We’re writing ghost stories together. It’s autofiction. We’re BFFs. Mostly started as YESNOGOODBYE but now she calls me bitch and we laugh until I weep into my Old Fashioned. Even taught me to use a perimeter of tulip bulbs instead of crystals. See, watch the board:APRESENCEISNEARBUTIWILLSHELTERYOUWITHFLOWERS. That’s her opener. I respond with the idea that the presence may not be as close as it feels, just up there in the attic somewhere, bent, drifting around the rafters to light a candle in the corners. She takes it in and says IKNOWWHYYOUCRYWHENTHESUNISATHERHIGHEST. I shrug it off, keeping myself from giggling, the corners of my eyes trembling a little. The way we usually cackle over the board, you should see it. I shake. The planchette shakes. It’s a sleepover. I wake up on the floor boards feeling like a satyr danced on my chest all night. Taking Tylenol, Ambien in case it’s just me who’s been sleepwalking around up there. I’m googling the symptoms, if stories can leave a physical mark—death or dying at the end of every search. The day’s long with recovery and the sin of sloth and, half-awake, I write fairy tales alone: Hoof prints in the garden. And tonight, like every other night, it’s back to the spirit board. Joan’s my BFF. This time, it’s something I can’t make out, the letters a blur, then FLOWERSONLYHALFASLONG. I tell myself I don’t believe her. And the board shakes like a hellish typewriter, as if to say there’s something behind us, on us, lighting its candle in my ear. I think of flowers, the sun. I think of my friend as the board grows silent.
