The Harrowing (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Back at the Hall, Robin stood in the dim corner of the third floor boys’ wing, knocking hard on

Martin’s door, wishing that she’d thought to bring a camera to the cemetery to document the gravestone. But she had the Star of David (she felt for it in her jeans pocket, reminding herself it was there). And surely Martin would believe her, and think it as strange as she had, the proof Zachary was Jewish.

She stood back, waiting, and focused on the little metal scroll nailed to the door frame, with its Hebrew lettering…remembered Zachary’s raging, the fury not just at Martin but also at the Jewish God.

Zachary was Jewish. Martin was Jewish. Despite his outward denial of his own faith, Martin had spoken in Hebrew to the board. There was a connection here, something she didn’t understand, but somewhere at the heart of it was the answer.

She was absolutely sure that Martin knew more than he was telling.

She reached to knock again.

A hand touched her shoulder from behind and she whirled, gasping.

Cain stood behind her in the dark corner of the hall. He looked down at her pale face, frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Cain’s room was illuminated by two circles of low light cast by a desk lamp and another on the

bed stand. Robin paced the floor through the pools of light while Cain sat on his bed, watching her.

“I found Zachary’s grave.”

She blurted it out, and was gratified at his startled look. “He’s buried in the cemetery just outside of town.” She met his eyes. “In the Jewish section. There’s a Star of David on the headstone. I found this on the grave.”

She fished out the Star of David and handed it to him. Cain examined the tarnished metal piece, then looked up at her in disbelief; she recognized the same jolt of confusion that she had felt in the cemetery, looking down at the grave.

“He was Jewish?” Cain said slowly.

“So he would never have said those things to Martin.” She hesitated, then raced on. “But actually I don’t think he was saying them to Martin. I think it’s really somehow about God—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Cain held up a hand, frowning. “You said Zachary lived in Mendenhall. But Mendenhall used to be a fraternity. The frats didn’t let Jews in on this campus in 1920. There was a quota system for Jewish admissions, even—the school cut the Jewish students down by half over two years.”

Robin was shocked, though she knew she shouldn’t be. “How horrible.”

Cain gave her a cynical look. “Yeah, well, this school wasn’t the only one.”

Robin’s eyes clouded as she thought it through. “Maybe he was hiding being Jewish, then, so he could get into the college. And putting on the anti-Semitism, to pass as”—she had to search for the word—”Gentile.”

She sat abruptly in the window seat. “What a terrible way to have to live. No wonder he’s so angry.”

Cain leaned forward to speak. Robin was sure he was about to say something scathing about the nonexistent ghost. But he stopped himself and sat for a moment, silent. Finally, he looked across the room at her.

“I know something else about your friend Zachary.” He stood, extending the Star of David. She took it and watched as he moved over to his desk. The volume of bound newspapers she’d given him was on top. Cain opened the old book to a page he’d marked with a concert flyer, glanced back at her.

Robin rose and moved to his side, looked down at a
Law Review
article. She read the title aloud: “
‘IRS vs. the Baltimore Talking Board Company
.’ ” She looked at Cain, confused…but there was a prickling of significance along her neck. “Baltimore Talking Board.”

“Yeah. Same as the one we were using.” He spoke rapidly, running his hand through his hair. “This is a real legal case from 1920.1 looked it up. This Talking Board Company had the patent on alphabet boards and was really churning them out, because of that Spiritualist craze that Martin was talking about. The IRS got a look at the profits and started taxing the boards as games, so the manufacturer took the case to court, trying to get out of the tax by claiming religious exemption. They argued that the Ouija board isn’t a game, but a form of spiritualism, and therefore exempt from federal income tax.” He smiled thinly. “The game company lost, of course.”

Robin looked at him, still not understanding. He nodded to the book.

“Look who wrote the article.”

Robin turned to the author’s name, and caught her breath. “
Zachary
.”

Cain’s smile twisted. “I figure he decided to do his own research.”

Robin’s eyes were dark as she realized what he meant. “So he tested the board to see if it really worked.” She drew in her breath. “That was
his
board we were using. Do you think that’s why his ghost is attached to it?”

But she frowned at her own theory, realizing intuitively that there was a logical flaw. In fact, the whole idea of Zachary with the board made her extremely nervous.
The burn marks on the board. He was using the board. Did they die using the board?

She lifted uneasy eyes to Cain’s, allowing her secret fear to come to the surface. “Do you think that what we’re talking to might not be Zachary?”

