Adelaide Confused (24 page)

Morosely I gazed down at a
pair of pale purple underwear. They’d been chewed on. The culprit
was nowhere to be seen.

I’d already been to see
Lucas. He wasn’t home. I had tried both doors, even after seeing
that his SUV wasn’t in the driveway. Dejected, I’d trudged home
only to find my ruined underwear snagged on a chair leg. How the
little snot had pulled them from the upstairs closet to the
downstairs kitchen was beyond me.

In retaliation I reburied
the ghost dog’s bone. The offending item wasn’t next to the hole
where I’d left it. Like the undies, it had been moved. A few
minutes of searching and I found it under the hedgerow that grew
beneath my living room window. And a little after that it was
tucked back inside the earth where it belonged. By the time I was
finished I still had a few hours before I needed to be at
Sterling’s to cover Missy’s shift, so I took a nap.

“
Find a prospective ghost
to communicate with,” I read, casting a brief glance across the
counter. “Check. Try to make contact through verbal communication.”
I paused again, looking at the ghost.

He was hovering just inside
one of the well-worn wingback chairs, a cotton ball of
anticipation. He was apprehensive as well, it might have been me,
but I thought not. When you wanted something desperately the
expectation was boxed in fear, preparing you for
disappointment.

“
Verbal communication,” I
muttered. “I’m not sure what that means. Are you supposed to be
talking back?”

He didn’t answer.

I’d just finished compiling
a list of information from the internet, scribbling down the finer
points. It seemed everyone and their brother knew how to hold a
séance, though I got the impression that most, like Eclipsys, were
faking. Was it a rare thing to see a ghost? Did you have to be
gifted? Oh, and that was another thing, they weren’t often called
ghosts either, the preferred term being spirits. Was there a
difference? These were things I thought I should learn, and
soon.

“
I’ll need some sort of
food to perform the séance,” I said to myself. The ghost grew
impatient as I shuffled around behind the counter, extracting a can
of microwavable ravioli from the cabinet marked ‘Missy’ in bold
black ink. “Don’t get fussy,” I said to the ghost as his impatience
grew. “It says that spirits will be attracted to the food as they
are still seeking physical nourishment.”

He clearly disagreed, twitching in
contemptuous disapproval over my ritualism.

“
I’ve never had a séance
before,” I argued. “Apparently it’s a common practice at slumber
parties, and since I never got to have one of those either, we’re
making up for lost time.” My eyes searched the office. Preoccupied,
I said, “Now make yourself useful and help me find the
candles.”

He did, hovering where the
flashlights should have been. Ben was old school, or just plain
old, and I found only thick cream colored candles. I collected
them, along with my Ouija board and the can of ravioli, walking
around the counter to the sitting area.

The office wasn’t much, two
small spaces separated by a long desk and tall counter just left of
the door. To the right was a sitting area, shabby but comfortable.
Two tattered and faded blue chairs framed the window, pointing
slightly inward. Between them was a cherry wood coffee table with
spindly legs. On top was a white lace doily from Mary’s time, and
on top of that, a spread of magazines from mine. In the corner a
potted plant grew unchecked, the leaves fringing over the top of
one chair.

I set my things down,
making space on the table. “A round table is recommended,” I told
the ghost. “It adds symbolism... or something. Whatever, something
about a circle, I don’t remember. But I’m sure an oval coffee table
will do just as well.”

The ghost settled back,
hovering a few feet away, presumably to watch while I arranged and
lit the candles. I then began to pull the plastic wrap from my
Ouija board, frowning down at the list as I did so. “It says no
fewer than three people should conduct a séance, but it doesn’t say
why.” I pulled the cover off and dug the board out, laying it flat.
“Maybe it’s just a protective measure, bad spirits and all that.” I
looked at him sharply. “I’ve seen the movie
Ghost
, you know.”

He was a bit confused.

