Nighttime once more. Our small band of heroes all sit around the little round table in the sitting room of the western tower. Its circular form makes up the entire first floor. Its sister structure houses the drinking room on this level.

A castle, indeed.

The little crystal chandelier hangs motionless over me. A singular candle burns on its tarnished silver stick at the table’s center. Melted streamers of yellowed wax.

Doug clears his throat. “Sean, I’m going to invoke the room. I want you to pick up the pen and write whatever flows out of you onto that notebook. Got it?”

I take the Bic in my cold fingers and nod. Automatic writing. A new one for me, too.

Doug: “McAllister’s daughter, Evelyn was said to harbor the gift like you, Sean. Her dad made her connect with the dead and write what they said. With any luck, we’ll make contact with her tonight and get some answers.”

Doug closes his eyes and lowers his head. “To the spirits that are bound to this place, I invoke thee. I call you forth in good faith and fellowship. Come. Use the boy as your vessel to talk with us.”

My right hand hovers over the ruled paper. My eyes trace the empty spaces between the lines, waiting.

Doug’s forehead wrinkles in deep concentration. “Evelyn? Are you with us?”

Something warps the air and space in front of the narrow china cabinet to my right. Ripples like heat over a scorched highway. She’s the same age as me! Maybe chin-high and narrow shouldered. Her long red hair falls in a single swath over her left shoulder. The others can’t see her.

Doug: “Evelyn, if you can hear me, please use Sean to communicate.

Evelyn’s stare falls to the pen. My arm lowers the pen to the pad and etches large rolling loops on the page. Emily leans closer to me. The smell of her is amazing.

Doug opens his eyes and peeks over at my notebook. “Are you with us?”

One swirl, then another.

Yes.

Emily barely catches a shriek before it escapes her mouth and hands.

Doug: “Evelyn. Are you the daughter of Henry McAllister?”

Yes.

I’m a marionette on her ethereal strings.

Doug’s gaze widens. “Did you talk with spirits while you were alive?”

My pen scribbles a wavy line.

I did.

Doug: “How old were you?”

16

The cheap pen warbles in a dance of its own.

Doug: “The entries in your journal were real?”

Of course.

Evelyn circles around behind Doug and studies his body. Curiosity. Uncertainty.

Emily glances up to the ceiling. “How did you pass, Evelyn?”

Her energy forces the pen down harder onto the page.

Surgery.

Doug: “Surgery? Were you si--”

My pen shoots up and stabs down leaving a black dimple.

Father.

Doug’s eyes dart from the pad to my face. “Are you screwing with me right now, Sean?”

I shake my head. “It’s her. There’s another presence coming.”

My throat constricts. Massive dull pain right between the eyes. It’s him.

Jake: “Whoa!”

The crystals on the chandelier jingle over the tabletop.

Jake’s voice trembles. “Shit. Do you guys see that? Just like during the investigation.”

Dylan whispers as he rolls the camera. “Wisps of translucent ether. No residual manifestation on a physical surface. Rotating clockwise around the chandelier in the sitting room.”

Doug: “Evelyn, who’s with you?” His head scans in quick bursts. “Henry?”

The spiritual strings between us fray being stretched beyond their capacity.

Not certain.

Emily’s wide eyes drift up from my white knuckles to the lantern on the table. “Is your father still here?”

Yes.

Em: “Was he the one standing beside you at the piano?”

Unsure.

The pen jerks and flies over the page in a flurry of ink.

Doug follows the growing wisps floating around the ceiling. “Why did your father kill?”

The color red. My teeth clench. Too much anger and pain.

Afterlife.

My hand rakes a saw tooth line onto the paper.

Answers.

Doug’s up and leaning into the lantern’s light. “Where, Evelyn? Where did he do it?”

My pen slows into tiny swirls again.

Buried secrets.

Doug: “Weird.”

Jake: “Maybe she didn’t understand the question.”

Dougie glances around the room. “Where did your father murder?”

Dark. Deep.

Doug: “The stables?”

My pen rolls in loops. No answer.

Jake: “The Servant’s Quarters?”

A sharp jolt of pain numbs my right arm.

Stay clear.

Doug reads the words and turns back to the ceiling. “Why would I do that?”

Babies sleeping.

Waves of sorrow force the tears. Evelyn’s bonds snap. I collapse to the table and bawl like a beaten child.