"Ms. Arden? Ms. Arden, please, I need to speak with you!"

The door judders in the frame as my fist pounds against the wood. I know she's in there, I saw the twitch of the drapes as I pulled up onto the driveway and yet she's left me standing here for a few minutes already as I suffocate on the scent of the honeysuckle and am stifled by the midday heat which stagnates the air, even under the shade of the porch.

I can't even begin to imagine how I must look, standing here hollering and hammering at the door, like some kind of wild banshee, but I'm past caring. I haven't slept a wink and this hunger, this awful, gut-churning hunger is eating me alive because I can't eat. Because I won't eat. Eating means something terrible, something unspeakable and I'm so consumed with panic that I have no idea what to do.

I need answers and the only person that can help me is Barbara Arden and if she doesn't open the door soon, I don't even want to think about what I might do. What I want to do.

Pressing my forehead against the wood, I whimper softly, as my stomach groans and churns almost like it's mocking me. When I hear the click of the bolt sliding back on the other side, I jump away, surprised, because I never heard her footsteps and certainly never expected her to answer the door.

It opens a small gap and Barbara peers out at me, all heavy mascara, wide eyes and pursed red lips and I instantly think that although she might look the same, she's not the person I met before, she's not the Barbara Arden with the Rita Hayworth appeal and confident air. This Barbara looks positively petrified, like one of those B-grade actresses about to get killed by the bad guy in those horror flicks that Rita and Connie used to go watch down at the Stony Crag movie theater on a Saturday night.

"What do you want?" she snaps.

"Please Ms. Arden, I need to speak with you, may I come in?"

She gives me a look like I just reached out and slapped her right across the cheek. "No you may certainly not. I'm not receiving visitors today, Mrs. Jones. Now, please go away."

She goes to close the door and I push at it hard, harder than I would have thought possible and she looks even more terrified as she gawps at my hand, but I won't budge.

"I have to speak with you," I say, insistently through gritted teeth. "And I swear, I am not leaving until you do. Now you either let me in or I'll make sure my Mama runs your so-called business into the ground and has you run right out of town."

Her eyes narrow, but I see something else in her stare now, something that looks like she's seeing me for the first time, I mean really seeing me. She exhales long and deep and I smell something on her breath, the bitter tang of whiskey and too many menthol cigarettes.

"Gee, you really are your Mama's daughter, ain't you, Kathleen-Anne? I should have known that Patricia-May Brown wouldn't birth no little mouse. There's too much poison and steel in that woman to bear any child too meek and mild." She pauses, poking her head out a little more so she can scan the quiet street. "Okay, you get ten minutes of my time. Any more and I'll have to charge you and as it's technically my day off, I'll be charging triple time, do you hear?"

I nod. I can't afford triple time, of course, in fact I have no money with me at all, having left the house in a rush, barely saying goodbye to Rheemus and Brenda on my way out the door, but I have to speak with Barbara and I'll write her a darn I.O.U if need be. Right now, I'd sign my whole house away just to get the answers I need.

I follow her inside, grateful to be rid of the cloying odor of the honeysuckle which was starting to make me want to puke up right there on the porch, but the incense and the sage that lingers inside the house doesn't make me feel much better. I look down as she leads me through the black and white tiled hallway and see that she's wearing house slippers, soft pink fluffy things that remind me of the cotton candy that Rheemus likes to buy me at the county fair. I pass by all the strange framed pictures lining the walls and my eyes are drawn back to that glum little girl in all the photos.

That's her, a cold voice in my head says, that's prissy, too-good-for-y'all Ms. Barbara Arden when she was a miserable little brat and everything you see now is just what she wants you to see. But you see her, don't you, Kathleen-Anne? You see the bitch for what she really is? Nothing but a two-bit, stuck-up witch-whore who got you into this mess.

I let out a tiny gasp of breath, surprised at the poison in my head, and Barbara turns and gives me a troubled look as she opens the door to her parlor room, gesturing for me to enter.

The room looks just how I saw it last. Although of course, the last time I saw it, there was nothing but pitch black and screams in the darkness, but before that, before the lights went out, this is just how it looked. I glance over at the curio cabinet, fearful of what I might see, but everything is still and dead.

The Ouija board still sits on the little table in the center of the room, the ornately carved planchette resting upside down on top. It appears innocuous enough, this seemingly innocent board that some people think is just a game, something to help pass the time, something to giggle about with their friends. But I know different and so did my Mama. It's not a game. It's not harmless. It's a doorway. A doorway for bad things to creep back into this world. A doorway for things that want to slither right inside of you, things that want to feel the taste of something alive in their mouths, things that want to taste life and death and blood and decay.

