Kitty Raises Hell kn-6

by Carrie Vaughn

  The rest of us were just doing a better job of hiding it.

  I told them the condensed version of my confrontation with the Band of Tiamat, leaving out the more sensational bits. Like me being chained to a wall by a pack of lycanthropes. Even the edited version sounded crazy; but out of anyone, the professional paranormal investigators ought to be open-minded, right?

  Jules stared at me. “You mean to tell us you’re being haunted by an ancient Babylonian goddess that practices human sacrifice?”

  “No,” I huffed. “I’m being harassed by a cult that worships an ancient Babylonian goddess and practices lycanthropic sacrifice. I thought you of all people would be sensitive to these nuances.”

  Gary said, “But you don’t know what’s doing the harassing. If they somehow found a way to summon a poltergeist, or are using some kind of astral projection, or if they’ve laid some kind of curse on you.”

  My head was spinning. “This isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

  Jules turned to the team’s leader. “Gary, this is hearsay, occult nonsense. Not the subject for a proper investigation. We need to look at the evidence.”

  Gary stared into his coffee cup, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” I said. “And if this keeps up, someone—either me or someone close to me—is going to. I have to stop this thing.”

  Tina had a gleam in her eyes and a serious set to her jaw that were at odds with her on-screen persona. “I might be able to help. I’d like to try something.”

  “What?” Jules said. “Video? Infrared? We had all that at the house and didn’t catch anything.”

  “No, this is different.” She was blushing a little and sounded nervous.

  “Like what?” Jules said, insistent.

  “You’ll laugh at me if I tell you. I’d rather wait and show you.” She turned to me and said, “I’ll need your help. You willing to play along?”

  “I’m game.” Like Ben said, we had to do something about this.

  “Wait a minute, what are we trying to do here?” Jules said. “Find evidence of hauntings or go chasing after a phenomenon that may not even exist? That may all be a figment of her imagination?” He pointed at me.

  “Do you have any other idea how that van tipped over?” I said. Ben squeezed my hand, and I took a breath to settle down.

  “Electromagnetic phenomenon,” he said, his face perfectly straight. “Seismic activity. Telekinetic event.”

  I rolled my eyes. “He talks telekinesis, and I’m the crazy one?”

  “Telekinesis has far more documentation than the activities of Babylonian cults,” he said.

  I had a feeling Jules was starting to not like me. I addressed Tina. “I’d really appreciate any ideas you have.”

  “This is shaping up to be an episode of an entirely different show,” Gary said.

  Tina said, “None of us started out with these investigations because of the show. We’re in this because we want to know. Whatever’s happening, it’s obviously dangerous, and if I can help discover what it is—I have to at least try. Let’s meet again tomorrow night. That’ll give me time to get supplies together.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Where did you say this first started? That graffiti at New Moon? Then let’s go there, after closing.”

  This sounded ominous. Ominous and intriguing. Ben and I glanced at each other and nodded in agreement. Sighing, Gary shrugged, indicating he’d lost control of proceedings but wasn’t interfering. Jules slouched with his arms crossed and wouldn’t look at anyone. So much for keeping an open mind.

  Full of coffee, if not any more settled, we went our separate ways to get some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another late night.

  The next morning, my mother called. I was too dazed, confused, and exhausted from the previous night’s chaos to be irate. Or even worried. I worried about Mom a lot these days, and every phone call from her—especially when it didn’t come at her usual Sunday phone-call time—had the potential for disaster.

  I answered brusquely. “It isn’t Sunday, Mom, why are you calling?”

  “Well, good morning to you, too, Kitty,” she answered in that put-out voice that instantly made me feel guilty.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just... I’m a little stressed out right now,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask any questions or try to fix everything, or invite me over for a dinner of macaroni and cheese. She still did things like that.

  “That doesn’t seem at all surprising. I listened to your show last night.”

