Second Verse (3 page)

I will not cry.

It’s like a stream of gasoline has been lit with a single match. The connection, like a tied knot, pulls tight in me and I’m suddenly confident. I can do this.

“We are here to summon your spirit.” My voice is nearly a whisper. It’s silent outside, not a hint of wind anywhere now. Even the barn is quiet. It’s as if none of us is even breathing. That feeling inside me stirs again, light curtains swishing in my stomach, soon churning faster, a whirlwind of tumbling fear and anticipation. I hold tight to the grief, hoping it will bring us a spirit.

Listening to the feeling for a moment, I try to remember what I’ve read about opening oneself to spirit visitation. As much as I’d wanted this to be for fun, it feels more real than I could have imagined.

“If you are here, please respond by using your power to move the glass on our table.”

Breathing deeply, I focus on my heart. It races at a frightening speed.

I stare at the glass, wanting it to move, but terrified of it moving. Everyone holds their breath and I’m afraid to even look around the table.

Silence fills the space like an overinflated balloon.

“Use your power to move the glass. If you’re here, show us your power. Use your strength. Show us your power.” I repeat variations of the same phrase. Still hoping. Still scared.

Deep in my chest I feel something, like a deadbolt being unlocked. It’s a subtle feeling that I almost don’t notice. But then, like a door, a space swings open inside me. Inviting.

“Show yourself,” I whisper.

Underneath the table, something skitters across the floor, creating a slight breeze across my feet. Everything in me tightens and I force myself to take even breaths. The breeze travels up my legs. Around the table, everyone tenses. They feel it too.

We stare at the glass, but it doesn’t move. A scratching noise from the underside of the table, like fingernails on wood, makes me sit straighter. Sweat drips down my neck. Across the table, Stace shifts in her seat, eyes widening. She nods to me, giving me the confidence to continue. The scratching gets louder. Faster, almost frantic, like someone scratching from the inside of a coffin.

“We feel your presence,” I say.

The scratching fades slowly and a thick energy fills the air. The breeze travels across my shoulders, down my arms. I shiver.
Beside me, Kelly shivers, then Ben, then Stace, and finally, Vaughn. It’s passing across us. Kelly’s hand trembles in mine.

A bright light bounces just outside my peripheral and everyone’s heads turn toward it.

I tighten my grip on both Kelly and Vaughn’s hands. Kelly’s grasp loosens, her fingers hanging limply in mine, but Vaughn squeezes back hard, pinning my fingers like a vice. A sudden flush of energy comes from him, like I’ve been plugged into something electric.

A voice hisses through the barn at an alarmingly loud decibel. “
Sellllll. Herrrr. Sweeeeney
.”

The heavy attic candlesticks topple over on the table. Collectively, there’s a sharp intake of breath, and then everyone seems to deflate, arms and hands falling to their sides. Vaughn’s lingers in mine for longer than the others and I can’t shake the feeling of something electric, like live wires. When his hand tightens on mine again, the sensation swells. I hold my breath and so does he. The moment we let go, the doors at the east end of the barn bang open, loud as a gunshot. A hurricane-strength gust rushes through the barn, extinguishing all the candlelight.

I feel hollow inside, as if it’s rushed through me too.

Sweat drips down the back of my neck while I listen to my friends’ ragged breathing. In the dim moonlight that shines in from the now-open doors, I can just barely make out each of their shadows.

No one speaks. No one moves.

“Wow,” Kelly finally says, her normally sunny voice like the darkest, murkiest part of a lake.

“What did that mean?” I barely manage to get the words out.

“Yeah, did you feel that under the table?” Stace’s voice is even, though she speaks in a whisper. “And across our arms?”

“Those things are heavy.” Ben says in a shaky voice, nodding to the candlesticks. “That was no accident.”

I shake my head. “No. Not the candlesticks. Not whatever moved through here. The voice.”

A metallic shiver passes through me, like my blood is being drained.

Even in the near-darkness, I see Kelly’s profile turn to me. “What voice?”

There’s no way I’m the only one who heard it.

My pulse jumps, chasing my erratic thoughts. The door inside, the one I’ve somehow unlocked, bangs against my ribcage.

“I heard it too,” Vaughn whispers, so quiet I can barely hear him. “Loud and clear.”