“
The part where Sam
possesses Oda Mae,” I clarified. “I don’t know if it’s possible,
and I don’t even care. But if you ever pull a body snatch, I’ll
make you regret the day you died... more than you already
do.”

Undaunted by my threats, he
continued to twitch impatiently.

“
Alright, now that we’ve
settled that...” I looked to the list, finding my last piece of
business. “I’m to dim the lights,” I said frowning. “I was supposed
to use the candles because ghosts seek warmth and light, and now
I’m supposed to turn off the overhead?”

The ghost was feeling smug
and superior, gloating over the inconsistencies.

“
Oh shut up,” I said while
standing. “I’m going to do it anyway.”

Before I flicked the switch
I peeked outside, gazing through the blinds. The parking lot was
nearly empty, with only a few guests checked in. The single street
light glazed the concrete in watery reflections. It had rained
early in the evening, a brief spat that came on unexpectedly. Rainy
days could often be lonely, but looking out the window just then it
seemed something more, something almost mournful.

I let the blinds snap back
into place, unwilling to freak myself out further. Partially I was
feeling unsettled due to the change in shift. Usually I’d be safe
in bed by then. But the intended séance wasn’t helping matters, it
only added to my unease.

Persuaded I wouldn’t see
another customer all evening, and having waited until three o’clock
in the morning, the witching hour, I was out of reasons to stall.
So I flicked the switch, plunging the room into a shadowy
darkness.

The ghost was not where I
had left him. He’d moved, now standing by the coffee table. He’d
also changed form, no longer a misty, smoky thing, but a tall and
lanky man. Usually when he was transparent his coloring was muted,
and he’d blink in and out like a failing hologram. But now he was
translucent, harder to see through, and the color of his clothes
and skin were perfectly clear, not faint at all. His image didn’t
flicker, not once the whole time I stared. And he stared back, the
intensity of his penetrating eyes giving him a formidable edge I’d
never felt before.

It was one thing to walk
near and talk with a puff of smoke, a harmless cloud. In that form
I could almost pretend he was nothing more than the ghost dog, an
unresponsive companion. And I had pretended, nearly forgotten that
he was cognizant. Impossible to pretend now, not with his eyes
boring into me, intelligent eyes with a knowing expression,
preposterous to imagine he was anything less than sentient. Some of
the websites had said so, that ghosts were nothing but an empty
memory stuck on repeat. I knew it for a lie, at least where this
ghost was concerned.

“
Alright,” I said,
struggling to find my voice, “kneel down.” It no longer felt
natural to give him orders in so offhand a manner. But he obeyed,
one knee sinking through the table as he moved his long legs into
position. He didn’t make a sound, but I noticed the candle
flickered in response to the motion.

I forced myself to
approach, dropping to the floor across from him. With the table
between us I felt comfortable inspecting him more closely. I could
just make out the muddy hazel of his owlish eyes in the trembling
candlelight. His hair, which I had always taken for an ordinary
brown, was a mess of limp curls touched with faint burgundy
highlights that I’d never noticed before. I tried not to crinkle my
nose, but couldn’t help from saying, “Gross, you have red
hair.”

For some reason he wasn’t ashamed.

I took in his blue flannel
shirt. It drooped from him as if he was a hanger, long johns
peeping out at the collar and sleeves. I was seeing him more
clearly than I ever had before. For some reason it brought up the
memory from a few hours earlier.

I’d come into the office,
prepared to relieve Stephen of his, or my, shift, only to find him
up to his ears in a bawdy historical romance. The book was mine of
course. I’d forgotten it long ago in the bottom of a drawer
somewhere or other. But what I now recalled was that the ghost had
been hovering just over Stephen’s shoulder. Had he been reading
along? I hadn’t given it a thought at the time, writing him off as
harmless. But staring at him now I couldn’t help but wonder what he
knew, especially about me, as he’d been following me around since
the phonebook debacle.