Barbara stands on the other side of the table, arms hugging her chest, like the temperature has just dropped twenty degrees.

"Say what you need to say, Mrs. Jones, I really need to be getting on."

"I want to know what happened here, Ms. Arden. I want to know what you did to me."

Her eyes widen, but her look of surprise is quickly replaced by one of defensive indignation, as those painted cherry red lips of hers twist up into a little sneer.

"What I did? I can assure you that I did nothing. Nothing at all. I warned you, you and your friends, but no, you didn't want to listen did you? Y'all thought you could come in here and treat this like some high-school slumber party, giggling and messing. I told you this was serious business and you were to treat it as such, so why is it my fault that you didn't want to hear it? You mess with the spirit world, Mrs. Jones and sometimes, just sometimes, the spirits will make you pay the price."

"Pay the price?" I'm stunned, almost too stunned to speak but there's anger in my voice when I do, anger that makes her flinch. "Is that what you call it? Do you have any idea what my life has been like since that day? Do you have any idea what I've done, what I want to do? You're the medium. You should have controlled the session, you should have shut it down, but you didn't. You lost control, Ms. Arden. You. And now I'm paying the price? You owe me answers, damn it. You need to help me."

She shakes her head, loosening a dark glossy curl that falls over her forehead. "I can't help you, Mrs. Jones. Whatever is happening, I can't help you."

"You mean you won't!" The sob escapes from my throat and I clutch a hand over my chest as the tears spring to my eyes. "Please. I'm begging you. Please help me. Why won't you tell me what's happening to me?"

She stares at me for a moment as I stand there crying, feeling wretched and pathetic, and then she pulls out a seat from the table, sighing as she drops down onto it, looking just as wretched and pathetic as I feel. She points at one of the other chairs and I sit down, making sure to keep my hands away from the Ouija board, as if it might suddenly snap off my fingers if I get too close.

"Mrs. Jones, I ask my clients to take the Ouija seriously for this very reason. Now I know all too well what the likes of your Mama and some of the other folk in town think of me and what I do. Some of them believe, many of them don't and it's often the ones that don't who come here, thinking they'll have a big joke at my expense. You and your friends came here for a bit of fun and you had no idea what you were messing with, none at all."

"Then tell me," I plead. "Something came through, didn't it? Something bad? And you knew it too, I could tell."

Barbara arches a brow, but she looks away, avoiding my gaze, and when she speaks she sounds dog-tired. "The name," she says. "I've had it come up in a session once before, but by that point I'd already heard stories. Terrible stories. Stories that you wouldn't believe. There are bad spirits, Mrs. Jones, plenty of them, but for the most part, they just want to cause mischief, upset people, nothing too awful. And then there are darker creatures - I told you about them at the session - they're the ones that want to cause harm, the ones that want to break through, the ones that seek to own and devour flesh. When that name came up, I knew straight away it wasn't no bad spirit. He's one of the worst of them all. The one every medium worth their salt dreads calling up."

"Who is he? Who is this Oz?"

She scoffs, wrinkling up her nose. "Well, his name's not Oz, that's one thing for starters. Oz! What you saw him spell out on the board was Zozo, or at least that's what he likes to call himself. His name, his real name, is Bahzozo, an ancient demon who the Babylonian's used to make sacrifices to. He's a parasite. A soul-eater. He craves blood and flesh. It's said that he preys on young women, young vulnerable women in particular." She pauses as her stare burrows deep under my skin. "You recently had a baby, right? You have a difficult birth?"

I flinch as the cold glint of steel flickers behind my eyes. Clinical green walls. The stench of bleach and blood.

"Yes," I whisper and clench my hands into tight fists, digging my nails into my palms. "They... they held me down and they cut me, to get the baby out they said. No pain relief, nothing. And after, when we got home, I wanted to feel happy, I wanted to feel happy so much, but I just couldn't. It wasn't meant to be like that, none of it. It was like a... a nightmare and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't forget what they did and I couldn't forget that I failed her, I failed my own baby."

Barbara nods slowly, as if she understands perfectly but I know that she doesn't. No one knows. No one gets it.

"Yeah, well, like I said – vulnerable." She shrugs, like it's nothing. Like it doesn't matter.

"You think that's why he picked me?"

"I don't ever claim to know why he does what he does. I'm just saying, you had a tough time, bad births can do that to women. Maybe, and I don't know if this is true, maybe you were just an easier target, he's attracted to misery and sorrow and it sounds like you had it by the bucket load."

