Perception Page 3

  "Don't."

  Oliver sighed. "They're touching us. Bronte could see me; Stella could hear you. Their perceptions are deepening, allowing them to see through the veil, or whatever you want to call it. The point is maybe because their perceptions are deepening, she was able to feel that thing just like she felt you."

  For a moment, neither spoke. Then Cyril took in a long breath and whispered on a sigh, "I'm frustrated with myself for liking that."

  "I know." Oliver looked at his hand again. "For so long, anything I wanted to touch, I just couldn't. My hand floated right through it. Even when we concentrated on things, I couldn't feel it. Not really. To feel something again, to have that glorious touch of pressure against the palm of my hand...I never realized before how much I missed it."

  Cyril could still feel the contact from Stella's hand. The feel of her flesh underneath his own hands. He thought she'd even been warm underneath.

  If he hadn't been so terrified of whatever monster lurked behind them, at that moment, he would have been euphoric.

  "I think I should punch you."

  Cyril's head snapped up. "I beg your pardon?"

  Oliver excitedly jumped up from the couch. "We've never tried to harm each other before. I didn't even think it could be done. But that thing hurt you—I want to see if we're capable of hurting each other."

  "Why am I the one getting hit then?"

  "You punch harder—at least, you did when we were alive. Mine will hurt less."

  "But I'm already injured. If one of us should be punched, I'm thinking it should be the uninjured one."

  "Just stand up."

  Grumbling, Cyril rose. He squared himself against Oliver.

  "On three," Oliver said, lowering himself, fist raised. "You ready?"

  Cyril braced himself. "One."

  Before he could finish, Oliver launched himself. The fist connected with the side of his jaw, sending him reeling, then down to his knees. For a minute, he thought he saw a white light. Or maybe just stars dancing around his head.

  With his good hand, he rubbed at where the punch had landed. "I thought you said you punched lightly."

  Oliver offered a hand and pulled him to his feet. "I said you punched harder," he smiled, trying to hold back his laughter, "not that I punched lightly."

  Cyril brushed him off, still rubbing at his jaw. "Well, we can hurt each other, at least. Good to know."

  "But you aren't bleeding."

  Cyril pulled his hand away and looked at his hand. "No. I'm not."

  "If you'd been alive, that punch would have split your lip wide open. No blood. Maybe I should try again?"

  "No," Cyril snapped, his fingers exploring his lip. It ached from the punch. But no split lip. No blood. "So we can hurt each other? But just don't draw blood?"

  "I think you should let me try again."

  He ignored him. "It makes sense, I guess. We don't have physical bodies anymore—we don't have blood. If we can't draw blood, how'd that thing claw into my shoulder? Why does it look bloodied?"

  Oliver shrugged. Then sighed. "You know what concerned me the most? Well, perhaps not the most, considering it could touch Stella and attack us, but a concern I've had?"

  "Hm?"

  "You couldn't see it."

  Cyril frowned. That had been a concern for him also, but only really at the beginning, when the thing had first appeared to Oliver. Now that he thought about it, he should have seen it.

  Why hadn't he seen it?

  His eyes fell on his friend and the realization struck. "And you couldn't hear it, could you?"

  Oliver shook his head. "You do realize what that sounds like, don't you?" he whispered.

  Keys jangled in the front door lock.

  They both turned to see Bronte and Stella creeping into the room. Bronte moved first, taking the lead, not nearly as scared as Stella looked though both lingered near the door.

  He felt a stab of pity for her. She'd heard the monster. She'd been alone when she'd heard it, when he'd touched her. Of course she'd be the more terrified of the two.

  Then his eyes fell to the cardboard box tucked under Stella's arm.

  Oliver let out a low whistle. "This ought to be interesting. They bought a Ouija board."

  Chapter Five

  "This is never going to work," I grumbled. Bronte cleared off the ottoman, moving everything to the kitchen table. I stood back, close to the door, the box tucked under my arm.

  "Have a little faith. This is going to work."

  "No, it isn't. You can't just buy a Ouija board at Wal-Mart and expect it to work."

