Something small and black rushes past my leg, sending a whisper of air up my skirt and I flinch and jump to the side, knocking into Rita who collapses into a fit of giggles as she clutches my arm.

Jumping onto the porch balustrade, the cat, a sorry-looking mess of black fur, arches it back and hisses as it narrows its poisonous yellow eyes at me.

"Stop that, Mr. Faustus!" A soft voice calls out, the tone disapproving as if scolding a child. "You stop that right now. We don't hiss at our guests."

Standing in the doorway is probably the most glamorous woman I have ever clapped eyes on. Her glossy jet hair is teased into curls, a style I've only ever seen worn by the likes of Lauren Bacall or Elizabeth Taylor. Her skin is flawless powdery white and she wears so much thick, black mascara and cherry red lipstick that in my head I can picture my Mama's wide-eyed, repulsed glare, because she always said that any woman who needed to wear this much make-up was either as ugly as Hell underneath, or a no-good whore.

But I don't think Barbara Arden looks like either. Sure, she's definitely the type of woman who could turn the head of any man she happened to meet, but with her Hollywood beauty, I'm suddenly ashamed of my simple cotton dress and drab hair pulled back into a pony-tail. I suddenly wish the 1962 Stony Crag Prom Queen looked a little bit more like the 1966 Stony Crag movie star medium.

"Oh, don't mind him," she says, waving a manicured hand in a dismissive gesture. "He's the crankiest damn cat in the whole state." She smiles, a broad grin that makes her eyes sparkle. "Well now, who do we have here?"

She looks at us all expectantly, the grin still plastered across her face.

Connie instantly holds out her hand in greeting. "I'm Constance Fleming, Ms. Arden, we spoke on the phone? And these are the friends I was telling you about. Rita Duncan and Kathleen-Anne Jones."

Barbara's gaze flickers over me and I see the smile break, just a little mind you, but it breaks nonetheless. "Kathleen-Anne? You wouldn't happen to be Patricia-May Brown's girl, would you?"

She knows Mama. All at once I feel my cheeks flush and my heart sinks, because if she does know Mama, then I can't imagine that the experience of meeting her was a particularly good one, especially considering I know exactly what Mama's opinion is of Ms. Barbara Arden.

"Y-yes ma'am," I stammer.

"Is she still working down at the church?"

She glances down and I realize I'm bunching up the sides of my skirt in my hands. I quickly try to smooth out the crinkled fabric, which is now damp from the sweat on my palms.

"Uh... yes, ma'am, she still volunteers there. Thirty years now."

"Thirty years, huh? How about that?" Her eyes don't leave mine and she has those kind of eyes that make me think that she doesn't miss a damn thing. "Tell me, does your Mama know you're here?"

I hear Rita snort beside me and I want to just die of embarrassment. Hot, indignant anger bubbles up in my throat. "Ms. Arden, I'll have you know I am a married woman now, with a child of my own. I don't have to seek permission from my Mama for every little thing that I do."

She arches a brow. "Good to hear it." The smile is back in full force. "Now, ladies, won't you please come in?"

She steps aside to let us through and Rita and Connie almost fight for who goes in first, giggling as they stumble into the hallway. I follow behind, flinching again as Mr. Faustus runs in after us, snaking through our legs and rushing off into a room at the end of the hallway, where I can see candlelight flickering through the gap in the partly-open door.

Behind me, Barbara slides the bolt back into place, with an ominous click that snaps off the walls and floor and I can't help but wonder why she feels the need to lock herself in. If I lived here, I'd be itching to get out and I wouldn't want no stupid lock stopping me from escaping.

Inside the house, the hallway is dark and foreboding and all the décor seems to clash in a way that is headache-inducing. Black and white square tiles pave the hall. Dark, heavy-patterned paper lines the walls, which are crammed full of framed pictures of all shapes and sizes. The photographs are random and a little odd-looking. I spy a little girl in some of them, probably no more than eight years old and always staring sullenly at the camera. Some are landscapes, glum-looking scenery that looks like it's never seen a day of summer sun.

