The Dead Don't Speak | Open Novella Contest 2020 | ✔

Chapter 10: Curiosity Killed The Cat

Dane hadn't been lying about Kim Sarang's potato chips. The damned things were delicious, with just the right amount of crispiness and salt. The bag rustled as I helped myself to another handful. I pushed it towards Liz to encourage her to eat some, too.

"I may not like the Koreans, but I have to admit it was very nice of them to include an instruction manual." Liz studied the small booklet in her hands, squinting to see the words in the dim lights of B-block's bathroom. She glanced at the bag of chips, but didn't move to touch it. I supposed the unsavory smell around us didn't work wonders for her appetite.

Not that I minded. More chips for me.

"They got the job done fast, too," I said with my mouth full. "My cellmate definitely knows the right people for shit like this."

Liz frowned. "Why do I feel like you're talking about the chips?"

I swallowed my bite, ignoring the cold, unpleasant feeling of the counselor's negative energy digging its claws into me. "They're important. Not as important as the board, but still..."

Outside, thunder rumbled. That August night was dark and humid and I didn't doubt we'd see a storm. For a second, I thought about warm, lazy mornings smothered in the lingering scent of petrichor, and ice cream on hot days and terrible summer songs playing on repeat on the radio. Those memories seemed long gone, belonging to a life I'd lost sight of along the way. A life I'd return to after sitting out my sentence, if the world could be kind for once.

If I made it through the night with my body and mind still intact.

"It says here the medium has to make it very clear they won't be open to any negative energy or spirits," Liz said slowly, her nose still buried in the instruction manual. "So only positive vibes allowed."

I recalled the Live, Laugh, Love sign my mother had once bought as living room decoration, how proud she'd sounded while talking about her exquisite talent for interior design. I pictured a sign with Liz's words regarding positive vibes and wondered what Counselor Taylor would think of it if I put such a sign on display in his not-quite-beloved bathroom. I liked to think it would piss him off big time.

"But we can't do that," Liz continued, glaring at the Ouija Board positioned between us, "because we're going to be chatting with a malevolent spirit who decided to die in a fucking bathroom, of all places. I mean, come on. It couldn't have been anywhere cleaner?"

"It's not like he got to choose where he was murdered."

I studied the Ouija Board, took in its design. It was brand-new, judging from the sophisticated black letters and numbers on the polished wood: every letter of the alphabet in the middle, numbers one to nine with a zero at the end below it and underneath that, the foreboding word goodbye. In the upper left corner, a black sun with a bad case of rape face was depicted next to the word yes, and in the upper right, a black moon found itself in a similar predicament, right next to the word no. The board was a real piece of work.

"And besides," I followed up, fighting the desire to touch the board, knowing I was in danger of angering the spirits if I ran my greasy chips fingers over it and defiled the damned thing, "we've got to get started already. If someone finds us here like this, they'll be screaming bloody murder."

Even though it was the dead of night, we still weren't alone. We'd gotten officer Davies with all his acne to cover for us once more, but there was always the chance we wouldn't get lucky this time. There wasn't much personnel left in the building; the few officers working the graveyard shift, a  handful of nurses in the infirmary, and Doctor Jones, if he'd been stupid and diligent enough to work late once more. Still, the idea of anyone spotting us, two prisoners sitting cross-legged on a bathroom floor while preparing to communicate with an evil spirit, made my skin crawl more than the ghost did.