Shallow Grave (4 page)

“Why can't you do it alone?”

“You should always have someone else there. You're trying to connect with a world we don't really understand, you know?” Shannon explains. “Back to that thing about staying in control.”

I nod. An idea hits me. “Hey,” I say, “can we talk to Kurt Cobain?”

“Oooh, that would be awesome!” she says. Then she shakes her head. “But it doesn't work like that. You can't call a specific person up from the dead. That's more like what goes on in a séance. And those are seriously freaky.”

“So we just talk to…random ghosts?” I say. “What's the point of that?”

Shannon leans across the board, eyes wide. “Because it's a trip, that's what!” She sits back and grins. “And who knows?” She looks around. “Maybe we'll be able to talk to whatever's here.”

“If there even is something here,” I say. My last word comes out high and thin. Is it me, or did a rush of cold air just sweep the back of my neck?

I glance at Shannon to see if she noticed my sudden falsetto, but she's getting herself settled on a
PFD
.

I must have imagined that. God, I'm freaking myself out over nothing.

The
PFD
's a good idea, actually. Put something between my skinny ass and this freezing cold floor. I reach for one and stuff it under me.

“Ready?” Shannon asks.

I nod.

She pushes the bottle cap over to HELLO.

“Put your hands on,” she instructs. “Just your fingertips, really lightly. You don't want to be pushing on the disc.”

I place my fingertips on the cap, copying her.

“We'd like to ask a few questions,” Shannon says. Her voice is loud. I glance at her, but she's talking to the board. My stomach tightens.

“Is there a spirit present?”

Nothing happens.

“We welcome your presence,” she says. “We would like to speak with you. Would you like to speak with us?”

We sit, our fingertips almost touching across the top of the bottle cap. I study her nail polish.

Nothing happens.

This is lame.

Suddenly I feel incredibly stupid. What am I so worried about? I'm sitting with my fingers on the cap to an old bleach bottle, freaking out over talking to a bunch of letters that have been printed on an old chalkboard.

And—big surprise—the letters aren't talking back.

“Would you like to speak with us?” Shannon asks again.

Nothing. Our fingers quiver, moving the cap infinitesimally. Ideomotor movement. Just our smallest muscular movements affecting the placement of the lid. I've heard people say that's all Ouija is. Just a bunch of nervous movements being taken way too seriously by whoever's making them.

Shannon tries again. “Is there someone here, in this building? Are you familiar with this building?”

No response.

I take a deep breath and relax my shoulders.

“Looks like the spirits are asleep.” I catch Shannon's eye and grin.

And then the cap moves.

Chapter Eight

I guess I really wasn't expecting it. Skipping and stuttering a bit, the cap slides on a diagonal. Across the board. Away from HELLO.

Toward YES.

I yank my hands away.

“Put your fingers back on!” Shannon barks.

I put them back. She flashes me a look. “You can't leave me alone on the board.”

The cap stopped when I took my fingers off. It sits quietly now, paused between L and C.

I feel like an idiot.

But I also feel incredibly nervous.

Okay, fine. I'm afraid.

My fingertips feel hot where they touch the cap. Which is weird, because it's cold in here. Maybe I'm pressing too hard. I ease off a bit until they're just barely grazing the plastic. Still hot.

I consider telling Shannon I'm just not that into it, but that would make me look like a sissy. So I don't.

Shannon turns her attention back to the board. “I'll ask the question again,” she says. “Are you familiar with this building?”

The cap stutters. My heart skips out a double beat and my ears whoosh with the sudden rush in my pulse. I force my fingers to stay put as the cap staggers toward the top of the board.

YES.

Shannon glances at me. “Were you ever inside this building?”

The cap inches to the other side of the board.
Scuff. Scuff-scuff.

NO.

Somehow this makes me feel relieved.

“Were you a student at this school?”

The cap flies backward, sliding like a puck on ice.
Shhh.

YES.

“Whoa,” Shannon says. Her voice is shaky.

