The Harrowing

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  She followed Lisa through the archway of the lounge and almost ran into her as Lisa abruptly halted.

  Martin was there, standing over the round table with a legal pad and a pen, looking down at the board, a small figure amid the weirdly tumbled furniture.

  Lisa said, “Hey!” loudly, and he jolted, clearly startled to see them, almost flustered at being discovered.

  Lisa crossed the carpet to join him in front of the fireplace, blithely unaware of his consternation. “We were just looking for you,” she informed him, with that exasperating imperiousness that Robin was beginning to warm to. “We want to do another sitting. You’re game, aren’t you?”

  Martin blinked at her. “Quite. I’ve been reading up on Ouija boards. There’s a good bit of legitimate research on the subject on the Internet.” He took off his glasses, gestured at the board like a small professor. “Our experience wasn’t unique, you know. It’s amazing how many cases of supernormal effects have been reported by reputable people.”

  Lisa winked at Robin. “Reputable people.”

  Martin put his glasses back on and looked to Robin, a diffident glance. “Something happened between us last night…the collective focus on the board, possibly the combination of personalities, some link between all of us…”

  Robin was startled to hear what she had just been thinking coming out of Martin’s mouth. Behind them, the wind blew a spattering of rain against the windows, like a handful of tiny rocks.

  “We achieved some kind of mental communication at least. Possibly precognition, as evidenced by the game scores in the newspaper.” Martin glanced at Robin again. ‘Taken from a psychological perspective, it would make a good subject for a term paper.”

  “Hate to burst your Freudian bubble,” Lisa said loftily. She slapped the yearbook open on the table in front of him.

  Martin stared down at the photo of Zachary, clearly taken aback.

  “Zachary was as real as you and me. He lived here. He probably died here.”

  “A ghost?” Martin looked up, not at Lisa, but at Robin. “Surely you don’t believe that.”

  Lisa looked offended. “What’s your supernormal explanation for the furniture?” She waved around at the shambled contents of the room.

  Martin blinked at her in the grayish light. “It’s highly likely the furniture was a prank. We can’t discount the human element.”

  It was a perfect deadpan delivery. Robin and Lisa burst into spontaneous laughter. Lisa reached out, tousled Martin’s hair with something like affection. “God, no—not the human element.”

  As if on cue, Patrick sauntered in, marginally dressed in sweats and a jersey. He yawned, surveyed the room and the others lazily. “What, no food?”

  Robin and Lisa looked at each other and collapsed into giggles again. Martin smiled shyly, enjoying the joke. Robin felt a rush of warmth and camaraderie, and found, surprised, that she was on the verge of tears.

  Patrick looked around at all of them, then pulled a new bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the waistband of his sweats. “Lucky I came prepared.”

  Lisa stooped to pick up the candles from the floor in the back. She arranged them on the table beside the board and fished in a pocket for a lighter.

  Almost automatically, Robin turned and knelt beside the fireplace, reached for logs to make a fire. Patrick hefted the yearbook, flipped through it. “So that’s Zach, huh? My man don’t talk much like a 1920s ghost, though, do he?”

  Lisa rolled her eyes. “What does a 1920s ghost talk like?”

  Patrick layered a British accent over his Southern one. “I say, old sport. Ripping good.”

  Lisa scoffed, “He didn’t say he was English.”

  But as they bickered, Robin thought fleetingly that Patrick was right. There was something off about Zachary’s speech patterns. Inconsistent.

  Martin spoke impatiently, as if reading her mind. “The point is, it’s not a ghost. The messages are coming from us.”

  He glanced down at his legal pad, which Robin could see was covered in notes.

  “The history of the Ouija board is fascinating, really. The game became quite the rage in the 1920s. The occult movement, with its various forms of mysticism—séances, tarot, ceremonial magic, Kabbalah”—he glanced at Lisa briefly—”had taken off in Europe, and then America, due to the unprecedented number of deaths in World War One. And it was a dark time in general—World War Two already on the horizon, and of course…” He trailed off, took his glasses off and wiped them.

