by Simon Parker
“Oh wow!” she yelled. “A witch board. What a groovy gift.”
The guys sat forward too, looking a notch above vaguely interested. I relaxed and allowed myself to express the excitement I felt and let it flow naturally.
“My cousin is cool. She knows I’m fascinated by the supernatural.” As I said this I noticed a letter in the wrapping.
“Yeh?” Georgie exclaimed, sounding pleasantly surprised. “That’s super cool. You ever had…you know…experiences?” I laughed in her direction as I unfolded the letter.
“Some,” I said. “Nothing major, but some very interesting spooky stuff happened when I was younger. That’s what interested me in the first place.”
She raised her perfectly preened eyebrows and smiled. I wondered if collar and cuffs matched, if you catch my drift, but then it was the 70’s, so probably not. She turned her attention to the Ouija board on the table while I read the letter.
Dear Cuz,
Hope you like the gift. I saw it at a yard sale and it reminded me of that summer you and your folks came over when we was kids. It’d sure be grand to see you again sometime. I hope it won’t be as long as it’s already been. I kinda miss you, ya big lunk. Hoping you enjoy the holidays and think of me when you play with the Ouija. Sending you big hugs and loads of love.
Annie
I smiled to myself, remembering the best summer holiday I’d ever had, back in the 60’s when I was just thirteen years old. We’d sneaked into Annie’s summerhouse, leaving the parents to chat after our evening meal. My cousin showed me the Ouija her mother used to play with. She’d dared me to use it, and full of teenage bravado I had, of course, conceded.
That night had proven to me that what I could see was not all there was. Since that crazy night with my cousin, I knew that the external world was only a fraction of what was really there.
“Come on sleepy, let’s play.” Georgie’s voice snapped me from my reverie. She’d got the board out and was reaching for the planchette. I couldn’t help but smile at her. She accidentally touched my leg as I moved a little closer.
“OK, let’s do this,” I said, and then added in my best Bella Lugosi voice, “Let’s see if vee can talk to zee deeeeead!” I dragged out the last word, hamming it up. It had the desired effect. Georgie erupted into schoolgirl fits of giggles and rubbed her hand on my leg again, this time no accident. She moved even closer, looping her arm through mine and returning her attention to the beautiful antique board that lay waiting on my coffee table.
We turned the telly off and, after lighting a couple of candles, turned off the main lights too. Once we’d all settled around the board (Sean and John sitting on the floor and Georgie and myself perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa) we all touched the planchette. To our surprise it twitched instantly and slid a couple of inches before anyone had even called out.
“Wow!“ Georgie giggled, snatching back her finger like she’d just been burned. “Someone’s eager to talk already.” She gulped. My heart began to race, partly from the fact that Georgie was now clinging to me for comfort and safety. I could feel the warmth from her body penetrating my clothes and couldn’t help but wonder how hot she’d feel if we were skin to skin. I hoped I’d get the chance to find out later if I didn’t do anything to blow my chances. I gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze and she smiled, returning the gesture as she replaced her finger on the planchette.
“Well…” I said, addressing the ceiling, “you’re obviously keen to talk, so please tell us who you are.” There was not even a second’s pause; the planchette began to move quickly around the letters.
F…A…T…H…E…R
“Father?” I asked “Whose father?”
FATHER, it spelled again, then moved quickly to YES.
“Father, yes?” I asked again. “OK, so I guess you want us to call you father?”
It slid to YES. Georgie squeezed closer still and laughed a little nervously.
“Who’s pushing it?” she asked. The three of us laughed and denied having done it. I knew it wasn’t us, I could feel right away that there was someone…something else in the room with us.
“Have you got any messages for anyone here?” I asked.
It circled and slid to YES, then moving rapidly around, it spelled out
S..E..A..N…Y..O..U…A..R..E...A…L..O..S..E..R.
Sean snapped his hand back from the board.
“Fuck you guys!” he barked and got up from his place on the floor. “I’m not going to sit here and be the butt of your piss taking.” He staggered over to the door and grabbed his coat.
“Happy fucking Christmas, arseholes!” he spat, and with that he was gone, slamming the door behind him. We all sat stunned. Our smiles had faded, but they soon returned.