I wring my hands in my lap, gripping handfuls of my skirt and twisting the fabric. I need to say it out loud, but the words feel too big for my throat, they feel too painful to force out.

"Ms. Arden... I've done things. Bad things."

She lifts her chin, cheek muscles twitching but says nothing.

I see the blood again. Smell it. Taste it.

"I... I killed my neighbor's dog. I think I ate it too. I think I ate some of its... insides. Only I didn't remember until after, it was like someone else did it, someone who looks like me. I'm scared, Ms. Arden. I feel different, I don't feel myself no more and I think... I think he's inside me. I think he's making me do terrible things and I don't know what to do."

Fear flashes in her eyes and I hate how good it makes me feel to see it, but somewhere inside, not too far under the surface, I like seeing how frightened she looks.

"Mrs. Jones," she says, shifting awkwardly in her chair, a plastic grin stretching her face a little too wide. "I appreciate you've come here looking for help, but I'm not that person, I can't help you. What you need is to seek help from the Church..."

"The Church?" I flinch at her words, shaking my head furiously. "I can't do that! If they knew, if Mama knew... they'd disown me, Mama might even get cast out. She's volunteered there for half her life, I can't do that to her, I just can't! If they had one inkling that I'd been messing with... with dark spirits, that'll be it, I know it will! Please, please, there must be a way, you must be able to do something?"

She studies me for a moment, biting her lower lip and smearing lipstick onto her teeth which she licks off quickly. Her fingers rap nervously on the table top.

"There is something..." she says, her brow crinkling. "Something I did once for someone who was plagued by bad spirits. I can't promise it will work, mind, but if we could draw him out, call on the positive energy of good spirits to help you, it might loosen his hold."

"Please," I beg, leaning forward to grab her wrist which she instinctively tries to pull back as if my touch burns her skin. "Please, Ms. Arden."

Nodding her head slowly, she stands up and begins to move about the room, lighting as many candles as she can. "The black candles absorb bad energy," she explains, "the white candles attract good energy, as does the lavender..."

She lights the incense sticks lined up on the cabinet, before opening up the glass door and removing a small, brown bottle labelled as rosewater. Removing the cork stopper, she begins to sprinkle the liquid sparingly onto the board.

"I cleanse this space of all negative power. I cleanse this space of the negative energy of people or things who seek to harm and that have no purpose in this household. I ask that all the negative energy be gone, back to the other side from whence it came."

Reaching out for one solitary black candle, she blows out the tiny flame and breaks the candle in half, before sitting down next to me and turning the planchette right side up. Her hand trembles slightly as she places her fingers on the edge of the planchette and I place mine next to hers.

"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 ask that you surround us and protect us. Is there anyone here who can help and guide us?"

The planchette remains still as she repeats the words, calling out once more.

"Will someone please help and protect us?"

The candles flicker, such a barely noticeable dance of flame that I'm not even sure if Barbara has seen it. She exhales, forehead furrowed, brows set deep, as she speaks again, louder this time and as she talks I realize I'm staring at her fingers and thinking how long and exquisite they look.

Easy to snap, says the voice. One by one.

I'm still thinking about her fingers when the pointer begins to move to the word yes.

"... thank you, we welcome your positive energy."

I blink. The candles flicker again, more violently this time and as Barbara's eyes dart around the room, she hesitates, wetting her lips and clearing her throat, before continuing.

"Please would you make yourself known to us? What good spirit wishes to speak with us today and guide us in our time of need?"

The pointer jerks erratically towards the rows of letters.

A-N-N.

"Ann? Your name is Ann?"

But it hasn't finished.

I-E.

A cool waft of air is flowing through the parlor room, soft and gentle, like the whisper of breath upon skin. Barbara smiles, relaxing a little and letting her shoulders drop slightly. But I'm not relaxed. I'm not relaxed at all. I know an Annie.

"Annie, we thank you for coming to our aid. Please, will you help us bring positive energy to this session? Will you protect and guide us?"

The planchette glides easily over the board and hovers over the yes. My skin prickles in anticipation. Tension courses down my back, tightening, pulling.

"Please tell us, Annie, what can we do to help this poor afflicted woman? She needs help and guidance from the dark spirits that seek to do her harm."

The pointer is on the move again, but I don't want to do this no more. I don't want the help of this spirit. I spot movement in the corner of my vision and my gaze shoots to the curio cabinet, where the little dolls heads are all facing my way, eyes wide and unblinking.

"We need to stop the session," I whisper.