Shrugging off the
distressing thought, I focused on the present. Taking up the
planchette, I said, “We’ll start with simple yes or no questions.
I’ll move this back and forth between the two and when I get to the
proper response you let me know. But don’t just think the
confirmation, you have to feel it. Any strong emotion is fine, but
something positive would be more appropriate, like
excitement.”

He nodded in understanding.

I cleared my throat and asked, “Are you a
ghost?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I have to ask a few obvious questions
first,” I explained. “You know, like they do when giving a lie
detector test, to make sure the machine is working.”

I cleared my throat again,
repeating, “Are you a ghost?” Slowly I slid the heart shaped
planchette first to no, and feeling nothing remarkable, moved on.
As the point slowly came to rest on yes, we were both thrilled,
probably his natural reaction to finally being able to express
himself.

“
Are you wearing a yellow
shirt?” This time I started with the answer yes, knowing it to be
false. I could feel him waiting for my hands to move, anticipating
the answer no. It came and he smiled.

Being a medium wasn’t so hard after all.

I cleared my throat for the
third time, signaling another question. “Do you have unfinished
business?” I could feel his positive response, knowing the answer
was yes before I even moved the marker. We grew giddier with each
question. Next was, “Do you require my assistance in completing
said unfinished business?” Again I could feel his answer was yes
without the planchette.

“Is the unfinished business revenge?” He was
indecisive, even confused. I moved the marker back and forth,
waiting for a response. Finally he looked at me and shrugged. “You
don’t know?” He shrugged again, not meeting my eye.

Unrelenting, I continued,
“Is your unfinished business to communicate with a loved one? Do
you want me to carry a message for you?” Again he didn’t know,
feeling so uncertain I let it drop.

I returned to simple
questions. “Are you from St. Simons?” I didn’t use the planchette
because I felt the negative response without it, as if he’d said no
aloud. “Were you living on the island when you died?” Positive
feelings affirmed yes.

I picked up the planchette.
“I’m going to need something more to go by.” Turning the board to
face him, I said, “Let’s work on your name. Spell one letter at a
time.”

He raised his hand over the
board, forefinger extended, and I realized with horror that he
meant to point them out. “No!” I yelled. “Stop it! Stop it!” He
pulled back, surprised at my burst of hysteria.

“
You can’t just show me the
answer. What do you think this is for?” I asked, waving the
planchette under his nose. “As the ghost, you’re supposed to
communicate with me, the medium. I’ll ascertain the answer,” I
explained, annoyed that he was set on foiling my fun. “Now,” I
asked in exasperation, “shall we continue?”

I let my hand move over the
rows at a steady pace, waiting for his influence to stop me.
Instead of feeling excited when the point came across his answer,
he felt an urgency. I could easily imagine him calling out
‘Stop!’

The letters came one by one. S – M – I – T –
T – Y. He shifted around after that, as if sitting back on his
heels.

“Is that it?” I asked.

I felt his yes, as well as
saw the head nod.

“
Well I’m not calling you
that,” I announced with finality. “Maybe I’d call my pet ghost
Smitty, but it’s a stupid name even by dog standards.” I tapped my
fingers on the tabletop. “Was Smith your last name?”

He nodded, but the motion
broke as he jerked his head to the side, looking toward the
door.

I glanced from the profile
of his face to the door and back again. “What?” I
whispered.

He ignored me, staring in
frustration at the door as if he could see through it, and I
thought maybe he could. He jerked then, suddenly, and I was
overcome with alarm.

My heart lurched, pounding
a tattoo so rapid I could feel it pumping away in my chest. I
pressed a clumsy hand over my breastbone, rubbing at the ache, only
to find my fingers were shaking uncontrollably. It was my body’s
reaction to anxiety, or maybe the symptoms of raw fear. There were
other emotions too—hatred, helplessness, and an overall tension
that made my muscles sing with strain. These feelings belonged to
the ghost, his reaction to whatever was on the other side of that
door.