“Whoa, where the fuck did that come from?” John asked. “Must be his time of the month or something I guess.”
We turned our attention away from Sean’s whirlwind exit and placed our fingers back on the planchette. Georgie looked back and forth between John and me.
“So… which one of you guys was it that spelled that out for Sean?”
Before either of us could deny it, the planchette shot across to NO, then spelled out
M..E…F..A..T..H..E..R…G..O..O..D…S..E..A..N…G..O..N..E.
Georgie looked at us a little uncomfortably now, not sure anymore if we were continuing the joke at her expense. I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes for just a second then and wondered if she’d suddenly felt the power I had been aware of, or if she was just afraid she’d be the next victim of a piss-taking from a couple of drunken boys. She looked nervously at us, but didn’t remove her finger from the planchette, and didn’t speak again. I broke the uncomfortable silence with another question for father.
“So, father, how long have you been dead?”
Again, no pause.
N..O..T…D..E..A..D…D..I..F..F..E..R..E..N..T…P..L..A..C..E.
There were three frowns at the table at that moment.
“Different place?” I asked. It moved to YES, but gave no further information. John withdrew his finger. Bored or tired or scared, I didn’t know, but he was making a big show of being nonchalant as he stood up.
“Well…that’s me done boys and girls. Time for my bed. I’d better go and see if Sean’s crying in the gutter somewhere on my way. You two have fun with the spirits…or each other.” He winked at me, adding a subtle raised-eyebrow wiggle and a smirk to Georgie before grabbing his coat and wishing us both a happy Christmas. Then he too was gone. As soon as the door was shut, Georgie turned to me.
“Was it you pushing the planchette?” she asked, feigning amusement, but I could read the uncertainty in her eyes.
“No, I swear it wasn’t me. I think it was spirit. I really do.” There was that flash of fear again, although she laughed.
“Let’s leave the board for now,” she said, drawing closer to me to encourage my compliance. That first touch of her plump, soft lips on mine set me aflame, and the kiss quickly became a passionate clinch, all thoughts of the board and the spirit called ‘father’ gone in the beat of her beautiful heart.
I’m far too much of a gentleman to relay those next hours for you here. Suffice it to say that both our passions were sated, and it was the early hours of Christmas morning when Georgie finally, reluctantly, decided she should go home. Those stunning eyes that appeared blue in some lights and green in others told me she really wanted to stay.
“You have a happy Christmas, okay?” she said. “And will you do me a favour?”
I raised an enquiring eyebrow, anticipating the question.
“Name it.” I said. Oh Mr Smooth, I thought smugly, you know how to woo the ladies.
“Tell me we’ll see each other again? I’d hate to think this beautiful night together was a one-time thing.” The spark in her eyes told me there was so much in store. She made me want more with that simple look. I drew close to her again.
“Georgie, I’ve been craving yo
u for months. Do you really think I’m a one night stand kinda guy? Of course I want to see you again. I think we’ve really got a connection, and I want to explore it thoroughly.” I kissed her gently and was genuinely pleased when she kissed me back and pulled me close.
“Happy Christmas,” she whispered softly in my ear, and then I was alone in my flat again.
I stood for a few moments staring longingly at the door, remembering the night’s events. The feel of her skin. It made me tingle. I could still taste her on my lips, and hoped I would taste that for the rest of my life.
I slumped back in the sofa with a grin that threatened to crack my face in two. Then I noticed the Ouija still on the table. A sudden feeling strobed through me, light and dark in quick succession. Part of me feared that the board was all too real, to be feared and loathed. Another part was thrilled to have such a beautiful and useful item of occultalia in my collection. The feeling subsided a little, became the wariness of welcoming an old friend with whom you’d once fought, a petty but stormy fight, its reason long forgotten. I sat forward and studied the beautifully-carved planchette. It certainly was intricate marquetry.
“Just you and me now, father,” I spoke out loud. To the board or to the air, I wasn’t sure which. I think the sound of my voice was for my own comfort, maybe to reassure myself that I wasn’t crazy for feeling this way. But that grounding was also fleeting, as the planchette slid to YES, untouched, unaided.
