The Harrowing

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It was long past midnight, and Robin saw no one in the halls as she made her way up the stairs to the narrow passageway that led into the attic.

She had never been in the attic, had only been vaguely aware it existed. It was surprisingly large: high-raftered enough in the center for even Patrick to move about without having to watch his head, then sloping down to almost nothing in the corners. But claustrophobic nonetheless, with its unfinished walls and the amazing array of discards, much of which must have been forgotten, gathering dust for years.

Four of them, minus Cain, now hovered in the rat warren of furniture from various time periods, paintings, dusty stacks of boxes with God knows what odds and ends, racks of old Glee Club jackets, even, weirdly, a headless dressmaker’s dummy. Cobwebs hung from the sloped corners; everything seemed ominous in the shadows.

Martin was setting up the new board he’d bought, the familiar commercial version, on a heavy round table he’d found among the detritus. Patrick obligingly lighted the candles Martin had brought with his Zippo lighter.

Patrick likes Martin, Robin realized, surprised and rather touched by the thought. At least he’s fond of him, in some abstract way. Maybe because Martin’s not afraid of him.

She looked over to where Lisa stood off by herself, chain-smoking in the flickering candlelight. Now I know what they mean by “a shadow of herself,” Robin mused, worried. She looks like a ghost.

But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To stop all this?

She had not told anyone but Cain of her discovery in the cemetery. She wanted to question the board herself, without suggesting any answers to the others.

She knew Cain was wrong about Patrick—or anyone—setting up a prank. What was happening was far beyond a prank. Cain was clinging to that to protect himself—irrational rationality.

But he was right that there was a game going on. She was sure now: it was Zachary who was playing it.

Almost as if he’d picked up on her thoughts, Martin turned from the board and looked directly at her.

“Where’s Jackson? It’s almost one-thirty.”

Robin started, her heart beating a bit faster. It was quite possible Cain wouldn’t show, and she didn’t know if anything would happen without him.

And would that be such a bad thing?

And then the door opened behind Lisa, and Cain stepped in. He looked around the candlelit attic.

Martin cleared his throat. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

Cain glanced briefly at Robin, said nothing.

Martin shrugged. “All right, then. Let’s do it.” He stepped to the table and turned on a mini-tape recorder, then took out his cell phone and checked the camera function. “We’ll start with the girls—they’re the best receptors.”

Robin thought, Taking charge again. What does he want out of this? But she sat slowly in one chair, looking at the shiny, smooth, burn-free new board. Will it work with a modern board? Will Zachary come?

Her skin prickled.

Do I want him to?

Martin pulled out the other chair, looked to where Lisa sat on her box. She ground out her cigarette, stood and crossed to the table, and sat, her limbs heavy, her face set. Martin stood beside them with his phone, ready to film.

How official we are.

Robin looked across the table at Lisa, trying to project calm and reassurance. They both stretched out their hands to the planchette in the center of the board.

The pointer moved immediately, almost before they touched it.

Robin drew in a startled breath. She could feel Lisa flinch through the wood of the planchette.

The board spelled out quickly

Martin read the words aloud dispassionately. For the tape, Robin realized. She and Lisa looked at each other, unnerved, as the indicator kept moving under their hands.

The candles flared, hissing with dripping wax. Martin looked at his watch, made a note on his clipboard. Robin spoke sharply. “Waiting for what?” Under their fingers, the pointer flew across the board.

Patrick exhaled a cloud of smoke from the joint he’d just lighted. “But you’ve been around, haven’t you?” He spoke it flatly, to the air.

Robin could feel Cain behind her, prowling the perimeters of the attic, watching everything like a hawk. She spoke aloud.

“And all these things that have been happening to us…that was you?”

She could feel a peculiar intensity, almost a heat in the energy coming through the planchette under her fingers as it moved.

Robin tensed; she saw Lisa stiffen across from her.

Martin stepped forward, spoke beside her. “Did you write O’Connor’s midterm?”

Robin leaned forward, intent. “Why?”

The pointer hesitated… then skimmed lightly over the letters.

Martin deadpanned the words and everyone laughed, startled at the sudden humor. Patrick did a double take, growled back, mock-insulted. “Hey.”

Robin could feel the others relax. It was a game again, playful and fun, the same easy intimacy they’d had that first night.

Oh no, Robin thought grimly. Not this time. I’m onto you.

Patrick stepped up now. “Were you inside me?” The planchette moved once.

“I’m not sure I like that, pal,” Patrick warned. He was mostly joking, but the planchette moved swiftly, emphatically.