Barbara's heels – red to match her lipstick – click against the tiles as she ushers us towards the room at the end of the corridor and we follow her, Connie and Rita nudging one another and whispering like schoolgirls, and me tagging along behind as I stare about. I catch the faint scent of incense, candle wax and sage which grows stronger the closer we get to the end of the hallway.

The parlor room, where Barbara conducts her business, is like an extended exaggeration of the hallway. The smells are stronger in here and I spot an incense burner and a bowl containing remnants of smoldering sage close to the sash window, which makes me wrinkle my nose as the heady scent infuses my nostrils. Looking around, I feel the weighty touch of claustrophobia pressing in on all sides. There's so much clutter in here, I can barely understand how anyone can fit into this room. On one side, there's a huge floor-to-ceiling curio cabinet, crammed full of all sorts of strange and frightening objects. Bird skulls of differing sizes. Plastic dolls heads stuffed into a small glass box. Blackened candles thick at the base with melted wax. Apothecary bottles filled with mysterious dark liquids. Crude ornaments that look oriental in origin. A stuffed crow sits amongst it all, staring right back at me with dead, beady eyes. And, Mr. Faustus, who has taken up residence on the cabinet counter top, his twitching tail curled around his fat body, stares too.

The rest of the room is much the same. White church candles cluster every available surface. A small chintz-edged table lamp draped with a purple scarf emits a muted, mauve light in one corner. More pictures line the walls in here, only these ones are more unsettling than the ones in the hallway. Two old women sit at a table, empty bowls in front of them, tartan cloth shawls wrapped around their shoulders and in between them, a ghostly apparition with its face blurred. A small boy wearing a gas mask, clutching a stuffed toy to his chest. Three young girls posing together wearing ankle-length skirts, their long dark hair covering their faces completely. A cemetery, fallen headstones blocking the pathway, hardy tufts of long grass jutting out from between the broken slabs. A girl with tousled ringlets, holding what appears to be a dead flamingo as she stands on a garishly-patterned rug.

And as I look around, I'm suddenly struck by how staged this all feels. This room, the hallway, none of it seems to fit with the woman who now stands behind the table. It's like she's trying too hard to put the heebie-jeebies into her guests and I can see how it must work, because everything in here is peculiar and creepy and just plain wrong. But it isn't Barbara. It isn't who she is, the woman with the movie star hair and clicking red heels, and I get immediately why people say that she is nothing but a charlatan. It all just seems so fake and my mood lightens a little and I don't feel so uneasy about being here.

The table behind which she now stands is a small circular one, set in the center of the room and covered in a black cloth that drapes down to the floor. There is nothing on the table except for a rectangular-shaped board – a talking board I've heard them called, or Ouija board. Two curved rows of letters are printed onto the wood, a row of numbers, and the words yes, no and goodbye, all in bold black font. On top of the board rests a planchette, made of burnished wood and patterned with delicate black scroll.

"Please, ladies, do sit down." Barbara motions to the chairs which have been placed in a semi-circle around the table.

I smile at my friends and covertly roll my eyes, their barely-hidden mirth glinting back in theirs and we each take a seat, me first and then Rita and then Connie.

Barbara takes the last chair so that she mirrors my position on the opposite side of the semi-circle, smooths her skirt down over her knees and pauses as she looks at us all in turn, a clear attempt to build tension.

"Ladies, the spirits and I thank you for coming here today and in return we thank the spirit world for allowing us to disturb their slumber so that we can try to make contact with them. I ask only a few things of my guests, but I do ask that you treat my requests with respect. The spirit world is not something to be mocked or ridiculed, this is serious business that we do as we attempt to reach those waiting on the other side and we do not wish to anger or offend them. So I ask three things of you, and, if by some chance, you don't think you can agree to my requests, I politely insist that you leave now. Firstly, I ask that you open your minds and suspend any disbelief you may hold in your heart, for the spirits do not wish to converse with those whose minds are closed to them. Secondly, I ask that you leave all handling of the spirits to me. If we are fortunate enough to make contact, and I certainly hope that we are, then please have a care to remember that I have great many experiences of talking with those who have crossed over, so please do leave me to handle all contact. It is important that just one person asks the questions at all time, to avoid any confusion. And finally..."