He half-laughed, a harsh sound. “I never thought it was Zachary. This ghost thing is just oh so romantic…” His knowing gaze blistered her, and she looked away, flushed and angry, caught out. “But it’s bullshit. Someone’s playing a game here. And I know O’Connor’s been pissing around—that stuff with the water heater, and that bogus midterm.”

Robin’s hackles rose at the same old attack on Patrick. She took a step back, about to retort; then her gaze fell on the nightstand beside Cain’s bed, and she lost her train of thought.

Next to the base of the gooseneck lamp, there was a torn yellow strip of paper, folded in a square.

Robin’s eyes widened. She recognized the paper: It was one of the strips they had written that first Thanksgiving night, at Martin’s suggestion—and after Cain had left the room. The purple pen identified it as her strip.

Which meant that Cain had gone back down in the night to get it. Which meant…

“You,” she said aloud. “It was you.” She turned on him. “You went back that first night. You moved the furniture.”

Cain stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

She took three quick steps to the bed stand, grabbed the yellow square of paper, held it out accusingly. “How did you get this? What are you doing with it?”

Cain looked trapped, then angry. “What were you doing writing it?” he slammed back at her.

Robin faltered, suddenly remembering what she’d written.
Something no one knows about me
….

They stared at each other, both flushed. Then Cain’s face closed off.

“Fuck it. Play your games. You’re all crazy. I don’t care.”

Unable to look at him, Robin turned quickly and bolted out the door.

She ran down the hall, startling a couple of students who stood talking beside another door, and ducked into the stairwell.

In the narrow, dark passage, she stopped to catch her breath, and slowly unfolded the paper to stare down at her own purple writing, the words accusing her from another lifetime:

I want to die.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It was long past midnight, and Robin saw no one in the halls as she made her way up the stairs to the narrow passageway that led into the attic.

She had never been in the attic, had only been vaguely aware it existed. It was surprisingly large: high-raftered enough in the center for even Patrick to move about without having to watch his head, then sloping down to almost nothing in the corners. But claustrophobic nonetheless, with its unfinished walls and the amazing array of discards, much of which must have been forgotten, gathering dust for years.

Four of them, minus Cain, now hovered in the rat warren of furniture from various time periods, paintings, dusty stacks of boxes with God knows what odds and ends, racks of old Glee Club jackets, even, weirdly, a headless dressmaker’s dummy. Cobwebs hung from the sloped corners; everything seemed ominous in the shadows.

Martin was setting up the new board he’d bought, the familiar commercial version, on a heavy round table he’d found among the detritus. Patrick obligingly lighted the candles Martin had brought with his Zippo lighter.

Patrick likes Martin
, Robin realized, surprised and rather touched by the thought.
At least he’s fond of him, in some abstract way. Maybe because Martin’s not afraid of him.

She looked over to where Lisa stood off by herself, chain-smoking in the flickering candlelight.
Now I know what they mean by “a shadow of herself
,” Robin mused, worried.
She looks like a ghost.

But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To stop all this?

She had not told anyone but Cain of her discovery in the cemetery. She wanted to question the board herself, without suggesting any answers to the others.

She knew Cain was wrong about Patrick—or anyone—setting up a prank. What was happening was far beyond a prank. Cain was clinging to that to protect himself—irrational rationality.

But he was right that there was a game going on. She was sure now: it was Zachary who was playing it.

Almost as if he’d picked up on her thoughts, Martin turned from the board and looked directly at her.

“Where’s Jackson? It’s almost one-thirty.”

Robin started, her heart beating a bit faster. It was quite possible Cain wouldn’t show, and she didn’t know if anything would happen without him.

And would that be such a bad thing?

And then the door opened behind Lisa, and Cain stepped in. He looked around the candlelit attic.

Martin cleared his throat. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

Cain glanced briefly at Robin, said nothing.

Martin shrugged. “All right, then. Let’s do it.” He stepped to the table and turned on a mini-tape recorder, then took out his cell phone and checked the camera function. “We’ll start with the girls—they’re the best receptors.”

Robin thought,
Taking charge again. What does he want out of this?
But she sat slowly in one chair, looking at the shiny, smooth, burn-free new board.
Will it work with a modern board? Will Zachary come?

Her skin prickled.

Do I want him to?

Martin pulled out the other chair, looked to where Lisa sat on her box. She ground out her cigarette, stood and crossed to the table, and sat, her limbs heavy, her face set. Martin stood beside them with his phone, ready to film.

How official we are
.

Robin looked across the table at Lisa, trying to project calm and reassurance. They both stretched out their hands to the planchette in the center of the board.