  Finished clearing the space, she sat down beside the ottoman and held her hands out for the box.

  I hesitated. "I mean, if we really wanted it to work, we'd find some crazy spirit medium shop or something. Velvet curtains, fog machine, a scary woman with long nails and creepy jewelry. I think that Ouija board would be infinitely more reliable than a Hasbro—"

  "Stella," she snapped, waving impatiently.

  Slinking forward, I handed her the box. She slid off the lid as I dropped to my knees on the other side of the ottoman.

  Bronte unpacked the box with care and solemnity. She handled the board with the caution a first-time mother might handle a newborn, carefully laying it on the center of the coffee table. Then she placed the plastic planchette—the movable piece with the transparent plastic window—on the center.

  With how she set the board up, it was upside-down to me. Not that it really mattered—I recognized the alphabet. 'Yes' and 'No' flanked the rows of letters. The word 'Good-bye' hung below everything else, as if it's been added as an afterthought. The smirking sun in the top left corner, and the winking moon in the top right, seemed to focus on Bronte as she took in a deep breath and reached for the planchette.

  "Oh wait," she said, hopping up. She hurried around to the book nook, flipping on the lamp, and then darted for the light switch near the front door.

  "Hell no," I jumped up. "Don't you dare turn—"

  She flicked the lights off. Then she cast me an impish smirk over her shoulder before bounding back over to the ottoman. "It's in the rules," she said matter-of-factly, dropping down into her spot. "The lights have to be turned off."

  I caught the tremor in her tone. "Like hell it is. If we're summoning spirits, we're doing it with the lights on."

  "Sit," she ordered, gesturing.

  I cast a longing look at the light switch.

  She put her hands on the planchette. "I'm starting."

  Grudgingly, I dropped back down. "How do we start?"

  She hesitated. "Um, I think we just ask a question. And then the pointer moves."

  "Planchette," I corrected, reaching for the box. "Oh look. There are instructions on the back."

  "What do they say?"

  "A game for those who seek to find a way to leave their world behind."

  "Stella!"

  "Fine, fine," I mumbled, taking in a deep breath. "Ok. It says that at least one person should refrain from touching the board—so as to be uninfluenced by the spirits. Dibs. I so call dibs on that. And it says we just ask questions. And not to use it alone. Does it count as alone if only one person is touching the board?"

  "I think it'll be fine. So we just ask questions, right?"

  I continued to skim the back of the box. "Yeah, I think so. And then the spirits will move the planchette to respond. So...what do we ask first?"

  Bronte took in a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered closed on her exhale.

  For a moment, nothing stirred. No sound came from outside. The soft light from the lamp in the corner cast everything in shadows. Outside, inky blackness stretched in every direction, fueled by a moonless night and thick clouds.

  I felt cut off. Alone. Like the rest of the world had fallen away and we were all that was left. Nothing existed outside the outer walls of the apartment.

  "Um, hello," Bronte said.

  A fit of hysterical giggles pinched my side as I bit them back.
"Hello?" I barked, my voice shaking. "Hello?"

  "Hush," she snapped, eyes flying open. Then she closed them again. "Yes, hello. I don't see any reason to skip the pleasantries during first meetings."

  My laughter died as the planchette began to move.

  Bronte's eyes flew open as we watched the planchette slide over two letters. H. I.

  "Get paper," Bronte snapped.

  I bolted into my bedroom and snatched the notepad I kept beside my bed. Then I flew back to the living room, remembered to grab a pen, and dove back into my seat with my hands clutching the pen so hard I thought it'd snap. "Anything else?"

  "No...I think it was waiting for you to come back," she whispered, breathless, her fingers visibly shaking on the planchette.

  "Bronte?"

  "I didn't...I didn't think it would actually work."

  "You were holding hands with a ghost earlier—how could this be any crazier?"

  The planchette began moving again.

  "I swear to God, Charlotte, if you're moving this—"

  She pulled her hands away from the tiny plank.

  And it kept moving.

  She crawled around to my side and we watched, upside down, as the planchette continued to spell out words.

