by A. C. Wise
The EMF detector attached to the frame lights up, lights cycling from green, through yellow, to orange and red before settling back down to a single green pip. The readout on the thermometer beside it shows the room at 70 degrees, slightly higher than normal with their body heat.
Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen and this is stupid and Kathryn wants everyone out of her room now. The lights flicker from green to red again and the mechanical arm holding the planchette jumps.
“Oh shit,” Georgina says, then laughs, a nervous sound. “Is it programmed to do that?”
Kathryn’s throat is tight. She wants to squeeze her eyes closed, but she can’t. For a moment, nothing else happens, then lights on the EMF detector spike and the arm moves again. The planchette scrapes to the left. The un-felted feet on the board shriek, worse than a chalkboard and nails. Then the planchette swoops down to the bottom of the board.
Yes. Goodbye. I-B. No. Goodbye. B-B-B. Kathryn tracks the motion, her mouth open. The machine is working as designed, but it isn’t supposed to do that. There’s no such thing as ghosts; rationally, she knows that to be a fact. EMF detectors can be set off by microwaves, cellphone towers, or maybe she wired the machine wrong.
Beside her, Lettie watches the board, rapt. The planchette moves faster, screeching as it does. Yes. Goodbye. Goodbye. L-B-I-I. No. I-L. No. L-I-B-I. L-I-B-I. The planchette whips through the letters, a blur repeating the last four with sharp insistence.
“Oh shit,” Georgina says again. “It’s spelling Libby. Like the girl in Abby’s story.”
Lettie makes a sound, not quite a breath, not quite a sob.
“What did you do?” Kathryn rounds on Abby. Her fingers clench and unclench at her side.
Abby’s mouth drops open, and she holds up her hands. If her shock is an act, it’s convincing. An ache makes itself known between Kathryn’s eyes, and she shakes her head once to dislodge it. What makes her think Abby had anything to do with this? Just because she told a ghost story about a girl named Libby? Besides, Georgina is the one who pointed it out so quickly, couldn’t it have been her? Or none of them, because no one has touched the machine except for her. It’s just a weird coincidence, and Kathryn is being paranoid.
“It’s something wrong with the wires,” Kathryn speaks quickly. Instead of turning off the switch, she yanks out the whole bundle of wires in one go, and the arm and the planchette fall still.
Lettie continues staring at the machine, willing it to move again, to speak. Her face is bloodless, except for one spot of color high on her cheek as though someone slapped her.
“It isn’t Ellie.” Lettie shakes her head. She turns to Kathryn, stricken. “It’s the wrong ghost.”
Kathryn pulls Lettie into a hug, but it’s too late. She can’t shake the feeling that she’s ruined everything. Something terrible is in the room with them, and she’s the one who let it in.
*
Interlude #2 - A Room with No Windows
Georgina let me help her with her photographs. I don’t want to be in my studio alone. The red light in her darkroom is peaceful, and there are no windows. It reminds me of the crawlspace where Ellie and I used to play. Safe, except when the ghosts would tell my mother where to look and helped her make herself small enough to crawl into the darkness after us.
I watched Georgina make images out of light, then she showed me how to bathe the photo paper in the chemical wash. It’s like a magic trick, watching the picture fade into place. While I was watching her trees, they suddenly weren’t trees anymore. They were the wooden frame of a house still being built. A skeleton without windows, or walls, or doors. Then the chemicals finished their work and it was just woods, but there was someone standing between the trees.
I was so startled I knocked the whole tray over. It ruined Georgina’s picture. She told me not to worry, she could make another one, and she did, but there was nothing between the trees the second time. No house. No figure. Just shadows and light.
I think Georgina was afraid of upsetting me. Everyone walks on eggshells around me since the night the power went out. Except for Abby. The other day I walked into the kitchen and they were all there. I’d been in my studio with my earphones on, so I didn’t hear them until I opened my door, then Kathryn said, “So who moved it? A ghost?” But they all stopped talking the second they saw me. Kathryn and Georgina exchanged a look like they wanted to say something, but they didn’t know who should go first. Abby smiled, but in the end no one said anything. They just watched me get a glass of water and go back into my studio. Am I so fragile they all have to tiptoe around me? Or are they scared of something else? Do they know about the house I’m building with the cards? Or how badly I want to open the door?