Patrick went rigid. Robin felt cold. The candlelight flickered, and everyone looked at one another uneasily.

Focus, Robin ordered herself. Find out what we need to know. But be careful—draw it out.

“How did you get inside him?” she asked aloud.

Martin read it out, looking at Patrick. Patrick stared back at Martin. “Like hell I did.”

Martin met his gaze levelly. “You did. That first night.” He mimicked Patrick, a remarkably good imitation. “‘How, Zach? You gonna take it for me? Eleven o’clock next Friday…’”

Robin had the fleeting, totally chilling sensation that Martin was speaking for Zachary, continuing the conversation of the board. Then the pointer was moving under her fingers again.

Martin read that aloud, too, and Robin again got an eerie feeling of schizophrenia.

“What do you want, though?” she demanded. The pointer circled slowly, as if considering. It’s playing with us, she thought very clearly, and the thought was terrifying. Not he—it. What is it?

The pointer moved from letter to letter. Martin lifted his head to speak the words. His voice was hoarse.

The attic was deathly silent, candlelight flickering on the dusty walls. Robin could only move her eyes, but from what she could see, everyone had gone as white as ghosts.

Then the pointer leapt to life, spelling quickly.

Then it began racing back and forth between two letters, faster and faster.

Robin jerked her hands away from the planchette. The pointer stopped. Lisa remained with her hands pressed into the wooden piece, as if unable to move. Patrick spoke grimly. “Very funny, Zach.”

“It is not funny.” Robin’s face was set as she put her fingertips back on the pointer. “What do you want? Why are you…bothering Lisa?” The pointer was still.

Then Lisa gasped. Everyone turned to look at her, and Robin gasped, too.

Lisa sat frozen in her chair, her hair floating around her head as if lifted by invisible fingers.

Patrick jerked forward, slashed at the air with his hands. Lisa’s hair dropped to her shoulders again. She hugged herself, staring up into Patrick’s eyes in helpless terror. He put his hands on her shoulders, pressed himself against the back of her chair like a bodyguard. Behind them, Cain looked stunned.

Martin spoke suddenly. “Feel that. Cold.”

Robin realized she was shivering violently. All of their breath showed, white puffs in the freezing air.

Martin angled his phone to film it… and there was a sudden sharp cracking sound. Martin sucked in his breath and dropped the phone. It thudded on the floor.

Everyone jerked around to look at him.

“It broke,” he said faintly, in wonder. “It cracked in my hand.” He held up a hand, and Robin froze. There was a trickle of dark blood between his fingers.

As Patrick and Cain stared at Martin, Robin suddenly leaned across the table and took Lisa’s hands, looking into her face. “We can stop right now.”

Lisa shuddered but shook her head. “Ask him what he wants.” She placed her hands on the pointer, stared, hollow-eyed, into Robin’s gaze.

Robin’s fingers slipped into her pocket; she felt the sharp points of the Star of David.

All right. Now.

Robin put her fingers back on the planchette, asked the question she had been thinking ever since she knelt at Zachary’s grave.

“You’re not Zachary Prince, are you?”

Everyone but Cain looked at her, startled. The pointer was still.

“What are you talking about—” Patrick began.

“Wait,” Robin commanded. She stared down at the board, clenched her jaw. “Answer me.”

She felt the pointer jerk under their fingers, a sharp jolt of angry energy. Lisa’s eyes widened. Then the pointer spelled out the words slowly, almost sullenly.

Robin spoke evenly to the air. “I’m not your girl.”

The pointer leapt to life, scraped across the board in violent jerks.

Robin gasped, realizing what was coming. Martin read the last word through clenched teeth.

Everyone flinched. Lisa pulled her hands away from the planchette as if burned, but Robin remained with her fingers touching it, determined. Beside her, she could feel Martin staring fixedly down at the board, stiff with tension.

Patrick spun to Robin. “Hold the fuck up. What’s goin’ on?”

Robin took her hands off the planchette, a gesture like lowering her voice, as if whatever they were talking to wouldn’t be able to hear if she broke contact with the board.

“I went to the cemetery today. I found Zachary’s grave.” She looked to Martin. “There was a Star of David on the headstone.”

Martin stared back at her, stunned. “He was Jewish?”

Robin nodded, glanced at the board. “So he would never be spouting this anti-Semitic…filth.”

Lisa’s face was transparent. “It’s not Zachary?”

Patrick wheeled around on the attic floor. “Then who the fuck are we talking to?”