  Robin realized instantly what Martin wasn’t saying. Hitler. The Nazis. She remembered Martin’s reference to his rabbi father. We all have our ghosts, don’t we?

  Martin replaced his glasses on his nose and continued. “Suddenly, a whole generation was desperate to contact deceased loved ones. In fact, this very board dates from 1920.”

  He pointed to a cluster of Roman numerals beside the BALTIMORE TALKING BOARD imprint.

  Robin thought, 1920 again. I wonder—

  But the thought evaporated as Martin continued.

  “The spirit board was a rather sophisticated technological innovation for the time. Before the advent of the board, participants in séances attempted to communicate with the ‘beyond’ through table tipping or tapping.” Robin could almost see the quotation marks in the air as he spoke.

  “ ‘Spirits’ would supposedly rap through the tabletop”—he demonstrated by tapping his knuckles sharply on the table—”which restricted questions to those requiring yes or no answers, or forced querents to count knocks corresponding to numbers of the letters of the alphabet—A was one knock; Z was twenty-six.” He rapped a few times—four, five, six—then lifted his hands. “Well, one can only imagine how tedious it must have been, waiting.”

  Lisa murmured, “Insufferable,” but everyone was riveted.

  Martin passed his hands over the board like a magician. “But then one Georges Planchette invented the alphabet board and this little piece.” He picked up the wooden indicator. “The planchette eliminated the need to count knocks numerically; the board could simply spell out words, or indicate numbers. At the time, an innovation about as revolutionary as the telephone.”

  Robin noticed that his voice held real admiration. But then Martin turned dismissive.

  “Of course, what was really happening was automatism: the subconscious minds of the players guiding them to move the piece to spell out desired answers. Still, there are many accounts of unaccountably precognitive and extrasensory messages, just as we experienced last night.” He glanced shyly at Robin, spoke toward her. “Both Freud and Jung attended séances and studied the phenomenon. It’s as if the collective concentration on the board somehow heightens perception.”

  Patrick was already busy rolling a joint on one of the coffee tables. “Well, let’s see if ol’ Zach can come up with some lottery numbers tonight.”

  Lisa ignored Patrick, huffed at Martin. “This is all fascinating, Professor, but you’re completely ignoring the salient point, which is that we were talking to Zachary Prince.” She picked up the yearbook, open to Zachary’s picture, and shook it at Martin. “He was real. He died here mysteriously”—she mimicked Martin— “in 1920, in fact. And last night we got him on the telephone.” She tapped the Ouija board with a crimson nail, then leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms. “Now, tell me that was coming from my mind, or Robin’s.”

  Martin pushed at his glasses. “I don’t recall any mention of a Prince—”

  “Right, Zachary is just such a common name. Must be a coincidence,” Lisa shot back.

  Martin frowned. “It wouldn’t be at all surprising if one of you had heard talk of a student dying—even read the yearbook. It’s been here under our noses. It’s hardly inconceivable.”

  Robin suddenly realized Martin was right, and automatism might not have anything to do with it. She hadn’t read the yearbook, but Lisa certainly could have. She felt a wave of cold and heat at once, paranoia and humiliation. What if the whole e
vening really had been an elaborate prank? Plant a Ouija board in the game cabinet, pretend to summon a long-dead student, leave the yearbook to back up the story. For all Robin knew, they were all in on it but her….

  Not Cain, though, her mind countered instantly.

  And what about the game scores, the newspaper confirming them this morning? Surely that was proof—

  Unless the newspaper had somehow been faked.

  The thought sent another wave of paranoia through her, a feeling as shaky as nausea.

  But why? Why would they do it?

  Robin glanced to Patrick, studied him furtively. Though he was sprawled quite nonchalantly on the couch, he was watching Martin and Lisa intently.

  He shifted his eyes toward Robin, caught her watching. The look he gave her was veiled, unreadable.

  Martin was speaking loftily to Lisa. “At any rate, we have all night to test the theory and—”

  He stopped mid-sentence, frowned around the room as if he’d misplaced something. “Where’s Jackson? We need to replicate the conditions.”