*
Mechanical
Is it possible to build a machine to capture a ghost? That is the question at the heart of “Séance Table.” Ghost hunters have used a variety of equipment to detect paranormal activity for years—electromagnetic field detectors, voice recorders, infrared cameras. “Séance Table” makes use of some of those tools of the trade, specifically an EMF machine and an extremely sensitive thermometer. The goal of the piece is to mechanically facilitate communication with the paranormal world. A spike in EMF readings, or a drop in temperature, will trigger the arm attached to the piece’s frame, causing the planchette to move. Even though the motion is mechanically aided, the prime mover, the trigger if you will, is the ghost.
Is it possible for the random motion of the arm to spell a word, or impart a message with specific meaning to visitor? If my machine does capture a ghost, is it because the ghost was always there, or do the conditions of the machine itself—an open phone line, an invitation to speak—cause the haunting? I am certain you have questions of your own as well, and I invite you to write them on the provided note cards and drop them in the box affixed to the base of the machine. Perhaps a ghost will answer. I also invite you to take your time in the gallery, and keep an open mind. Let’s explore the questions of the afterlife together.
—Wall text by Kathryn Morrow, 2017
*
Studio Session #3 - Overlapping Voices (Abby’s Possession)
Georgina wakes to Kathryn leaning over her, gesturing for silence.
“What—”
“Shh. Here.” She presses Georgina’s phone into her hands. “Something’s wrong.”
“I don’t—”
“Come on.” Kathryn tugs her, and Georgina stumbles after her.
“What’s going on?” Lettie joins them, her eyes wide in the dark. They look like they’ve been wide for a long time. Sleepless.
The door to Abby’s studio stands ajar, the murmur of voices emerging from within.
“Turn your camera on.” Kathryn indicates Georgina’s phone.
Confused, Georgina obeys. Her mind is sleep-numb, dazed. She lifts the phone regardless, watching the screen as Kathryn pushes open Abby’s door.
The room is a mess. The sheets on the empty bed are rumpled; Abby’s clothes are scattered on the floor. It looks like someone tossed a deck of playing cards in the air and left them wherever they fell. As Georgina’s eyes adjust, she sees they’re not regular playing cards. There are pictures of rooms on them, stairs, hallways, broken pieces of a house in random order.
Georgina lifts the camera higher, going cold as her eyes and her screen make sense of the image at the same time. Abby stands in the corner, facing away from them. She’s wearing a nightgown with a long skirt and long sleeves. Her hair is loose, and she’s rocking back and forth on her bare feet, muttering words Georgina can’t quite hear.
“Abby?” Kathryn speaks softly behind her. Lettie makes a distressed sound, so small it’s almost lost as Georgina and Kathryn move closer.
Georgina finds herself speaking, like a narrator in a documentary film, before she’s fully registered what she’s doing. Kathryn told her to film this, so she’ll do it right.
“Abby is standing in the corner. She’s barefoot
and facing the wall. She’s wearing a nightgown none of us have ever seen before.”
“I don’t like this,” Lettie says.
Georgina inches closer, and Abby’s words either grow clearer, or she’s speaking louder, pitching her voice so her audience will hear.
“In the trees. In the woods. Buried under the road.”
Even if it is a performance, and Georgina really isn’t sure, the skin on her arms tightens, puckering around each hair, and some primal instinct tells her to flee. This is wrong. The voice doesn’t sound like Abby, but there’s no one else it could be.
“There’s something wrong with her spine. The way she’s standing looks wrong,” Georgina says.
If she keeps narrating, it’ll keep what’s happening at a distance. It’s just a movie. She plants her feet, refusing to run, and forces herself to breathe.
