by Lily Morton
“It’s not stupid to believe in forever.”
“Do you?”
He looks startled and then shakes his head. “No, of course not, but don’t hold me up as any example of brains, for fuck’s sake.”
I smile and then shrug. “Anyway, I probably should have seen it coming. I hadn’t given him any time for a while. I was occupied with something much more important. He got bored of waiting.”
He looks angry. “You were looking after your mum, weren’t you?”
I jerk. “What? How do you know that?”
For a second he looks astonished and then he shifts awkwardly on the bench. “You said your mum had died recently,” he says quickly. “I took two and two and made four.”
For some reason that doesn’t ring true. “Even so, that’s quite a leap.” I stare at him and then look blindly at my food before putting it down. I’ve completely lost my appetite now. “It was a very bad time,” I finally say, unable to say any more.
“Of course,” he says simply. “That bad time doesn’t stop with someone dying, though.” He pauses. “I’d say that he’s not worth it if he didn’t even care enough to help you.”
I nod, unable to speak.
His hand comes down on mine, stopping the nervous pleats I’m making in the paper serviette. “I’m sorry.”
The simple honesty in his voice floors me. He doesn’t bother with platitudes or excessive words. Just an “I’m sorry” and the touch of his cold fingers.
I clear my throat. “It was a while ago now. We all move on.”
“Do we,” he says, staring past me at something behind me, his eyes intent and focused. “I’m not so sure.”
Suddenly I can’t talk about this anymore. I’ve avoided any discussion about my mum for months, so I’m not starting one in a market. “I have to go,” I say, jumping up. “Thank you for lunch.”
“Any time,” he says lazily, sitting back and watching me ball up my rubbish.
I nod and walk away, blinking away the heat in the back of my eyes with the ease of long practice.
I’m so deep in my work the next day that the ring of the doorbell makes me jump, nearly ruining a whole morning’s work. I curse under my breath and put my pencil down. The bell shrills again, and I contemplate ignoring it and hiding away up here. It’s snug and warm and faintly scented with lily of the valley which for some reason seems comforting now.
I rub my eyes, feeling the grittiness. I’d hardly slept last night and had been up and down investigating the sound of footsteps which went on until about five in the morning. I’m not sure they finished then, but I did. I’d tumbled into bed and pulled the covers over my head and left my house to whoever was walking around in it. At that point I’d considered that they were welcome to it.
The doorbell rings again, the cheerful chime offsetting my dark mood. I sigh and shake my head. Then I wonder for a wild moment whether it’s Blue. Before I know it, I’m on my feet and making my way downstairs, checking that I’m presentable in the hall mirror. I am presentable but only just, wearing old holey jeans and a navy jumper that matches the shadows under my eyes. It’ll have to do.
I fling open the door and frown in disappointment when I see a woman on the doorstep. She looks to be my age and has a hard little face surrounded by lots of red hair. She’s wearing a jumper with a long skirt and boots and has a half-smile on her face.
“Hello,” I say quizzically. “Can I help you?”
“I think it’s the other way round,” she says in a broad Yorkshire accent. “I’m Fay. Blue sent me.”
I look up and down the street. “Blue sent you?”
Her smile twists into something that, for a brief second, isn’t quite nice. Then it widens into a friendly grin, and I wonder whether I imagined it. “He did. He said you’d been having some trouble here with spirits and asked me to help you.”
For a second warmth stirs in me. It’s nice to think that despite his cool demeanour towards me and my rudeness yesterday, he’d thought of me again. But then I mentally shake myself.
Flushing, I smile at her. “I’m not exactly sure that it is spirits. I’ve not seen anything.”
“But you have experienced something?” she says sharply. At my nod, she moves past me. Before I know it, she’s in my hallway handing me her coat rather regally as she looks around. Her stare is avid. “Amazing,” she whispers. “To finally see in here.”
I clear my throat and she jumps. “So, how can you help me, Fay?”
