by Ashley J.J. White

Desiree Hutchins was born into a long line of spiritual women. Both her mother and grandmother were clairvoyant; the latter worked as a medium for fifty years before passing her business down to her daughter. Desiree had a feeling her mother hoped to do the same someday, but there was a problem. While young Dez believed her matriarchs’ perception of their experiences communicating with the dead, she was a skeptic. The black sheep in her spiritual bloodline, Dez had a scientific mind that needed cold hard facts to support hypotheses, and so far, all she had were her family’s tall tales.

Until her grandmother passed away. Something came alive in Dez then, as if her grandmother’s psychic abilities jumped from the edge of her life and splashed into the ocean of her own. Regardless of the lack of evidence, Desiree was suddenly determined to believe.

One evening after school, she hauled out her mother’s old Ouija board. Flanked by her two best friends, Dez sat with her fingertips on the wooden planchette, one candle offering the only light in the room.

“Grandma, are you there?” Dez asked. Nothing. The bated breath of the three girls was the only movement in the room; even the candle’s flame was statue still.

Later, after her friends had gone home, she confessed to her mother they had tried their hand at Ouija. “I tried to call on Grandma. Why didn’t she come?”

Geraldine laughed, “Oh, sweetie. Your grandma is long gone. Death’s main inhibitor is unfinished business,” she said. “Spirits sometimes get stuck in the human plane—purgatory if you like—when they’ve left behind loose ends. Your grandma knew enough to tie things up; many do not. I provide a service. I release the dead. But it’s no game, Desiree.”

Dez’s eyes widened at her mother’s candor; she had never shared this much about her job before.

“Listen, Dez. You are my daughter; these gifts are genetic. I know there is no stopping you now that you’ve opened the door. Just be careful. And always, always respect the dead.”

The next time her friends came over, she suggested they try the Ouija board again. Sitting in a tight circle, the three girls rested their fingertips on the wooden planchette.  

“Bloody Mary, are you there?” Dez asked.

‘Playing Bloody Mary’ was a popular fad at school at the time. A group of girls would turn off all the lights in the bathroom, stand in front of the mirror and chant her name three times, hoping but not really, to summon the spirit of Queen Mary I, the first Tudor Queen of England who infamously burned a host of those she deemed heretics at the stake. One day, Dez accidentally walked in on the scene, appearing in the mirror at the exact right time and gave the girls such a scare, their bloodcurdling screams were heard all the way to the principal’s office. The school banned the game after that and enforced a ‘one at a time’ rule for the bathroom.

Now, she sat in silence, waiting. Just as they were about to give up, the planchette moved. It made a scratchy creak that seemed much louder than it was. The candle started flickering.

 “Are you moving it?” Sara asked, her wide eyes staring down at the moving piece.

  “No!” Dez and Charlotte said in unison.

  The wooden planchette scratched its way over to the letter ‘G’. Then, ‘O’.

  “Go…” the girls whispered in unison.

   Then, ‘T’ and ‘O’.

  “Goto?” Sara said, confused.

  “Go to.” Dez clarified.

The pointer spelled out go to the mirror, getting faster and jerkier toward the end. The girls took their fingers off the planchette and stared at each other, dumbfounded. They had never done the mirror thing—it was child’s play. But she invited them, didn’t she? So, they took the candle into the bathroom and shut the door behind them. They stood side by side in front of the mirror, holding hands.

“Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary,” they chanted, gripping each other’s hands as the candle started to flicker. They held their breath, bracing themselves to see a bloody apparition in the mirror behind them. But nothing happened. The candle’s flicker steadied, and they let out sighs of disappointed relief.

Dee turned the light back on.

“Well, that was anti-climactic.”

 The next afternoon, Dez confessed to her mother they had called on Bloody Mary.

 “Why would she tell us to go to the mirror, and then not come?” Dee asked, and her mother let out a resigned sigh.

  “There’s something you should know.”

  Dez listened with wide eyes.

“I believe you are the only one with clairvoyant abilities. People who aren’t truly open to the spiritual plane will block the passageway. That’s probably what happened. But listen. Don’t mess around with Bloody Mary; if the myths are true, you know she’s an evil spirit.”

