I duck and cover. Shannon shrieks.
What did we say that made the light explode? The American Dream thing? Or was it the thing about her boyfriend killing her?
Listen.
I’m all ears, I think.
Now that there’s just the one lantern going in here, it feels downright scary. What if it goes out?
I glance around for the other ones. Maybe I’ll light them back up.
A noise from under a shelf makes my skin crawl. The Ouija board slides into view. It creeps toward us, scraping across the tiny grains of dirt strewn on the wooden floor. Ssshhkiff.
My brain goes all swimmy for a few seconds.
Shannon makes a tiny noise deep in her throat. She pulls her legs in tight to her chest.
The board stops half a foot away from me.
And how is it that the chalk hasn’t even started to fade?
“I think she wants to talk,” I say.
“I’m not so sure I want to talk,” Shannon says.
When the lid rolls toward me—on its edge, like a hula hoop that a small child might roll down a country lane, the most normal thing in the world—Shannon takes a shaky breath.
“I’m not so sure we have much choice,” I say.
We watch as the lid settles itself on the board.
HELLO.
Adrenaline shoots into my lower gut. I think about the last time I touched that thing. The burning.
Then I think about the door slamming on my fingers.
And the pain in my head.
Listen.
We really have no choice.
I reach out and pull the board toward me, ignoring the fear that flares in my belly.
I put my fingers on the lid.
Let’s get this show on the road.
I look at Shannon. She’s biting her lip. Thinking.
Then she puts her hands on. We lock eyes across the board, a couple of soldiers about to jump into combat without knowing whether our chutes will open.
I’ll do the talking this time.
The lone lantern flickers as I turn my attention to the board. “Are we speaking with Jessica?”
A shiver arcs up my spine as the lid moves. Without hesitation it slides to YES.
“How did you die, Jessica?”
My scalp tightens as the letters are spelled out.
R-O-P-E.
My eyes skip away from the board, toward the coils of ropes hanging from large hooks on the wall.
I look back at the board. “Were you strangled, Jessica?”
YES.
Shannon swallows and closes her eyes.
“Did you die here, Jessica? In this boathouse?” We’ve already asked her whether she’s ever been in here, and she said no. But maybe she was wrong. Or lying. Because why else would she be here?
NO.
A ripple of relief floods me. Somehow it’s better to imagine that she didn’t actually die inside this place. But then, if not here…where?
“Where did you die?”
D-O-C-K.
The same dock that’s just outside the door.
Shannon makes a thin noise.
“Where are you now, Jessica?” I ask. “Where is your body?”
No answer.
“Was she strangled and dumped?” Shannon asks. “What kind of boyfriend would do such a thing?”
“If she was dumped,” I say, “then her body must still be in the lake.”
“That’s, like, all around us,” Shannon whispers. “She could be anywhere. She could be right under us, Elliot.” She peeks down between her knees, like she can see into the water below.
“Did Troy Joliette kill you?” I ask. Better get our facts straight.
The lid flies to NO so fast, my fingers almost slide off.
We exchange glances.
“Not Troy?” Shannon says.
Like a slapshot, the yearbook slides across the floor.
Shannon screams. I can’t blame her. We should expect the unexpected by now, but I guess there’s still room for surprises.
I jerk my leg away from where the book hits me. “Jesus.”
We watch as the pages begin to turn, riffling forward, then backward. When they finally settle, we’re looking at a two-page photographic spread of the Wildwood Cheer Team.
I sit back and take my hands off the board.
Shannon’s attention pivots back to me. “Don’t take your hands off!”
I shoot her a look of exasperation. “Or what? Or I’ll let the spirit out? Bit late for that.”
She stares at me. Then, with an irritated little huff, she takes her hands off too. We look at the yearbook.
“I don’t like this,” I say.
She snorts. “Have you liked any of this?”
I’m already edgy. I don’t want to be here any more than she does.
And I didn’t even get us into this mess.
I look straight at her. “It was going okay until you had your dumb idea to make a Ouija board.”
She stares at me. “You’re blaming me for this?”
I look around. “Uh, who else is there? It wasn’t my idea.”
Shannon presses her lips together. When she speaks, her voice is tight. “Well, I’m not the genius who touched the Ouija board when he wasn’t supposed to,” she says.
Something inside me snaps. “It wasn’t my fault, Shannon,” I roar.
She recoils like I’ve slapped her.
A cold wind pushes its way up through the cracks in the boathouse floor. The roof creaks. I look up to see dust spilling from a hole in the ceiling.
Shannon looks up too. “Can’t this just be over?”
Then she bursts into tears.