999

by Al Sarrantonio

On top of the game table rested a Ouija board with an American-style planchette, a cream-colored, heart-shaped piece of plastic with a circular window set in its center. The room was in darkness except for the fireplace flames and the flickering light on the table from a group of thick candles arranged close by.

  Trawley lifted an eyebrow at Dare. “No tape recorder?”

  Dare shook his head. His manner brusque, he said, “No. No, I’ll remember. No need.” The author glanced up to the second-floor landing and a video camera put there by Case. It was aimed at the table. “And it’s going on film,” Dare noted further.

  Trawley nodded. “Very well. Now then, you may have a few misconceptions that I think I should disabuse you of.”

  Dare murmured, “Of which I should disabuse you” Distracted, he was staring at the planchette and was hardly aware that he had spoken. Trawley glanced in his direction “There will not be any floating tambourines, Mr. Dare. No ectoplasm. No ghostly apparitions. No voices. Nothing will possess me or attempt to speak through me. Yet if something is here, it will show us, it will make itself known. My pitiful"—she turned to look at Case—“gift,” she finished, “is somehow to focus its energies, that’s the best that we can expect. We don’t need to have the lights off, incidentally.”

  “Oh, I know that,” said Case. “It’s just to put us in the mood.”

  “Well, we’re in it,” snapped Dare.

  Freeboard folded her arms and looked at Trawley.

  “And so what’s supposed to happen?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” said the psychic.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. Perhaps nothing at all will occur.”

  Trawley held out her hands to either side.

  “Now all join hands, would you please?”

  They followed her instruction.

  “I need you to be quiet and perfectly still,” said Trawley. “Try to help me, please. Even if you think this is foolishness, try not to speak and keep your thoughts fixed on me.” She closed her eyes. “Think only of me and what I’m trying to do,” she said. “Now then, shut your eyes, please.”

  They obliged, and as they did, a slow creaking sound was heard, as of a shutter or a door coming slightly ajar.

  Dare’s eyes opened wide.

  “Mr. Dare, are your eyes still open?” asked the psychic.

  “How on earth did you know that, madam? Are you peeking?”

  “I am not. Would you close them, please?”

  “I will.” Dare shut his eyes.

  “And now we wait,” uttered Trawley. “Try to help me. And wait. Just wait.” Her final words were barely a whisper. She appeared to breathe slowly and deeply for a time. And then again she spoke. It was a quiet question: “Is there anyone here with us?”

  They waited. Only the crackling of the fire could be heard.

  “Is there anyone here?” the psychic repeated.

  Another deep silence ensued. A minute passed.

  Dare opened his eyes and was about to comment tartly when the candles and the fireplace flames were snuffed out, as if extinguished by a single massive breath. The Great Room was plunged into absolute darkness and the scent of the river was abruptly in the air. “Oh, well, really,” said Dare in a voice that was straining to be blithe: “How utterly banal and degrading. I saw this scene in The Uninvited. Is our budget too tight for a fragrance of mimosa, or is eau de clam chowder the scent of the day?”

  Freeboard shut her eyes, then put her head down and shook it.

  From somewhere a keening sound arose, and then a violent banging that kept repeating, insistent, implacable, jarring their souls.

  “Domino’s Pizza,” said Dare. “They’re aggressive.”

  But his voice held the hint of a tremor.

  Case stood up and moved deliberately across the room to where a wooden shutter, tossed by a gusting breeze, was crashing against the inner wall. “There’s our trouble,” said Case. “We may have another storm coming up.”

  He reached the window, locked it shut and then returned.

  He struck a match to relight the thick green candles.

  “Oh, can’t we have the lights on?” asked Trawley.

  “Yes, of course.” Case snuffed out the match. He walked over to the wall and flipped a number of switches, turning on all of the sconce lights and lamps. Coming back to the table, he took his chair and remarked, “So it seems it was really Mother Nature, Mr. Dare, and not Mother Trawley who produced the cliché.”

  “My apologies, madam,” Dare told her.

  “Now then, may we proceed?” Trawley asked him.