  Lisa fished in a pocket for a cigarette, smiled secretly. “He’ll be down.”

  Patrick lounged back on the couch and fired up the joint. Everyone looked toward him; he lifted his hands. “I’m replicating the conditions.”

  Martin nodded. “By all means. The altered perception probably contributed to the overall experience.”

  Patrick grinned, exhaled. “It sure as hell contributed to mine.” He extended the joint to Lisa, who took it, put it to her lips for an appreciative drag.

  Martin continued. Almost manic, Robin thought. “Atmosphere is a huge factor in the efficacy of a séance. We had all the conditions aligned for us last night—the storm, the power outage, the fire…”

  Caught up in her inner tumult, Robin had forgotten the fire she’d started to build. Now Martin noticed the unlighted logs in the fireplace. He reached for Lisa’s fighter and knelt rather awkwardly on the hearth beside Robin, sparked the lighter and ignited the newsprint between the logs. Flames licked up the paper, casting orange light on his face.

  There was actually something attractive about him, Robin decided: the way he came alive when he was interested in a subject, the take-charge confidence he’d been showing all evening.

  Martin turned beside her, meeting her eyes. Robin looked away quickly, flustered.

  A voice came suddenly from the doorway, raised in irritation. “Okay, just stop it. It’s not funny.”

  They all turned. Cain stood under the archway, looking frazzled. The others looked around at one another, mystified. Cain’s voice grated in annoyance. “The pounding? On the pipes?”

  Patrick sat up from the couch. “We all’ve been here in plain sight of each other. Nobody’s been doin’ any pounding.”

  Cain looked to Robin for confirmation. Robin nodded, unable to speak.

  Martin rose from the hearth, brushed soot off his hands. “What exactly were you hearing?”

  Cain glanced back at Robin, then to Martin. “In the ceiling. Loud. Rapping. Knocking—”

  Patrick raised his eyebrows at Martin. “Funny, didn’t you just say spirits communicated through knocking?”

  Lisa’s voice came suddenly from the table, breathless. “You guys—”

  They all looked over. The planchette was moving under her hands.

  Her eyes were wide. “He’s here.”

  Robin felt a jolt of excitement, mixed with unease, doubt, a flood of paranoia again. A prank? A ghost? What were they doing?

  Lisa looked up at her from the slowly circling pointer—and under the excitement, there was something helpless, even a little frightened in her eyes.

  Robin bit her lips. Go, she told herself. Just go back upstairs now.

  And then the longing to be part of something, something extraordinary, won out.

  She sat abruptly across from Lisa, reached out to the moving planchette. Touching it was like an electric shock—there was something so clearly alive there, her breath stopped in her throat. She looked at Lisa in disbelief. Lisa met her eyes, nodded. She felt it, too.

  In the doorway, Cain made an exasperated sound. “Oh Christ.” He turned to leave.

  The planchette suddenly jumped, spelling quickly, urgently. Robin stared down at the unfamiliar letters. Lisa sounded them out one by one under her breath, groping at the words. Latin, Robin realized. Lisa spoke the whole sentence out.

  EVIDENTIA EXCULPARE COUNSELOR ?

  Cain froze in the doorway.

  Robin wondered about the phrase. A legal term? Something about evidence? She remembered that Zachary had been studying law, too.

  Patrick snapped his fingers at Cain impatiently. “Well? What’s it mean?”

  Cain glanced at him. “Exonerating evidence. I was writing a paper about it—just now.” He looked at Lisa again with blistering suspicion.

  She stared back at Cain defiantly. “He said it. I didn’t.”

  Martin spoke up, more to himself than the others. “Telepathy again.” He reached for his legal pad, made a note.

  Lisa pressed her fingertips into the pointer, raised her voice. “Zachary, was that you knocking?”

  There was a puff and whoosh and a rush of orange light…as a log caught fire in the hearth. Everyone turned toward it startled.

  Then the indicator leapt to life. Robin could feel the urgent tug under her hands. Much faster than the night before, and more confident. Almost—cocky.

  DID YOU MISS ME CHILDREN ?

