Manifestation

 

Kim Richards

Mid-August is what the others called “the dog days of summer.” Marik thought that was a silly saying, but he didn’t voice his opinion to them. He’d been called a “downer” too many times already since coming to the commune last spring.

Still new to the peace and love lifestyle, he wasn’t fully able to open himself the way the other hippies did…yet. The petite blonde called Luna kept reassuring him it would happen. “You’ll come around,” she said, as they sat together next to the swimming pond. She dangled her dainty feet in the water, creating little swirls with her toes. “You have to let go of those stick-up-the-ass notions your parents beat you over the head with all your life. It’s hard to let go.”

“Let go of what?” Marik asked.

“The fear.”

He stated flatly, “I’m not afraid of anything.”

Luna had one of those sunny smiles. It lit up her entire face and gave her blue eyes a sparkle. “You also have to give up your disbelief.”

“I believe,” Marik said.

“Right on.” Luna turned to face him. “What do you believe?”

“I believe in God.”

“I never thought of you as a Jesus Freak.”

No one ever called him that before. He stared at his hands. No longer the hands of a soldier: he had callouses developing in new places. He didn’t mind the work required at the commune. It kept his mind occupied and his hands busy at times when the horrors of war threatened to drown him in despair.

He stared up at the mansion at the top of the hill. It stood there for close to a hundred years now, through changes in climate both worldly and political. As his gaze travelled across the grounds and gardens, he knew this place had saved him. Many of his comrades-in-arms came home from the war to places they no longer recognized, or to places that rejected them. Death wasn’t really a coward’s way out; it was one they understood intimately. This house, these people, kept Marik from taking the long walk.

Marik’s goal was to fit in with these hippies, even if he found their love beads annoying and, when he was working, inconvenient. The girls kept urging him to pick a new name as part of leaving his past behind. He wasn’t quite ready for that, though he pondered what to choose.

Luna’s touch on his biceps brought his thoughts back to her. “Your farmer’s tan is nearly gone.”

“I stopped wearing my undershirt. Bull and Thunder made fun of me too many times, I guess.”

Her fingertips traced his muscles. “I like men shirtless. It’s sexy.”

Marik blushed.

Luna climbed to her feet and held out her left hand. “Come with me.”

When Marik looked up, the sun gave her entire body a soft, yellow glow. Warm and safe, like he knew her embrace would be. He took her hand, stood, and followed her up the hill.

~

At night, the entire group of communitarians gathered in the main living area. A fire blazed, reflecting on the lion-shaped columns that flanked the fireplace. Someone had painted eyes on the lions recently. Marik was pretty sure the original statues didn’t have the yellow irises and dark, curly lashes there now.

Luna sat with Persephone and Meadowlark and one of the men beside an enormous bookcase. The man strummed a guitar while the ladies sang folk tunes. Another man sat near them with his nose in an oversized book. The group had dubbed him Plato because of his love of reading. Marik thought it curious the others considered Plato larger than life.

Thunder and Bull sat at a long table, arm-wrestling. Marik snickered to himself. I guess even hippies have their muscle heads. Competitive pranksters.

He sat beneath a picture window that overlooked the orange trees and heart-shaped lawn. A notebook perched on his lap. He twirled a pencil. Marik had agreed to Luna’s suggestion to write poetry as a way to express the feelings he kept bottled up. When he agreed, he had no idea it would prove as difficult as taking up a machine gun had been. He still heard his father’s voice, telling him to ‘put aside girly things and be a man.’

The others told him it was his old man’s philosophies that sent him off to war. Hell, Marik had been proud when his draft notice finally came. Then his dad clapped him on the back and grumbled about how he would’ve enlisted, instead of waiting on a damned piece of paper.

Maybe the hippies were right. Marik had tried living up to his dad’s expectations. He always failed. Perhaps he needed to be himself, instead of fitting into the mold of his father or the military. Neither fit into this modern world any more. The thing was, Marik had no idea who he was inside. He was clueless how to find out.

When Luna mentioned letting go of fear that afternoon, the idea stuck in his head. He did fear, though he vehemently denied it. He feared disappointing himself as much as he had disappointed his father.

He feared his dreams, which forced him to relive the days of blood and fire, rain and bullets. The screams of children and the pleading eyes of the dying kept him from sleeping much. It was hard to tolerate in the night; Marik wasn’t convinced he wanted to risk letting it invade his days. That he had killed was an evil he buried deep. Waking and working were his reprieve.