Her eyes sweep over us in dramatic fashion, piercing blue flashing from under a thick blanket of black lashes.

"Finally, I ask that whatever may happen, you all remain calm and composed at all times. What we are about to do does not come without risks and we do not know who waits for us on the other side. Dark spirits seek out the light and the flesh, unable to bear the awful wrench of leaving their physical form behind, and they often wait for such opportunities as these to find what they most desire. If such a spirit attempts to come through, please do not excite yourselves with hysteria and do not, at any point, remove your fingers from the planchette, for you will break the bind that holds them."

Another dramatic pause. Another chance for the actress to set the scene. She smiles then, all red lipstick and perfect white teeth.

"Now, ladies, if that all sounds swell with you, shall we begin?"

We all glance at each other and I can see that Rita is desperately trying not to laugh. She presses her lips together the way she used to do back in high school, whenever she was trying not to burst out laughing in the middle of class. I look back at Barbara and fix her with the most solemn expression I can muster. I'm not so sure it's very convincing.

"Yes ma'am," I say. "We're ready."

"Right, well if you would all place your fingers on the planchette. Place them firmly but without pressure so that it can move freely and easily across the board. I will start to ask the questions and, if the spirits wish to converse with us, the planchette with begin to move. Don't be alarmed by this. Just relax and let it happen."

One by one, we place our fingers on the edge of the planchette. The wood pointer feels strangely cold under my fingertips. In my head, Mama is saying something, her mouth forming words I cannot make out and I exhale deeply, brushing away the image of her as I breathe out and her face dissolves like dust drifting on the breeze.

Barbara clears her throat, not that it had been sounding in any way hoarse.

"I would like to open this session today with love and respect for those who might wish to converse with us. We welcome your positive energy into this room and we thank you for allowing us to make contact with you. Now, if you would be so kind, please let us know if there is anyone here who would like to speak with us?"

Nothing happens. The planchette remains right where it is.

"We thank you again and ask if you would please make yourself known to us?"

Seconds tick by and I shift uncomfortably in my chair, the wooden back digging into the base of my spine. This whole thing feels awkward and I'm almost willing something to happen, even though I have a sneaky suspicion Barbara will be the one that causes the pointer to move.

"Is there anybody here who wishes to make contact?"

Rita can't suppress the smile no longer and her mouth begins to twitch at the corners.

When the planchette slowly glides across the board to the word 'yes', her smile falters, frozen in a half-grin and half-grimace. Her head snaps to the right and she stares accusingly at Connie.

"You made that move."

"What? I did not."

"You did, I could feel you pushing it along."

Connie looks around in amused alarm, trying not to giggle. "Ms. Arden, I swear to you that I didn't do it."

Barbara sighs and shakes her head. "Ladies, please, I beg you. Neither of you pushed the planchette. I have been doing this a long time and I know when somebody is trying to influence the board. What we just experienced was first contact with a spirit. Now if we could just get back to the matter at hand, I believe somebody wishes to speak with us."

Pursing her lips, she focuses on the board once more.

"Dear spirit, we thank you for your patience. Please can you tell us your name?"

The pointer remains fixed over the word 'yes' and doesn't move.

"Okay, can you tell us whether you are here to speak to any of us in particular?"

The planchette judders, then slowly, jerkily, moves across the board towards the letters.

K-A.

My heart stutters for a second and then, realization hitting me, I chuckle and raise a brow at my friends. "Okay, very funny. Great joke."

"It's not us, Kathleen-Anne," Rita insists and I see a touch of confusion in her eyes that seems genuine, but I'm not so sure.

I stare hard at them and then glance at Barbara, who is watching me very intently. "Did y'all cook this up together? Did Rheemus put you up to this?"

