"No, I'm not ashamed to be accused of being a con. Cons run the world. The ones who make enough money go to government offices and corporate boardrooms. Everyone else goes to prison."

~ Zandra, interview, Stevens Point Journal newspaper

The Carey estate is less one piece of property than it is five or six jagged slices locked in battle like antlers on rutting whitetail bucks. Gene Carey, now deceased, was known as much for cycling through wives as for his financial success. Those wives each left their mark on the themes of the sprawling 500-acre estate, coalescing for a battle of the tackiest inside the walls of Carey Manor.

The Byzantine gate at the driveway entrance, meant to pay tribute to the walls of ancient Constantinople, opens for the white SUV. The modern vehicle looks out of place against the stone archway. The 20-foot tall hedge trimmed to look like the faces on Mount Rushmore that greets Zandra and Sunglasses beyond the gate push the aesthetic timeline closer to the present.

It's been some time since Zandra visited Carey Manor, yet she's still familiar with it. A fountain featuring a circle of gargoyle statues urinating onto a distressed cow made of brass catches Sunglasses off guard, but Zandra yawns.

"Carey Manor" ought to have been the rename of the prison they should've sent Gene Carey to, but that never happened. They don't send people with Gene Carey's money and influence to prisons, despite their crimes. He got to die an accidental death in the comfort of his own home.

Of course, some would say his death wasn't accidental at all. Rather untimely, in fact.

Zandra runs her hand along the sleeve of her purple gown, feeling the outline of the lawnmower knife's sheath.

Those who know, know.

"The photos on the internet don't do this place justice," Sunglasses says. "Is that what I think it is over there?"

"Yes, it is. Those are 200 terracotta Civil War soldiers in formation. Carey wife number three commissioned them either as an ode to the first emperor of China's terracotta warriors or to hide money as part of some tax loophole. I'll let you guess," Zandra says.

"You're pretty familiar with this property."

"Quite."

"Good. I feel like I could get lost just going up the driveway," Sunglasses says.

"Wait until you see the house."

The 52-room house, with matching reflecting pools, looks like something out of a 19th Century music video. The style could be called gothic revival were it not for the helipad, solar panels, and pink flamingos.

"This isn't a house. It's a castle," Sunglasses says. "You think they'll really find a buyer when this place goes up for sale?"

"Of course. There's always someone out there with more money than sense."

"Incredible. It feels like we're driving into a movie."

"Don't trip over your dick falling in love just yet. Every castle has a dungeon," Zandra says and hacks into her sleeve.

"So you've been in here before."

"I've been lots of places."

"Then maybe you can give me a tour," Sunglasses says.

"I don't think the places I've been are on the tour," Zandra says.

Still, there is a proper tour. Zandra and Sunglasses receive it after parking the white SUV next to a "reimagining" of the Crucifixion.

The interior of Carey Manor suffocates under the weight of its own opulence, although the aclla is notably missing. Sunglasses apologizes to their host, a woman in a sharp business suit, for being underdressed, but he is assured that the dress code is not in effect for the duration of the rental.

So the dress code isn't about "respect for the cultural heritage of Carey Manor" after all.

Touring the entirety of Carey Manor would take all day, so the host focuses on the parts of the house the dinner party will most likely use. The banquet hall, kitchen, lounge, and guest rooms could all be from a movie about 1920s robber barons.

"What about that room? Why is it locked?" Zandra says and points to a door sealed by a thick padlock in the back of the kitchen.

"That used to be a walk-in freezer. It doesn't work anymore. We locked it for safety, because it only opens from the outside," the host says before pointing the tour back toward the lounge.

Interesting.

"On the evening of your dinner party, the staff will all leave. You'll have complete access to the entire estate until the following morning at 8 a.m. Again, if you lose or fail to return the master key, we will assess a significant fee. We'd have to replace every lock on this property, and you can imagine how expensive that would be. A caretaker is on call 24 hours a day. Any questions?" the host says after the tour concludes.

Zandra looks down at her feet. She stands upon an exquisite rug. With a smirk, she says, "Just one. How easy is it to get blood out of something like this?"

"The terms of the damage deposit are in the packet by the door," the host says.

"Oh. I thought you might know," Zandra says.

They finish up with some final paperwork and start to head for the door, but something catches Zandra's attention. Beneath a wall of macabre paintings, a spirit board rests on a marble pedestal like a piece of fine art. Some might call the item a "Ouija board" in the generic sense, but that's a brand name, and there's nothing mass produced about this one.

"The board is made from African blackwood, with gold inlays for the letters, while the planchette is fossilized mammoth ivory. The inks are a proprietary formula synthesized from the placenta of someone in Rasputin's family tree," the host informs them before hurrying off. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm needed in the balcony on the south wing. Feel free to see yourselves out."

Is she really going to leave someone like me with something like this?

Sunglasses seems to read Zandra's mind. He says, "Do you want to?"

"Maybe we can get a spirit to tell us who is out to kill me," Zandra says.