“You haven’t written anything.”

Luna’s voice brought his thoughts around. He smiled at her as she sat cross-legged next to him. She pointed at the blank page of the notebook.

“I…don’t know where to start,” he explained.

“What were you thinking about just now? Start with that.”

Marik frowned. “I was thinking dark thoughts.” When she sighed, he added, “I know. I know. It’s supposed to be all happiness and sunshine. I really am trying here.”

Plato spoke up from across the room. “There’s a quote: ‘So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror, which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.’ FDR said it in his inaugural address, but it still applies today. You need to face your fear to defeat it.”

Bull and Thunder exchanged glances at that.

“Don’t you get it?” Marik asked. “By admitting here that I am afraid of something, I’m facing it.”

“Not good enough. It’s the underlying terror that must be addressed directly. Fear is actually a symptom.”

Marik shook his head, climbed to his feet, and headed off to bed.

After he’d gone, Luna turned to the others and said, “We have to help him.”

Plato nodded. Bull and Thunder bent their heads to whisper together.

~

Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat. Brrr-at-tat.

Marik’s eyes flew open. He lay still in his cot as his gaze searched the room. He strained to hear anything. Now he wished he hadn’t caught the cricket underneath the dresser yesterday. Any noise would be better than this deathly silence.

He hadn’t opened the window, so the cotton drapes hung still. He liked the fresh air, but the white billowing throughout the night kept him awake with its irregular movement, so he opted for stuffiness. The thick fog outside his second-story window was spectral enough that he didn’t need to give his imagination anything else to play with. Sleep was that precious these days.

He forced himself to take deep breaths the way the other communitarians taught him during meditation. Slowly his limbs relaxed, followed by his mind. When he heard the floorboards in the hall creak, he didn’t startle, but mused at who might be tiptoeing past his room. If they tried to be quiet, they failed miserably. This old house was full of odd sounds, rusted hinges, and creaking floorboards: sounds very unlike those he remembered from the jungle. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

~

Marik woke, shivering. In his sleep, he’d thrown the blanket to one side. It crumpled in a lump next to him, reminiscent of the blanket-draped dead back in Nam. He shook off the heaviness pushing down on his thoughts.

“Stop it,” he told himself. “Not now.”

A wisp of cold air swept up his arm. Intent on closing the window, he stood. The curtains undulated like a pair of ghosts. Beyond the glass pane, the fog swirled, thick and gray. As Marik approached the sill, he realized the window was not only closed, but locked. The curtains fell still immediately. He looked behind them. Outside the window, the fog spun in swift circles.

Tightness formed in Marik’s chest as he watched the fog, mesmerized. It thickened and changed to an oval shape. Features formed. He remembered the way he and his sister found faces in clouds when they were young. Closed eyes, a sharp nose, hollow cheekbones…and crooked lips.

Marik peered more closely, wondering if it would form foggy hair. A wave of chill pulsed out from the windowpane. Goose bumps sprang up on his arms and chest. He shivered.

The spectral eyes flew open. The crooked lips opened into a cruel and toothy snarl.

Astonished, Marik stepped backward. He tripped over the chair near the window. He landed on the bed, striking something solid beneath the blanket pile. The blanket fell away, revealing Luna’s pale form. Her eyes were closed and her lips pressed together softly. She looked…dead.

Marik cringed as Luna’s pale skin withered. Her golden hair twisted in upon itself as though a flame had been put to it. Her lips peeled back, revealing teeth which rotted as he watched. Her eyes fluttered open, no longer bright blue but a sickly ivory.

“Marik,” she croaked.

Scrambling back, he glanced over his shoulder to see the face still leering in the window. Then Luna sat up. Her nightgown fell from her torso like spidersilk. She held out skeletal arms covered in translucent paper-thin skin. Marik bolted for the door.

The metal knob, icy in his grip, resisted turning. He yanked on it hard. Something snapped, just before the wooden door flew inward. Marik fled.

Pop…pop-pop-pop…pop.

We’re taking gunfire! Marik’s mind reeled. He threw himself forward. More staccato pops spurred him toward the stairwell. He left the smoke and sparks behind him.

