Page 15 of Rattling Bone (OutFoxing the Paranormal #2)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“It’s not a Ouija Board,” Nigel said. “Ouija Boards are manufactured by Hasbro. I made this one myself.”

“You’re splitting hairs.” Oscar popped a final battery into his flashlight and screwed it closed. “Weren’t you the one worried about the danger here?”

Nigel suppressed a sigh of frustration. He’d expected resistance, so there was no need to get annoyed now. “Most of their bad reputation comes from horror movies and sensationalist books.”

Everyone stared at him skeptically. “Is this like the seance idea you had in the Matthews House?” Tina asked.

Heat suffused Nigel’s cheeks. To say the seance hadn’t gone to plan was an understatement. “No,” he snapped. “Oscar has some training now, and we all have more experience.”

Everyone continued to look at him skeptically, so he threw up his hands. “Talking boards were used by mediums for decades without incident. Even after they were manufactured and sold in toy stores, they were just another tool for communing with the dead. Then they gained a reputation for ‘demon summoning’ thanks to Hollywood, and people started getting afraid when they sat down to use one.”

“And ghosts can feed on fear,” Oscar said.

“Especially, shall we say, negative ones.” Nigel gestured vaguely. “Imagine a group of teenagers with their heightened emotions, gathering around a board, scaring themselves half to death before they even get started. It’s like ringing a dinner bell for any hostile entities in the area.”

Chris frowned a bit. “So it’s less about the board itself, and more about the people using it?”

“Precisely. And because the Ouija Board comes with that cultural baggage, I made my own. It’s just a bit of cardboard with letters sharpied on it, but it should work fine.”

Oscar considered, then nodded. “Okay. It sounds like it’s worth a try.”

Chris put a fresh battery in the camera and picked up the tripod. “Grab that standing light, will you?” they said. “If we’re going to get dragged into hell, we might as well get some good footage of it.”

* * *

As Oscar lowered himself into a sitting position on the filthy concrete of the aging warehouse, he reminded himself that Nigel knew his stuff. The history of parapsychology was his specialty; if he said talking boards had been used for a long time without incident, then it was true.

Which didn’t mean Oscar didn’t have to contend with any of the “cultural baggage,” as Nigel called it, that had grown up around them.

Chris manned the camera from inside a generous circle of salt, just in case Ivan became aggressive. Nigel had lit two white candles, both for light and to give Ivan’s spirit another source of energy.

Nigel settled across from him and placed his makeshift talking board between them. Perhaps, in an effort to make it visually distinct from the classic Ouija Board, he’d placed the letters in an almost pyramidal shape. “Yes” and “No” were written to either side, with “Goodbye” at the bottom.

“Some of the old talking boards included ‘fair’ or ‘rain,’” he said. “But since we’re not asking for agricultural forecasts, I skipped those.”

Oscar managed a grin despite his nerves. “I have a feeling my weather app is more accurate anyway.”

“That seems likely.” Nigel produced a small wooden planchette from his pocket. “I ordered this online years ago, but never used it. Handmade, so never touched by the demonic influence of the Hasbro corporation.”

“Ha ha,” Oscar said drily.

“Just remember, the board doesn’t matter, just what you bring to it.”

Right. So no getting spooked. Easier said than done.

Nigel looked a bit concerned. “You remember what to do?”

Oscar took a deep breath, finding his center. He focused on contact with the ground, its solidity beneath him. The great weight of the earth supporting him, supporting everything, its vast strength anchoring him. “Yes.”

“All right, then. Let’s turn off our lights.”

They clicked off their head lamps, and the camera light followed a moment later, leaving only the standing light to indirectly illuminate the scene. The twin candles spread a warm glow over Nigel’s skin, but their unsteady flames made the shadows move and jump.

Oscar breathed deep again. He had this. He’d been training, been practicing. He could do this.

Nigel rested his fingertips on the planchette, and Oscar followed suit.