  “Your servant.”

  As the others closed their eyes, Dare goggled. Far across the room he saw the collie dog he believed he had seen in the other wing. It was staring through a partly open door that led to the inner maze of the house. With a yip it scampered back and out of sight.

  “Mr. Dare, are your eyes closed?” Trawley asked softly.

  “Oh, for God’s sakes, yes!” Dare irritably answered. He immediately closed them. There followed a silence like that of cathedrals at dawn or in lucid dreams of flying.

  “Is there anyone here?” asked Trawley quietly.

  More moments passed in silence.

  Dare opened his eyes and let go of the hands he’d been gripping. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said tightly.

  The others at the table opened their eyes.

  “Oh, well, it really doesn’t seem to be working, now, does it?” said Trawley. She sounded very matter-of-fact.

  “No, it seems not,” answered Case. He looked at Freeboard. “Well, so far it seems your clients should be perfectly safe here, Joan.”

  “I didn’t say that I don’t sense a presence,” said Trawley.

  Freeboard looked away and murmured, “Shit.”

  Case probed Trawley’s eyes. “Good or evil?”

  She waited before answering: “Dangerous.”

  Dare made a move to get out of his chair, but Freeboard gripped him by the wrist and tugged him down.

  “Let’s see what happens, ‘I am Doubt,’ “ she said firmly. “Okay?”

  Dare saw the interest in her face and looked appalled.

  Case shifted in his chair.

  “Well, shall we try something else now, Anna? Something new?”

  Trawley stared at him intently for a moment, saying nothing. Then she lowered her gaze to the table and said, “Yes. The Ouija board. Just as you suggested,” she added.

  Case nodded his head toward the board. “Worth a try.”

  Dare looked past him to the door where he’d seen the dog.

  “Mr. Dare, is that agreeable?” Case asked him.

  Dare shifted his glance. “Yes, what’s the harm?”

  “Did you see something?”

  “See something?”

  “I saw you looking past me rather oddly.”

  “No, nothing,” Dare said curtly. He looked tense.

  “Very well, then, let’s begin,” said Case. “I’ll just observe, if you don’t mind. Go ahead. You’ve all done this before?”

  “I know the drill.” Freeboard nodded.

  “And you, Mr. Dare?”

  Dare said, “No. Nor have I bungee-jumped from a bridge in Lahore with a purple sacred cow in my arms.”

  Trawley instructed him, and moments later all except Case were resting their fingertips on the planchette as it glided slowly around on the board. “That’s it,” said Trawley. “Get the feel of it a bit.”

  “Of course it’s you who’ll be actually moving it,” Case ruminated. “Your unconscious minds, I mean. On the other hand, I think that if there were something to it, it’s because the unconscious must in some unknown way form a bridge to the other side: the spirit gives a message to the unconscious, which in turn prompts our fingers to move the planchette. You think that’s right, Anna?”

  “Possibly. Yes.” The psychic nodded.

  “Say again why we’re doing this,” Freeboard
asked. She was staring intently at the planchette. Something was pulling her into this process. And somehow unnerving her as well.

  “To be sure that the house is safe for your clients,” said Case.

  He and Trawley shared a look.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Freeboard grunted.

  Dare shook his head and murmured, “Shameless!”

  Her gaze still fixed on the roaming planchette, Freeboard murmured, “You’re fucking up the spirits here, dickhead.”

  “Let your hands be at rest now,” Trawley advised them. The planchette ceased its motion and the psychic closed her eyes. A deep silence ensued. Trawley lowered her head.

  “Is there anyone here?” she asked.

  Nothing happened; the planchette stayed at rest. Then as Trawley began to repeat the question, the planchette made a lurching slide to the YES in the upper left corner of the board. Dare stared at the word. “I didn’t do that,” he said quietly. He shifted his glance to Freeboard. “Did you move it?”

  “No, you did.”

  Trawley uttered softly again:

  “Who is here?”

  The Great Room was still. The air was thick. And waiting.