Barbara seems mightily put out by this and her brow furrows with irritation. "Mrs. Jones, I can assure you this is no trick and I do not take part in frivolous jokes. There is someone here who wishes to speak with you. Shall we continue?"

But all of a sudden I'm not sure I want to continue. I'm freefalling in this cloud of uncertainty, torn between wanting to believe them and hating the idea they're all just making fun of me. The incense seems to be getting stronger and the pungent scent is making pain pulse at my temples. Despite the cool touch of the pointer, the room is warm, too warm, and my neck feels sticky with perspiration.

Who on earth would want to speak to me? There's Grandma, of course, on my Mama's side, but I'd been barely six years old when she'd passed over and I don't recall her ever being too fond of me. She often told Mama that I had an awful lot to say for a little girl and that Mama should spank the Devil out of me before it was too late. All at once, I hope that it's not Grandma.

Before Barbara can continue, the planchette starts to move again, only this time it doesn't head towards any letter or number, it just begins to move slowly, sweeping over the board in what looks like a figure of eight. Barbara exhales a small, squeaky kind of gasp and the planchette keeps moving, getting faster and faster, as it repeats the motion over and over.

"What is it?" I say. "What's it doing?"

Mr. Faustus, who has been watching everything with a lazy disinterest through sleepy slits, suddenly stands, hissing as he slinks back onto his haunches, heckles raised.

"What's your name?" Connie almost shouts it out and I swear Barbara's eyes look like they're going to burst right out of their sockets as she glares at Connie.

"No!" she cries. "You mustn't. You have to let me control this, we have to stop..."

But the pointer is on the move again, this time gliding quickly over to the letters.

O-Z.

"Oz?" Rita laughs. "Hey, maybe he's a Judy Garland fan?"

O-Z-O-Z-O-Z-O-Z-O-Z-O.

"Okay, okay, we get it, your name's Oz."

The lights flicker. The candlelight sends shadows dancing madly across the walls and the lamp in the corner dulls for one second.

Rita's mouth falls open with glee as she looks around, before fixing her gaze back on the medium. "Oh, you're good," she says. "This is worth every damn cent."

But Barbara is shaking her head, lips moving wordlessly and for a moment, it's not her sitting in front of me, but Mama. Mama is staring right back at me and I know I should have listened. I shouldn't have come here.

You don't ever meddle with the spirits, Kathleen-Anne. You leave them be. You leave them right where they are. No good ever comes from meddling, you mark my words.

Seemingly oblivious to Barbara's alarm, Rita continues, clearing enjoying every darn second.

"So, Oz, what is it that you want?"

"Miss Duncan, please, stop speaking to it. Stop right now!"

The planchette jerks over the letters.

K-A.

Connie snorts with laughter. "Well I hate to break it to you, but our sweet Kathleen-Anne is already taken."

They both break down into giggles now, but the lamp in the corner flares up, the light growing brighter and brighter, until we have to avert our eyes from the blinding glare. With a pop that makes everyone shriek, the bulb shatters, spraying tiny shards of glass onto the counter top and smoke begins to drift up from the scorch mark left in the purple scarf that covers the shade.

For a moment, nothing moves and nor do we.

Connie looks decidedly pale and Rita's wide eyes are now brimming with fear, the realization hitting them both that this is no parlor trick. Something is here.

Barbara's voice trembles noticeably as she speaks, sounding much younger and less confident than she did before. "Spirit, we thank you for your time, but the energy here is not good and we need to end the session. We bid you farewell. Goodbye."

The planchette begins to move towards the base of the board, where the word 'goodbye' is printed, but it doesn't get any further than the numbers, where it rests on 9 before slowly sliding over 8-7-6.

"Oh my Lord, it's counting down..." Sweat is peppering Barbara's brow, glistening on her skin and making her thick make-up look like a Halloween mask.

"Counting down to what?" The throbbing in my head now is like thunder. "Ms. Arden, what is it counting down to?"

5-4-3.

