Authors: Jennifer Walkup
No. This is my friend’s guy. Maybe not technically her boyfriend, but still.
Yet, the way he looks at me sometimes. Like just now when he had that burst of inspiration? It can’t all be wishful thinking, can it?
I should not be thinking this way. We’re just friends.
I clear my throat. “Can you guys bring your guitars tonight? I was thinking we can have a campfire after the séance?”
He rolls his eyes. “Anything else? I can bring my drum set too? Perhaps my baby grand?”
“Like you have a baby grand.”
“Someday, Auld Lang Syne, someday.” He pushes another lock of hair back.
“Come on.” He motions to the front of the cafeteria, where the teacher’s aides stare at their laptops, ear buds in, totally oblivious. “Let’s go bug Stace upstairs.” He sticks the folded notebook in his back pocket. “I want to show her this.”
My heart deflates the tiniest bit, but that’s silly. Of course we should go see Stace. I should want to see Stace. And I do. Really.
I follow him into the hall, with an inane sense of pride welling again when I notice the extra bounce in his step.
Now, I just need to find
my
inspiration.
I
MAY HAVE
gone a little overboard.
I’ll admit it.
Even though the séance idea started as my way of contributing to the whole Halloween hoopla around school, once we’re setting up, I can’t stop myself. Maybe it’s the artist in me, maybe it’s the general mood around town, or maybe it’s just after years of hearing Mom spew about this new-age, let’s-be-one-with-the-spirits stuff I feel it’s in my blood to be able to do this. Whatever the reason, I go for the all-out creep-factor.
First of all, our house is huge. I don’t mean that in a stuck-up, ohmygodimrich sorta way, like the girls in Boston used to talk. I mean that my mom bought this centuries-old farmhouse that has three times more rooms than we could ever use. We’ve lived in more states than I can count on one hand, but this is the first time she’s gone all out. A professional photographer and all-around art lover, Mom is drawn to the romantic and historic, and for her, this house was it. And with its violent history, which apparently kept people from buying it for years, but which doesn’t seem to bother her at all, she was able to get a great deal. Don’t get me wrong, it’s got tons of potential, and Mom and I have been painting and tearing and building like crazy. Honestly, the creative endeavor has helped us bury all the stuff we aren’t talking about.
I tie black velvet across the chair backs, my fingers sliding over the material like a whisper.
But, romantic as an old house can be, when it’s mostly empty it has a definite creepiness. Add to the fact that we have about three acres of land, half of which is woods, not to mention a huge, looming barn, two additional horse stables and multiple sheds—all empty—you have a lot to work with if you want to freak yourself out.
Which is exactly what I plan to do to my friends.
And then there’s the murder. Much as I pretend it doesn’t bother me, of course it does. How could it not? Since most of my friends have lived in Shady Springs their whole lives, everyone knows the basic story. A brutal killing of an entire family. It happened in the main house and then the killer hung himself in the barn.
But that’s where the details veer off. Considering no one’s stories line up, it’s easy to dismiss them as rumors. Facts get muddy over time.
Ben says it was a shotgun, that his grandfather’s friend told someone who told someone who swore up and down the gunshots rang out across town. That theory isn’t very popular, especially since gunshots can’t be heard dozens of miles away.
Kelly calls the killer a slasher. Something about knives or swords or an axe. I’ve even heard scalding water, pitchforks, and poison. There’s various bloody details of all theories, of course, and depending on who’s telling, it can get graphic. Like that telephone game, the stories get more and more convoluted as they’re passed down. Besides, people always get carried away. I for one, like not knowing the specifics. Makes it easier to live here not knowing just how gruesome it was.
I drape a swathe of black gauze over the table I’ve set up in the middle of the barn.
There’s another thing everyone agrees on: the hanging. The murderer found dangling from the barn’s rafters. Days later, already rotting.
So the story goes.
Hence the scene of the séance. I figure why not have it in the scariest place I can. Everyone is scared of my barn. Even smartass Vaughn gets a straight face when we talk about the murders. The energy in here is eerie on the sunniest days. If there’s anywhere we’ll contact a spirit, it’ll be here.