Zandra lifts the board and planchette off the pedestal. It's heavier than she expects. She lugs it toward one of the many side rooms away from the more visited parts of Carey Manor. They find one that might have been an oversized phone booth back when landlines were a novelty only for the wealthy. Wrapped in velvet drapes, it's quiet and there's seating for two next to a four-legged table covered by linen.

"I'd hoped for something like this. Do you mind if I record?" Sunglasses says. He holds up his smartphone.

I was hoping for it, too. Ouija boards don't contact the dead, but they do unlock something else: the ability to fuck with whoever is touching the planchette.

The more formal term is the "ideomotor effect," whereby the body reflexively moves without consciously trying to do so. Magnifying the effect with psychological pressure, such as the perceived stakes of a Ouija board session, can reveal subconscious information.

It's a lot cheaper than a lie detector machine. Well, except for this board.

"Record all you want," Zandra says. She bunches fingers from both her hands on the planchette. Sunglasses joins her. One of her pinkies slips under his wrist out of view of the smartphone and finds a pulse. "Let the planchette go where it needs to, don't force it, and let me do the talking."

She closes her eyes as stillness settles into the booth. Only the sound of their breathing can be heard for several minutes. Zandra opens her eyes and says in a dramatic whisper, "There you are. I feel you here with us, Baphalor. And you, too, Rezzium. Wowow, Yeditalapholor, Tril, and Haffa, my sincerest greetings and appreciation for your presence."

I made up those spirit names years ago. They always do the trick.

The planchette moves to "YES." It's slight, but Zandra guides the motion. Sunglasses's fingers offer light compliance. One of his hands works the planchette while the other holds the smartphone.

"Today, my friends, we humbly entreat the privilege of drinking from your grail of boundless wisdom concerning a matter of grave importance," Zandra says.

The planchette circles, "YES."

Pulse steady.

"We suspect someone, a human, would like to terminate my mortal body's function on this plane of existence. Do you agree?" Zandra says.

Again, the planchette circles, "YES."

Pulse still steady.

"Do you know who this person might be?" Zandra says.

Instead of circling "YES," the planchette spells out each individual letter.

Zandra looks into Sunglasses's face. He's a portrait of disassociation, almost in a trance, as present in the room as any legitimate supernatural activity.

"Is that person present in this house?" Zandra says.

The planchette makes a beeline from the "S" to the "YES."

Pulse steady.

"Is that person present in this very room?" Zandra says. She relinquishes command of the planchette, allowing only the lightest touch with her fingers. Sunglasses, or his ideomotor effect, is in control now.

The planchette rockets to the letter "T," right in the middle of the board.

Pulse higher.

"T? As in true?" Zandra says.

Or as in "T" is in the middle of the board, which is a natural place to stick a punt.

Sunglasses takes his hand off the planchette. He says, "Maybe. Could be the first letter in a name, too."

Because the only T in John Smith isn't at the beginning.

"Let's ask again. The spirits are still here," Zandra says.

"I've got what I need," Sunglasses says.

"Really? We were just getting started."

Sunglasses clears his throat. "Zandra, why were you taking my pulse just now?"

In the all the time I've been doing that trick, no one has ever called me on it. Until now.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Zandra says.

"Your pinky finger was up against my wrist, by the radial artery," Sunglasses says.

"If it was, it wasn't on purpose. These hands have their own ways of getting comfortable. I've done thousands of these sessions," Zandra says.

"Exactly," Sunglasses says, the video on the smartphone still rolling. "You've had time to practice."

Zandra mumbles her way through "closing the door" on the spirits she supposedly conjured up. Cracking her knuckles, she says, "If you're accusing me of taking your pulse and using this board as some sort of lie detector machine, frankly, you're stuffed with as much shit as the taxidermy on the walls in this place. I'm insulted. This is science, not a venue for cheap parlor tricks. Not to mention, that's a terrible way to take someone's pulse."

For the first time since arriving a little more than a day ago, Sunglasses bursts out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Zandra says.

"I'm sorry, but this part of my data gathering is always hard to keep a straight face through. I have to reset assumptions from time to time, to keep the data clean. It's like a gut check to strengthen the research," Sunglasses says.

Hilarious. You should be a comedian.

He's trying to read me as I'm reading him.

"I'm sorry, too. Assuming the world is trying to fuck me over is how I lived this long," Zandra says. "Anyway, should we go? We should go over the guest list."

"Yeah, yeah, let's get going. This was interesting, thanks for the experience," Sunglasses says.

They rise to leave, but Zandra stops. She cocks her head to one side and points to the planchette. "Did you move that just now?"

"What?" Sunglasses says.

The planchette now rests on the word, "GOODBYE." Although Zandra "closed the door" with the spirits, she never touched the planchette while doing so. The last either of them touched it, it rested on the letter, "T."

"You had that video recording the whole time, child?" Zandra says.

"Of course," Sunglasses says, now humorless.

He queues the playback on the smartphone video to Zandra saying, "Assuming the world is trying to fuck me over."

There's no doubt about it. On the video, the planchette moves from "T" to "Goodbye" all on its own.