The pointer moved immediately, almost before they touched it.

Robin drew in a startled breath. She could feel Lisa flinch through the wood of the planchette.

The board spelled out quickly

HELLO CHILDREN

Martin read the words aloud dispassionately.
For the tape
, Robin realized. She and Lisa looked at each other, unnerved, as the indicator kept moving under their hands.

I VE BEEN WAITING

The candles flared, hissing with dripping wax. Martin looked at his watch, made a note on his clipboard. Robin spoke sharply. “Waiting for what?” Under their fingers, the pointer flew across the board.

MISSED YOU

Patrick exhaled a cloud of smoke from the joint he’d just lighted. “But you’ve been around, haven’t you?” He spoke it flatly, to the air.

ALWAYS

Robin could feel Cain behind her, prowling the perimeters of the attic, watching everything like a hawk. She spoke aloud.

“And all these things that have been happening to us…that was you?”

She could feel a peculiar intensity, almost a heat in the energy coming through the planchette under her fingers as it moved.

I M LONELY TOO SWEET ROBIN

Robin tensed; she saw Lisa stiffen across from her.

Martin stepped forward, spoke beside her. “Did you write O’Connor’s midterm?”

I HELPED

Robin leaned forward, intent. “Why?”

The pointer hesitated…then skimmed lightly over the letters.

NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM

Martin deadpanned the words and everyone laughed, startled at the sudden humor. Patrick did a double take, growled back, mock-insulted. “Hey.”

Robin could feel the others relax. It was a game again, playful and fun, the same easy intimacy they’d had that first night.

Oh no
, Robin thought grimly.
Not this time. I’m onto you
.

Patrick stepped up now. “Were you inside me?” The planchette moved once.

YES

“I’m not sure I like that, pal,” Patrick warned. He was mostly joking, but the planchette moved swiftly, emphatically.

I LIKED IT PAL

Patrick went rigid. Robin felt cold. The candlelight flickered, and everyone looked at one another uneasily.

Focus
, Robin ordered herself.
Find out what we need to know. But be careful—draw it out.

“How did you get inside him?” she asked aloud.

HE ASKED

Martin read it out, looking at Patrick. Patrick stared back at Martin. “Like hell I did.”

Martin met his gaze levelly. “You did. That first night.” He mimicked Patrick, a remarkably good imitation. “ ‘How, Zach? You gonna take it for me? Eleven o’clock next Friday…’”

Robin had the fleeting, totally chilling sensation that Martin was speaking for Zachary, continuing the conversation of the board. Then the pointer was moving under her fingers again.

I M HERE TO HELP

Martin read that aloud, too, and Robin again got an eerie feeling of schizophrenia.

“What do you want, though?” she demanded. The pointer circled slowly, as if considering.
It’s playing with us
, she thought very clearly, and the thought was terrifying.
Not he—it. What is it?

The pointer moved from letter to letter. Martin lifted his head to speak the words. His voice was hoarse.

YOUR SOULS

The attic was deathly silent, candlelight flickering on the dusty walls. Robin could only move her eyes, but from what she could see, everyone had gone as white as ghosts.

Then the pointer leapt to life, spelling quickly.

JOKE

Then it began racing back and forth between two letters, faster and faster.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Robin jerked her hands away from the planchette. The pointer stopped. Lisa remained with her hands pressed into the wooden piece, as if unable to move. Patrick spoke grimly. “Very funny, Zach.”

“It is
not
funny.” Robin’s face was set as she put her fingertips back on the pointer. “What do you want? Why are you…bothering Lisa?” The pointer was still.

Then Lisa gasped. Everyone turned to look at her, and Robin gasped, too.

Lisa sat frozen in her chair, her hair floating around her head as if lifted by invisible fingers.

Patrick jerked forward, slashed at the air with his hands. Lisa’s hair dropped to her shoulders again. She hugged herself, staring up into Patrick’s eyes in helpless terror. He put his hands on her shoulders, pressed himself against the back of her chair like a bodyguard. Behind them, Cain looked stunned.

Martin spoke suddenly. “Feel that. Cold.”

Robin realized she was shivering violently. All of their breath showed, white puffs in the freezing air.

Martin angled his phone to film it… and there was a sudden sharp cracking sound. Martin sucked in his breath and dropped the phone. It thudded on the floor.

Everyone jerked around to look at him.

“It broke,” he said faintly, in wonder. “It cracked in my hand.” He held up a hand, and Robin froze. There was a trickle of dark blood between his fingers.