He snaked down the stairs on his belly, but quickly lost control over his flailing limbs. Tumbling down, speed increasing along the way, he hit his head on the steps and banged his shins and elbows on the handrails, thumping and cursing as he went. The sharp points of stairs bit into his sides and back. Eventually, he landed face down in the main foyer. Blood dripped from his nose.

Marik looked up. Before him, the large double doors led to the front porch and the heart-shaped lawn. He stood shakily.

As he did, Luna’s quivering voice came from overhead. “Marik, what’s wrong?”

He glanced over his shoulder with an expression of dread to see her on the stairs. She slowly descended the stairs. Her tattered gown trailed behind her.

Frantic, he grabbed the door handles, but they would not open. Locked! He wrestled with them. A cold blast hit him from behind, burning his bare back as if icy talons clawed it.

Marik threw himself through the glass panel in the left door. He landed on the porch. The tinkle of glass landing around him on the cement sounded like bullet casings ejected from a machine gun’s chamber.

Overhead a bright light flashed, panicking him further with thoughts of bombs. Marik stumbled down the steps and out into the lawn. The grass was cold and wet against his feet. He crouched, scanning the tree line as his right hand went to his waist in search of a gun, a knife…anything to use as a weapon.

“Come on,” Marik yelled. “Show yourself to me. I’m ready, you bastards. Come and get me.”

“I’m here.”

Marik paused, unsure if he imagined the whispered words or actually heard them. “Show yourself,” he repeated, through gritted teeth.

The fog dissipated as a chilling drizzle came down. It quickly plastered his pants against his legs and his hair against his scalp. Water dripped down into his eyes, running down his cheeks and onto his trembling lips.

He blinked as he realized not all of the fog disappeared. It cleared away slowly, leaving a man-sized shape unaffected by the falling rain. Before him hung the same face he’d seen in the bedroom window, only now it had a torso and limbs. It still looked made from thick fog, though it was solid enough to see the contours of ghostly muscles on its naked body. Its long fingers ended in sharp points. Red tinted its jagged teeth.

Marik swung his fist wildly, but the specter took him in a tight embrace, sharply cutting off his breath. Its touch burned with cold. It lifted from the ground, taking Marik with it.

Though he struggled and kicked, Marik was unable to free himself. The apparition spun him around, faster and faster. The last thing Marik heard, before unconsciousness covered him with its dark cloak, was Luna’s shrill scream.

~

When Marik opened his eyes, he was confused. He’d expected to wake in an Army tent. Instead he saw blurry white. He blinked to clear his vision. Then he realized he stared at a white-painted ceiling.

He smelled grass, dirt, and sweat. He also smelled something soft, like baby powder. Oh, Luna’s favorite perfume.

He lay on a worn brocade couch in the fireplace room. His mind surveyed each injury: scrapes and bruises, a cut on his chin, his swollen tongue. He counted three lumps on his scalp. His spine hurt the most. The muscles knotted as tight as if he’d slept on the hard ground all night. He wanted someone to pick him up and shake him out like an old rug. Sitting up caused those strained muscles to spasm, so he decided against standing.

Bull, Plato, and Thunder were arguing in low voices. “What were you thinking?” Plato asked.

“It was a joke, man,” Thunder replied sullenly.

“That wasn’t funny. It was mean.”

Thunder cut in. “How were we supposed to know he’d freak out like that?”

“Common sense.”

“It won’t happen again,” Bull said. “We don’t have more Black Cats, anyway.”

“You’ve gotta admit, they did kinda sound like gunfire,” Thunder said. “Rigging them to the doorframe was a pretty good idea.”

“When we talked about how he should face his fears, we didn’t mean for him to relive them,” Plato explained. “You don’t know what he’s been through. The human psyche can only take so much. Stupid pranks like that could send his mind off the deep end. We’re supposed to help him, not turn him into a rampaging maniac. That’s not cool.”

“We already said it wouldn’t happen again,” Bull grumbled.

Marik felt dizzy and a little sick to his stomach. He heard the floorboards creak. Heavy footsteps retreated, so he assumed the men left the room. He lay back down.

A few minutes later, softer steps drew near. He opened his eyes to see Luna. She wore cut-offs and a cotton shirt tied beneath her small breasts. She sat on her knees to be face-to-face with him. She smiled. “How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look pale. Can I get you some water?”

“Uh, sure.”

She brought him a glass of water and tried to give him a hug. Marik pulled back. Luna looked hurt, but said nothing while he sipped at the cool liquid. After he put the glass on the side table, she asked, “Wanna talk?”

