A Halloween Treat

Happy Halloween! I have a special treat for you! I've written a short story for the season that I would to share. I hope you enjoy this fictional piece!

The Séance

I arrived at Willow’s McMansion at 11:40 a.m., just as she’d asked. I'd almost been late: the phone call with my sister had gone longer than expected. I rang the doorbell and listened to the odd chime of the refrain of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" echo throughout the huge house.

Willow, wearing her lavishly long skirt, white camisole, and no shoes, answered the door. "We have to hurry!" she exclaimed, grabbing my hand. "We have to start at precisely 11:47! That's when the full moon is at its peak!"

I blinked. "In the daytime?"

"Time is a construct," Willow replied, tugging me past a lava lamp and toward the kitchen.

The house, as it always did, left me feeling like I'd smoked a joint and forgotten about it. While the exterior screamed lavish and rich, inside the place reminded me of a 1970s mobile home, complete with avocado refrigerator and a harvest gold table with matching chairs.

I ducked under a macrame plant hanger, sans plant, and followed Willow over the shag carpet and into the kitchen. Steve, Willow's husband, sat at one end of the table, his mouth filled with popcorn. He swallowed, choked a little, then grinned. "You made it! I told her you'd show."

The kitchen table was buried under a jumble of scarves Willow had dragged from the linen closet, The tassels dangled like jungle vines. In the center sat a jelly jar holding a candle, its flame flickering nervously.

My eyes moved from Steve to a few stray popcorn kernels. To me, they looked like they were wobbling toward the candle. My eyes playing tricks, I thought.

"Sit, sit," Willow said, pointing at the chair. "Of course she came, we had to have three. You can't have a séance without three people."

Steve rolled his eyes and winked at me. "Your old classmate is sure that this time we're going to call up someone."

Willow, always lithe and breezy, practically danced into her chair. She leaned across the table, eyes wide, lipstick glowing brilliantly. "Steve, no laughing. Spirits have very delicate feelings."

"I'm not laughing," Steve said, squinting. "I'm just questioning why we couldn't do this somewhere else. Like a cemetery or an abandoned church, like normal people."

"Because the last time we tried that, you fell over a headstone and broke your wrist, that's why!" Willow whispered dramatically. "So, here we are!" She waved her hands around, and I followed them as they pointed toward cupboards and the refrigerator.

Then I sat in the chair Willow had pointed at. My palms felt sweaty. I'd agreed to document Willow's paranormal "investigations" for a potential article, but I hadn't expected to be an active participant. Willow looked at me and smiled. "Spirits need a fresh soul," she said. “You’re just the blood we need.”

That was a new twist. I couldn’t help glancing toward the knives in their knife block. Fresh blood? Should I be terrified, or amused? I wasn't sure.

Willow hit her phone and dimmed the kitchen light until only the candle flickered, though with the curtains open there was plenty of light. "Close your eyes. Join hands. Focus."

Steve's hand was cool on my left; Willow's trembled on my right.

"Oh spirits," Willow intoned, rolling her r's like she was casting a spell, "we invite you to join us tonight. We are here for you. Speak through this table, this candle . . . or one of us, if you must."

Nothing happened. “Om Salabbibi,” Willow said. “Come to us, spirit.”

“Om soybeans and salami,” Steve recited.

The room seemed to shrink. The hum of the fridge stopped and then started again.

"Willow… did you pay the electric bill?" Steve asked. I opened an eye to see him smirking.

"Shhh! That was the other side!"

The candle flickered violently, though no breeze stirred.

Willow gasped. "Did you see that? Steve, it's working!"

Steve frowned. "Yeah . . . working for who? The ghosts or us?"

The saltshaker rattled across the table, tapping the candle jar. I flinched. I thought I smelled a hint of cigarette smoke over the smell of popcorn. The scent was like the Camels my grandfather used to smoke.

Steve muttered, "Yep. Definitely ghosts. Or a very angry mouse."

Willow leaned in, eyes gleaming. "No! This is real. Spirits! Give us a sign! Knock once for yes, twice for no!"

The freezer door creaked.

