by Dan Dillard
Chapter 12
“Further proof that the Ouija cannot be magical is the fact that you can buy it in a toy store. There's even a glow-in-the-dark version now, for added cheese factor. Whatever power they may have once held was whisked away by placing them on an assembly line and putting them on retail shelves.”
-Ethan Jacobs, Electronic Journal entry #42
..ooOOoo..
Ethan pulled a stenographer’s pad from his night stand. It was spiral bound at the top and contained one hundred blank, light green, lined pages, none of which had been written on. He'd originally intended it for phone messages. Now it occurred to him that he'd never be taking messages for himself and it was all just his feeble attempt at getting organized.
Next to it in the drawer was a small pack of three crayons—red, yellow, and green—the kind that restaurants give away to little kids so they'll draw all over the placemats and keep quiet while Mom and Dad order. Emily snagged them one day when they had gone to lunch.
He thought it was cute, but asked, “What the hell can you color with red, yellow and green?”
“Technically... anything,” was her reply.
At that moment, the crayons felt like a silly choice, but then he reasoned that if something evil was to materialize and want to stab him, he'd prefer it was with a crayon rather than a fountain pen. Ethan also grabbed the digital recorder and pad and walked back to the living room to sit down. He turned the ceiling fan off, stopping the blades with his hand, and then checked his thermostat.
Lack of airflow would remove noises that might cover the sounds he wanted, and prevent mechanical noises that he might mistake for something else. Ethan opened the pad to a fresh page and laid the crayon on top of it. Then he took a deep breath, trying to make sure that he wasn’t going to giggle. It felt like he was making a prank phone call, and any laughter would shatter the illusion of sincerity. Every article he read stressed two things, and he repeated them over and over in his mind.
You must believe ... and you must always banish.
Not as hokey as the divining rods or looking between the dog’s ears, but it was silly. He wondered if he should have a candle; there was a lot of talk about candles and how they held supernatural power, but that seemed contrived as well. Once he got his wits about him, he pressed record and proceeded.
“Is someone here?” he said, and watched the crayon, which sat defiantly atop its recycled perch. The green wax gleamed in the light from his self-installed ceiling fan.
“If you are here, I want you to write on this paper so we can communicate. I have questions that maybe you can answer.”
Ethan started to get the hang of talking to no one. He waited, quietly controlling his breathing and listening intently, while watching the crayon. It was still just lying there.
It mocked him with its little paper wrapper claiming that it was ‘Forest Green’. Not 'Emerald' or 'Shamrock', but 'Forest Green'. He was angry with it for being so damned specific. In his head, he pleaded with it to move. Even if nothing were written, it could just roll off the page or spin like the needle of a compass.
Nothing. There's nothing else out there.
The dog's curiosity finally got the better of him and he ambled over and sniffed the crayon. Before Ethan could say a word, Slobs rolled out his tongue and scooped the crayon into his mouth, leaving a smear of saliva that reminded Ethan of the Nike logo. The crayon was gone in a crunch, and he could only sit and laugh at his four legged friend.
Jogging back into the bedroom to retrieve the red crayon, he thought it might be a good idea to feed the dog before he sat back down.
He tore off the Nike-emblazoned page to start fresh, and laid the red crayon down. Its wrapper said simply, ‘Red’, and it was nowhere near as taunting as the green one had been. He asked a handful of questions to any would-be visitors, but couldn’t get past the crunching and gulping sounds coming from the dog dining behind him.
“Maybe,” he said to Slobs. “Maybe, instead of a medium, I’m a large, and it just won’t work.”
Ethan stood up to put the pad and crayon back and smiled at Slobber, who stared in awe as if those were the most brilliant words ever spoken.
“Thanks, buddy, for the benefit of the doubt.”
The pad and crayon went back in the nightstand and he made sure the drawer was closed so they wouldn't get eaten or drooled on. His eyes found the recorder again. He set it up, flipping through the menu and deleting its contents. A quick check of the battery indicator showed ‘Full’, so he pressed ‘Record’ and set it down next to the lamp.
“Good night,” he said.
He would take it to work the next day and listen for ghostly noises.