Mr. Faustus is making a strange, high-pitched keening sound, the same sound cats make when they spy another and they go into battle mode, backs arched as they begin to circle. But there's no other cat in this room and Mr. Faustus' spite-filled eyes are fixed firmly on me, as he spits and hisses.

Things are moving in the curio cabinet. Nasty, slithering things that weren't there before, crawling in an out of the empty eye sockets of the bird skulls. The potions in the glass bottles are bubbling furiously and some of them burst, spraying a putrid mess against the glass of the cabinet door. The doll's heads are blinking, their little eyelashes brushing against their cheeks and the crow begins to move, as if it's come back to life. Hundreds of maggots pulsate out of its body, fat white bodies moving sluggishly and falling onto the shelves below. I'm whimpering now, a pathetic child-like whine because this has gone too far and despite my earlier declaration of independence, I wish Mama was here to put things right.

The tiny flames are flickering madly, but there are shadows here that the candlelight couldn't possibly be casting. Shadows that undulate and writhe, rolling over the walls and floor. Shadows that look like they're creeping up to the ceiling. I stare up at them as they move overhead, right above where I'm sitting and I'm frozen with a cold terror that makes my bladder want to give up and let go.

2.

Barbara is shouting now, and I can feel the chaos building as she screeches goodbye-goodbye-goodbye over and over again, but whatever this thing is, whatever we have invited in, it doesn't want to say goodbye. It doesn't want to say goodbye at all and now it's too late, because it's here and it is not going anywhere. Not until it gets what it wants.

The planchette moves to 1 and then 0 and all at once the candlelight dies, not with a gentle fade from light to dark, but in one fell swoop, as if someone, or something has just extinguished them all in one go. The door to the parlor slams shut and the screaming begins as the darkness swallows us all. Everyone is screaming, horrible terrifying screams that fill the room and the table is shaking, actually shaking, and any hope that I'd had that this was all just one big joke has died with the candlelight. I feel movement in the pitch black beside me, a shift of air as Rita and Connie and maybe even Barbara start to scramble away from the table and I want to call out to them and warn them not to take their hands from the pointer, but it wouldn't change a damn thing. It's gone beyond all that now. I hear the sound of chairs shrieking on the wooden floor, can feel that my friends are no longer by my side and I know it's only me now, paralyzed with fear, my fingers still on the planchette.

My heart rages in my chest, my skull feels so tight, like it might split right down the middle and suddenly I'm aware that the sounds, the screams, everything seems so far away, like I'm this bubble on my own and everyone else is on the outside.

I'm on my own, I think, I'm on my own and no one can help me now.

Someone whispers my name, so close to my ear that I can feel their breath brush coldly against my skin and I whip my head around and stare wildly into the darkness. I'm sobbing now, thick, phlegmy sobs that hurt my throat and make my chest tighten.

When it hits, it hits hard, and I'm not expecting the blow as I'm already looking to my left, sure that someone is right there, right by my side. But it doesn't come at me from there. It comes from above, where the shadows had been converging, so fast and so violent that my neck snaps back and my spine stiffens. I can't move as it envelops me – no, forces it way into me – and I can feel it then, this thing, this terrible beast of a thing as it whispers my name repeatedly, like an incantation that seeps into my bones, freezing muscle and sinew, locking my fingers into twisted shapes. I can't think. I can't see. I can't breathe. I can't do a thing but sit there as it claims every inch of me, wrapping itself around my heart, its cold touch sinking deep into my limbs and torso and for a moment, I'm sure it's going to burst right out of my body, like when the maggots burst out of the crow. I'll look down and see it, black and slithering and terrible, pulsating out of the gaping hole in my chest.

The chair tips backwards and I fall with it, slamming hard against the floor, but still I can't move. I'm frozen. Bound. Helpless.

Something is in my mouth. I can feel it. Something with too many legs, wriggling and writhing against my tongue and I want to vomit so bad. I want to vomit it right out but I can't.

In the darkness, where the shadows now play, everyone is still screaming.

But I'm not. Not anymore.

I'm silent.

I'm waiting.