by E K Bennett
We all look at Sam like she's crazy. Because she sure is acting like it. "Considering I bought it at Toys R Us..." One of Miranda's friends says quietly.
"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" Sam explodes. I take a step back. "This thing opens doors. Doors to places you don't ever want to see, or even think about. That thing just screams "demons"! God, you're putting your whole family in danger, fucking inviting spirits into your home..."
She keeps ranting, pacing the living room and talking animatedly with her hands. Adam and I sink into the corner, exchanging scared looks from time to time. Sam has never, ever done anything like yelling at my sister.
"Sam, you need to relax!" Miranda said calmly.
"I need to relax? No, you need to get rid of that thing!"
"Fine! Just shut up, you're giving me a headache."
Sam shakes her head and looks to me. "Sorry, can we go to my house?" She asks and starts towards the door.
"What?" I say in disbelief.
"It's just... ugh. I have to go. You can come if you want," She takes Adam's hand and drags him out of the house.
I stare. "....What? Sam!"
She stops in the middle of my lawn and shakes her head again, like she's disappointed. "Please come," She calls desperately.
"What the hell?" I shout. "You're not even telling me what's up! Just acting like a complete and total psycho!"
Sam looks surprised, then hurt, then angry, then goes back to normal in two seconds. I bite my lip, seeing as how I haven't said anything to get Sam truly mad at me in years.
"You're real stupid, just like Miranda."
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
I couldn't sleep last night. I don't get into fights, it's just not my thing. Miranda's friends left soon after Sam stormed off like a baby, and I really didn't have the heart to say anything to her. I mean, yeah, I was a little harsh with Sam, but she was being so stupid! Miranda didn't even say a word to me, just went off to bed. She probably expected me to apologize. Whatever.
Whoever said that you need to have a big fight to have a true friendship was on crack. Or suffering from brain damage. That was probably induced by the use of crack. Friendship isn't supposed to leave you tossing and turning until 5 in the morning because you've had too much candy and you can't stop thinking about the fact that your friends should be with you at that moment watching horror movies and making perverted jokes and stuffing your faces with even more candy but in reality they're sitting alone hating on you for being a bitch even though it wasn't entirely your fault but you don't know how to fix it. And it shouldn't be your job to fix it, really. And that just makes everything worse, that thought.
So I wake up and look at the clock, which reads 12:30. Sweet. I roll out of bed and wrap a blanket around myself because it's really fucking cold. "Stupid ass thermostat," I croak.
The kitchen looks the same as it did last night, the stupid Ouija Board on the table, empty plastic cups scattered around, and a couple of bowls half-filled with stale chips and popcorn. I grab a glass of orange juice and make myself a sandwich, then I sit down at the table in front of the Ouija Board.
"Alright, board game from hell, let's see what you're all about," I say and lean in closer. Apparently there's a board, which has all the letters of the alphabet on it, along with numbers 0-9, yes, no, and goodbye. Then there's this little wooden planchette with a window in it that you put your fingers on and ask the question of wonder or some shit, and it's magically dragged to the answer. Threatening. There’s nothing on the box that says anything about “opening doors”.
Next to the board is a pad of paper with Miranda's loopy writing on it.
I take a bite of my sandwich and read the paper, "All righty... 'yes', 'yes', '9', 'girl', 'water', 'Lotty'."
"Yes?"
I whip my head around, expecting to see Miranda or my mother, but no one's there. God, if Sam's here trying to prove a point, I'll kill her. I push my chair back and put my plate in the sink, then see a note. It says: "Shopping with Miranda, call if you need anything! Love, Mom."
Sweet. I write underneath it: "Cool, going for a walk, maybe Sams. Dunno. Lyd."
Then I go to my room to put on some clothes. I'm not sure where to go yet, but it doesn't matter as long as it's warmer than in my house. I pull on a T-shirt and look in the mirror. Playing with my hair, something catches my eye in the mirror behind me. My hairbrush looks like it's scooting off my desk, so I spin around for reassurance. But there's the brush, sitting in its normal place. I rub my eyes.
"Where's my iPod..." I mumble, and start searching. It's not in my bed, not on my desk, I don’t see it on the--
Something starts making a scratching sound. I turn around towards the noise and there, right in front of the mirror, is a little girl with coffee colored hair sitting cross-legged and brushing it with my hairbrush. But her reflection's what gets me; across from her is the same girl in the mirror, making the same movements but looking totally different. Her eyes are black and cold, clumps of bloody tangles get stuck in my hairbrush, scars and bruises cover her face and arms, and her dress is torn and stained. I scream and her reflection laughs at me as I run out of the house, forgetting about my iPod but not forgetting about her.
7. She Thinks She Knows
I'm out of breath by the time I get to Sam's house. I mean it's not like I stopped even once all the way here, though I looked back about seventeen times. That thing hadn't been following me, thank God, but I still ran for my life. I've never put much thought into the act of running for one's life, but I wish I'd had some sort of preparation for it. For one, you're already panicking, otherwise you'll need no other reason to run. And sprinting as fast as you can for six blocks isn't exactly a walk in the park. In fact it's the farthest thing from that. And then there's that feeling that whatever you're running from is getting closer and closer to you each time you take a step away, which only makes you run faster.
