Page 42 of The Missing Pages

Violet’s morning had started off with a dose of unexpected drama.

When she arrived at Widener, two Cambridge police officers were in the lobby talking intently with Madeline.

“The book slasher,” it seemed, had struck again.

A graduate student discovered that one of the books in her study carrel had pages torn from it, and also a disturbing message scribbled on the inside cover.

The culprit had allegedly written in thick black Sharpie: “I won’t stop until the voices in my head tell me to stop. ”

As Violet passed Madeline in the atrium, she could see how visibly distressed she was. Later, when she was able to catch her by herself, she discovered that Madeline had been the one who had notified the outside police.

“It’s no longer something we can solve internally,” Madeline said. “The person causing the damage is clearly unwell and might do even more damage soon.”

“How terrible,” Violet said. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Not yet, but the police might reach out to you for questions. Have you seen anyone suspicious in the stacks?”

Violet shook her head. “No, only students and staff. Nothing that seemed out of the ordinary.”

Still, she understood the reason for Madeline’s concern, and didn’t mind the police asking her questions.

Like everyone else, Violet had no idea who was defiling books in the Widener.

And while she had the strange sensation that Harry’s ghost might be wafting through the rooms of his library, she never for a moment thought he would ever desecrate a book. He loved them too much for that.

Violet then headed quickly over to her class at Emerson, relieved to have a few moments to speak to Professor Gupta.

She wanted to see if he’d allow her to change the topic of her thesis.

She told him she now wanted to focus on how various esteemed writers had started to investigate the existence of life after death following their own personal losses.

She explained that she’d become fascinated by the establishment of the Ghost Club at Trinity College in Dublin and a subsequent group of scientific and literary luminaries in England, including Charles Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle, who explored the spiritual world after suffering the death of a loved one.

Dickens had lost his beloved sister, Fanny, to tuberculosis and Doyle began engaging in spiritualism at the onset of the First World War, when so many young men, including his son, Kingsley, were dying at the front.

Violet proffered that the reading she longed to do would be best served if she could also channel it into her seminar writing.

“An interesting premise,” Professor Gupta said, as he looked through her proposal and the bibliography she’d attached to it.

“I checked, but I didn’t find any past student’s thesis on the subject,” she added. “Though there are quite a few about William James, who founded a psychical institute here about a hundred years ago. The college appears to have embraced his studies back in the day, if you can believe it.”

“I can.” Gupta looked up from her proposal and grinned. He put the paper down on his desk. “I think you should do it,” he said. “And I look forward to reading what you come up with.”

“Thank you!” Violet felt a rush of adrenaline flood through her. “Isn’t it just amazing? I had no idea James Hall was named after him. And to think I have my psych class there!”

Professor Gupta laughed. “A beautiful synergy to your studies then. And I have to say, I’m so delighted to see you looking happy again.”

Violet smiled. “Yes. It feels good to just feel like a regular student again,” she said. She left his office invigorated. Now she could write about something she was really vested in and getting school credit for it to boot.

She couldn’t wait to see what more she would discover and, more importantly, to learn if there would be any more messages from Harry. Perhaps there might even come a time she’d hear a message from Hugo. Violet wanted to remain open to every possibility.

Violet hid her new Ouija board underneath her bed. She hated to think about any of her roommates, even Sylvia, finding it and thinking she’d lost her mind.

So after her last class that afternoon, she pulled it out and brought it to her bed. She unpackaged the board and placed the planchette on top.

She had only used one once before, at a childhood sleepover party at her friend Nancy’s house. A group of her friends performed a mock séance and chanted “Light as a feather, stiff as a board” in trying to evoke the spirits to lift one of their classmates off the ground.

Of course, it hadn’t worked, despite Karen Lombardi’s insisting that she felt her body rise a few inches off the carpet.

The rest of the night, Violet and her friends had asked the Ouija board question after question, their hands rolling over each letter (who could tell if Mary Flaherty or Francis O’Reilly were pushing it themselves, though they insisted they weren’t!).

They also got out Nancy’s Magic 8 Ball, believing both objects had the power to reveal information from the other side.

But now, close to a decade later, she was still asking for the same thing—information that she could find nowhere else.

She realized it all felt crazy. But Violet believed she had to at least try to find another way to communicate with Harry, since she’d been reprimanded for sitting at his desk in Widener. But maybe—though she knew it was a long shot—Harry would communicate with her again, this time with the board.