I stand back to admire my work. Five chairs around the small round table, all draped with gauze and velvet. Pillar candles lined up in the center. For some reason, Mom had boxes and boxes of votive candles and holders, and I’ve placed those all around the barn, on every flat surface. I’ve even zigzagged some across the thin layer of hay that covers the floor. In the doorways, the same gauze hangs, filtering the light with its shroud-like material. It drapes the barn with an unnatural dimness that’s somehow chilling. In each of the old animal stalls, with the decades of decay most apparent there, the wooden slats splintered and dryrotted, I’ve stuck Kelly’s
papier-mâché
creations—perfectly detailed severed arms and grasping fingers. They’re sickening. It’s gross, but I’ve dribbled fake blood down the wood, pooling it in front of each stall in a sticky heap of hay.
It’s perfect.
Blood. That’s the other detail about the murders everyone agrees has to be true. Blood all over the house. But that seems like the kind of detail that would get added to any scary story. What’s creepier than blood-stained walls? Floors and tiles splattered with it and a dead family strewn around the rooms, like cut up rag dolls?
I shudder.
I drag the empty supply boxes into the furthest stall, piling them next to a stack of wood pallets. I ball the rest of the gauze in my hands. I’d wanted to hang some from the rafters, but I don’t feel like climbing that high.
The book Mom gave me said lighting a séance is one of the most important elements. It sets the mood. Everyone has to be open and serious if we want it to work.
A low groan fills the space above me. It sounds positively human. Warmth buzzes through me, numbing me and throwing me off balance. I stumble, shaking off the heavy sense of
déjà vu
. I back quickly out of the barn, looking up into the second story rafters as if I expect to see someone dangling. My hands tremble as I let the gauze curtain fall in front of the doorway again, my breath coming in ragged bursts like I’ve been sprinting.
I crash into something and hands come out of nowhere, grabbing me. I let out a high pitched scream, warbling like a bad horror-movie actress.
Kelly laughs and drops her hands to her sides. “You all right?”
I shake my head. Out in the daylight, I feel like a moron. “Yeah, I’m fine. I freaked myself out in there, I guess.” My laugh comes out like a strangled bark. “Tonight is going to be awesome if I’m creeping myself out this much in the daylight.”
“I found more candles.” She holds up two white tapers and an ancient-looking pair of candlesticks.
“Nice,” I say, taking them from her just as the wind whips my hair around my face. They’re heavy.
“Where’d you get these?”
She shrugs, nodding to the house. “Your mom. She said she found them in the attic.”
“Of course,” I say, smiling. Mom not only gave me the idea for the séance, she pretty much helped me find all the creepy stuff to use for it.
I glance up at the fourth-story window. The light’s on. Mom’s been cleaning out the attic for weeks now. There’s lifetimes worth of stuff up there, dating back to who knows when. She’s been photographing most of it for some project.
I look down at the candlesticks again, testing their weight. Some kind of metal. Pewter, maybe. They must be five pounds each. They’re gorgeous, with a brushed finish and scrolling designs, thin near the top, then widening into leaves around the base. On their felt bottoms the letter G has been scratched into one and V into the other.
“You sure you’re okay?” Kelly says gently, her freckled cheeks lifting with her smile.
“Yes! These are perfect. This is gonna be awesome.”
“Lange!” Mom’s voice drifts across the yard. She leans against the back porch railing, balancing a heavy box and waving me over. When I get there, she pushes the box toward me.
“I found this upstairs. More candles.” She pulls her blond-gray hair off her face and smiles. “Thought they may help set your scene.”
“Cool, thanks.” Inside are at least two dozen more votives. I place the heavy candlesticks on top of them and take the box from her. “This is great.”
“Have fun,” she says. “And remember, if you do contact someone—”
“I know, I know. Respect them and they’ll respect us.” I roll my eyes, but my fingers tremble beneath the box. I’ve never felt the barn quite like it feels today.
Back at the barn, Kelly and I duck around the gauze doorway. Trying to keep my attention off the rafters, I rearrange the pillars on the table, making room for the candlesticks in the center. We step back with our arms folded and smile.
“Ben is gonna shit.” She giggles. “It’s perfect.”
“You think?”