She rummages in her bag and comes out with a large object wrapped in a rainbow-coloured shawl.
I raise my eyebrows. “Thank you. It’s just what I’ve always wanted.”
She gives a high laugh that has no sense of amusement about it at all. “It might be,” she says mysteriously. “Do you have a table?”
“In there.” I gesture to the kitchen and follow her in, catching the scent of patchouli and a deeper smell like damp wood. It’s what I smelt on Blue yesterday.
Once in the kitchen she unwraps the object with a flourish and lays it on the table. I lean closer and then just as quickly step back.
“A Ouija board? I don’t think that’ll be of any help at all.”
“You don’t believe in them?” she says slowly. I shake my head, but she carries on talking. “I don’t think you believe in much, Mr—?”
“Mr Black. Levi Black. And no, I don’t happen to believe in Ouija boards or anything like that.” I think back to a Ouija session I’d done at college and how it spelt out Fuck off, Mason. I also think of how my roommate hated Mason with a passion and was steering the planchette at the time. I repress a smile.
She sits down at the table with a challenging look on her face. “Well, luckily you don’t have to believe in it to see the results.”
I remain standing. “Look, Fay, it’s very nice of you but I really don’t think—”
“But Blue sent me,” she interrupts, her face twisted in an expression of confusion. “He said you needed help. Shall I tell him you said you don’t need it?”
“No,” I say quickly and instinctively. I don’t want to piss Blue off and maybe cut off this line of communication between us. “Of course not.”
She doesn’t manage to conceal her smug expression quickly enough. I shrug. It’s harmless enough, I suppose. I’ll just get it over with. I pull out the chair and sit down.
“Okay, thank you for your help,” I say.
She makes a moue of embarrassment. “That’ll be fifty quid.”
I stare blankly at her. “What will be fifty quid?”
“My help. That’s how much I charge.”
“You charge that for a Ouija board?”
She shrugs. “Blue said you wanted answers.”
She obviously has no intention of leaving. The idea of throwing a woman out bothers me, so I sigh and grab my wallet from my back pocket, thankful that I went to the cash machine yesterday. I count out the money and hand it over, watching as it disappears quickly into her voluminous skirt.
She strokes her hand over the varnished surface of the board. It’s a beautiful object and obviously very old. “Let’s begin,” she says solemnly.
“Now?” I ask, looking around. “It’s not dark yet.”
She gives a condescending sort of laugh. “I don’t need darkness to do a session on a Ouija board.”
I subside. After removing a notepad and pen from her bag, she brings out the planchette and places it carefully over the letter T.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
I nod, nervousness running through me suddenly and powerfully, making me want to get up and move away quickly. “Of course,” I say instead.
“Put your index finger on the planchette,” she instructs me. I obey and almost jerk my hand back when I do. The planchette is wooden and cold to the touch, but for just a second it almost seemed to be vibrating. She places her finger next to mine. A startled expression crosses her face along with something that looks very much like worry.
/> “Okay?” I ask, and she jumps.
“Yes, of course,” she says haughtily. “Do not remove your finger from this, Levi. That’s vitally important. Be careful what you ask the spirits. Do not ask the manner and time of your death.”
“Damn, and I so wanted to make sure I’d be wearing clean underwear. Is that it?” I joke. “How about the winning lottery numbers?”
“Do not mock the spirits,” she says coldly. “It isn’t wise.”
Her words hang on the air for a second and then she moves her finger, and I follow with my own as she sets the planchette spinning in an idling movement.
“Are there any spirits present?” she suddenly asks, almost making me jump. “Please come forward and talk to us. We wish to speak to you.”
I observe her from under my eyelashes and smile wryly. She’s patently a con artist, and I mentally kiss goodbye to my fifty quid and the obvious loss of my common sense that has led me into this. All because I didn’t want to piss off a boy called Blue.
Then I sit up straight as the planchette starts to move under our fingers and an expression of consternation crosses her face.