  I braced, because I knew she was going to ask questions I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to expose her to what was happening; I’d already told too many people about the attacks. I was afraid that telling them about it exposed them to danger.

  She continued, “I’m not sure exactly what happened, but it sounded serious. Are you all right?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me that when you’re the one who has cancer,” I said, when what I wanted to say was, No, come and take care of me, please.

  “That may be true, but at least the cancer is under control.”

  Months of chemo will do that, I supposed. And how could she be so calm about it?

  “Why were you even listening to the show? You never listen to my show, it’s on past your bedtime!”

  “How do you know I never listen to it? And I think you’re just arguing with me to avoid answering my question. Are you all right?”

  Could I never win an argument with that woman? Ever? Though if I had to be honest, a little childhood part of me was jumping up and down with joy: Mom listens to my show.

  I took too long deciding how best to answer her question, and every moment I delayed would only make her more worried. I didn’t want Mom to worry, not when she was still sick. Not when there wasn’t anything she could do about it. “I’m fine. Nobody got hurt last night. We’re trying to figure out what happened, and I have some pretty good leads.”

  “Nothing like that is going to happen again, is it?”

  Good question. “I don’t know. I hope not. But if it does, I think we’ll be better prepared.”

  Mom gave a frustrated sigh. “Kitty, I worry about you.”

  So do I. “Thanks, Mom. But I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll tell you what: I’ll stop worrying about you if you stop worrying about me.”

  Wasn’t going to happen, of course. We both wanted assurances from the other that everything was going to be okay. Just fine, hunky-dory, we weren’t in trouble, no way. Neither of us could guarantee that.

  “I’ll be fine. Really. Everything’s going to be fine.” I didn’t expect her to believe it, any more than I believed her half the time. But she played along, because the conversation obviously wasn’t going to go any further.

  “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, won’t you?” she said. The usual gambit at this point in the conversation.

  “Absolutely,” I said. After a few more empty assurances like that, I coaxed her off the phone.

  I called all my wolves, every member of the pack: Was everyone safe? Had anything else happened last night? Had any of them noticed any more signs of what had attacked us?

  The answer was no. But no one had been sleeping well. Mick had gone out to the woods to Change and run off his anxiety for a few hours. I berated him for that, but only halfheartedly. He wasn’t out of control if he could get himself to wilderness first. And if it made him feel better... well, then.

  I understood the impulse.

  Ben and I arrived at New Moon after closing, at a bright and early two a.m., to meet the Paradox PI team.

  “Do you know what Tina’s going to do?” Ben asked.

  “No, but there’s something weird about her. I think she’s psychic,” I said.

  He chuckled, but the sound was nervous. “Like, she can read minds? Tell the future?”

  “Nothing like that, but ha
ve you seen the way she looks at us? I think she can tell what we are. I think she really did hear that noise before it happened. There’s something going on with her.”

  “I suppose if anyone can help, a psychic can. But it feels like grasping at straws.”

  “They’re professionals,” I argued. “I’ll take any advice, help, or straw grasping I can get.”

  “I guess it can’t hurt,” he said. I felt the urge to rap on the wooden doorframe.

  The street had quieted, traffic thinning to nothing after bar hours, when the Paradox PI van—the unsmooshed one—parked on the street in front of New Moon.

  Gary had the camera crew along, as usual—“never waste an opportunity to collect material for your show” was a philosophy I wholeheartedly endorsed. By the same token, Jules wasn’t going to waste an opportunity to collect data, so he got to work setting up his standard array of cameras, microphones, and sensors in all parts of the restaurant. Just in case, he said. Tina asked us to help her clear a space in the middle of the dining room. There, we set up a large round table with five chairs. Then Tina went to the van to retrieve her equipment.

  “Jules,” I said while we waited for her. “What’s she going to do? What equipment does she have that you guys haven’t already used?”

  Jules grumbled. “I haven’t a clue, but this is looking suspiciously like a séance. I can’t believe we’re getting suckered into this.”