“Oh yeah. Don’t tell him I told you, but he’s a big baby. Gets scared super easy.” She grins. “I’ve seen him nearly jump out of his skin from the slightest noise after watching any horror movie, especially if it involves ghosts.”
I line up the votives. “Good. Hopefully my small contribution to the Shady Springs Halloween obsession will be a success. You think Stace and Vaughn’ll be scared, too?”
“Ah, who knows? You know them. They’re so extreme about everything. Vaughn’ll probably be trying to channel John Lennon or something.”
I can definitely imagine him doing exactly that. But even though I’m smiling, something about her comment makes me uneasy.
“Well, this was a perfect touch.” I hand her the remaining ball of gauze.
“I figured it would be. Everything is creepier when cloaked and flowing.” She tucks the material under her arm. “Plus, Mrs. Sand loved the idea of helping us out. She gets into this stuff.” Kelly’s creative outlet is fashion design, and she’s one of the department chair’s favorite students. She walks over to the severed hands and rearranges a few of the fingers.
She frowns. “Not sure these are realistic enough.”
“They are more than realistic.” I shudder, unable to take my eyes off them. I motion to the main house. “Come on, let’s go get the food ready, before everyone gets here. We’ll light all these before it gets too dark.”
We step back into the yard, where dusk now bathes the grass in shadows. But I turn back one more time, push the makeshift curtain aside, and look up at the rafters just to make sure nothing is there.
W
HEN NIGHT HAS
fallen and the candles have been lit, the barn looks better than I could have imagined. It’s less creepy in the way of gore, despite the mangled
papier-mâché
limbs and fake blood, and more serenely eerie with the hundreds of candles. There’s an energy throbbing in the middle of it all, but that could
just be my adrenaline. As we all settle in around the table, something stirs in me, soft as a breeze. It’s probably the setting and mood we’ve created that makes me extra heady and superstitious, but even Vaughn looks serious as he settles into the seat next to mine.
“Okay,” I say in a low voice, my eyes cast down at the table and my neatly folded hands. Although I don’t feel like myself, I’m not acting. It’s like I’m removed, standing at the back of the barn, watching myself perform this ritual. I’d been worried that we’d all be giggling and making a joke out of it, but everything about the scene is serious.
Almost without thinking about it, my body goes into motion, arms flowing effortlessly, hands smoothing the cloth and arranging candles as if I’ve done this before. I breathe deeply and try to let out all my energy, like Mom said. It feels completely natural.
I invert a hurricane glass on the table. Once it’s upside down, I hold my hands up before reaching for Kelly on my left and Vaughn on my right. The motion invites the others to join in, and soon we’re all connected, holding hands around the table. I make eye contact with each of them: First wide-eyed Kelly, who looks solemn and serene. If I didn’t already know she was a devout Atheist, I would swear she was praying. Next to her is Ben, who coughs and shifts his blue eyes to Kelly every few seconds. He fidgets in his seat. We make eye contact and I nod, offering positive energy to tell him it will be okay. His body relaxes.
Stace is next, her pretty face emotionless with the noncommittal look she always wears. I nod to her, again trying to pass my energy to each of my friends, to force the collective concentration. The intensity that burns in her eyes when she and Vaughn talk poetry and guitar chords flickers on her face, in the tightening of her lips and her narrowed eyes. Candlelight bounces off her.
Finally, my eyes meet Vaughn’s, which somehow dart without moving, as if he’s offering me a secret. Or maybe searching for one in mine. I dig deep into that look, trying to understand what he’s looking for. But I can’t because it’s back, as sudden as before.
That rolling sense of unease.
Have I done this before?
“Okay,” I say with an exhale. I close my eyes and try to summon strength from the group. Outside, the wind screeches in the birch trees. Branches knock against the side of the barn, the wooden planks rattling like old windows.
When I open my eyes, everyone is staring at the table with solemn expressions.
I reach deep inside myself, digging for the right emotions. First, I conjure images of death. Funerals I’ve been to. The old graveyard my friends and I use to cut through on the way home from school in Jersey, when I used to flit at the edge of the cemetery, pretending I didn’t feel the cool touch of the spirits reaching for me. An entire family murdered in this house. A man hanging in this very barn. After that I reach for grief. I don’t have to dig far for that. The wounds are raw, still new enough to feel fresh.