Barbara stares at me in irritation and lowers her voice. "Don't be silly, Kathleen-Anne. This spirit wishes to help you and from what you've said, you need all the darn help you can get."

I shake my head. "No, not this spirit, not this one, she won't help."

"How do you..."

B-E-A-T. H-E-R.

"Don't you get it?" I hiss. "Annie? Kathleen-Anne? I was part-named after my Grandma, Ms. Arden."

She's confused now, but the fear is back again. "But your Grandma..."

"My Grandma wasn't a good person when she was alive, she sure as Hell isn't going to be a good person when she's dead! This isn't a good spirit, this isn't..."

H-I-T. H-E-R.

"Stop the session, Ms. Arden!"

B-E-A-T. O-U-T.

"Stop the goddamn session!"

She stares at me for a split second, a split-second that seems to run in slow-motion as she stares back down at the board and at the pointer which is now going crazy over the letters.

B-E-A-T. O-U-T. T-H-E.

"Annie, we thank you, but I am ending this session, goodbye."

She tries to drag the pointer down to the word goodbye, but it won't budge. Barbara's face contorts with horror as she tries to get the planchette to move down the board, but instead, it moves back over the letters.

D-E-V-I-L-D-E-V-I-L-D-E-V-I-L.

When the whispering starts, I barely hear it at first because my eyes are now fixed on the cabinet where thick globules of blood are dripping down the bird skulls, dripping down onto the stuffed crown, filling the little glass case where the dolls heads are crammed in. The dark red liquid fills right to the top, engulfing the heads until I can just see their faces floating, like tiny babies drowning in blood.

When the whispering starts, I barely even realize that Barbara Arden is staring at me, mouth open in a wide, silent grimace, her face drained of color.

When the whispering starts, little wispy breaths of venom, I hear words that sound like an old, alien language, repeated over and over again like some horrible incantation, but it's a voice I know, I voice I recognize. It gets louder and louder, faster and faster and as Barbara jumps up, knocking her chair backwards across the room and clapping her hand over her mouth to stop the screams, I realize just why I recognize the cold, bitter voice.

It's mine.

I'm the one who's saying all these vile things and I can't stop it. The words just keep gushing out, and I hear other voices too, all coming from my mouth, incoherent babbling, overlapping, cascading out in great torrents. The blackest of words. Evil, blasphemous words. Powerful, threatening words. Words that tear and rip. Words that eat and devour.

Unable to bear the awful sound no longer, Barbara moves her hands to cover her ears and finally, thankfully, the screaming begins and the candle flames start going out, one by one.

10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-

Darkness consumes everything and then... silence.

***

When I open my eyes, everything looks the same, except the drapes are now open and the sunlight streams through the sash window, casting a pleasant, welcoming heat over my hands which rest on the table.

Barbara stands by the window, arms wrapped around herself again as if she's still feeling cold, but a thin layer of perspiration glistens on her forehead.

Blinking from the light in the room, I flex my fingers, stretching out the tension in my hands.

"What happened?" I say, feeling clouds of confusion fuzzing my head. "I remember coming in here, remember sitting down at the table and the Ouija board talking..." My eyes widen slightly as I look at Barbara in wonder. "Did it work? Did the good spirits help me?"

"Why, yes," she says quickly with a brash, Hollywood smile. "Yes, of course they did."

"You're sure?"

"Well, how do you feel?"

I pause for a moment, frowning slightly as I dig deep, struggling to break through the daze of memories lost and out of reach. I feel... something. But it's a good feeling, one that reminds me of lazy summer days working in the backyard, one that makes me think of Rheemus holding me tight or the sounds of Brenda gurgling in her bassinet.

"You know something, Ms. Arden... I think you're right. I think the spirits really did help me."

She smiles again, but it breaks just before it reaches its full dazzling power.

"Ms. Arden? Are you okay?"

She laughs, a little too loudly and pats a hand over her hair, as if trying to make sure all the curls are firmly in place. "Of course, everything's just swell. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I really need to be getting on, so much to do..."

I've kept her too long, of course I have. I stand up quickly, wiping my palms down my skirt. "I am so sorry, you're a very busy woman, I totally understand." I head towards the door, but stop before I get there, turning around so quickly that she flinches and seems to freeze to the spot. "Ms. Arden, I can't thank you enough, really I can't. I... I don't have any money on me right now, but I will stop by tomorrow and..."

"No," she says, cutting me off abruptly, shaking her head. "Not necessary. Just happy to help."