I can't help it. I jerk my fingers away again. “What the hell?” I whisper.

“Elliot!”

Like a robot, I put them back. My head feels light, like I'm only half here. Shannon glares at me.

She looks back at the board. “What's your name?”

Nothing.

“What is your name?” Shannon repeats, a little louder.

No movement.

My fingertips hurt. It's like I'm holding them against a heater. Those couple of seconds before your nerves realize they're being barbecued.

“Are you happy?”

What kind of question is that? What ghost is happy? Do happy ghosts haunt places?

I'm not surprised by the board's answer: NO.

“Great,” I mutter.

Shannon scowls at me.

“Why are you here?”

Nothing.

“Too broad,” Shannon says under her breath. She raises her voice a bit. “When did you die?”

The cap skids forward. A sudden tightness seizes the back of my brain, and my vision blurs. I want to tell Shannon to stop, but my tongue feels thick, like someone's stuffed a sock in my mouth.

The cap slides to a halt.

J

Slides away.

U

Slides again.

N

I have a vague notion that I'm leaning backward, my head turned away from the board.

Shannon's brow furrows. “J-U-N?” she asks. “Do you mean June? Did you die in June?”

Moving again.

YES.

I bite down on a little moan.

There's an invisible presence in here, and it's talking to us.

“You died in June,” Shannon says. “Was it this past June?”

YES.

Shannon blinks. Licks her lips.

“Are you a girl?”

YES.

Shannon's eyes widen, and she takes a little breath. “Oh my god,” she whispers. Then she looks at me. “I think I know who this is.”

“What?” I mouth back. So now she actually knows this dead person we're talking to? Man, this is just too much for me.

“Were you ready to die?” Shannon asks.

The lid shoots toward the corner of the board.

NO.

A shiver starts somewhere in my core and works itself outward, leaving me cold. So cold. Like I've fallen through ice. But yet, my fingers are still burning. My stomach curls in on itself.

“What is your name?” Shannon asks.

The cap moves fast.

GOODBYE.

Shannon lets out a shaky breath. I can't pull my hands from the lid soon enough. I blow on my fingertips to cool them.

We sit, ghostly white and staring at each other.

Then the phone rings.

Chapter Nine

Shannon screams. She screams so loud, it drowns out my own scream. Then she grabs me and we scream together.

We stare at the phone. I don't remember taking it out of my pocket. But then, yes, I do. I checked the time before we ate the donuts.

The display clearly tells me it's my swim coach. Not hell calling. But I can't move to pick it up.

When the phone stops ringing, we stay like that, locked together, for a few seconds. Panting, we stare at the phone.

I'm the first to release. Shannon moves back to her side of the board, gathering her hair to one side of her neck. “Holy cats,” she says. “That was intense.”

“That's one way to describe it,” I agree. If this wasn't happening to me, I'd be laughing. Because it's straight out of a horror movie.

Lucky for us, the scary part is behind us. We're not stupid like the idiots in the movies. The fools who open doors to strangers at nighttime or who follow the big bad crashing noises through the woods to see what's making them.

We're not stupid like that, because we're going to put the Ouija board back with the rest of the chalkboards and hang up our
PFD
s and then get the hell out of here. I'll talk Hatch and Mike into coming back with me on Sunday after practice. We'll bring a few of those big-ass bright camping lanterns and get this place cleaned up.

I gather up the cardboard and the paper towels and stuff them into the garbage bag by the door. Screw recycling. I'm getting out of here.

“Where are you going?” Shannon asks.

“Home,” I say. “I've had enough fun for the next few years, I think.”

Shannon laughs. “Pretty freaky, eh? I love it.”

“I'm not feeling the love,” I say. “I'm feeling like it's time to go.”

“But I want to find out more,” she protests. “We've only just begun. And I think I know who we're talking to.”

“How? Who?” I ask. Then quickly I add, “Never mind. Tell me in the car. I gotta get going. I have practice early tomorrow.”

Shannon looks around. “But what about all the mess? We haven't finished cleaning up.”