“Spirit of Ivan Corbett, I’m Oscar, your great-great-great grandson. I’ve come here tonight to speak with you. Draw upon the energy of this circle and move the planchette if you want to communicate with me.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the planchette began to tremble under his fingers, as if he was touching some small, living thing. Very slowly but deliberately, it slid across to the board to the “Yes.”

He looked up, met Nigel’s gaze. His boyfriend’s eyes were bright with excitement, though his expression remained impassive.

“It says ‘yes,’” Oscar said aloud, just in case the camera didn’t catch it. His breath had quickened, and he tried to slow it down, remain calm and focused. “Ivan, can you tell me why you’re still here?”

The wood seemed to warm behind his fingertips as it slid across the cardboard. “M-I-N-E,” Nigel spelled as it moved from letter to letter. “Mine.”

“What’s yours?” Oscar asked. “The distillery?”

Back to YES.

All of these guys were really obsessed with the distillery. That might explain why they were hanging around, but not why they’d died. “Was your death an accident? Or were you killed?”

The candle flames flickered wildly—then went from friendly yellow to a ghastly blue color in an instant.

K-I-L-L-E-D.

“Okay,” Oscar whispered. His breath steamed in the air, which seemed to be getting colder by the minute. The blue glow of the flames gave Nigel’s skin an unhealthy color, and for a terrible instant Oscar was irrationally convinced he was sitting across from a corpse.

Their walkie-talkies squawked, making them all jump. Chris let out a curse and fumbled for his. “Tina?”

“The night vision camera outside just picked up movement!” she said frantically. “Something’s heading your way!”

The planchette rattled beneath Oscar’s fingers, then jerked frantically back and forth across the cardboard. “F-I-N-D-H-E-R-B-O-N-E-S,” Nigel read, then looked up. “Find her bones?”

“It’s disappeared through the wall of the warehouse,” Tina yelled.

The planchette bucked like a live thing, and this time it was easy to read what it spelled out.

S-H-E-S-H-E-R-E.

She’s here.

* * *

The shadows seemed to race in, the candle flames dying to mere sparks in an instant. Nigel clamped his teeth together as the aging warehouse turned cold as a meat locker. The stink of blood mingled with damp earth filled the air, and Oscar jerked back, no doubt sensing it far more acutely than Nigel could.

Icy wind roared through the warehouse like a howl of fury, whipping dust and grit from the floor and making the rafters groan. Oscar yanked the planchette forcefully to GOODBYE.

“Goodbye!” he shouted. “Spirit, I release you—”

An unseen force hurled the board across the room, and the planchette cracked in half.

“Go!” Nigel yelled, scrambling to his feet.

The candles and standing light went out, plunging them into darkness. He groped for the button on his head lamp, but the battery was dead once again.

Damn it, where was Oscar? He reached blindly for his boyfriend, found a hand, and grasped it.

And immediately realized his mistake.

The hand in his was cold as the grave, the fingers hard bone covered with something soft that slipped and squelched beneath his grasp. He let out a cry of fear and disgust and tried to pull away, but the fingers wrapped tight around his own in an implacable grip.

“Get back!” Oscar yelled from somewhere in the darkness.

Something small and stinging hit him in the face; Nigel jerked back, only to realize it was salt. The dead hand let go of his, and he staggered back so suddenly he tripped and hit the ground.

The camera light switched on, and Nigel flung up an arm against the unexpected light. Chris’s face was pale with fear, and they gripped the camera as though it was the only thing keeping any of them safe.

“Nigel!” Oscar’s shoes scuffed on the floor; then he was on his knees beside him. “Are you okay?”

Nigel blinked slowly. The furious energy in the warehouse had drained away; the space felt, if not quite empty, at least quiescent. Slickness covered his hand, and he held it up to the light. Gelatinous slime, its color a sickly green, was smeared across his palm and fingers.

“What the hell is that?” Oscar asked.

Nigel’s hand shook, but he forced his voice to calm. “Ectoplasm. We need to get a sample—there are swabs and vials in the van.”

Oscar put a hand on Nigel’s elbow and helped him up. “How did it get on you?”

“Not to make you jealous,” Nigel said, “but I was holding hands with a ghost.”