“Abby, can you hear me?” Kathryn stops just short of touching Abby’s shoulder. On Georgina’s screen it looks like her hand actually bounces away.
“In the woods. In the woods. In the.” Abby’s voice grows louder.
“Make her stop.” Lettie’s voice cuts in over Abby’s.
“Abby.” Kathryn finally succeeds in touching her and Abby jerks around to face them, her lips pulled back in a snarl. It’s definitely Abby, but at the same time it looks nothing like her.
“In the woods in the trees in the woods.” It’s almost a chant, and Georgina has the odd sensation Abby’s lips don’t move.
Abby pushes Kathryn, and Lettie catches her. Georgina jumps out of the way, and the image on her screen jumps with her.
“Bury me. Bury me.” Abby’s voice gets louder, closer. Georgina’s head snaps up, looking away from her phone, and somehow Abby is beside her.
Abby grins with her peeled-back lips, a nasty smile. Her gums look wrong, bloody, and Georgina looks away. It’s a moment before she can force herself to follow Abby into the hall.
“Bury me.” The words trail after Abby, but the voice sounds like Lettie’s.
“She’s going to the kitchen,” Georgina whispers to her phone.
A crash reverberates, and Georgina flinches, jerking the screen again. Kathryn pushes past her, and Georgina hurries after her, their footsteps almost, but not quite, covering Lettie’s sob.
There’s just enough light to see Abby standing in the center of the kitchen. Shards from a broken plate radiate around her like the scattered cards in her room. Her eyes are closed now, head tilted at an angle that looks almost painful. Her neck is broken, Georgina thinks, and immediately pushes the thought away. One of Abby’s feet is bleeding; she must have stepped on a piece of the plate.
“It’s my fault.” Lettie speaks so close to Georgina’s shoulder that she nearly drops her phone. “I used the cards to try to build Ellie a path through the house, but the bad thing came through first.”
“Abby, stop it. Now.” Kathryn grabs Abby’s arm, shaking her. Abby lets out a whimper, but doesn’t open her eyes.
“Bury me! Bury me!” She shrieks.
Then her eyes do snap open and she drops to the ground. Kathryn jumps back, kicking a shard of plate that spins away from her. Abby crouches, her feet arched so she balances on the balls of her toes and the points of her fingers. Her mouth opens, and one hand creeps forward, a spider-walk across the kitchen floor, reaching for a broken piece of plate. Georgina’s pulse thumps, her throat too thick to speak.
“No!” Lettie throws herself forward as Abby’s fingers brush the broken plate, and she slaps Abby’s hand away.
Abby snarls, swaying, and Lettie hits her, knocking her back. There’s a painful thump as she hits the ground, but Georgina can’t tell if it’s Abby’s back or her head striking the floor. Lettie scrambles on top of Abby, pinning her down and hitting her again. Abby’s hands come up to defend herself, and Georgina and her camera catch sight of Abby’s face in profile; she looks scared.
Fascination holds her in place. It’s Kathryn who finally grabs Lettie’s wrists and pulls her away. Abby and Lettie are both breathing hard, Abby’s breath hitching on the edge of hyperventilation.
“Turn it off,” Kathryn snaps, and its only then that Georgina fully realizes she’s still filming.
Her thumbs shakes as she taps the stop button. Kathryn puts her arm around Lettie’s shoulder, leading her away. Lying on her back, Abby turns her head toward Georgina. She’s still holding her phone, and she has the sick urge to take a picture of the scene. Abby’s nose is bloodied where Lettie hit her, and red smears her lips and chin, looking black in the dark. Abby’s eyes meet Georgina’s, shiny and wet. Her lips move, mouthing words which might be “I’m sorry” or “Help me”, Georgina can’t tell.
*
Interlude #3 - A Narrow House
There’s another game Ellie and I used to play. We would lie perfectly still in the dark, our bodies straight, our feet together, our arms pressed at our sides, like we were lying in invisible coffins. If we were good enough at pretending, the ghosts would think we were one of them. We called it The Dead Game.