I scrambled backwards, mouth agape, eyes so wide I thought they might fall out and roll away like grisly marbles. My breath came rapidly and my heart felt like it was in my throat. I didn’t know whether I wanted to shit, piss or puke!
The planchette moved again, touching letters now. I had shuffled so far back I was practically sitting on the back of the sofa, my buttocks clenching so tightly I could feel it in my chest. But despite the intense level of shock and fear I was experiencing, not to mention the crushing belief that my sanity bubble had obviously just popped, my morbid curiosity won the brief battle and I leaned forward slightly to see what it was spelling.
DO..NOT..BE..AFRAID
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I yelled, instantly realising that my mind had accepted this as reality and, worse, I was conversing with it. I knew spirit existed, had known for years, but I’d never felt it like this, never so real, so intense. I began to lose hope for my last few remaining sane strands.
The planchette slid to NO, then FRIEND..I..AM..YOUR..FRIEND..HERE..TO..HELP.
My pulse was still pounding away like a scared bird’s wing, but at least I could feel it now. It had slowed significantly from being so fast that it appeared to be one big beat made up of a thousand flutters.
“Friend?” I said, unable to disguise the tremor in my voice. “My friends don’t scare the living shit out of me like that.” On the last syllable, I flapped my arms like a petulant child, trying in vain to convey both my annoyance and defiance of this… whatever the fuck it was that was talking to me.
Without missing a beat, the planchette moved again.
I..AM..FRIEND…I..AM ..FATHER.
My anger was rapidly gaining control of my fear now, though my sanity dangled by a thread more fragile than any that Damocles might have seen fit to suspend his swords by.
“You are not my father. My father is alive and well. I spoke to him this morning.” The fear that something had happened to Dad passed over my mind like a cloud shadow on a summer’s day. Was he here trying to contact me? I clutched at elusive logic, not wanting my Dad to be dead. No…he couldn’t be. It had said NOT DEAD, DIFFERENT PLACE earlier when the guys were all here.
The planchette swung again.
NOT..YOUR..FATHER…I..AM..FATHER..OF..CHRISTM….
“FUCK OFF!” I interrupted “You’re not telling me you are Father fucking Christmas!”
I laughed maniacally, the thread of sanity gone, sending Damocles’ weapon plunging into the depths of my mind. My rictus grin belied the pain I felt as my mind shattered like a hammered mirror. I beat the sofa again, laughing uncontrollably, the laugh of a madman. A profound and, truth be known, prophetic feeling. The planchette slid to YES.
AM..FATHER..OF..CHRISTMAS…YOUR..FRIEND.
My laugh came in painful spasms as my fractured mind grasped at the unreality of what I was witnessing.
“Father…Christmas.” I whisper-laughed to myself, staring at the board but not seeing it. My mind had flashed back to the summer of ’64 - my aunt’s Ouija in the summerhouse and the hair-raising truths it had left branded on my now-fractured mind. Proof positive that the other side was just that, the other side of a gossamer-thin veil that tenuously disguised secrets of another world.
On that day we had spoken to my deceased grandfather, who was thrilled that my cousin and I were getting on so well. He then proceeded to give an account of something I had done at school weeks before our holiday and something I had never told anyone. My cousin’s eyebrows peaked as our grandfather chastised me for trying pot at a friend’s house! I was mortified, but my cousin just laughed. But this was different. This wasn’t some gentle old man whom I’d loved, poking fun at me. No, this was something else entirely.
“Father Christmas?” I laughed questioningly again.
The planchette rattled on the table like a parent snapping fingers in front of a daydreaming child.
CALM…DOWN.
It slid in a soothing arc for a few seconds. FRIEND..HERE..TO..HELP.
I began to climb down a little, both mentally and physically, strangely comforted by the gentleness of the impossible motion of the piece of wood. My mind was being wooed by an unseen being, my body was relaxing itself down into the sofa seat once more without conscious effort. Calming motion, gentle fluid movement of smooth wood on wood. It felt like a mother stroking your hair, and I closed my eyes, swaying gently, mirroring the planchette and feeling every bit like a cat on the verge of purring.
Once my pulse had returned to something that resembled that of a creature larger than a humming bird, I opened my eyes again. I stared at the Ouija, feeling comforted by the very thing that only seconds ago had freaked me to the point of girlie screams.