I don't know why I chose to go to Sam's house, I could have gone anywhere else. But she seemed to be an expert on shit like this if she freaked out about that lame-ass board. And she's not exactly the kind of person who plays the silent treatment because she's mad at me. She's good at hiding it, but I'm pretty sure she hates being mad just as much as I do. Which is why she's my best friend.
I figure Adam spent the night, although Sam's mom rarely allows that if I'm not there, too. But when I knock on the door Sam answers, Adam nowhere to be found.
She looks worn out, like she just rolled out of bed (she probably did). But the moment she sees my face, Sam steps out on the porch and shuts the door behind her, a frown on her face but a gleam in her eye.
All she says is, "I was right." and sits on the swing on the porch, ready for me to say something.
But I don't know what to say; nothing except to explain what exactly I saw in the mirror. It seems as though with every word, the gears in Sam's head take on a whole new speed, faster each time. She rubs her forehead and closes her eyes most of the time, as if she’s trying to picture it. Eventually I wonder if she’s even awake.
But when I finish she looks up with raised eyebrows and heaves a huge sigh. "You're not lying?"
"Why the hell would I lie about this?"
She shrugs and presses her lips together. "You're sure you weren't hallucinating?"
I hesitate but don't really see a reason to hallucinate, since I'm not dehydrated (at least i wasn't. I could really go for something to drink right now..) or on any LSD or something.
"I don't even think I'm creative enough to think up shit like that. I can barely pass art class," I say with a small laugh.
Sam smiles and shakes her head. "Let's go inside, I'd like to put some pants on. Then we can grab some lunch and talk this over. There's a few things I can show you, too."
"Sweet," I sigh, glad she's finally giving me some answers.
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
There's this old restaurant about a mile from Sam's house that we sometimes walk to in the summer called Annie's that has pr
etty good food, but me mostly just go because it’s what they do in movies and we felt as though we should be a part of that best friends cliche. But we've been coming since about 7th grade. I order a Dr. Pepper and a brownie sundae, then Same lifts up her messenger bag and dumps its contents onto the booth table.
"So I have these books," she starts, "that I got over the years about the paranormal. It's actually a pretty cool concept, but I figured out that it can get pretty dangerous. That's what I was trying to say last night about the Ouija Board. I guess I shouldn't have broken down like that, but it's really serious. A lot of people don't believe in it, and I don't blame them, since they haven't ever seen a ghost.
But I've been looking into it for about five years and all I ever wanted was to see a ghost, really. But after a while of trying to get their attention, I couldn't get anything. So I decided to start studying it, and I found out that ghosts aren't all what we think them to be. I mean, most are harmless. Most. But then there's...others. Demons."
I sip my soda. "Yeah, what was that you were screaming about last night? Opening doors?"
She blinks. "Oh, that. I keep forgetting you're new with this. Okay, so the Ouija board. I don't know what the hell they sell them at toys R us for, we should complain, but a lot of people mistake them for toys. I almost used one when I got curious about spirits, but I didn't know how to get them, and by the time I was able to I'd already read all there is to know about them. But the reason they're dangerous is that, like I said, it opens doors.
So let's put it this way. Ghosts only really exist because they've got some sort of unfinished business. Like, many ghosts are of people who have been murdered and their killer was never caught, or they died before they were able to achieve any goals in their life. Sometimes they just get stuck on the way into the afterlife and want people's help. So by 'opening doors' I mean you're basically acknowledging them. Which doesn't sound so bad, if all they want is a little help. But the reason it's dangerous is because when you open a door, you don't know exactly what will come out. You're basically allowing that spirit to attach itself to you."
"Okay...." I nod slowly. "But what does that have to do with a Ouija Board?"
"Well most people use the Ouija Board because they're curious. Like if they start hearing things or seeing things strange going on in a certain place, they'll use the Ouija Board to confirm whether or not there's an entity in that place, and if so what they want. Some people, though, like Miranda, just do it for fun. You know, slumber parties, Halloween get-togethers. Which is no big deal, which is why I feel bad for basically ruining their night last night."
I stare at the table.
"But," Sam continues, "I don't like the things. They're dangerous, and even though they don't always do anything, something can always go wrong, you know? And most of the time, nothing does happen. But after all the stories I've read about, I promised myself never to use one. And I guess you could say I was trying to protect Miranda, which is maybe half true, but to tell you the truth I was scared to shit. I felt like maybe something could attach to me or whatever.
And again, some spirits are harmless, with the occasional helpful one. But there's demons. And demons are dangerous. They have no other reason to be around other than to cause havoc. They rarely have unfinished business, they just want more power."
My stomach does a flip, and suddenly a brownie sundae doesn't sound too appetizing anymore. "Well, what if they just want to scare you? This doesn't even sound real-- no offense. I mean, how can you know?"