I leave Barbara Arden's house into a haze of honeysuckle and jasmine, thinking just how nice she is and just how good I feel. I haven't felt this good in what seems like forever.

A long anguished hiss interrupts my moment of peace and I turn my head slowly to see Mr. Faustus crouched in the corner of the porch, his back arched, black fur bristling up his spine. He fixes me with wide yellow eyes.

I smile. "You miserable old fur-ball! Not even you can ruin this. Go on, get."

With a shriek, he's gone, darting off the porch and disappearing into the shade of the magnolia trees in the yard. Stepping off the butter-colored porch steps, I raise my face up and close my eyes, enjoying the touch of the sun on my eyelids as I exhale low and steady. Everything feels just how it should be.

In fact, from now on, I'm certain that everything is going to be just swell.

***

May, 2002.

The monitor crackles, a baby's cry erupting through the speaker, loud and strong.

She's got lungs, that girl. Strong, loud-as-you-like lungs that hold more air than the Goodyear Blimp. I smile at the sound as Brenda rushes in, juggling a load of laundry in her arms, fresh from the washer. I'm not sure I've ever seen so many baby clothes in my life, a chaotic jumble of soft pink and lemon suits, bibs, bonnets and the tiniest of socks.

Harlequin Jaden Jones was a premature baby, a little on the small side but healthy nevertheless. She cries a lot, just like her Mama did, but she has more fire in her belly, a furious light that beams right out of her and it's beautiful to see. Captivating almost.

"Ah, Mama," Brenda says, shooting an exhausted look at the monitor, breathing hard as she plonks all the laundry into the basket on the kitchen floor. "Would you go up and settle her for me? I really need to get this out on the line as Quinny is running pure out of clothes and I need it all dry by suppertime."

I set my tall glass of home-made lemonade down on the formica. "Of course. Consider it done, my darlin'. I'd be happy to."

The door to the nursery is slightly open. It's beautifully painted, all done by Grandpop Rheemus' skilled hand, since that feckless good-for-nothing boyfriend of Brenda's skipped town halfway through her pregnancy. Rheemus complained about the sugar-pink paint of course. Looks like a frickin' candy store, he'd grumbled. But when it was done and he stood back to admire his handiwork, I knew he couldn't care less about the color. All he cared about was giving Brenda what she wanted. He's always looked after his girls, me, Brenda and now Harlequin too.

I wander in, glancing around at the sugar-coated walls, the cotton candy drapes, the huge pile of stuffed fluffy toys in the corner. On the shelf, a row of perfectly-painted dolls sit side by side, all teased-curls and long dark lashes over glassy blue eyes. It's a perfect room for a perfect little girl.

Over in the bassinet, Harlequin lets out a volcano-size scream, clearly upset that no one has yet come and given her the attention she needs. I tilt my head to one side, as her legs jerk angrily and her little face turns red. Walking over to the window, I tap my fingers against the sill as I look down into the backyard, where Brenda is pinning the laundry to the line, stopping every now and then to wipe the sweat off her forehead.

"Well now," I exclaim breezily, turning back to Harlequin, who is still wailing. "What on earth are we going to do with you, little lady? That's a very loud voice for an itty bitty thing like you. You know, when I was young, my Grandma used to say that little girls that had too much to say for themselves must have the Devil inside of them." I run my fingers along the wicker edge. "But you don't have the Devil in you, do you? Oh no, you ain't got nothing but beautiful light right there in that belly of yours."

Reaching down, I pick her up, watching with amusement as her screwed-up little face relaxes and she gurgles happily in my arms. Laughing, I kiss her on the forehead and cradle her to my chest, rocking her back and forth, humming Clementine to her, just like I used to do with Brenda. I'm still singing softly to her as Brenda appears in the doorway and fixes me with a sheepish grin. She wants something. I always could tell when that girl wants something.

"Mama, I hate to ask, but would you mind watching Quinny while I go take a shower?"

I wave her off, pressing my nose down onto Harlequin's soft feathery hair, that is so like her Mama's was.

Brenda claps a hand over her chest as she leans against the frame, exhaling a contented sigh.

"Ah, I do that all the time too. Don't you just love that newborn baby smell?"

I breathe in deeply.

"Love it? Oh, she's so mouth-wateringly delicious, I swear I could just eat her up whole." I grin as I look up at Brenda who still hovers in the doorway. "Now go on, get will ya. I'll look after our darlin' Harlequin, don't you worry about that."

I take another sniff and smile as I inhale all her pure, sweet goodness. As sweet as apple pie and peach cobbler.

"I'll look after her just fine."

**THE END**