The planchette moves slowly from one end of the board to another in a lazy action that seems almost taunting. Her mouth drops open and she sneaks me a look, but when she catches my gaze, she shutters her expression.
“Spirit, we are pleased to meet you. Please spell out your name.”
The planchette spins slowly before gliding to the word NO.
“Oh,” she says. “Can you tell us your age?”
Again the planchette spells NO and continues to do so as she asks increasingly desperate questions about the spirit’s place of birth, sex, and death.
There’s almost a taunting quality to the interaction and I know she feels it too, and suddenly I’m sure that this is real and that she’d intended to trick me and now she has no idea what to do. It knocks me back for a few seconds. A large part of me is waiting for someone to leap out and proclaim that this is a silly joke. The other part knows there are strange things going on in my house and that the truth may lie in the little voice at the back of my brain that is getting louder every hour. It’s telling me that the dark really does contain monsters and this world is stranger than anything I could ever have imagined. It’s starting to insist that my house is actually fucking haunted.
“Do you actually want to talk to us?” I ask sharply, growing frustrated with the polite way Fay addresses whatever this is. I want some bloody answers. “Because if not, I have things to do. Give us a message or go.”
Fay gasps and when I look up, I’m surprised to see how white and sweaty her face is. “You shouldn’t,” she says hoarsely.
“Shouldn’t what?”
“You mustn’t talk to the spirits like that,” she whispers as if they can overhear us. “It angers them.”
“And I suppose I wouldn’t like them when they’re angry,” I ask, doing a Hulk impression and stopping as the planchette moves slowly over to the word NO.
It crosses the board again, edging to one letter after another. I call out the letters to Fay as she writes with her left hand. I look down at the pad and swallow.
HELLO, LEVI, it says.
Fay looks up at me, fear vivid in her face.
“Hello,” I say steadily. “Did you want to give me a message?” Before I finish the question, the planchette moves again, no longer slow and taunting, but jerking with speed.
Fay holds up the pad. LEAVE MY HOUSE.
“Only it’s not yours,” I say slowly. “It’s mine. Got the deeds and everything.”
Again the movement. IT WILL ALWAYS BE MINE. Even before Fay finishes writing, it’s off again, and I swallow hard at the message. LEAVE OR DIE. IT IS YOUR CHOICE. MAKE IT SOON.
Fay and I stare down at the board as the planchette starts to move again, whipping out of our fingers and performing a last figure of eight on the board.
“What is happening?” I ask hoarsely. The planchette spins slowly in the board’s centre.
I jump and give an undignified shriek as the main light is switched on. An angry Blue appears in the doorway. His hair is ruffled, his face red, and he looks like he’s been running.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts. I open my mouth to answer, but then I realise that he’s speaking to Fay. “What gave you the fucking right to do this?”
Fay sits back. “I did,” she says coldly. “I don’t need you telling me what to do, Blue. You may think you’re the authority on this type of shit, but you’re fucking wrong.” Her expression is stony. “I warned you.”
I look down at the table and swallow. The planchette is now moving down the alphabet from Z to Y to X to W. “Erm, you two…”
Blue jerks away from his stare-off with Fay to look where I’m pointing. When he sees the planchette, he blanches.
“Shit,” he says. “Fay, Levi, put your fingers back on the planchette.”
Fay looks like she’s going to refuse, but he roars “Now!” at her, and she hastens to comply.
The planchette is positively vibrating now, moving faster down the letters.
“What is this?” Fay quivers, all spite gone from her voice and fear replacing it.
“This is what happens when a Ouija board goes bad,” he says grimly. “You have a malevolent spirit in charge of the board.” Fay goes to get up, and he shakes his head. “You have to stay, Fay. Take control, or it will.”
“You do it,” she shouts.
“I can’t,” he says. “I’m not part of this table. You two are.”
“What shall I do?” I say steadily, watching the planchette move from M to L to K.
