Monday stayed quiet.
Kioni’s eyes closed, her expression turned calm, and her chest expanded as she inhaled deeply, then released it through slightly parted lips like she knew exactly what she was doing. The candlelight glowed over her face with a soft flicker like that of a projector.
“Are there any spirits who would like to come forth?” she asked with a serious and calm, velvety tone.
I peeked one eye open again, seeing Monday trying to contain her laughter when the planchette started to move. “Oh, shit,” Fable gasped, “Okay, who is doing that? Monday, is that you?”
“No, dude.”
The planchette moved over the “Yes,” and we all whispered the word simultaneously.
“Okay, okay, okay, thank you, this is wonderful.” Kioni was in her respectful mode. “Can you tell us your name?”
“W … H …”
“Are they trying to spell Weeping?” Fable asked, “What’s W H? What does it mean.”
We all hushed her.
“O … O … P … I—” Monday’s laugh slipped “—Whoopie?”
Kioni dropped her hands from the planchette. “This isn’t funny.”
“Maybe we should’ve started with an offering,” Monday smiled, “Where’re the Whoopie Pies?”
“No one touches the Whoopie Pies!” Kioni grabbed the organ bottle, drank from it, passed it around as everyone fell into a fit of laughter, including me. “Okay, let’s be serious this time.”
It took a minute or two for our laughter spell to die before our fingertips returned to the planchette. “Calling out to any spirit who would like to come forth,” Kioni started to say. “We are here. We are listening, please, tell us your name.”
Candlelight dimmed as if on command, and the room darkened. A chill swept between us, and I darted my eyes around, not seeing any ghosts present. The planchette slid swiftly across the board. It was fast this time, and we could hardly keep up. “F,” we chanted, and it slid again, “I.”
Monday’s eyes widened. “Okay, this is not me this time,” she admitted, shocked. And the planchette moved hastily, almost angrily.
“N” … “D” … “M” … “E” …
The planchette stopped, and goosebumps coated my skin, my heart in my throat.
“Find me,” I whispered, my fingers falling from the planchette.
I shook my head. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be the ghost who’d left me so long ago. The one with the white hair and the galaxy in his eyes. Eyes so black. Demonic. The one who first came to me when I was only eight-years-old.
“I can’tfindyou if I don’t know your name,” Monday called out with her palms face up at her sides.
“Because he doesn’t remember his name,” I whispered to myself.
“Fallon?” Kioni laid her hand on my thigh. “Everything okay?”
I nodded as I shifted in place, and I fixed my pajama shorts, my cardigan, wrapped it tighter. I couldn’t sit still. “I’m fine, pass the bottle.”
“Are you sure—” Fable began.
“Yes,” I said, more violently than I intended. And then, more calmly, “I just need a drink.” I waved my hand in apass-it-overgesture. The tequila burned my throat, warmed my chest and my cheeks. I exhaled in relief.
“Let’s just not do this,” Kioni spoke up, setting the planchette back in the box, folding the board.
Fable sighed. “I’d like to know what the hell just happened.”
“And I liked to know why on earth you’re wearing that stupid hoodie.” Monday plucked the fabric.