I'm relieved she's not going to fight me. “I'll come back with a crew on Sunday and get it done. You're off the hook.”

Disappointment shadows her face. Because she can't talk to the ghost? Or because she likes spending time with me?

I'll probably never know. What does it matter anyway? A guy like me and a girl like Shannon—it wouldn't fly.

Look at these stupid thoughts. I'd never even be thinking them if we weren't in such a crazy situation. But adrenaline does crazy things to your brain.

Like making you think that the girl with the purple hair is actually kind of cool.

“Hurry up,” I say gruffly.

Shannon's buttoning her coat. “Okay, okay,” she says. “I gotta pee first, though, before we leave.” Then her eyes get that little excited shimmer again. “And then on the way home, I'll tell you who I think we were talking to!”

I grunt and point to one of the kerosene lanterns. “Take that with you. And don't go far,” I say, as she stoops to pick up a lantern.

“'Kay, Dad.” She grins. She wraps her scarf around her neck and tucks the ends into her coat. “Be right back. Don't lock me out.”

“It's tempting.”

“Pff.” She unhooks the door and pushes it open. A gust of wind snatches it from her hand and throws it wide, slamming it against the wall. My heart splurts into my throat and sticks there, pounding.

“Jesus Christ!” she yells. “What's with the wind?” She steps down, leaving the door open behind her. I prop it open with the brick—firmly this time, no way I'm closing myself in with some dead thing—and turn back inside.

I blow out two of the three remaining lanterns. As I cross the floor to blow out the third, my foot slips on the Ouija board. Better put that away.

I stoop to pick up the lid from where it sits on top of the board. It's still warm when my fingers touch it. Creepy.

The lid's still on GOODBYE.

I grab it. “Yeah, goodbye. Nice talking to you.”

The lid skids across the board.

NO.

I give off a little squeak and pull my hand back.

Except it won't come. It's stuck.

My hand is damn well stuck on the cap.

I mean, really?

That's almost the worst part. Except it's not.

The worst part might even be when the lid starts moving over the letters, from one to the next to the next to the next while I watch, powerless to take my hand away. You'd think that was the worst. Except it's not.

The absolute worst part is when the boathouse door swings shut. Quietly. Just a little creak.

And when I look up.

And see the little hook dropping into the eye.

All by itself.

Chapter Ten

I stare at the door. The door that closed all by itself.

Moved the brick.

Closed.

And locked itself.

My head spins. I feel like I might puke.

Under my fingers, the lid moves. I try to pull away, but it won't let me. I go to stand, but it's like my legs have been cast in concrete. I'm stuck in this squat. My fingers are stuck to the lid.

I feel a sudden flash of heat, and my back breaks out in a sweat. Fear.

I try to push the lid off with my other hand. No dice. Those fingers become trapped too. Gorilla glue.

Now that both of my hands are on, the lid moves faster. With more purpose. My heart thrums as I watch—I can't tear my eyes away. I've heard that Ouija boards make a lot of spelling mistakes.

This one's not making any mistakes at all.

It's spelling out the same letters. Same order.

One name.

Over. And over. And over.

I nearly jump out of my shorts when something bangs on the door. Shannon.

“Elliot!” she yells. “Open up!”

Bangbangbang.

I try to stand, but the concrete's still holding me down. “Hang on!” I yell. I pull, but my hands are stuck. To the lid, which is stuck to the board. I'd pull it off the floor if I could, but it's stuck there too.

I fight a sudden urge to giggle.

“Open the door!” Shannon yells again. “I told you not to lock me out! It's freezing out here!”

I look at the door. The hook-and-eye closure tightens and loosens in time with Shannon's frantic tugging on the other side.

“Elliot! Please!”

I look back at the board, suddenly angry.

“What do you want?” I hiss. “What do you want from me?”

The lid heats up under my fingers, superhot. Agonizing. The heat travels up through my fingers and across my wrists. It's like having hot wax shot through my veins.