

  I watch, and when the evil gets too close, fingers reaching for the window that she’s foolishly left unlocked, I do as I was born to do, and stop it.

  The neighbor’s dog begins to bark: deep, frantic barks that draw attention. The neighbor’s light comes on, illuminating the face of evil that was hidden in the darkness outside her window. The dog continues barking, refusing to be quieted, and the neighbor’s back door opens as evil pulls away from the light, back into the shadows.