The Harrowing

CHAPTER NINE

The last candle flickered out, drowned in its own wax. In the pitch-black of Lisa’s room, the girls slept, crashed out on opposite sides of the wide bed. But there was something else there, not asleep. The darkness of the room seemed to breathe.

Robin stirred, frowning… She opened her eyes.…

A pale young man stood in the shadows at the foot of the bed, looking down at her, his sunken eyes dark and fathomless.

Robin jolted awake, her heart hammering madly. Her eyes jumped to the end of the bed.

No one.

She breathed out slowly, realized she had been dreaming.

She sat up, looked around her. Though her arms were still covered in gooseflesh, there was no one else in the room. Obviously, she chided herself. What did you really think?

The light was sluggishly gray, but bright enough to register as afternoon.

She glanced down to her left. Lisa was sprawled on her side of the bed, dead to the world.

Robin looked past her, out the window, at yet another miserably rainy day.

Suddenly, the rest of the evening came back to her, a flurry of weird, disturbing images and emotions: the electric tingling under her fingers; the heart-stopping feeling of someone, or something, really in the room with them and moving the wooden pointer; fear and fierce exhilaration—the promise of something wildly mysterious just out of reach.

She felt confused and excited and alive. For the first time in ages, she couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

She sat up with a wild desire to laugh, then forced herself to stop, breathe, and get out of bed as carefully as she could. Lisa didn’t move.

Dressed now and reasonably combed, Robin slipped out of Lisa’s room and quietly closed the door behind her, clutching a Sartre coffee mug she’d grabbed from Lisa’s bookshelf.

She peered down the hall. With the overhead lights still on the fritz and all the doors closed along both sides, the corridor was as dank as if it were midnight. She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dark, then moved through the murky hall, descended through the hollow stairwell to the second floor.

The tiny kitchenette was dark, the lights still not functioning. Robin stepped into the room—and pulled up short. Someone was at the counter. She recognized the lithe frame even before Cain turned, holding a Pyrex pot of coffee. His black T-shirt had a graphic of an eyeball dressed in top hat and tails, no doubt from a band Robin would have recognized if she’d been sufficiently hip.

His face brightened slightly, seeing her. “Oh, hey.” He extended the pot, offering her some.

“How’d you get it hot?” Robin asked, puzzled.

Cain shrugged, flicked his Zippo lighter with his free hand. “Don’t even try to keep me from my coffee.”

Robin stepped forward, holding out the Sartre mug for him to pour. When the cup was full, he lifted his eyes, meeting hers. “Any more spooks last night?” he asked, his voice heavy with irony.

She said carelessly, “It stopped after you left. We figure you were doing it all along.”

She felt a rush of pleasure that he laughed, startled. “You got me.”

Their eyes met again, a moment of surprising heat. Robin looked away quickly, confused, and gulped coffee, scalding the roof of her mouth.

The frisson of attraction was still there as they walked down the main staircase, a little flustered with each other. Unsure of how to talk to Mr. Skeptic about the previous night, Robin kept silent. But then she caught Cain looking at her. They swayed against each other and it felt like electricity crackling between them.

Robin pulled away and spoke abruptly, caffeine and nervousness making her brusque.

“So what’s your major, anyway?”

He actually flashed her a smile. “Pre-law—can’t you tell?” She found herself relaxing, smiling back. “What’s yours?”

“Undeclared.” And then she fired back impulsively, “Can’t you tell?”

Cain didn’t laugh this time, but looked it her so intensely, she had to look away.

They’d reached the bottom of the stairway, and although Robin had been completely unaware of where they were going, it seemed inevitable that they moved across the hall to the lounge.

They stepped into the arched doorway and both halted, staring. Robin felt her breath knocked out of her.

The room was a shambles, furniture overturned, the couch pushed across the room and tipped on end against the wall, books dumped from the shelves as if a cyclone had spiraled through the room. Robin looked around her, speechless.

In the gray light from the windows, Cain’s face was tight. “Someone’s playing games.”

Robin turned to him, startled. “Who?”

His eyes narrowed. “Smells like frat boy to me.”

Robin stiffened, protective of Patrick, but said nothing as she moved slowly into the room. The round table she and Lisa had used last night was still in front of the fireplace, seemingly the only thing in the room that hadn’t been tossed. She walked up to look.

The board was centered neatly on the table, with the pointer poised over

Robin gasped, staring down. Cain stepped quickly to her side. She looked at him, stricken. Cain started to shake his head, then something thudded behind them and they both spun.