Her head was brimming with questions. Why had he chosen her? Was there a reason he wanted to get her attention? But those were questions that would require the words being spelled out. She would need to begin with simpler questions.

The Ouija board had in each top corner an image of the sun and the moon. On the right side, beneath the image of the sun, was the word “YES.” On the left side, beneath the image of the moon, was the word “NO.”

She decided to ask a simple question first and see if the planchette moved to either corner.

Shoulders hunched, her legs crossed beneath her, Violet sat on her bedspread and murmured her first question to the Ouija board.

Her question was simple. “Harry, are you there?”

Her fingers hovered lightly on the planchette. But nothing happened. Wasn’t it supposed to zoom over the surface, lurching toward each letter until an answer was spelled out?

She waited. She focused all of her energy one more time into her question. In the library, she’d heard a knock back immediately. But now there was absolutely nothing.

Her eyes bore down on the plastic triangle, hoping she could will it to move, but there was no pull from beyond. Her wrists stayed steady. The triangular piece of equipment remained completely still.

Just as Violet was about to ask another question, she heard a knock at her door. Then another.

She froze.

“Hey, Vi? Are you in there?”

She recognized Lara’s voice.

The rapping grew louder, and Violet hoped if she ignored her, Lara would eventually go away. But as she uncrossed her legs, her foot accidentally hit the edge of the Ouija board and it slid onto the ground with a loud thud.

“Is everything okay in there?” Lara turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door.

“What are you doing, Vi?” Her eyes slid to the floor where the board and planchette now lay. “Are you having your own private séance or something?”

Violet’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“I really think you’re losing it, Violet. You know? Like you’re definitely not well.”

“I’m fine. Really. Stop making a big deal of nothing.”

“Nothing? You locked yourself in your room so you could speak to a Ouija board, and actually expected it to answer you?”

“First of all, the doors don’t lock. And you have no idea what I was even doing.”

“I assume you’re trying to speak to Hugo. Confirming what we’ve all suspected for months, which is that you’re not dealing with the reality that he’s gone. And…” She took a deep breath. “… that you’re losing control of reality.”

“I was not trying to speak to Hugo!” Violet’s indignance came freely. She wasn’t lying.

“We could go to Health Services now. It might be a good idea.” Lara lowered her voice. “I’m concerned about you. We all are.”

Lara’s eyes flashed. “Wasn’t there an incident in the library today? Didn’t someone write a note in one of the books saying they wouldn’t stop until the voices in their head told them to?”

Panic seized Violet’s chest. Was Lara insinuating she might have written the message?

“You think that was me? How could you even suggest something so terrible?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s impossible. You did tell us you thought you sensed a ghost in the library, didn’t you?” She crossed her arms in front of her. “And even if you’re not out there slashing books, it does look like you’re holed up in your room trying to talk to Hugo.”

Violet’s eyes fell to the Ouija board on the ground. Had her suitemates been discussing amongst themselves that she might be losing her mind?

What if she lied and said she really was trying to reach out to Hugo: Would that have made her seem any less crazy?

Throughout history, countless writers, scholars, mothers, and fathers who’d suffered the impossible loss of a loved one had all done something similar.

But had anyone ever tried to force Victor Hugo or Charles Dickens into a sanitarium because they dared to ponder the existence of a spiritual world?

Because they tried to connect to the other side?

Why couldn’t the skeptics just keep their judgment to themselves for a moment, and let the grieved explore such a possibility in peace?

But Violet didn’t feel like defending herself to Lara just now. “I don’t need Health Services,” she said flatly. “I was just doing some research for my seminar.”

“With a Ouija board? Come on, Vi!” Lara shook her head; her disbelief and disapproval were palpable.

“Well, if you really need to know, I’ve changed the topic of my thesis. I’m now writing about the Ghost Club at Trinity College in the nineteenth century. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Lara answered. “I can’t say that I have.”

“It was founded in 1862 to investigate ghosts and psychic phenomena. To see if the spirit could still exist after death. Charles Dickens was a founding member. Arthur Conan Doyle belonged, too.”

“Ahhh,” Lara said. “And did they lock themselves in their rooms and start whispering to Ouija boards? Or is that just part of your field research?”

“What’s the good of research if you approach it with a closed mind? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Lara’s face softened. “I suppose you’re right, Vi. But you can understand why I was concerned when I heard some weird murmurings coming from your room.”

“Yes, but trust me. I’m not losing my mind. I’m just trying to open it.”