  N. I. C. E. T. O. M. E. E. T. Y. O. U.

  "Nice to meet you?" Bronte whispered.

  "Such a gentleman," I scoffed, trying to hide the fact that I was shaking. That my pulse had skyrocketed. That chills crept down my spine. "Glad to see it shares your devotion to pleasantries."

  We shared a quick look and then Bronte looked up and around the room. "Um, the pleasure is all mine."

  When I didn't answer, she jabbed me in the side with her elbow. "Yeah, ditto."

  More letters came.

  I. A. M. O. L. I. V. E. R. A. N. D. I. A. M. W. I. T. H. M. Y. F. R. I. E. N. D. C. Y. R. I. L.

  "Oliver and Cyril," I said.

  "There are two of you?" Bronte asked.

  The planchette moved over Yes.

  I felt a stab of annoyance, imaging the two ghosts laughing at my expense, playing a prank the likes of which the Ghostly Trio from Casper would be proud. "Yeah? And which one of you thought it would be a fun idea to scare the crap out of me with that howling, huh?"

  N. E. I. T. H. E. R. S. O. M. E. T. H. I. N. G. E. L. S. E.

  "Something else?" Bronte peered down at my notes. "You mean there are more of you?"

  C. O. M. P. L. I. C. A. T. E. D.

  "You better uncomplicate it," I snapped. "What do you mean there's something else in our apartment? Something harmful? Angry?"

  Yes.

  Bronte shuddered, clutching at my arm. "This was a bad idea. What if they're lying? Ghosts lie, right? That's like Horror Movies 101."

  A muffled voice floated through the room. I turned toward Bronte but she didn't seem to hear it. Or if she did, she wasn't outwardly freaking out.

  "Say that again, but louder, if you can."

  Bronte looked at me with concern. "I said this was a bad—"

  "Shush."

  The sound of voices grew slightly louder. I clamped my eyes shut and that helped. I could hear the cadence of speech, almost make out words. But it was still too garbled, too muddy.

  Then I heard the last word, as crisp and clear as a bell. "Stella."

  My eyes flew open.

  "We're done," I snapped, snatching the planchette and hurling it across the room.

  "Hey," Bronte shouted, scrambling after it. "What are you doing?"

  "We are finished." I grabbed the board, slammed it shut, and shoved it in the direction of the box. Then I jumped up and headed for the door.

  I yanked it open and it slammed shut, the handle ripped from my hands.

  "Please don't go," a voice whispered.

  Bronte froze, the board in one hand and the planchette in the other, from her place beside the ottoman. "Oh my God..." she breathed, eyes locked on the front door.

  I stared at the door in shock. Then I whirled around. The apartment was empty—all I could see was Bronte huddled beside the ottoman. But I knew they were there.

  "You cannot keep me here, you bastards. I want to leave so you better freaking open that door."

  After a slight pause, it creaked open.

  "Please," a bodiless voice whispered near my shoulder. Husky and baritone and masculine. But speaking lowly, softly, guilt and desperation wrestling in his tone. "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry? You slammed the door shut in my face."

  "I just...I didn't mean to."

  Bronte slowly set the board and the planchette down on the couch, moving with all the skittishness of a deer. "Who are you talking to, Stella?"

  "She can hear you, Cyril," another voice whispered. The tone was a smidgen higher than the first, but still deep. Silvery. Soft-spoken and dipped in honey. "My God..."

  "And you too, Oliver, I take it?" I snapped.

  There was a beat of silence followed by a rich, booming laugh. From the first voice. Cyril, it seemed.

  My muscles relaxed at the sound. Whatever instinct against the unknown that warned me to leave slowly began to fade, eased by the emotions I heard in their voices: genuine joy, relief, and excitement.

  Exhilaration replaced my fear. Ghosts. I was talking with ghosts.

  Bronte lowered herself to the couch. "You can hear them." She stated it rather than asked. "You can hear them. And..." her voice lowered, "I think they're both standing in front of you."

  I focused on her. "What?"

  "Now...now they've turned. I think. They're looking over—looking over here."