  Trawley’s brow began to crease. Vaguely troubled, she again probed the darkness: “Who is here?” she repeated. Almost before she had finished speaking, the planchette lurched downward with vigor to a letter. Trawley opened her eyes in apprehensive surmise.

  “U. The letter U,” noted Case.

  Again the planchette began to move swiftly, carrying their fingers from letter to letter.

  “Come on, Terry, you’re moving it!” Freeboard accused him.

  “I am not!”

  Case called out the letters one by one as the planchette moved to Z, and then U, and then R-D-E-R-E-R-H-E-R-E.

  And stopped.

  “Zurderer here?” Dare wondered.

  He was rapt and intent, all cynicism vanished.

  “Makes no sense,” Freeboard commented, frowning.

  As she spoke, the planchette glided up to the NO.

  “’No,’” said Case, looking thoughtful.

  Then, “There it goes again,” he said abruptly.

  The planchette moved to Z and from there to M.

  “Z-M,” Case murmured. “ ‘No Z-M.’ What on earth could that possibly mean?” he pondered.

  “Not Z but M,” guessed Dare.

  He looked up. “The Z is wrong; it should be M!”

  “’Murderer here’!” exclaimed Freeboard.

  The planchette fluttered up to the YES.

  “My God, it’s Quandt!” Dare breathed.

  A shocked hush fell upon them. Trawley lifted her eyes to Case.

  “Are you Edward Quandt?” she asked the presence.

  Somewhere a door creaked slightly open. Freeboard was watching it as it happened: it was the thick carved door that led down to the crypt. She turned to look at Dare as she noticed that his fingers felt icy cold, and as she did the planchette slid upward again. It stopped on the NO. Then rapidly it flew to other letters and numerals. As it did, Case called them out: “M-O-N-E-O-F-U.”

  Her eyes on the board, Trawley paled.

  “ ‘Murderer one of you,’ “ she said softly.

  For a moment no one spoke. Then Freeboard erupted, “I’m getting freaked! Take your hand off it, Terry!”

  “I’m not moving it,” said Dare.

  She looked angry. “I said, take off your hand!”

  Dare caught a glimpse of Trawley and was taken aback to see tears in her eyes. Then he noticed Case staring at the psychic with compassion; he was shaking his head and seemed to be mouthing the words, “No, Anna. No. Not you.” What the hell was this about? the author wondered. He lifted his fingers from the planchette.

  “Tell us who is the person who is communicating,” said Trawley in a husky, low voice. “Who are you? What is your name?”

  They waited but the planchette did not move. Freeboard turned to Dare with a knowing and accusatory smile. “Ah-huh!“ she said, nodding her head. Then abruptly she turned her head back to the board as the planchette moved rapidly under their fingers.

  Case called off the letters. “A …” he began.

  On the next one, Freeboard joined him, chiming in, “Ce.”

  Case looked up at her and smiled. Then he leaned back and watched with what looked like satisfaction as the Realtor alone went on calling out the letters:

  “Ce … Ee … P …” The planchette hesitated. “T.”

  Then the movement ceased.

  “’Accept,’” said Dare with a frown. “It spells ‘accept.’”

  “So what’s that supposed to mean?” puzzled Freeboard. “ ‘Accept.’ Accept what?”

  “Or who?” mentioned Dare.

  The planchette was moving again, swinging wildly back and forth between the letters G and O.

  “G-O-G-O,” murmured Dare.

  Trawley winced and put her head into her hand. It was as if she’d been stricken by a sudden stab of migraine. As she lifted her hand from the plastic planchette, it flew off the board and rattled onto the floor, where after brief motion it at last lay still.

  Case put a hand on Trawley’s arm. He looked concerned.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I have to stop. An awful stabbing in my head.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Case.

  Frowning, Freeboard stared at the Ouija board. “’Go.’ ‘Accept,’” she wondered aloud. “What in shit could that mean?”

  “What did you mean it to mean?” Dare said coolly.

  “And what the hell does that mean?”

  “Oh, well, clearly you were moving it, Joan.”

  “Bull-shit!”

  “You’re suggesting Mrs. Trawley was moving it? Bizarre!”