"They're after my cheesecake!" Steve yelped. He started to stand up, and Willow forcefully pulled on his arm to keep him in his seat.

The door slammed shut. Candlelight flickered.

The séance was alive.

Steve broke the circle then, shook his hand as if Willow had squeezed it too tightly, and reached into his bowl of popcorn. "If I'm going to have a heart attack, I may as well snack."

"Steve! Not during a séance!" Willow said. “You’ve broken the circle.”

"It’s not going to hurt anything. And crunching doesn't break a spell," Steve replied.

The candle spat hot wax. Popcorn flew from the bowl across the table.

"Steve!" Willow cried.

The kernels didn't scatter randomly. They spelled a word. We all twisted our heads to see what it said. LISTEN.

Willow clutched my arm, circle forgotten. "Oh, Laura! I knew you’d bring us luck. Steve, they're spelling things with snacks! This is amazing!"

She grabbed my hand and took up Steve’s again. "Oh spirit, give us your name so that we can help you with your need!" she intoned.

Steve muttered, "Really, Willow," and reached for his popcorn. It spilled again.

The popcorn spelled out another word: CLAUDE.

Willow gasped. "Claude! The spirit's name is Claude!"

Steve tilted his head. "Claude! Claude is an AI! The AIs have taken over the spirit world! I wonder what else is there? ChatGPT? Gemini?"

Willow huffed. "It isn't AI. It must be a ghost. Claude the friendly ghost. Or maybe Claude from accounting."

Willow pressed on. "Claude… tell us something! Knock once for yes, twice for no!"

A sharp knock came from the cupboard.

"Now we have mice in the cabinets!" Steve announced.

Willow shushed him, then whispered, "Claude likes snacks."

The cabinet door flew open. A box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies tumbled out and hit the floor.

My eyes widened. I couldn't believe it. I used to call those Granddaddy cookies. I hadn't thought of them in years.

Willow leaned forward, squinting at the box. "Oatmeal cookies? Is the spirit hungry?"

Steve shook his head. "It’s an AI, I’m telling you. We need tech support so some guy can tell us to turn a computer off and on again."

A cereal box fell from the cabinet, spilling its contents across the counter. We all stood up to look, dropping our hands. The cereal spelled: BEWARE THE TREE.

Willow and Steve moved closer to study the words.

"Beware the tree?" Willow nodded. "I get it. I told you that we need to get that big dead ash tree cut down, Steve."

"Maybe he means a tree someplace else," Steve muttered. “Maybe the tech guy is talking about the file tree in DOS.”

I swallowed and felt a throb in an old scar on my thumb. I remembered the day I’d cut myself with a saw when I was helping my grandfather with a mulberry that lightning struck. The scar seemed to pulse and grow. It can’t be that tree, I thought.

We returned to the table and took our seats.

“Om Salabbibi,” Willow said, closing her eyes. “Do you have more to say, Claude the spirit?”

“I’m telling you it’s AI,” Steve muttered.

The sugar bowl rattled and exploded in glittering crystals. I looked at the mess in front of me. DON'T TRUST THEM, it said.

Willow tilted her head, trying to read sideways. "Does that say something?"

“It’s nothing,” I said.

Steve looked at the table, now littered with popcorn and sugar. "What a way to spend lunch," he said. He couldn't tell there were words as he was looking at the sugar upside down.

I dropped my head, feeling a headache coming on. The overhead light suddenly brightened and the candle went out. The séance was over.

Willow clapped. "That was wonderful! Oh, if only we knew who Claude was! That was fabulous, just fabulous, wasn't it, Laura?"

I started to gather sugar and popcorn with trembling hands.

Don't trust them. Don’t trust who? But I knew, deep down, who I shouldn’t trust. How could I, I thought, when I know they blame me?

For Willow and Steve, they had made contact, and they were thrilled. For me, it was a warning.

A warning from my grandfather, Claude.

*The End*

Closing Incantation:

This tale is conjured from memory, myth, and imagination. Though it may echo real names or places, all characters and events are fictional. Any resemblance is unintentional—or the result of spectral coincidence.