Dee heeded her mother’s warning for some time; she suggested other activities for her Friday night sleepovers with the girls, and soon the Ouija board was collecting dust with all the other board games in the toy chest.

Until one evening on a school night when Dee was home alone. Her parents had gone out for their anniversary dinner and the silence in the house made her mind wander. What was it that Bloody Mary had to settle, she wondered. She felt bad for the spirit if she was really stuck in purgatory for all these years; even ancient murderers deserve the peace of death eventually. She lit a candle and went to the downstairs bathroom and turned off the light. She took a deep breath and did the chant.

Like before, the candle started flickering. The air in the bathroom became damp and cold as a faint figure appeared in the mirror behind her. Dee gasped and stifled a scream, resisting the urge to run.

“Bloody Mary?” she asked, her voice timid and raspy.  The candle was dancing so wildly it was completely dark for the microsecond between flickers.

A heavy, pregnant silence was replaced with a screech unlike any earthly sound she’d ever heard. It boomed from all corners of the room and seemed to coalesce in the space around her head. Louder than thunder, shriller than a newborn’s cry, angrier than a jealous drunk, she thought her eardrums might combust. She tried to lunge for the light switch, but she couldn’t move. Something was holding her down by the wrists. She tried to lift her foot to flip the switch with her toe but her legs too, were restrained. A desperate scream escaped her, but it was lost in the terrifying din of otherworldly anguish.

The clamor went on and on. As if to protect her, Dee’s grip on reality slipped away leaving her body stranded and immobile while her mind drifted as if underwater, sinking into a black, bottomless ocean. When the screeching finally stopped, the silence brought her back to her body. It was dark when she opened her eyes, the candle’s flame had burned to the end of the wick. She still couldn’t move. Through the blanket of darkness, she could just make out the spectral figure in the mirror.

“Bloody Mary? What do you want?” Dez croaked. The figure jerked as if it pulled by strings and again, the air became heavy, the silence was swallowed whole by the same, horrible screeching. This time, the chaotic sound took the shape of recognizable words.

 “Release me,” it sighed, like smoke swirling up into a whisper.

 “What do I have to do?” Dee asked.

“Understand something,” it said clearly. It was the strangest sound, an amplified whisper. “I am not Mary, Queen of England, you FOOLS!” And with that, the house snapped into blackout. The sound too had ceased, the quiet now a deafening ringing in the ears. Trembling, Dee tried to stand up, but she still could not move her arms or legs. She twisted and craned her neck in all directions, trying to catch a glimpse of the spirit in the dark. Then she was frozen into stillness by an old woman’s voice, clear as day, as if she really were right in the room:

“Ah, I’m sorry dear,” she said, her voice more human now, an old English lady who might offer you a spot of tea and a Hobnob. Dez felt her body release. She rubbed at her wrists and grabbed the porcelain sink to stand up. “LISTEN TO ME.” It said, pinning her against the wall. She felt her chest constricting. Inches from her face, the thing hissed, “You can understand my frustration. We share the same name, but that is all. I died a common peasant; I am no queen nor no murderer. Think of it! I was cast here centuries ago and while there have been many to come knocking, none have helped me.” “What do you want?” Dee wheezed.

“I want peace. But first, I have a bone to pick with the living,” she sneered, and the bluish wisp of Mary’s form dispersed from the mirror. The tightness in Dez’s chest finally lifted, sending her relieved and gasping to the floor.

“But not you, darling. You’re the one who finally released me! If I were a djinn, I’d grant you wishes. But alas, I’m just a ghost. Hey! If you ever need anyone haunted…”

As the lights flickered back to life and the air in the room returned to normal velocity, Dez couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t great news for the living, but now Desiree Hutchins could finally admit beyond any reasonable doubt that her mother and grandmother weren’t insane.

When she returned home, her mother sat quietly enraptured as Dez regaled her with the tale. Upon finishing, Geraldine’s expression was hard to decipher. After a long deliberate breath, her face broke into a brilliant smile.

“Welcome to the club, kiddo.”