Robin looked to Cain. “We know Zachary wrote an article on the Baltimore Talking Board—the board we were using over Thanksgiving weekend. We think Zachary and some of his friends were using that same board themselves.”

“Oh my God,” Lisa whispered. “And they were talking to…” She stared down at the board.

They looked around at each other in the freezing half-light.

Robin put her hands back on the planchette. Lisa reluctantly reached forward, too. Robin spoke tensely to the board. “Why did you lie? Who are you really?”

The pointer circled, eerie, slow sweeps, not spelling anything. The slow circling was worse than any message. Robin could hear everyone breathing harshly in the cold.

She tried another tack. “Why did you pretend to be Zachary?”

The pointer spelled immediately.

Robin swallowed, disturbed. “Did you know Zachary?”

“What happened to him?

The planchette trembled as if with laughter, then moved under their hands, slow and taunting. Martin read the word.

Robin’s voice was raw in the silence. “He used the board to call you?”

“Why?” She asked quickly. The pointer circled, as if considering, then spelled

Robin frowned. “What did you have in common?”

She felt a malevolent heat coming through her fingertips, a feeling of pure rage. The pointer flew across the board.

The words were unfamiliar, but before Robin could ask, the board went on, the indicator making vicious sharp sweeps.

The pointer began to race violently on the board. Lisa gasped.

Martin suddenly stepped forward under the rafters, spoke tightly to the board. “Haim ata Qlippah?” The pointer stopped rattling instantly. Robin’s eyes widened at the unfamiliar language, with the one familiar word.

“What does that mean?” Cain demanded. “What the fuck are you saying?” Patrick growled simultaneously.

“Shut up!” Martin snapped, startling both of them. The pointer was moving, forming incomprehensible letters. Robin felt a different energy through the wooden piece—a cunning. Lisa sounded out the letters one by one.

Martin stared down at the board, not moving.

Cain grabbed Martin’s arm. “What’s with the Hebrew? What did you say?”

Martin pulled away from him, “Just wait.” He spoke to the board. “What do you mean? Explain what you are.”

The pointer moved. This time the words were recognizably English, but mystifying.

Robin read out the sentence, which seemed eerily familiar. Martin had gone very still. “Explain,” he said tightly. The pointer moved again.

Martin had stopped reading and was just watching the board, fixated on the emerging letters. Lisa and Robin sounded the words out haltingly.

Patrick moved closer, staring down at the letters forming. Martin spoke harshly. “Go on.”

Robin felt someone move beside her and was surprised to see Cain at her elbow, staring down at the board as intently as the rest of them.

They looked at one another in the candlelight. Martin hadn’t taken his eyes off the board. He demanded skeptically, “Power to do what?”

The whole energy of the attic room had changed. Robin could feel it—the intense, curious focus of the five of them, and a sense of almost conspiratorial intimacy from the board. She felt vaguely that they were being lulled, that whatever they were talking to was working toward something. The thought made her cold with fear.

She jumped slightly as Martin leaned forward intensely. “Let’s see what you can do, then.” The pointer moved, and spelled:

The five of them were deathly silent. Patrick spoke first, his voice sounding far away. “Move the table.”

Robin looked down with the others as the pointer spelled out the next sequence.

They all looked around at one another. The darkness shimmered with candlelight under the slanting attic beams.

Robin wanted to say NO, to stop whatever was happening, but she, too, was lulled, almost hypnotized.

Martin reached down and put his hand on the table. Patrick placed his big palm flat on the surface. Then Cain reached out and touched the edge.

The table suddenly slid five feet across the floor.

Robin and Lisa sat frozen in their chairs, empty space between them. The boys stood stupefied, motionless, not breathing.

Martin came to life, marched across the empty space, grabbed the edge of the table, and dragged it back between Robin and Lisa. Robin noticed through the dreamy edges of her shock that he had to use his entire strength to move it, it was that heavy—yet moments before it had slid across the room as easily as if it had been on wheels.

Martin spoke loudly to the air. “No more circus tricks. What can you really do?”

Across the table from Robin, Lisa’s eyes were dilated, her hands clasped in her lap. Robin saw something jolt in her face, a grimace that was almost a sneer, and then, just as quickly, a look of confusion. She put her hands back on the pointer as obediently as a child.

No, Robin thought. No more.

She shoved her chair back, about to get up, and then felt a push in her head, something feeling around the edges of her mind, whispering, trying to get in. Robin felt a stab of revulsion. She pushed back, and the presence was gone.

She looked down in a daze and was jolted to see her hands were back on the moving planchette. What’s happening?

