“I thought you said we could talk to spirits on this thing.” Tiffany Warner’s face wore a look of boredom mixed with disgust. “It obviously doesn’t work. I mean, we tried it about a thousand times last night!”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that? It doesn’t surprise me, though. I ripped it off from that fake witch who owns The Silent Cat.” Tamara Biggs tossed the stolen talking board aside. Her bottom lip poked out in a disappointed pout. “No wonder it doesn’t work. It’s fake, just like she is. I think I’ll sell it. I could probably get a lot of money for it. Maybe we should just get a real Ouija board.”
“Really? You stole that thing? Aren’t you afraid you’ll go to hell?” Tiffany’s brown eyes sparkled; her bored expression lifted.
“According to my mom, I’m headed there anyway.” Tamara glanced at the antique talking board sitting in disgrace on her rumpled bedsheets. “Next time I’ll steal something better. Besides, Mom would prob’ly die if she knew I went into a witchcraft shop. I’m surprised I didn’t burst into flames.”
“Oh my gawd, the lady who runs that shop is like, so frickin’ weird!” Tiffany said as she zipped up her makeup bag. She lowered her voice and raised her drawn-on eyebrows. “I see her in Rainbow Foods a lot. My mom hates waiting on her because she’s so creepy-looking. I think she’s dating the guy who fixed our heater a few weeks ago. He’s a hottie. Too bad he’s with her.”
“He’s a hottie, and she’s a fake,” Tamara said, rolling her eyes. “Like, where does she buy her clothes, a thrift shop? He should wise up and date me instead!” She sputtered laughter into the palm of her hand. “Oops! Was that a lustful statement? I sinned again!”
An insistent knock on the closed bedroom door interrupted the girls’ giggle session, and Tamara’s mother called out, “Tamara Lynn? Time for Tiffany to go home. I need your help with the church bake sale now!”
Tiffany scooped up her pajamas and crammed them into her backpack. “Speaking of sins …” she muttered. “Can you call me later?”
“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything. I’ll be ass-deep in cookie batter and Bible quotes all day and into the night. Too bad I won’t see a dime of the money we make. It’s supposed to be for the needy or some shit like that.” Tamara opened the door for her friend.
Monica Biggs stood aside to let Tiffany pass. A tight, plastic smile decorated her face. “Tell your mother I said hello, Tiffany.” She poked her head into Tamara’s room. The plastic smile widened. “Hurry up now, Tamara. Sloth is one of the seven deadly sins, you know.” Her jaw dropped when she caught sight of the candy wrappers and corn chip bags that decorated the floor. “And so is gluttony! Move, young lady! Now!”
Later that evening, after a long day of cookie batter and Bible quotes, just as she’d predicted, Tamara returned to her room and collapsed dramatically on the bed. Her hand thwacked against the wooden talking board, and she pulled it out from beneath the floral-print sheets. “Piece of junk,” she told it, tracing a fingertip over its gold-leaf letters. “Talk to spirits, my ass.” But she located the board’s pointer and set it in place anyway; it was good for passing the time, even if it didn’t contact the dead. She rested her fingers, ever so lightly, on the pointer and closed her eyes.
“Spirits of the dead, hear me out!” Tamara intoned in an ominous, theatrical voice. Giggles bubbled up from her chest and she didn’t try to hold them back; she really cracked herself up sometimes. “Oh, great oogah-boogah boo! Talk to me and say some spiritual shit! I double-dog dare you!”
Nothing. The talking board, in all its antiquated beauty, lay unresponsive on her lap.
“That’s what I thought.” Tamara shoved the board off her bed and picked up her copy of Teens Rock magazine. “It’s probably a sin to use that thing too.”
A stealthy, sliding sound caused her to look up from the glossy pages. “What the hell is that?” She said it aloud, putting extra emphasis on the word hell just to be rebellious. She put her magazine aside and sat up in bed.
Rustle, crackle, slide …
Tamara looked down at the floor. The purloined talking board was sliding across the carpet of its own volition. The empty chip bag rattled as the crescent-shaped board glided over it.
“Very funny, Todd!” She put extra ice in her voice as she called out the name of her younger brother. Of course it was him. He was always doing asshole things like this to annoy her. “I don’t know how you’re doing that, but it isn’t funny!” I bet he’s hiding under the bed, she thought. He probably attached a string to it somehow, and he’s pulling it. Damn little turd!
The talking board inched closer to the bed, then stopped. A generous puff of cold air belied the spring sunshine outside; it caressed her cheeks and tossed her bleached curls. Where had that come from? The window wasn’t open, and it wasn’t hot enough to turn on the A/C.
“Todd? Is that you?” Tamara’s eyes stayed glued to the inexorably sliding talking board. The cold breeze became a cold wind. Candy wrappers skittered across the carpet. “Todd …? Knock it off. I … I mean it!” All the authority and bluster had gone out of her voice, and her bottom lip began to quiver.
The board stopped its eerie advance, and the mysterious indoor wind quieted. “Todd?” Tamara considered the distance between the bed and the door, and decided to stay where she was. Putting her feet on the floor didn’t seem to be a good idea. The classic childhood fear of having one’s ankles grabbed by something lurking under the bed—even if it was just her snotty little brother—came to mind. She tucked her legs well away from the edge of the mattress. “That’s enough, Todd! You can come out now! And you didn’t scare me, I just …”
The talking board made a sudden and rapid spin on the cluttered floor, then rose up on its edge like a bizarre wooden monolith. A column of dirty gray smoke rose from its face. It began to rotate, making a miniature whirlwind right next to her bed. Tamara watched, horrified beyond screams, as it separated into seven smoggy tentacles. It was as if an octopus—minus one leg and made of smoke—had manifested itself in her bedroom.
It’s the devil! Tamara thought wildly. Mom was right all along! He’s come for me! I’m sorry I stole, I’m sorry I didn’t go to church! I swear I won’t do it again! I believe in God! I believe in Jesus! I do, I really do!
The hazy tentacles wavered before her face; one of them trailed its tip down her cheek. It felt colder than a January blizzard. They twined around themselves, writhing and pulsating, then shot out in all directions. Something hissed next to her ear. A voice, sibilant and tinged with ice told her: “Shhh … we are here now. Sinner … sinner …”
Tamara dove beneath the covers and began to pray.