Last night, I came into my studio and found all my paintings for the show rearranged. At first I thought maybe one of the others had been in my room, but I know Georgina and Kathryn wouldn’t do that. I don’t know if I don’t think Abby would either. I realized it had to be a message from Ellie. The deck for Brick by Brick isn’t in my room anymore. I don’t know where it went, but I haven’t seen it in almost a week, and I’ve looked everywhere. Without it, Ellie had no other way to reach me. She had to use the paintings. The canvases are walls in a house that is always being built. It still isn’t finished.
I looked at the paintings for almost an hour, but I couldn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. Then I thought if I played The Dead Game, she might talk to me directly. I lay on the floor and put my arms at my sides, keeping as still as possible. The room was quiet and dark, but I kept smelling paint, and something like sandalwood. Maybe Abby was burning incense in her room. The smell comes under her door sometimes. It’s so strong some days the scent stays on her clothes and in her hair and trails behind her so we can always tell where she’s been.
I tried to hold my breath. Ellie was always better at that part of the game. One time when we were in the crawlspace playing, I got really scared thinking she wasn’t breathing at all. I kept shaking her until she finally opened her eyes and smiled at me. There was someone else inside her looking out at me. I broke the rules then, the ones we’d made up for Brick by Brick, that we’d always help each other and stick together so the monster wouldn’t catch us alone. I ran, and I left Ellie in the crawlspace behind me.
Lying in my studio, I listened for Ellie as hard as I could. I kept holding my breath until my head pounded. Until my lungs hurt. Then I let it all out at once, and the sound was like a train thundering over the tracks. Black smoke hung over my head, like I’d breathed myself out entirely. Then there was something else in the smoke. It turned and looked at me and I was so surprised, I gasped. I didn’t mean to, but I breathed it in. The dark thing is inside of me, and now I don’t know how to let it out again.
*
Studio Session #4 - In the Trees
Lettie starts, gasping in a breath. Someone is in her room. Someone is leaning over her. She’s playing The Dead Game, and she is a door and something is stepping through.
“Are you awake?” Abby’s voice jolts her.
Lettie crashes back into herself, but her body feels like a collection of loose bones—an unfinished construction—only barely joined by skin. Her studio resolves around her, the canvases lined against the wall smelling of paint and turpentine, even though she opened all the windows. Abby’s scent is there, too, sandalwood threaded through and beneath everything.
“What’s wrong?” Lettie sits up; it’s a struggle.
“The others are asleep,” Abby says. “I want to show you something.”
Abby goes to the door, looking back over her shoulder and beckoning. Lettie follows. She shou
ldn’t. She doesn’t trust Abby, but there’s no reason not to trust her either. Only there’s something different about her tonight. It’s not like when she spoke in strange voices and Lettie hit her, that night they still haven’t talked about. Now, Abby almost seems to glow. There are hollow spaces inside her, places for ghosts to fill.
“Oh,” Lettie says, and hurries to follow Abby into the dark.
Once they’re outside, she asks, “Where are we going?”
Her feet are bare, but it’s too late to go back for shoes. She picks her way carefully over the warped asphalt, following Abby down the narrow alleyway between buildings.
“I borrowed my brother’s car,” Abby says. “I need to get some things for my performance.”
“At night?”
“They accepted our proposal. Didn’t you hear? We made it into the show. We are the show.”
Lettie stops. As far as she knows, Abby hasn’t even started working on her piece. Any time any of them ask her about it, she changes the subject. And she certainly doesn’t remember assembling images of her own paintings to submit to the jury. Surely she would remember that. Unless Georgina did it, with her camera, got everything ready. Of course that’s what happened. How could she forget?
At the mouth of the alley, Abby turns back to look at her. There’s something disdainful in her expression, but something pitying as well, as if she’s sad that Lettie doesn’t understand. That’s when Lettie sees it, a faint ribbon the color that moonlight would be if it could be made solid. It twists away from Abby, a path, a thread, beckoning Lettie to follow.