The guys were crowded up against the table, Martin and Patrick sounding out the letters.

The pointer kept moving.

The words were so utterly unfamiliar, the others were sounding the letters out one by one, but Robin could hear Martin speaking the whole sentence under his breath. “Ze ma she-uchal leharot lecha—”

Cain noticed, as well. He turned on Martin. “What’s happening?”

Martin stared down at the board, breathing shallowly, mesmerized. Robin thought with clarity, It’s getting at him. It’s almost got him.

Martin spoke with strained excitement. “Im ata Qlippah, tochi-ach et ze.”

Robin pulled her hands off the pointer. “No.” She stood, facing Martin. “Stop it. What are you doing?”

Martin stepped back, looked around at the others, dazed, as if he’d been jerked out of sleep. “Just…asking it what it means.”

Robin stood, breathing hard. They could stop now. She knew they should, but they were so close, so close to knowing.

She sat, ground her fingers into the pointer, stared fiercely at the board. “I’m asking you. What are you saying? What do you want from us?”

She looked up at Lisa. Lisa extended her fingers and touched the piece, looking across at Robin.

The pointer trembled under their hands—then went crazy, scraping savagely from letter to letter. Robin and Lisa could barely hold on.

The words were flying so fast, Robin was registering them almost subconsciously.

The table began to rock, jumping on its legs, bucking wildly on the planks of the floor.

The girls bolted up from their chairs, springing away.

“Holy shit.” Patrick pulled Lisa backward, away from the rocking wood. Robin backed up and ran into Cain and Martin, who both steadied her. In the center of the floor, the table kept up its wild shaking dance.

The door slammed open behind them.

The table stopped dead. The five of them spun—to see Waverly standing in the doorway.

Robin drew a breath, for a stunned second thinking Waverly had seen the table shaking. But her roommate was totally fixed on Patrick.

“You cunt-hunting scum.” Waverly’s words were slurred. She was swaying slightly, drunk, as she turned a venomous gaze on Lisa. “I knew I’d find you with this whore—and the rest of this trash.”

The five stared back at her, flushed with adrenaline and anger at the interruption.

Waverly turned on Robin, blue eyes flashing fire, Southern accent thick as tar. “And you, with your tail up, panting after him. ‘Oh, Patrick, let me do your paper while I go down on you.’”

Robin felt herself flush with fury. “Get out—”

A candlestick with a burning candle flew across the room, barely missing Waverly’s head.

Waverly whirled from Robin, staring at the rest of them. “Who threw that?”

Dead silence.

Behind Waverly on the floor, the candlestick rolled against a stack of dusty old newspapers. The pile suddenly ignited, flames licking up shockingly quickly.

“Look out!” Cain shouted. He leapt to pull Waverly away from the fire and stomped the flames out.

The six of them stood in dazed shock. Then Martin turned coldly to Waverly. “You should go now.” His voice was quiet, deadly. The whole group of them stared at Waverly from their semicircle.

Waverly looked at Patrick. He stood still, as if rooted to the plank floor. She shook her head in total disbelief. “You’re really going to stay here with these freaks?”

Patrick turned on her. Robin saw something twist in his face, though his eyes were as blank as a sleepwalker’s. His voice was a snarl, strangely accentless.

“Fuck off and die, you bitch. Just die—”

Waverly staggered back, stunned, then turned and ran from the attic.

Patrick shuddered, and for a moment he looked dazed, almost sick. He strode across the floor and slammed out after Waverly.

It had all happened so fast, Robin couldn’t move. Cain and Lisa seemed equally paralyzed.

Martin walked forward almost calmly, picked up the candlestick, turned back to the table, pale and resolute. “Come on. Let’s keep going.” He straightened the candle in the holder, fumbled out matches to light it Robin saw his hand was trembling.

Cain stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Martin’s face was feverish. “Don’t let her ruin it.” He seized Robin’s hand, tried to pull her back to the board.

Cain grabbed Martin’s wrist hard, stopping him. He pulled Robin free, stared Martin down. “I don’t know what you’re after, but we’re done.”

He slid an arm around Robin’s waist. Robin leaned into him, releasing herself into his protection. Cain’s arm tightened around her.

Martin stepped sharply back, stared at the two of them, jolted, a look oddly like betrayal.

Cain took Robin’s hand and led her toward the door. Anywhere, she thought. Anywhere but here. She reached out for Lisa, touched her arm, and Lisa moved obediently with them.

Just before the door closed, Robin caught a glimpse of Martin standing alone under the rafters.

The candles flickered beside the board on the table behind him.