  Freeboard stood up and strode away from the table.

  “I’ve had it, guys. Really. Adios.”

  “Where are you going, love?” Dare called after her.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t care.”

  She was headed for the foyer.

  “Maybe for a walk,” she called back. “I need air.”

  The clacking of her heels on the floor receded. The front door opened and closed. She was gone. Case turned back to Trawley. She had both elbows propped on the table now, her head cradled down into her hands.

  “How’s the head?” Case asked with concern.

  “Getting better.”

  Dare’s glance shifted back and forth between them.

  “Are we finished?” he asked stiffly.

  “Yes, I think so,” said Case.

  Dare stood up and addressed them both. “Let me thank you for these thoroughly exhilarating moments. Never have I felt quite so glad to be alive since Evel Knievel invited me to join him in leaping a chasm in Ulan Bator. You’ll excuse me? I’m finding that I need to make a call.” The author turned on his heel and strode toward the staircase. Case watched his quick footsteps ascending the steps, saw him walk down the hall and disappear into his room.

  Case dropped his glance to Trawley.

  “Shall I ask Morna to bring you some aspirin?”

  Trawley said, “No.” It was barely audible.

  “Been a bit of a bust tonight, hasn’t it?” said Case.

  Trawley nodded her head. Case thoughtfully appraised her in silence for a time and then he reached out his hand and touched it to her arm.

  “Did you move the planchette?” he asked her quietly.

  She dropped her arms to the table, lifted her head and stared at him blankly. “What?”

  “I mean, unconsciously,” he said to her gently. “Do you think you caused your daughter Bethie’s death? That you’re the murderer?”

  Her look was incredulous.

  “I really don’t know what to say,” she responded.

  “When your daughter Bethie died—” Case began.

  But she cut him off.

  “I never told you that
my daughter’s name was Bethie.”

  Head down, hands deep in the pockets of her jeans, Freeboard trudged along the shoreline, lost in thought. There was an aching and a churning deep inside her, a sense of displacement, of loss, of fear, and of an answer that kept voicelessly shouting its name. Case. That freaking Case and his freaking martinis. That’s what had started it, she brooded. And then reading that goddam freaking book.

  Abruptly she stopped in her tracks and looked up.

  Something was wrong, she felt. What was it?

  The silence, she suddenly realized. No sounds. Not of the river nor of birds nor any life. She could hear herself breathing, hear the beat of her pulse.

  This is weird!

  Freeboard looked toward the village on the opposite shore. There wasn’t any fog and the night was clear. Shouldn’t there be lights? she wondered dimly. When she turned her gaze south toward Manhattan she blinked. And then suddenly her eyes were wide. She gaped numbly. She took a step backward, bewildered, frightened, and then cried out in outraged incredulity, “What?”

  She turned and ran back toward the house.

  Chapter Eleven

  Breathless, Freeboard burst into the entry hall, closed the door with a bang and fell against it. She looked up at a sconce and then into the Great Room as all the mansion’s lights began to flicker down to dimness. “Terry?” she called quietly. She waited. No response. Cautiously she moved into the Great Room. “Terry?” she called out more loudly.

  She glanced all around.

  “Dr. Case? Anna?”

  The silence grew stranger. Nothing moved. Freeboard walked to the library, scanned it quickly, and then rapidly moved to behind the bar, where she poured a few fingers of rye into a glass, gulped it, and then stood there, trying to collect herself. Then her eyes grew wide and she froze as she heard a sound like rusted hinges, and then of heavy stone grinding slowly over stone. It seemed to be coming from beneath her. Freeboard darted a numb look into the Great Room and the door beneath the staircase leading to the crypt.

  Shit!

  It was still unlocked and ajar.

  Freeboard set down her glass and strode out of the library, calling out, “Terry? Terry, where the fuck are you?”

  She looked up at the door to his room.

  “You up there? Terry? Dr. Case?”

  She went to the stairs and quickly ascended them and then walked to the door of Dare’s room. She knocked and called, “Terry?” but immediately burst into the room without waiting for an answer.