“No.”

“Did I do something wrong?” She touched his arm lightly, as though the contact might reassure him.

Marik looked into Luna’s bright eyes, pursing his lips together as he gathered his thoughts. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s me. I’m losing it. The more I try not to, the faster it’s happening.”

Luna put her hands on either side of his face, kissed his lips, and gave him a bright smile. “Know what?” She paused for effect. “I love you, anyway.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Too late. I already do. Let’s go to bed now, okay? I’ll stay with you.”

“I… Let’s sleep down here,” Marik suggested. “I don’t feel like climbing the stairs.”

“Sure thing.”

Luna gathered blankets and pillows. She spread them on the floor in front of the fireplace. As she pulled Marik over to them, she indicated the stone lions staring out with yellow eyes. “They’ll protect us.” She grinned at him. He grinned back.

They quickly fell asleep in one another’s arms.

~

Bull and Thunder sat out on the front porch, toking their doobies and watching the newly settled fog roil across the yard. As the smoke curled upward, the two guffawed about their prank. They tossed around several ideas for a new one, but couldn’t agree on anything that would top the fireworks on the door.

Eventually, the two of them nodded off.

It was still dark when Bull awoke alone. He peered across the lawn. He thought it funny how everything lost its color at night. The stillness of the air accentuated shades of grays and the black outlines of things. Thick fog hugged the ground, obliterating anything beyond the yard from sight.

There must be something to that ‘darkest before the dawn’ saying, he thought.

A chill ran up his back and across his arms. He stood, rubbing his big hands on his biceps to rub in a bit of warmth. He found a T-shirt lying across the railing and pulled it over his head. It was tight, but he didn’t particularly care. He’d go inside after he took a piss.

The dewy grass kissed his feet as he walked. His movements parted the fog, sending it swirling away from his body.

He stepped on something hard. Stooping to pick it up, he realized it was a bone-handled pocketknife. It was Thunder’s—a Camillus given to him by his father. Because of its sentimental value, it was the one thing Thunder wouldn’t share with anyone else, despite their “free land for free people” lifestyle.

“Thunder,” he called, hoping the big guy was near.

The fog swallowed up his voice. If Thunder was out there, perhaps the dampening effect prevented him from hearing.

Bull stuffed the knife into his jeans pocket. He’d give it back to his friend at breakfast.

After watering a nearby pine, Bull zipped up his pants and turned back to the house. A light wind had picked up, stirring the fog, which made it more difficult to see.

A low moan sounded ahead. Bull quickened his pace. “Thunder? Is that you?”

He heard it again, overhead. Stupid-ass wind.

As if in response to his thoughts, the fog swirled faster and tighter, forming an enormous vortex.

What the hell?

Wet drops splashed Bull’s arms and face. Great. Now it’s raining.

He heard the moan again and knew its source was no wind. He recognized Thunder’s voice. He realized the raindrops were not water. A quick glance at his arm confirmed it. They were blood. Thunder’s blood.

Fifteen feet overhead, Thunder’s body hung in the air, suspended on his back. Thunder’s right arm was bent at an odd angle. His head twisted sharply, as though he looked over his shoulder.

It seemed as if the fog had arms, holding him in place. The blood trickled from his nose and mouth. Bull flinched and sidestepped to get away from it.

His mind couldn’t wrap itself around what was happening. He gaped, wondering if a ladder would help. Could he reach Thunder by jumping? Then he realized how stupid that thought was and shook his head.

The vortex let out a windy roar and sent Thunder groundward. Before Bull could react, his friend’s body collided with him. The two of them fell to the wet grass in a tangle of limbs and long hair.

As he disentangled himself from Thunder, Bull realized his friend wasn’t moving. He’s cold. He’s dead!

The way Thunder’s glassy eyes stared at him sent Bull into a screaming hysteria. He could’ve sworn he heard laughter from the vortex. Then he fainted.

~

“So, how do we get rid of it?” Luna asked, when everyone gathered in the main room after breakfast.

Thunder’s body lay wrapped in a tarp on the floor in the foyer. The girls had lit several jar candles and placed them at his head and feet. Their discussion over whether to bring in the authorities or hold their own burial went nowhere, so they turned to the threat at hand.

“A séance.” Bull crossed his arms, scowling. “With a Ouija board.”