E
VERYONE’S QUIET WHILE
we break down the séance. We move silently, packing away candles and tablecloths and fake blood. Once we’ve removed every stitch of proof that it happened, we all breathe easier, though everyone keeps their eyes off the barn.

“So,” Kelly says, dragging the chairs into the yard. “Are we still doing the campfire?”

“Huh?” I blink. Everyone stares at me.

Sell. Her. Sweeney
.

“Campfire?” Ben prompts me, his eyes so wide the white of them glows in the darkness.

“Oh sure. We can do it over here.” My words tumble over each other as we move further into the yard, far away from the barn. “I have a CD player somewhere.”

“Twenty-first century, Lange. I brought my iPod and dock,” Vaughn says, so close to me that I jump. But his voice is quiet, his typical joking tone hidden beneath something chillingly somber.

“I thought we were going to play?” Stace nods to her guitar. “I know
I
could use the distraction.”

“Yeah, of course. That sounds like the best idea.” I force a smile and try to ignore the layer of sweat on my back and in my hair.

Kelly and Ben carry the rest of the boxes onto the porch while Vaughn and Stace get their guitars. I stumble more than once as I drag the chairs into a circle around the fire pit. On the
metal hearth of the structure, I stack the wood into a teepee shape and carefully roll newspaper to stuff beneath it.

Just focus on the tasks, Lange. Don’t think about the barn. Or the voice
.

“Lighter fluid would help,” Stace says, staring at the pile of wood while she tunes her guitar. “Weren’t you ever a Girl Scout or did they not have those in Jersey?” She laughs, joking with me like always about living in Jersey, but it falls flat tonight. We’re all still freaked.

“Never done this,” I say. “Guess it shows.”

Shaking her head, she smiles, plucking away at the strings while she starts to hum a song. Vaughn, carrying his guitar by the neck, sits on a chair behind me. I attempt to strike the first match on the box, but my fingers shake and it goes out almost immediately. I try again with even less luck, barely even getting the match lit.

“Damn it.” I growl.

“Let me help.” Vaughn’s somehow inched up next to me again. Gives me a chill.

“Thanks, I’m a total spaz.” I force a laugh as I pass him the box. But our fingers brush and there’s another faint spark. His eyes glitter in the dark.

“Lange!”

I jump, blinking back to reality. Kelly waves to me from the porch, where she and Ben lean over the banister.

“Wake up out there! Marshmallows and cider? Inside?” She points to the back door.

I nod, unable to speak, still trying to will my body back to the moment.

The fire roars in front of us and through it, I watch Stace play. Her soft song provides a background to the crack of the fire. Her voice is soothing.

“That sounds nice. What is it?”

“Purgatory,” she says. “What else?”

Ah, of course. Purgatory. Her favorite band, the local indie group everyone loves.

“Sorry.” I smile. “Non-musical, here.”

She closes her eyes, getting into the song. Vaughn, still sitting in the chair behind me, picks up his guitar.

He leans forward. “We need to talk,” he whispers.

I pretend I don’t hear him and roll up more newspaper to put in the fire. When Stace finishes her song, I clap. She smiles with a small nod as she waves Vaughn over. They play together, their melodies and voices melding perfectly.

“Score!” Ben says from the porch, holding up a bag of marshmallows and a jug of store-bought cider. He and Kelly come down the steps and hand out the supplies.

We drink cider and roast marshmallows. We sing songs. And we pretend the séance didn’t happen, or maybe that it was no more than a ghost story gone out of control.

I wish.

Sell. Her. Sweeney
.

I watch the flames dance and flicker, watch them change from red to orange to blue. The wood cracks and crumbles. Burns. I tune out the conversation, thinking only of the emptiness inside me, the current that moved through me in the barn.

And the one that came from Vaughn
.

Just the thought makes me buzz inside and when I look up, I find him staring. A blazing look that rivals the fire’s dancing flames. I look away, but we’ve caught each other. And I know this wasn’t just a ghost story to him, even if it was to the others.

He heard it too. Loud and clear, he said.

But I want to believe it didn’t happen. I want so bad to laugh and sing and eat marshmallows as if nothing has changed inside me.

I’ll ignore it, for now. And I’ll ignore him, too. I’ll get things back to normal even if it means pretending I don’t recognize that look in his eyes. And the dread creeping through me that mirrors it.

