Thanksgiving approaches. You load decaying pumpkins on the wheelbarrow and push them to the end of the yard, then drop them over the fence. Animals might enjoy them as it grows colder when frosts harden the ground. The rustling sounds of their foraging comfort you as you continue to sleep off your loss.
Your lover and his wife, Penny, also lived on Bucktail Avenue, several three-acre lots down from yours. Penny shot him, right on their front lawn in the blaring, mid-afternoon sunshine. She confessed and went to prison, then killed herself. Don’t know how she did it. Their house has yet to sell.
You still sleep out on the deck bundled in blankets on the lounge. And you wait, listening for the whispery shuffling sound his feet made as he moved through the fallen leaves, remembering when the gate latch would open and close, the slight clanking in the quiet night. You’d make yourself wait for his tall, lanky form to step into the lantern light.
But Penny knew. She must’ve.
Now, years later, in in the middle of the night, the air below freezing, when skunks and opossums and raccoons slumber in their dens, the sound returns, the stealthy shuffling sound, emerging through the thick quiet, disturbing the dead leaves.
Your heart leaps, and you present your case before the Universe—
—let him haunt me.
Every night you wait and listen, spinning scenarios of bliss in your head, the shade of him shuffling closer until you’re together—even that would be better than nothing, better than being alone. One night the shuffling does not return, and you lose hope.
Then an idea strikes you—a plan. The Universe won’t oblige, so you’ll take matters into your own hands. In the attic, you rummage through mold-encrusted boxes, wondering if you threw the board game away after that time it totally freaked you out. You’ve learned to do things alone, even that. Back then, you leaned over the Ouija board in the murky dimness, and dared to ask:
Will I die alone?
The planchette sped over the board, dragging your fingers with it, and you squeezed your eyes shut. When you opened them, you saw one of the candles had extinguished. The planchette rested on the word NO. Your hands shook, and you felt around for the flashlight, letting its unnatural glare bring you comfort. You tossed the Ouija board and its planchette in a box, where you hope they’d remain inert, collecting dust.
Until now.
When dusk arrives, you set up on the deck, guided by rays from the full moon. After fiddling with your phone for a while you light some candles and sit in front of the board, placing your fingers on the planchette.
Nothing.
I’d sell my soul to be with him.
You give up and return to your lounge and imagine his slender artist’s fingers gliding over your body, driven by his passion, and your imaginings continue until your watch says 2:42 AM. Then you rise and move to the board.
Ouija. In America, it’s pronounced weedgie. That makes you think of wedgies, and you crack a smile, readying yourself to ask another question.
Will he come to me?
Still nothing.
The numbers on your phone change to 3:00 AM. The planchette finally moves, and you tremble. It grates over the board with deliberate intent, landing again on the word NO.
No?
Then you hear it, and your heart flutters. The Ouija board must’ve been wrong. The shuffling sound moves through the forest, snapping twigs, and crunching desiccated leaves. You hear a voice, a voice that sounds like your lover’s.
“Run.”
What?
“Run,” he calls, this time more immediate, and intense, “Run for your life.”
The shuffling continues, then quickens, a steady treading.
“Run.”
His voice sounds so close you look toward the end of the deck, expecting to see him.
The treading escalates.
Fog spreads over the ground, rolls over the deck, and immerses you in its dingey green glow.
The wooden planks under you shudder with slow, thunderous stomping.
It can’t be him…
A surround sound effect circles a series of cackles through your entire body, and you cover your ears. When you remove your hands, you see they’re soaked with blood.
You can’t resist. Or scream.
And your eyes itch. You rub them, look at your hands, and see smeared blood from your eyes, too, weeping red so you can’t see clearly.
Through a break in the fog a gray, spindly, clawed hand stretches toward you, grasps your hair, and yanks you into the dirty haze. The cackling continues.
A misshapen, leering visage with fiery eyes peers into yours.
She drags you off the deck and shuffles into the forest.
—
Koren Cowgill (b.1969) is a mezzo-soprano, composer and writer. She holds degrees from the Eastman School of Music (Undergraduate and Doctorate) and Yale (Masters). All degrees are in Music Composition. Koren performs as a mezzo-soprano/alto soloist in venues throughout Southern NJ. Her novels, The Final Months of Hoo-hah, Teurith of Loring and Big Mary Part I are available on Amazon. She lives with her husband Richard and their dog Saffron in Cape May County, NJ.