  "And you can see them," I breathed.

  "Barely. More like an outline. But yes, I think I can see them."

  Then Oliver let loose a very ungentlemanly word.

  And I started laughing.

  Chapter Six

  We split up. Was it the smartest idea? No, probably not. But I couldn't take the two ghostly voices pelting me in rapid-fire, unsure where to look, while Bronte hovered at my side and kept repeating herself. "What are they saying? What did they say? Stella, come on, what are they–"

  "Time out!" I shouted, making the motion and everything. The voices stopped immediately. I pointed at the planchette and board, forgotten on the couch. "Can one of you use that? Or do you both need to be there?"

  Bronte dived for it as Oliver—I'm pretty sure it was silvery voice Oliver —answered. "One of us should be able to move it individually."

  "Great. Bronte, you use that." My telling her was redundant at this point. She was already replacing the board on the coffee table and plopping down excitedly on the couch to watch it move, pen and paper in hand.

  I turned toward the empty room. "And whichever one of you touched me, no, I guess I touched you—whatever—the one I felt up—we're going into my room."

  It was impossible to tell if he followed me into my room or not. I hesitated with the door open, wondering if he needed it to be open to enter. Ghosts floated through walls, right? Would it be rude to shut the door and make them go through the wall?

  Stress replaced my excitement faster than I thought humanly—or ghostly— possible at the thought of learning spectral etiquette. I could barely figure out human etiquette. Rose was our people-person, both mine and Bronte's. She knew how to read people, the exact words to say, how to talk with them. I tended to default onto snark when I felt surrounded by people while Bronte just hovered silently in the background.

  I threw the door shut then turned to my room. It felt weird talking to a boy—even a dead one—while on my bed on our, I guess, first official meeting. So I sat in the maroon wingback chair in the corner, my own book nook apart from the one in the living room, and pulled my legs up to my chest.

  "You in here?"

  "Yes."

  Maybe splitting up wasn't a good idea? I hated not being able to see anything. At least with Bronte nearby, I knew where to look.

  "Which one are you?"

  "Cyril."

  "Cyril,"
I repeated. The one with the lower voice. Huskier and baritone. "Can you, I don't know, tell me where you're standing or something? Just talking to an empty room makes me feel stupid. Or crazy. I haven't decided which yet."

  Nervous laughter floated through the room. "I'm standing beside the door."

  "Oh. Thanks. Um, would you like to sit down, or something?"

  "No, thank you."

  Silence stretched between us. I stared at the door, eyes screwed up, trying to see the vague outlines Bronte swore she saw. But there was nothing. Just my bedroom door, as always.

  How many times had he been in here, watching? And I completely unaware?

  Shivers tingled down my spine for creepy reasons, rather than supernatural ones.

  He cleared his throat. I didn't even know ghosts could do that—but he did. "Did you—did you have questions?"

  "A few." Hundred, I added silently.

  "You're welcome to ask anything. I understand this must be..." he struggled to find the right word.

  "Stressful," I blurted.

  "Stressful," he repeated, his tone sinking. "I do apologize for that. It is not my intent to—"

  "Do you prefer walking through open doors or walls?" I blurted. "Because if I just slammed the door on you, I'm sorry. It's my first ghost-girl situation and I don't really know what to do."

  He took a beat of confused silence. When he spoke, I could hear amusement and bemusement waring in his tone. But, more importantly than that, he sounded more relaxed. "Walls are just fine. Please, don't trouble yourself with social niceties if they're making you uncomfortable or stressed."

  "Bronte's big on pleasantries."

  He chuckled. "Yes, I noticed."

  "But just sandwich pleasantries, I guess. Saying hello and goodbye. All the stuff in between? Not so much. I mean, she's fine if she has to do it, but she prefers sitting back and watching, you know."

  "Oliver is the same. He enjoys playing the role of observer. It’s only when he feels quite at ease that he deigns to interact."

  "I guess being a ghost helps with that."

  His tone shifted. "Yes. It does leave one with the time and ability to do just that."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  "I know. You're not the type to speak callously."