  Tina returned, carrying a big plastic shopping bag. Now I was really intrigued. We—Ben and I, Jules and Gary—gathered around as she set the bag on the table.

  “Out with it, Tina,” Gary said. “What are you doing?”

  Sheepish, she winced. “I guess it’s sort of going to be a séance.” Jules rolled his eyes. Gary just watched, reserving judgment.

  “What kind of séance?” I said, keeping my own skepticism in check. “Holding hands, table rapping—”

  Jules snorted. “That’s just what we need to earn a little respect, some good old-fashioned table rapping.”

  “No, not exactly like that,” Tina said, still wincing, still sheepish.

  She took a long, flattish box from the bag and started pulling off the plastic shrink-wrap that sealed it. It looked like a board game. I didn’t catch the title until Jules groaned and rolled not just his eyes, but his whole head, in a gesture of disgust.

  “You’re joking!” he burst. “I’m not going to be a party to this. Gary, tell her. This is ridiculous. This is insane.”

  It was a Ouija board, brand new, smelling of fresh plastic and cardboard.

  “Hey,” I said. “We used to play that at sleepovers in the third grade.”

  Glancing at me while she opened the board on the table, Tina said, “These can be really dangerous. You were lucky nothing happened. I assume nothing happened?”

  “Not really. We always caught Susan Tate moving the thing around on her own. On the other hand, did you ever play Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board? Now that was freaky.”

  Gary said, “That’s a simple trick of minor hypnotism.”

  “Ah, another childhood illusion shattered. But you’re telling me the Ouija board is real.”

  “I’ve had a little luck with it,” Tina said.

  “And what do you mean by dangerous?” I asked.

  She said, “Quite a few cases of suspected demon possession have been linked—”

  “It’s rubbish!” Jules interrupted. “If we broadcast this, it’ll ensure that no one from the legitimate paranormal investigation community ever takes us seriously again.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Tina said. “Trust me.”

  It was easy to discount her as just a pretty face—and I really should have known better. The others stared at her, like they were thinking the same thing. Like they’d never seen her like this before.

  “What aren’t you telling us?” Gary said, wary.

  “I’ve been using these since I was a kid,” Tina said. “It might be a way to find out what’s really going on.”

  Whether or not a person could actually use something like a Ouija board to communicate with the beyond, or whatever, I found it hard to believe you could do it with a piece of mass-produced cardboard straight out of the packaging.

  I said, “The commercial version works? Shouldn’t you be using one made of ancient wood, hand-lettered by gypsies from the Orient or something?”

  She threw me a look. “The trouble with the old ones is you don’t know where they’ve been, what they’ve been used for. We know this one’s clean. Besides, it’s not the tool, it’s the person who uses it.”

  “Jules, if you don’t want to be a part of this, you can watch the monitors in the van,” Gary said.

  “Fine,” Jules said, getting up to leave.

  “And keep an eye open.”

  “Of course,” Jules said brusquely. “I’m a professional.”

  He marched outside to the van, where the team had set up the monitors and speakers they’d salvaged from the previous van’s wreckage.

  The rest of us took seats around the table, with Tina facing the board. The planchette sat right in the middle, pointing toward her. I’d never have thought of her as a leader, but she took charge of the group without hesitation.

  “Right. Here are the rules. Don’t move, don’t speak. I’ll do the talking. If you hear anything, see anything, stay seated. Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream. As long as we stay in this circle, we’re safe. Got it?”

  Scream? Gooseflesh sprung out on my arms, and I’d have sworn a draft passed through the room. The low chuckle of a demonic voice. Of course, everything Tina had just said was exactly what you’d say to people sitting around a Ouija board when you wanted to totally freak them out.

  Gary was studying Tina, his brow furrowed. “There’s definitely something you’re not telling us.”