As Patrick and Cain stared at Martin, Robin suddenly leaned across the table and took Lisa’s hands, looking into her face. “We can stop right now.”

Lisa shuddered but shook her head. “Ask him what he wants.” She placed her hands on the pointer, stared, hollow-eyed, into Robin’s gaze.

Robin’s fingers slipped into her pocket; she felt the sharp points of the Star of David.

All right. Now
.

Robin put her fingers back on the planchette, asked the question she had been thinking ever since she knelt at Zachary’s grave.

“You’re not Zachary Prince, are you?”

Everyone but Cain looked at her, startled. The pointer was still.

“What are you talking about—” Patrick began.

“Wait,” Robin commanded. She stared down at the board, clenched her jaw. “Answer me.”

She felt the pointer jerk under their fingers, a sharp jolt of angry energy. Lisa’s eyes widened. Then the pointer spelled out the words slowly, almost sullenly.

MY CLEVER GIRL

Robin spoke evenly to the air. “I’m not your girl.”

The pointer leapt to life, scraped across the board in violent jerks.

AND I M NOT A GODDAMN

Robin gasped, realizing what was coming. Martin read the last word through clenched teeth.

JEW

Everyone flinched. Lisa pulled her hands away from the planchette as if burned, but Robin remained with her fingers touching it, determined. Beside her, she could feel Martin staring fixedly down at the board, stiff with tension.

Patrick spun to Robin. “Hold the fuck up. What’s goin’ on?”

Robin took her hands off the planchette, a gesture like lowering her voice, as if whatever they were talking to wouldn’t be able to hear if she broke contact with the board.

“I went to the cemetery today. I found Zachary’s grave.” She looked to Martin. “There was a Star of David on the headstone.”

Martin stared back at her, stunned. “He was Jewish?”

Robin nodded, glanced at the board. “So he would never be spouting this anti-Semitic…filth.”

Lisa’s face was transparent. “It’s not Zachary?”

Patrick wheeled around on the attic floor. “Then who the fuck are we talking to?”

Robin looked to Cain. “We know Zachary wrote an article on the Baltimore Talking Board—the board we were using over Thanksgiving weekend. We think Zachary and some of his friends were using that same board themselves.”

“Oh my God,” Lisa whispered. “And they were talking to…” She stared down at the board.

They looked around at each other in the freezing half-light.

Robin put her hands back on the planchette. Lisa reluctantly reached forward, too. Robin spoke tensely to the board. “Why did you lie? Who are you really?”

The pointer circled, eerie, slow sweeps, not spelling anything. The slow circling was worse than any message. Robin could hear everyone breathing harshly in the cold.

She tried another tack. “Why did you pretend to be Zachary?”

The pointer spelled immediately.

FUN

Robin swallowed, disturbed. “Did you know Zachary?”

O YES

“What happened to him?

The planchette trembled as if with laughter, then moved under their hands, slow and taunting. Martin read the word.

GUESS

Robin’s voice was raw in the silence. “He used the board to call you?”

YES

“Why?” She asked quickly. The pointer circled, as if considering, then spelled

SOMETHING IN COMMON

Robin frowned. “What did you have in common?”

She felt a malevolent heat coming through her fingertips, a feeling of pure rage. The pointer flew across the board.

ADON OLAM

The words were unfamiliar, but before Robin could ask, the board went on, the indicator making vicious sharp sweeps.

OUR FUCKFACEKIKE GOD

OUR LYING CHEATING WHOREMASTER GOD

GOD GOD GOD

The pointer began to race violently on the board. Lisa gasped.

Martin suddenly stepped forward under the rafters, spoke tightly to the board. “
Haim ata Qlippah?
” The pointer stopped rattling instantly. Robin’s eyes widened at the unfamiliar language, with the one familiar word.

“What does that mean?” Cain demanded. “What the fuck are you saying?” Patrick growled simultaneously.

“Shut up!” Martin snapped, startling both of them. The pointer was moving, forming incomprehensible letters. Robin felt a different energy through the wooden piece—a cunning. Lisa sounded out the letters one by one.

ATA YODEA

Martin stared down at the board, not moving.

Cain grabbed Martin’s arm. “What’s with the Hebrew? What did you say?”

Martin pulled away from him, “Just wait.” He spoke to the board. “What do you mean?
Explain
what you are.”

The pointer moved. This time the words were recognizably English, but mystifying.

A SMEAR OF OIL UPON THE LAMP

Robin read out the sentence, which seemed eerily familiar. Martin had gone very still. “Explain,” he said tightly. The pointer moved again.

I AM ENERGY