“Are you nuts?” Plato said. “That’s not just a game. A Ouija board is messing with real spiritual energy, man, which has serious consequences. Not cool.”

“You don’t need a Ouija board to conduct a séance,” Luna commented.

“How else do we find out what it wants?” Persephone asked.

“What it wants is to kill us!” Bull said.

“Don’t be heavy, man,” Luna said. “We can help it get back.”

“Back where?” Meadowlark asked.

“I dunno…Heaven. Hell? Any place but here.”

“How come we never saw it before? I mean, I’ve been hanging out here for a year and a half and it never came to the commune before. Why now?” asked Meadowlark.

Marik spoke up. “I brought it.”

Bull glared at him. “Are you shittin’ us? If you brought it, then you take it away.”

“How do we kill it?” Meadowlark asked.

“What if we can’t kill it?” Marik picked at his fingernails nervously.

Bull exclaimed, “Then we die!”

“Not funny.”

“What makes you think you brought it here?” Luna asked Marik.

“I heard legends in Nam. Local stories, about spirits attaching themselves to a person or a place. I saw things—bad things—over there. Maybe whoever this is decided to get revenge by hitching a ride on my soul or some bullshit.”

“That would explain his nightmares,” Luna said.

“So would living in a war zone for eighteen months,” Plato answered.

“Why don’t we ask Chief?” Persephone asked.

“Who’s that?” Marik asked.

“He’s an old Indian man,” Luna explained. “He lives down the back road, on the other side of the mountain. He’s always going on about ancestors and spirits. Maybe he knows a medicine man who can help.”

“I still say we hold a séance,” Bull insisted.

“I don’t know about the rest of you cats, but I want this spirit to vamoose real quick. Let’s split up and tackle it different ways at the same time,” Plato said. “Luna, you and the girls go visit the red man. Bull, head to town and get a Ouija board. We need a supply run anyway, so you can do that, too. I’ll get you a list.”

“Man, when is this place gonna be self-sustaining?” asked Bull.

“Soon,” Plato said. “Not until this problem is solved, though.”

As the others went about their assignments, Plato turned to Marik. “It’s time we had a talk.”

~

Marik and Plato talked for hours about ways to approach the fear. For the first time, Marik admitted the depths of his terror. After a few beers, Plato managed to get a couple of war stories out of him. Despite Plato’s declaration that they made progress, Marik felt uneasy.

Though exhausted and in pain, Marik went to work digging Thunder’s grave behind the back garden. He let the sore muscles and twinges spur him forward. He’d have time for self-pity later, when no one could see him. For now, he simply needed something to do.

He didn’t last long at the grave digging. Beneath the warming sun, each shovelful of dirt felt heavier than the last. Marik stopped twice to let dizziness pass. He didn’t even finish a third of Thunder’s grave when he gave up and stumbled back to the house to lie down.

In the afternoon, the girls came back after talking with the old Indian. While he didn’t believe in evil spirits haunting pretty white girls, he did agree to come look the house over—once they promised him a few jars of homemade strawberry jam. They expected him in the morning.

In the meantime, Bull went to town. He came back with the supplies and a Ouija board, packaged like a board game. It even came with instructions for ways to ‘vary the fun.’ Luna shook her head at that. Plato snickered. They decided to hold the séance after dinner.

~

The sun dipped down behind the mountains, as it always did in the late afternoon. The communitarians set about making a nice stew for dinner. It would be dark soon.

Luna dished out an extra bowl and set it aside. When she saw Marik’s expression, she said, “It’s for the séance. Offering the spirits food sometimes helps. They like nourishment and warmth.”

Bull laughed. “What if they don’t like stew? Do they get to order something else?

Luna scowled. “Don’t talk like that. We want to be polite, as if they are real people visiting us for the first time.”

“Well, if they don’t eat it, I will,” he said.

After dinner, Plato and Bull moved the oval table from the foyer into the fireplace room.

“I don’t see why we have to move this thing,” Bull complained. “There’s a perfectly good table already in here.”

Marik, sitting off to one side, replied, “Luna says round or oval is better for the spirits. She said something about a circular symbolic connection.”

“I wish someone catered to me the way she does this dead guy.”

Luna came in, carrying a cardboard box containing silver candlesticks. “Maybe I will someday.” She gave Bull a sweet smile. “After you die.”

Marik laughed.

