A short story wherein the unwrapping of a Ouija board unleashes critiques of yore…
by: E. C. Traganas
“If you don’t have a purpose, you don’t have a life” — Anonymous
The moon is nearing a lunar eclipse, and there is an indescribably palpable tension, a certain fullness, in the air. Nothing oppressive, just a sensation of being encased in something filmy, like sticky gauze wrapping the atmosphere in a ripening cocoon. Somehow, I feel swaddled, bundled away safely from reality. We all do, feeling like disembodied onlookers, watching each other as we pass around platefuls of stuffed grape leaves, arugula pies, platters of cheese and cold cuts, clinking crystal goblets of blood-red Marsala while mindlessly discussing trivial matutinal affairs.
But then, Hank, half-drunk and no longer able to focus, jumps up and begins to yawn mechanically, stretching and flexing his arms and legs, cracking his neck muscles, twisting his head left then right, revealing the gaping, deep-throated ennui slogging the tenor of the evening.
“Sit down,” Yolanda eyes him, carefully unwrapping her Ouija board. “He just can’t sit still,” she sniffs in amusement, pushing aside a platter of antipasti. “Now, everyone, hush.” We all bow our heads and link hands over the baize tablecloth.
“Holy Spirits, shine upon us your eternal flame and protect us from all evil lurking in our midst.” The deep contralto voice sparks, flickers, then fades. “Amen.”
“Amen! Amen!” we repeat mechanically in turn.
Yolanda’s hazel eyes narrow and squint into castellated slits while she moves the plastic planchette over the board. We place our forefingers lightly over hers and the Ouija seems to mysteriously unlock its doors with surprising receptivity. “Ooh—ahh,” whooshes through the silence in a collective gasp of astonishment when the planchette tip begins to spell out a name with precise alacrity. O…T…a swing and forceful loop right, a questioning left, back up to…T…hooking left to a final…O.
“Do we know an Otto?” Yolanda asks the gaping hole in the room. “Otto? Who are you? Are you related to someone here?” The atmosphere is thick with tension. The planchette swings up flush left nodding in the affirmative.
Deafening silence. The mahogany wall clock ticks on faintly marking the inexorable passage into mortality. “Are you angry with that person?” Yolanda asks. Anger, I think. A strangely pointed prompt. The planchette starts whirling as if propelled from an internal engine. “Who, then?”
“Alright. I can practically feel him,” Hank says. “It’s my granddad. Stop it. It’s going round and round like it’s choking me! He was always too rough.” We draw our hands away and the planchette stops spinning.
I pull out a plastic bottle of holy water. “Shall I sprinkle some on the board?”
Yolanda is aghast. “No need. Where there is no fear, there is no evil.” Sage bromide. Must remember that, I note.
Hank loosens his tongue. “He’s probably miffed that I don’t visit his grave. ‘Get married. Make a life.’ Nag, nag, that’s all I remember,” he moans reaching for the wine carafe.
“Hold on,” Yolanda whispers, “it’s moving again.” We place our fingertips gently on the planchette and it starts running around in circles. Round and round, like a cat chasing its tail.
I smile. D-O N-O-T F-O-R-G-E-T M-E, the planchette spells out as our hands fly across the board, gliding effortlessly from letter to letter. Very precisely, again, I think. Halfway through, I exert some pressure just to test it. “Stop pushing!” Yolanda snarls. So, there might really be something to this ideomotoric theory, I think.
Hank gasps. “Alright, alright. Maybe I’ve been wrong, Opa. I’ll visit you. I’ll marry her, I’ll get a life. Whatever.” He takes a deep breath, downs another glass of Marsala, gets up too abruptly, and starts stretching his hamstrings.
“The board has spoken,” Yolanda pronounces. “‘You are free to leave us, spirit,’” she says. The planchette swings down, hovers over the Good Bye symbol. “Now, everyone, say goodbye,” she commands.
“‘Bye,” Hank mutters.
“Adieu,” I sigh sotto voce.
“Now, let us ground ourselves,” Yolanda instructs. “Do you have anything to say, Hank?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He reaches for another glass but suddenly back-steps. “OK, I hear ‘ya, Opa.” His backpack is slung over his shoulder and he wobbles out the door.
Yolanda gingerly wraps the Ouija board and planchette in a burgundy velvet pouch, shoots me an air kiss, then departs.
The lunar eclipse is past its peak. I extinguish the candles and step outside. The blood moon is breaking through a thicket of foggy clouds, a snifter of tawny port in a vast smoke-filled auditorium, and casts a misty glow on the slick backyard garden. My feet crunch on dead leaves; I unlatch the gate. The spot is in disarray, sappy milkweed and nettles crisscrossing the makeshift grave. I brush away some twigs from a bulky stone. A familiar name hand-painted in fading white letters glints in the moonlight.
“Sorry, buddy,” I say clearing away a tangle of vines. “Miss you, little guy,” I whisper patting the mound, and leave a clean, fresh stuffed mouse behind.
Author of the debut novel Twelfth House (Seaburn Classics), and Shaded Pergola (Tropaeum Press), a collection of haiku and short poetry featuring her original illustrations, E.C. Traganas has published in The San Antonio Review, The Brussels Review, Story Sanctum, The Society of Classical Poets, Amethyst Review and over a hundred other journals. She enjoys a professional career as a Juilliard-trained concert pianist & composer, has held over 40 national exhibitions of her artwork, is the founder/director of Woodside Writers, a NYC-based literary forum and Editor-in-Chief of The Woodside Review. www.elenitraganas.com.