Patrick stood in the doorway, holding a beer. He stared around at the mess. “Whoa…”

Cain ground out, “Park it. We know you did it.”

Before Robin could protest that she thought no such thing, Patrick was speaking, staring at Cain. “Get out. You didn’t?”

Cain laughed humorlessly. “I don’t believe this shit.”

Patrick spread his arms, the picture of innocence. “Hey, it wasn’t me, man. Maybe Marlowe.”

“Right. Little Lisa moved all this stuff.”

Behind Patrick, Lisa and Martin walked in together. They both stopped still in the doorway, with an almost comic double take as they registered the chaos of the room.

“Oh my God,” Lisa breathed.

Patrick turned to her. “Zach left us a present.”

Martin looked around, taking in the damage, eyes blinking behind round glasses. Then he looked straight to Patrick.

The implication wasn’t lost on Cain. “Yeah, that’s what I think, too.”

Patrick turned on Cain, pointing at Martin. “It coulda been him, you know. Or the two of them together.” He waved his hand to include Lisa.

Martin looked to Robin. “You guys didn’t do this? It isn’t a joke?”

Robin looked at him, then at the others, slowly. “I don’t know.” They were silent in the dim hush of the room.

Lisa pushed her hair back. “Well, I know. Show them.” She nudged Martin—a surprisingly proprietary gesture. Martin took the newspaper from under his arm and unfolded it to the sports section to reveal a headline. He displayed it like an attorney with Exhibit A:

Patrick gaped. “Alabama by fourteen. Fuck me backwards.” He grabbed the paper, scanned the article.

Robin was reeling. We couldn’t have known that. Not any of us.

“Now tell me how we just happened to call that, dude.“ Lisa gloated.

Cain’s face had gone very still. He glanced at Robin sharply, and she looked back, bewildered.

Lisa was already pulling out a chair, seating herself at the table in front of the board. “Okay, Zach. Time to wake up.” She looked up at Robin expectantly. Her eyes gleamed in the muddy light.

Patrick looked up from the newspaper, glancing around at the rest of them. “How the hell did someone know that?” His eyes came to rest on Lisa.

Lisa smiled at him, catlike. “We didn’t. Zachary did.”

Cain spoke, his voice hard. “Bullshit.”

“Interesting, though, isn’t it?” Martin said. “I for one can’t think of any logical explanation for any of us knowing those game scores. Which leaves us with two alternatives: Coincidence…” He paused importantly.

For effect, Robin thought.

“Or…we actually achieved some kind of precognition. Perhaps through our mutual concentration on the board.”

Lisa sat back in her chair and laughed. “We could keep blatantly ignoring the obvious. Or we could just ask him. Zachary.”

Cain laughed shortly, shaking his head. “It’s your game. Go on and play.” His glance grazed Robin, and for a moment she thought he would say something more, but he merely walked out through the arched doorway, leaving the four of them in the dim paneled room.

“Robin,” Lisa urged from the table. Robin took a step forward.

“I’ll do it,” Martin said abruptly, and brushed past Robin to sit across from Lisa. The two reached simultaneously over the board to put their hands on the planchette, and Robin noticed again that they seemed strangely comfortable with each other.

Patrick moved in closer. He caught Robin’s eyes for a moment, then looked away.

Lisa pressed her fingertips into the wooden pointer. “Zachary, are you there? We want to talk to you.”

The room was silent. Robin found herself holding her breath. The trees outside the tall windows swished in the wind.

But the planchette was motionless under Lisa’s and Martin’s hands.

“Zachary, did you move the furniture?” Lisa demanded.

The planchette was still over the black letters. Lisa shifted in her chair, wheedled suggestively. “Please won’t you come talk to us?”

Nothing.

Robin moved closer to the table, impatient. It won’t work with Martin. He knows that—we saw it last night.

Lisa looked up at Robin, as if reading her thoughts. Martin looked at the two girls, then stood reluctantly, ceding his seat to Robin.

Robin sat, extended her hands to the pointer.

Lisa met her eyes, pressed her fingers into the wooden piece. “Zachary…”

Beside the table, Martin and Patrick watched, everyone holding their breath.

Robin leaned forward slightly, trying to feel…something. “Zachary…”

The planchette was still and dead under her fingers. Lisa looked at Robin.

Robin shook her head slightly, spoke to the others. “He’s not here.”

Martin nodded, looked at the girls, at the board, thoughtfully. “The conditions aren’t right. Why?”

Robin took in the other three against the shapes of tumbled furniture. She didn’t know how, but suddenly she knew. “Cain. We need everyone.”