While the men pulled in the dining room chairs, Luna and the other girls set the séance table. Persephone draped it with a tie-dyed cloth, trimmed with crocheted lace.

“This looks good,” Luna told her approvingly. “The yellow and red circles in the cloth are a good choice.”

The brunette beamed a bright smile.

Atop the cloth Luna placed the bowl of stew. She arranged the candles in three groups of three. Plato walked around the room, waving a smoldering bouquet of sweetgrass and sage. Its scented smoke wafted throughout the room.

“Where do you want the incense?” Persephone asked Luna.

“Oh.” She looked around the room. “Put it on the fireplace mantle. I think Plato’s done with the smudging. Go ahead and light some now, so it has time to fill the room.”

To both the other girls, she said, “I think the Ouija board is a good idea after all. We don’t know this spirit’s name, so it’ll be difficult to call him specifically during the séance. The two, in tandem, should work well. Will you help me with that part? It takes two.”

“Sure thing,” Meadowlark said. Persephone nodded.

“That’s keen. I’ll take the part of the medium while you two man the board.” She looked over their handiwork. “I think we’re about ready. Go get everyone else. Make them get a drink of water and visit the latrine before they come in. Insist on that last part. We don’t want anyone to interrupt the flow of energy by going out to pee.”

Once everyone was seated around the table, Luna asked them to hold hands, except for Meadowlark and Persephone, who sat on the floor next to them. The ladies sat cross-legged Indian style, facing one another, with the Ouija board balanced across their laps.

Luna lit another cube of incense and the candles, then turned off the rest of the lights in the room. Instantly the atmosphere turned somber. Bull made a ghostly “boo,” until Marik kicked him beneath the table.

“Be serious,” Marik said. “This is for Thunder.”

Bull frowned but was still.

Luna settled into her chair. “Ready?” She looked at her fellow communitarians, noting each as they nodded, faces glowing in the candlelight.

“Let us begin,” she said. “Everyone, please meditate the same way we do in the afternoons, except we’re going to sit at the table, not on the floor.”

The others closed their eyes. Plato’s lips moved as he chanted silently. The girls put their fingertips on the triangular planchette in the center of the Ouija board.

In a soothing tone, Luna said, “Let your breathing slow. Relax. Focus your mind on the spirit realm. Open yourself to the possibilities of this evening.”

She waited several long moments before she continued. “Spirit of this house, we bring you gifts from life into death. Commune with us and move among us.”

Only the sound of the others’ breathing answered her.

“We respectfully ask that you honor us with your presence this evening.”

Marik let out a heavy sigh.

Persephone at the Ouija board called out, “Tell us your name so we may summon you.”

Instantly the planchette moved. It startled Meadowlark, who let out a squeak. Everyone looked to see what had happened. The wooden pointer moved in circles across the board.

“Are you doing that?” the blonde asked Persephone.

“It’s not me.”

“I’m not moving it either. I’m barely touching it.”

Luna asked, “Is there someone here with us?”

The planchette moved upward and hovered over the word YES. Meadowlark held her breath.

“Tell us your name so we may summon you,” Persephone repeated.

The pointer moved in a sweeping motion, coming to rest over the letter N. Meadowlark let out her breath and the planchette moved again. This time it hovered over the O.

They all waited for the next letter, but none came. The pointer remained still.

“Is your name No?” Persephone asked.

Meadowlark giggled. Luna shushed her. They watched, fascinated, as the planchette glided up and stopped at the word NO.

“Are you refusing to tell us your name?” asked Persephone.

The wooden pointer shot out from beneath the girls’ fingertips. It struck, pointed edge first, embedding itself several inches into Persephone’s forehead. Her mouth dropped open as blood streamed into her eyes. Meadowlark screamed. The other girl fell backward and the Ouija board tumbled to the side.

“Oh, my God,” Luna exclaimed. She stared at the center of the table, where a misty figure of a man formed. He hovered over the bowl of stew with one arm outstretched, pointing at the two girls.

“You have no need of that. I am here.” His voice sounded like a blast of wind, with high and low tones mixed together.

“I can’t move,” Marik said.

“Me, either,” Plato added.

Bull gulped.

Luna asked in a quivering voice, “What do you want from us?”

“I want…” It moved until its spectral nose nearly touched Luna’s. “…to tear your face off.”

She shuddered, but kept her gaze fastened upon it. “How do we send you home?”

“I am home.”