Sam thinks for a second. "Well, I don't know about it just wanting to scare you. But from what I've read," she flips through various books, occasionally stopping to show pictures or read excerpts, "signs of demonic entities and demonic possession are drastic movement of objects, like something flying off a table-- sometimes when an object moves it could just be a poltergeist, which is like a pesky ghost. Poltergeists usually just want to be noticed, they rarely hurt you-- and they make you really angry when you're in their presence. Sometimes you get terrible thoughts of murder and complete anger, sometimes they'll influence your voice and you'll sound funny, you can even black out when they take over you. That's like a minor possession. Nonetheless, it's dangerous. They can physically harm you, too. I've seen pictures of people with cuts and bruises from demons. Here, look at this."
She pushes a book across the table that has a picture of a man's upper back. His skin is rigid and there are multiple deep red scars that almost look like claw marks. The skin around the marks are slightly bruised. I shake my head.
"Who says the guy doesn't have a cat or something? Those look like claws." As much as I should believe all this, I can't bring myself to do it. Everything's got a loophole. Everyone knows that even those TV shows that are supposed to be true stories are revised a little bit to make people believe it.
Sam shrugs. "I guess we don't know that, but the claws are really common. And sometimes people get shapes."
She shows me someone's arm who has a scar shaped like a circle with a slash mark through it. "Ouch..." is all I say. Still, I can't really find a way to believe this shit. There's always an explanation to get out of each picture she shows me.
I sigh. "I don't know, Sam. All I can say is I saw some ten year old girl in my mirror, and her reflection was fucked up. As if the normal looking girl wasn't weird enough."
She closes the book and starts to put things back in her bag. "Well did you get much sleep last night? Maybe you're sleep deprived."
I laugh dryly. "I wish. Look, I don't know how to explain that thing, but I guess this is our best bet. And, who knows? Maybe she'll turn out to be like, a poltergeist or something. I haven't really seen any of the evidence that you said for demons. There's nothing to be afraid of, right? Maybe this girl was murdered, I mean she's just a kid, maybe she wants help. "
Sam smiles smally. "Well, I'd like to see her. I'll help you, if you want."
"Good, because I haven't got a clue what to think about all this shit."
Feeling a little better, especially since I know Sam's not mad at me, we change subject.
8. Draw Me
If there’s one thing I can do right, it’s drawing. Late that night I grab my bulging sketchbook, almost filled completely filled with copies of objects in my room, flowers, and facial features. Adam’s hands. The left side of Sam’s face. Adam’s cat, Squeegi. I don’t like to draw outside of art class and my bedroom, mostly because I’ve only just gotten decent at drawing.
I flip through the book, trying to get a sliver of inspiration for my next sketch. Looking back I can see that, especially with the first few pages of the book, I wasn’t very good. My first drawing was of my windowsill with a flower on the ledge, but the flower was out of proportion and I didn’t understand the concept of shading. As the book goes on, the drawings get better.
I smile at my work and settle down with a drawing pencil against the headboard on my bed. What to draw, what to draw… I wonder, wobbling the HB pencil between my two fingers. My eyes fall on the full length mirror and I get a chill. My eyes shoot across the room in an attempt to get my mind off the mirror. It’s not the mirror, Lyd, it’s the ghost. There’s nothing wrong with your mirror, I think to myself, although that thought hardly makes anything better. And it won’t hurt you. It’s just a poltergeist or whatever Sam called it. Harmless.
I pick up the pencil and start sketching a blanket that’s rolled up and thrown on the floor by my closet. It’s boring, but I can’t think of anything else to do. ‘Misguided Ghosts’ blares on my iPod, and I sketch in rhythm with the acoustic guitar. Finally feeling good about something for the first time all day, I pick up a darker pencil, a 2B, and start on a fold in the blanket.
My hand jerks, and a huge black line cuts across the paper. “Fuck,” I mutter, and lean over to find my eraser. But my left hand with the pencil stays on the paper, and I feel like I need to keep drawing. I did that on purpose. I need to finish it. My hand loops around the page mindlessly
and I gaze at the sketch. The result makes me frown.
Draw me.
I didn’t even sketch a thing, much like I thought I was doing. The words ‘Draw me’ are scrawled on the paper in untidy writing and I look up suddenly at the mirror. The words pulse in my head and I flip the page absentmindedly. After picking up a new pencil, I draw the exterior of my mirror, anticipation pricking my skin. Without thinking, my hand draws an ellipse, a head. I’ve never drawn from memory before, but I feel more confident about this than I have about a drawing in my life. I smile and imagine what Sam will say when she sees my ghost.
The girl’s back is done, and I sketch a small arm, holding my comb. My stomach lurches and I move the pencil to the other side of the mirror and begin the outline of her reflection. I can’t stop, though. I draw the brush with clumps of dead and bloody hair in it, her scratched up arms, waterlogged dress. I save the face for last. A pale face—I barely shade it at all—with blood on her forehead, drippling down her chin and spotting on my carpet. She’s smiling; a smile that I can’t possibly forget. Her black eyes are empty and cold, holding my attention. I always make the eyes too big, but these actually look proportionate. I darken up the hair as much as I can, and my hand slides to the bottom.