“I thought you trusted me?” Tommy says.
“I do.”
“Then watch this.”
I shuffle in closer as Jasmine sits up straight, her legs crossed in some weird pretzel shape, her back rigid. “I can feel the energy,” she whispers.
I want to laugh at her, I really do, but the flickering candles, the basement walls and the seeping cold convince me that it’s not remotely funny.
Not to mention the Ouija board in the centre of the circle.
It is marked with crudely carved letters of the alphabet, the numbers 0-9 and the words “yes” and “no”. The planchette sits in the middle.
“Everybody needs to place one finger on the planchette,” Tommy instructs and I’m surprised when everyone does it without question. There aren’t many of us left in the circle now, just six – no seven, including me. I see Ben and a couple of Jasmine’s cronies. I’m so close to Jasmine that I can see her perfect eyeliner flicks.
I place my finger on the planchette. The little pointer feels charged beneath our hands and almost vibrates on the polished wood.
“Now,” Tommy continues. “We need to have a common goal. The board is here to help with communication from beyond the veil. Who do you want to contact?”
Jasmine fixes me with a look so cruel I know what she’s going to say before it leaves her toxic little mouth.
“Sara Mondrial. The girl who died. I want to talk to her.” She smiles. “Ask her a few questions.”
Tears burn in the back of my throat. My vision starts to blur. No one makes a sound; the group seems to be holding its collective breath. I blink to clear my eyes and see that Tommy is watching me closely. He raises an eyebrow. He said to trust him – what have I got to lose? I give a little nod and he smiles.
“Good,” says Tommy. “We’ll try and speak to Sara. Now, we need to be clear in our questioning, all channeling the same thoughts for this to work. . .”
“I’ve got this.” Jasmine’s eyes snap open as she cuts Tommy off. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, closing her eyes once more. “Spirits,” she croons, her voice low and hypnotic. “If you are with us in this room, make yourself known. Is there anybody here?”
I gasp out loud as the planchette jars beneath my finger, shooting across the board before stopping on the word “Yes”.
Jasmine clears her throat in an effort to compose herself, but I can see she’s shaken and fear ripples around the circle. Tommy catches my eye and winks. Ohhhhh.
This is his plan. Scare the bejesus out of Jasmine.
I can get on board with that.
“Thank you, spirit.” Her voice is confident, but I remind myself we’re drama students. We’re good at pretending. “Are you the spirit of Sara Mondrial, the tragic, beautiful victim of an untimely murder?”
I know Tommy is controlling the board – that this is all nonsense – but suddenly I can’t breathe. The image of Sara’s lifeless body is engraved into my memory. I close my eyes to hold back the tears that are threatening and feel the planchette moving again.
I peek out beneath my lashes to see it’s now resting on the word “No”. Thank God. At least Tommy isn’t pretending to be Sara. I shoot him a grateful glance, expecting another cheeky wink, but instead his expression is confused, his face pale.
“Can you tell us your name, spirit?” Jasmine is settling into her role nicely; all she’s missing is a headscarf and crystal ball. The pointer jerks again before gliding across the board, as though on oiled tracks. “J.” Jasmine’s voice wobbles slightly as she reads out the letters. “A.” She looks a little green around the gills, now. “N.” I stare at Tommy but his eyes are glued to the little piece of wood beneath our fingers. “E.”
The planchette stops moving.
“Jane?” Jasmine whispers and before the name is even out of her mouth, the planchette has dragged us back to “Yes”.
“Jane Alsop?” I whisper and our fingers are jerked away briefly before returning to “Yes”.
I try to hide a smirk as I realize what Tommy is up to. I glance at him again, prepared to drop him a wink, but he is still staring at the planchette.
“Who’s Jane Alsop?” Jasmine hisses, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “If you’re messing with me. . . I’m warning you, you jumped up, little. . .” I cut her off with what I hope is a cool stare. She does not like it when it’s not all about her.
“A local girl.” Tommy’s voice is quiet and I’m pretty impressed at his acting skills. I should’ve known he was good after seeing him lead the tours in the museum, really. “She died near here, in 1838.”
“Jesus,” the lad next to me mutters.