Marik let out a small moan. He was pale. His torso weaved as though he was on the verge of fainting.

Luna continued, “How do we put you at rest and give you peace?”

“I was not born from peace. There will be no rest.”

“How do we get rid of you?” Bull asked boldly.

The specter whirled to face him. “How do I get rid of you?”

“Please don’t antagonize him,” Luna cautioned. She asked the spirit, “Where did you come from?”

“Fear.”

“My fear,” Marik whispered, as the evil drew nearer to him.

“Do you have a name?”

“Only if you give me a name.”

“What do we call you then?”

“Your murderer.”

The spirit enveloped Marik, lifting him off the floor. As it spun him round and around, the sounds of bones snapping echoed across the room. Marik’s face contorted. Pain shone in his eyes. Blood flowed from his mouth and nose, spraying across the room as the spirit continued to whirl. Surprised disgust crossed Plato’s face when Marik’s blood splashed across it. Meadowlark fainted.

The candles snuffed out. Deep darkness descended on the room. Fear and tension weighted the atmosphere.

There was a wet plop in the center of the room and Luna screamed.

~

Chief wandered down the road toward the old Blake place. His boots kicked up puffs of dirt as he shuffled on, thankful he had his cowboy hat today. The totems predicted a hot one. That’s why he came to visit the hippies early, so he could put their minds at ease and get home before noon.

He passed the pond. The wind whispered in the pines on the far side of the water, drawing his attention. That’s when he saw the body. It stopped him in his tracks.

Oh, no, the old Indian thought. Thick sickness gathered in his gut.

He climbed the steep incline toward the water’s edge, taking care where he stepped. The body belonged to one of the girls who had visited him yesterday. He recognized her long blonde hair as it floated on the water. It still had wildflowers braided on one side. She wore the same paisley dress, too.

From the way her torso had bloated, he guessed she’d been dead for hours. He decided to check on the other hippies.

Chief didn’t like the quiet. In this forested area, he should hear animal sounds and people’s voices. He noticed an absence of insects as well. He quickened his step.

After he crested the hill, the house came into view. He saw a man sitting on the front grass with his legs drawn up to his chest. Chief opened his mouth, but his words caught in his throat. The man was covered in blood; it matted his dark hair and plastered his tattered T-shirt and an old Army shirt to his chest. Oozing gashes showed through the tears of his clothing. There were more on his arms, neck, and face. Chief saw bruises too.

As he drew near, the Indian noticed the bloody man’s chest rise and fall. He sighed in relief as he realized the man still lived. The young man took no notice of him, though; instead, he sat and stared glassy-eyed out beyond.

“Hey,” Chief said.

When the young man didn’t respond, the Indian looked to see what the hippie stared at. He only saw the empty road and silent forest. He shook his head. Touching the young man’s shoulder gently, Chief asked, “Are you all right?”

The hippie might as well have been a wooden kachina. His vacant stare unsettled the old man. Maybe the others knew what happened to him. I wonder if it is the spirit’s handiwork.

Chief walked toward the house. The front doors hung open. One of them swung on broken hinges like an empty frame. Its glass pane lay in blood-streaked shards on the porch.

He climbed the steps and saw another body. A young man in a turtleneck and jeans bent awkwardly over the back of a rocking chair. His broken glasses hung from one ear. Beneath him lay an open book. He’d bled out on its yellowed pages.

Now the old man was truly afraid. His breath came ragged as the hair on the back of his neck bristled. The closer to the front doorway he came, the colder the air grew.

Just inside the house, he saw a human-sized lump lying on the stairs. Red stained the Oriental rug. Chairs and the umbrella stand had toppled over at the sides of the entry. Legs jutted out from the doorway on the left side. One foot was missing its sandal.

In his fist, Chief tightly grasped the amulet he wore about his neck. He whispered a prayer chant.

He heard the wind pick up outside. It was time to flee to town. He’d get the sheriff and let him handle whatever happened here. Probably blame this on drugs. Chief knew they grew more than just vegetables in their little garden out back.

Should he head straight down the mountain or go home to get his pickup? Chief turned to leave.

At the bottom of the stairs stood the bloody young man in his tattered T-shirt, open Army shirt, and ripped jeans. He wielded a large military knife. He looked up at the old Indian with eyes that were no longer glassy. The pupils were a whirlwind of crazed evil. They were the last things the old man ever saw.