T
HERE’S WAY MORE
blood than there should be. It rolls down my arm in warm rivulets.

“Shit!” I gather my bloody fingers with my other hand, pressing tightly.

Mom comes rushing in, nearly tripping over the open box I’ve been working through. By the time she gets here, I’m at the sink, watching the red drops fall and blossom against the cracked, white porcelain.

“What happened?” Her eyes dart to the box and back to my hand.

“There must be something broken in there. Damn.” I spread my fingers to inspect the damage. In the dim light of the third floor bathroom, there’s too much blood to make out how deep it is.

She turns the cold water knob, but other than the loud squeak of rubbing metal, nothing comes out.

“Here.” She rips a clean paper towel from a roll and I soak up the blood on my fingers first, applying pressure. Carefully, I wipe down my arm while I try again to examine the damage. Mom leans over me for a closer look. The dim bulb, flickering as usual from the windy night, shines weakly on my hand, showing two deep-ish cuts across my ring and middle fingers. I press the flesh around them. They’re sore, but only a trickle of new blood emerges. And at least it’s my left hand.

“Looks like you’ll live,” she says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “You need a bandage?”

I shake my head. It already almost stopped.

“In that case,” she nods around the bathroom, “Let’s find the culprit before one of us cuts ourselves again.”

I gape at the mess I’ve made. Blood runs on the floor in a jagged line from the edge of the claw foot tub to the sink. I peer over the tub’s side and see I’ve managed to drip some down the inside, too.

“Oh crap, I’m sorry.”

She looks up from where she’s digging through the box. Her eyes narrow on the mess, but she quickly composes herself with a deep breath. “I’ll just clean it later,” she mumbles.

I feel bad. She’s been setting up this shoot for the last few weeks and I’ve bled down the middle of it. She’s arranged all sorts of her attic finds in the tub, old glass bottles, jars, and sea glass in various shapes, colors and sizes, all on top a vintage faded tablecloth she pulled out of the ruins. A few drops of my blood have dripped across the edge of the pale blue cloth.

I can’t take my eyes off the crimson blotches, trying to ignore the way they seem to spread and morph on the fabric. A flash like a photographer’s bulb lights in my mind, travels through me like a spark. A clench of unease, a taste of fear. A word floats in the air like the aftermath of lightening.
Abyss
.

And then it’s gone.

I shake my head, forcing down the ominous fear pumping through me.

“Here it is!” Mom pulls a piece of green glass from the bottom of the box. It makes me think of geometry class. It’s an isosceles triangle. She holds it up and, sure enough, blood drips off the edge.

Even though it’s my blood, it still makes me shiver, my stomach coiling tightly.

Inside, I feel the click of unlocking again.

Nothing’s been normal since Friday night’s séance. It’s only been four days, but nothing feels right.

Mom stands, dropping the glass into the makeshift garbage box in the hallway. I have to force myself not to look at it. She dusts her hands on her jeans. “Now, where was I?”

I nod toward the stairs, trying to keep my thoughts on her attic excavations, but I don’t succeed.
Don’t look at the garbage. Don’t look at the box. Or the cloth. Or the tub
.

Ignore the blood
.

What is wrong with me?

Mom leans against the doorframe, hand on hip. “You never did finish telling me what happened the other night in the barn.”

Finish?
I never told her anything at all about the séance.

“That’s because nothing happened,” I say.

She looks at me sideways, squinting as if she’s trying to figure me out.

“What?” I snap, afraid she
will
figure me out in that uncanny way she has sometimes. Or, even worse, slip into that brainwashed looking gaze where she starts talking about being one with the spirits and nature.

The phone rings from down the hall.

Thankfully.

“All right, all right, I give up,” she says, holding up her hands. She nods down the hall. “Can you get that?” she asks, already halfway up the attic stairs. “I think I left it on the landing of the south stairs. Or in my studio. I can’t remember. I’m expecting a call from one of the photo organizers of the New York convention. Come get me if it’s them?”

“Sure,” I say, glad for the excuse to get out of here. I dash down the hall, the closed doors of the third floor bedrooms rushing by as I sprint. I check the tiny bedroom off Mom’s room first, the one she uses as a studio. My eyes quickly take in the still
life photos hanging on the wire that crosses the space, and the cluttered desk. No phone here. It rings again, from further down the hall.