  Robin’s eyes widened; she felt a prickling on her neck. Lisa looked at her from across the board. Robin leaned forward, intense. “Are you Zachary Prince, who died here in 1920?”

  The pointer was still for a moment, then spelled more slowly.

  ARISE ARISE FROM DEATH

  “That’s the inscription from the yearbook,” Lisa said softly to the others.

  Robin felt a deep chill. There was something wrong here, a creepiness under her fingers, almost heat, like anger. How different it felt from the playful teasing of the night before.

  “Zachary, how did you die?” Lisa asked. Robin felt another shock of heat under her fingers as the pointer moved quickly.

  BURNED

  Robin flinched, and saw Patrick grimace. “That’s harsh.”

  Martin stepped abruptly forward, stared down at the table. He directed his voice toward the board. “If you’re a ghost, what is a ghost?”

  The pointer stopped, still now. Robin couldn’t feel a thing under her fingers. She looked across at Lisa.

  Martin spoke again, more demanding. “Explain what you are.”

  The pointer was completely still. Martin leaned over the board, agitated. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  Shadows danced on the walls from the firelight; then the pointer started to move. Random, teasing circles. Finally, it slid quickly from letter to letter.

  ASK NICELY

  Martin colored. Cain looked sharply at Lisa, then at Robin. Robin started to shake her head.

  Martin cleared his throat, forced himself to speak politely. “I…would like to talk to you, please.”

  Robin flinched as the pointer jerked to life, spelling almost violently.

  CR.AWL

  Martin paled, stunned.

  Robin gasped, pulled her hands off the pointer. Cain advanced on the table. “That’s enough, Marlowe.”

  Lisa stiffened. “I’m not—”

  “I know you’re doing it.”

  “I fucking am not.” Lisa shoved the board away from her.

  “She’s not,” Robin protested.

  Silence fell in the room. The logs snapped in the fireplace as flames ate at the logs. Patrick and Cain circled the shadows around the table, the board.

  Robin bit her nails, stared down at the black letters, focused in on the burn marks along the edge of the board. Charred. There was something ominous about the black now, something that didn’t make sense.

  Stop now, she told herself. I don’t like this gam
e.

  Cain stopped across from her, met her eyes. He seemed about to say something.

  Robin suddenly put her hands back on the indicator. Lisa looked at her, slowly reached out to the wooden piece. A garnet in one of her rings caught the light, glowed briefly like a drop of blood.

  Robin drew a breath and asked tightly, “Zachary, why are you angry at Martin?”

  The pointer circled, slid almost sullenly from letter to letter. Lisa sounded the words out, frowning.

  ADON OLAM

  Robin and Lisa looked across at each other, then at Martin. He stared down at the board as if mesmerized.

  “What does that—” Robin began.

  The planchette jerked under their hands, scraping violently across the board. Robin and Lisa could barely hold on.

  ASK HIS COCKSUCKING MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE

  Lisa gasped and stood, pushing herself away from the table. Robin sat frozen, staring down at the board. Martin’s face was very still.

  “Master of the Universe? Is this a video game now? What the fuck…” Patrick looked around, bewildered.

  “God. It means God.” Martin pulled back Lisa’s chair and sat heavily down, put his hands on the indicator and stared across at Robin. “Let’s go.”

  Robin jolted, startled by his vehemence.

  Cain stepped closer to the table, behind Robin. “I don’t think—”

  Martin glared at Robin, eyes burning. “Let’s go.”

  Transfixed, she slowly extended her hands to the planchette. Her fingers touched Martin’s cold ones. Martin spoke through clenched teeth, unfamiliar, grating syllables: “Haim ata ru-ach o Qlippah?”

  The pointer jumped violently under Robin’s hands and flew off the table, clattered to the stone hearth.

  “Shit,” Patrick yelped, jolting back.

  Robin found she was standing—she’d jumped up so quickly, she hadn’t realized she was on her feet. Everyone was standing except for Martin, all of them frozen in disbelief.

  Cain whipped around toward Martin. His voice was strangled. “What the fuck did you say?”