FATHER..I..AM..FATHER…I..BRING..YOU..A..GIFT.
The planchette stopped. The pause felt surreal, like the whole universe was taking a breath.
“A gift?” I asked, no longer feeling the self-consciousness I had when I first began this conversation with a lump of timber (albeit a beautifully carved and inlaid piece of timber with, so the box claimed, a planchette made from a genuine piece of coffin wood). It still felt strange, but the bizarreness of what should be a wholly one-sided dialogue had evaporated and been replaced by a feeling of awe. I felt like a chosen one, one who had been granted the chance to interact with the inanimate, to get a peek into the world on a molecular level. I had been granted the ability to see and converse with those disembodied from the physical via the manipulated structure of what was now no more than a lump of wood, but had once, at some point long past, been a living, breathing tree somewhere. Living cells in a fully functioning organism that had interacted with the elements, other creatures and people from a different time.
A..GIFT..FOR..YOU.
“Father?” With the inflection raised at the end, I felt like a child seeking attention…approval.
YES
“What is my gift?” I asked, suddenly embarrassed at sounding like a spoilt and petulant brat.
PATIENCE..DEAR..ONE…YOU..HAVE..BEEN..CHOSEN…YOUR..GIFT..WILL..BRING..TWO..WORLDS..TOGETHER…WHERE..THEY..SHOULD..BE.
“Your world and our world?”
YES..THERE..ARE..THOSE..WHO..WILL..INTERFERE..BUT
“But? But what?” There was a long pause as if father was thinking how to word his response.
BUT..THEY..MUST..NOT..BE..ALLOWED..TO.
I suddenly felt a chill run down the nape of my neck, prickling the hairs under its cold, dead fingernails.
DO..NOT..BE..AFRAID…YOU..ARE..SPECIAL…THE..WORLDS..MU
ST..MOVE..TOGETHER…THOSE..WHO..SEEK..TO..DENY..THIS..ARE..STUCK..AND..WILL..BE..LEFT..BEHIND.
I sat contemplating the meaning of these words for a few moments, the enormity of what father was saying, that I had been chosen to facilitate something that far greater men, and indeed women, had been attempting for centuries. Yet somehow, it felt like a childish game, like I was a boy trying to be a man and Father Christmas was in charge of the game! I had to chuckle to myself at the implications. If the world knew that Father Christmas and a lowly office clerk would lead the single most important spiritual event since Jesus Christ was born, there would be outrage and…disbelief…
There would be disbelief!
“How are we going to accomplish this without ridicule and disbelief, Father?” I asked.
The planchette began moving before I’d finished the question.
THERE..WILL..BE..RIDICULE..AND..DISBELIEF..BUT..THE..DISBELIEVERS..WILL..BE..THOSE..LEFT..BEHIND.
I remember smiling at this. It was like I had suddenly realised I was on the winning team. Not only would I see the most amazing change in human history first hand, I would not be one of those left behind. I would survive. Survive? Strange choice of word.
Did I believe then that ‘left behind’ really meant killed? It’s hard to tell. I was caught up in a bizarre euphoria, like all my Christmases had come at once. It overwhelmed my senses, brought back memories of my childhood, of Christmas smells and the unrestrained excitement of the prospect of hearing Santa on the roof, of maybe catching a glimpse of the sleigh as he flew by. An untethered excitement, unbound by the restraints of grown up convention.
I snapped from my childhood memories at the sound of the planchette moving again.
ARE..YOU..READY..FOR ..YOUR..GIFT..YET?
My excitement was at fever pitch.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I heard myself squeal like a schoolgirl. I moved onto the edge of the sofa, wondering how my gift would be delivered. I glanced wonderingly at the fire place, half expecting Father Christmas to magically appear and hand the gift to me in an elegantly wrapped box with a huge golden bow on the lid. It’s amazing how quickly our minds adapt to change, however bizarre. Twelve hours before, I was a fully-fledged adult who laughed at the notion. Now I was half expecting a jolly fat man to drop down the sooty shaft. It’s a good job we do adapt well, or what I saw next would surely have fractured the remnants of my sanity into deadly shards.