“Concentrate hard. Both of you move the planchette to ‘GOODBYE’ and dismiss it. Say goodbye politely.”
I look at Fay, and she nods, sweat standing out on her face. A picture falls from the wall, and she shrieks. Blue turns to the doorway and winces. I follow his gaze instinctively but the doorway is empty.
“Now,” he says harshly, dragging my attention back. “There isn’t much time.”
Fay and I bend, putting our fingers back onto the planchette. It wobbles violently, but, as we both focus on the board as if we’re going to incinerate it with our eyes, we’re able to direct the pointer to the word GOODBYE. It’s as if we’re pushing against some invisible force and I can feel sweat breaking out under my arms.
“Thank you for speaking,” I say, amazed at the coolness in my voice. “We’re going now, so you must say goodbye.”
The planchette judders and spins and then slowly goes still. For a second, no one says anything. The atmosphere in the room abruptly lightens. Then Fay is up, collecting her coat and shoving the board into her bag.
“Wait,” Blue says. She turns to him, poised to escape but held by the note of command in his voice. “You are not to come near Levi again. Do you understand me?” She opens her mouth as if to argue and he shakes his head, gesturing at something behind her. “She’s disappointed in you today, Fay. Very disappointed.”
Fay blanches and looks behind her. “Blue,” she falters. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Yes, you did,” he says coldly. “You meant to do this to spite me. You meant to use an innocent man to get back at me, and you were prepared to use the spirits to do it. They don’t like that. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Abruptly, she rallies and flings her bag over her shoulder. “I’m not the one ashamed of myself,” she says angrily. “You need to get over yourself, Blue, or the only way is fucking down.”
Then she’s gone, whirling out of the house in a flurry of patchouli and that damp wood smell, leaving us in silence.
I stare at Blue. He’s dressed in skinny jeans, a black jumper that swamps him, and an ancient-looking denim jacket. If possible, he looks even more tired than before.
“What was all that about?” I ask.
He starts to speak, but a door slams loudly upstairs. We both flinch and look up at the ceiling as another door sl
ams and then another and another.
He looks at the doorway again and his gaze sharpens. He nods as if answering something and turns to me. “Come on,” he says urgently. “Grab your coat. We need to be out of here now.”
Bewildered, but unable to ignore the urgency in his voice, I grab my jacket and follow him out of the kitchen. The lounge door opens and slams loudly as if in a fit of temper. As we step outside, I turn to shut the front door behind me. It’s seized from my hands and slammed so hard that the house seems to shake.
For a long second, Blue and I stand there panting and looking at each other. The quiet of the street is almost shocking. How can all that have happened in there and it be so quiet out here, I wonder in a befuddled fashion.
He straightens, pulling his thin jacket closed as he shudders. “Come on,” he says abruptly.
“Where? This is my house.”
“Not at the moment,” he mutters and gestures me down the lane, after stooping to pick up two large paper bags from the doorstep.
“Who was Fay?” I ask. “She said you’d sent her.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t.”
“Then why did she say that?”
He stops and looks at me, and I’m struck by how he seems both young and ancient. The wind blows his bright hair back from a clear, unlined forehead, but his eyes are shadowed by absolute weariness.
“Are you alright?” I ask, grabbing his arm gently as he goes to turn away. His arm is thin under my fingers, and a wave of sudden and disconcerting possessiveness sweeps over me, urging me to look after him. I don’t obey. Instead I stand back. He grimaces as he notes my retreat.
“I’m fine,” he says shortly and turns to walk up the lane. I notice that he seems to be moving stiffly as if he’s hurt. “Come on,” he calls back to me. “We’ll find a spot in the park.”
I follow him as he walks down to the Minster and passes left into the Dean’s Park. I’ve sat here a lot over the last few months. It’s a lovely, tranquil spot with ancient, gnarled trees bending solicitously over the stretch of grass, their branches swaying in the wind and giving glimpses of the Minster’s honey-coloured stone.