  “Are we doing this or not?” Tina said. She was a little flushed. Nerves. Anticipation. Her fingers, resting before her on the table, almost seemed to be straining toward the board.

  I had to admit, I was a bit giddy with excitement. I couldn’t wait to see if this really worked. And if it didn’t, this felt like those third-grade sleepovers. With less giggling.

  “I’m sure you all know the drill,” she said. “Two fingers of each hand on the planchette. Only touch it. Take a deep breath and relax.”

  We leaned forward, stretching toward the board. It was crowded, four grown people squished together to maintain contact with the plastic doohickey. You could fit a dozen third-grade girls around one of these things.

  This was where séances traditionally got a little bombastic, when theatrics played a part in setting the stage and inducing a state of anticipation in the participants. Oh, spirits, we ask you to cross the veil of death to speak with us, yadda yadda. Tina didn’t do that.

  “Right. We know something’s out there. We’re pretty sure it has an interest in at least one of us, and that it’s willing to go to violent lengths to make its presence known. Now, if that presence wants to talk to us, we’re here. Why don’t you come out and have a chat?”

  We sat like that for a long time. The room was almost quiet. I heard faint clickings, hissings—the refrigerator under the bar, emergency lights, other electrical background noise. A car going by outside. My nerves stretched taut, waiting for some other sound, for ghostly laughter, for the scrape of plastic over cardboard. Everyone breathed quietly, almost holding their breaths, only drawing breath when they couldn’t hold it anymore. My arms, raised over the board, grew tired waiting for something to happen.

  “Come out, come out,” Tina said in a taunting voice, like she was mocking any lurking spirits, daring them to show themselves.

  The plastic thingy gave a little static shock and slipped out from under my fingers.

  It was the strangest feeling, not at all like Susan Tate yanking it away from the rest of us and then insisting she hadn’t done anything. The plastic gave a quick jerk, just a few centimeters, then stopped.
I didn’t think anyone was moving it, unconsciously or otherwise, because all of us were sitting there, our hands in midair, fingers splayed and not touching the plastic. My skin tingled with the tiny static charge. I was sure I’d imagined it.

  The little arrow pointed to YES.

  “Gotcha, sucker,” Tina said, lips curling in a sly smile.

  “Who did that?” Ben said. “Someone moved it.”

  “Quiet,” Tina said. “Everything’s under control.”

  “If this is some—”

  “Quiet,” Gary added. Ben clamped his lips shut and glowered.

  “Let’s try this again, shall we?” Tina said.

  The familiar and safe surroundings at New Moon suddenly became odd, strange. Unwelcome. I regretted coming here for this experiment. But maybe Tina would tell us what was causing this, and we could stop it.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch the thing again, but with Tina’s urging, we all did. My nerves were quivering, waiting for something to happen.

  “Right,” Tina murmured. “I want to know who we’re talking to. Who are you?”

  The plastic zipped out of our grips again. I had to admit, part of me was ready to leave the room right there. But I definitely wanted to know what was going on. Had to know.

  Our hands hovering, the planchette resting untouched, we looked. The arrow pointed to NO.

  “You’re willing to reveal yourself but not willing to talk to us, is that it? Not good enough,” Tina said. “What are you?”

  The thing didn’t move again.

  Tina shook her head. “Something’s here. I’m sure of it.”

  “We can’t document gut feeling,” Gary said.

  Closing her eyes, Tina touched the planchette, which slid slowly across the board. She wasn’t trying to be subtle—she might have been moving it herself. But it still seemed strange. The air temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.

  With her eyes closed, unable to see what she was doing, she spelled out a word: F–I–R–E.

  Maybe she’d practiced and could do it by feel; maybe this wasn’t for real. I wondered, though: If this really was working, was it because some spirit was moving the planchette? Or because one of us here believed it was? And was, in effect, subconsciously, psychically, telekinetically, whatever, moving it around because of it? Was a four-leaf clover lucky because the bearer believed it was?