Deadly Distractions

Hugging herself despite the balmy temperature, Kristal stood by the gnarled hunk of metal wrapped around a leaning telephone pole that had, only an hour before, been her brand-new Toyota. Her third car wreck in two weeks, through no fault of her own.

Like those of its others, its revelation, made via phone call, had eviscerated Hannah. The feeling hadn’t ceased even when Kristal had told her that she was okay (physically, at least). Instead, reflexively, she’d asked herself how Devin would react to this. Snapshot memories—red blotches creeping up Devin’s face as he perceived the transgression at hand, occasionally real but, most of the time, a figment of his sick mind; veins swelling in his temples; Devin screaming, quaking the house; Devin leaping, swinging, connecting; the pain rushing through her cheeks nothing compared to the fear that he would, as he had many times before, turned his fury on Kristal—had flashed through her mind before she could remind herself that she had left him, that they didn’t have to worry about him anymore. And, yet, she still did. Kristal probably did, too.

“Oh my God, Kris,” Hannah panted as she rushed to her, “are you okay?”

           “I told you, yeah.”

           A bit of the tightness in Hannah’s chest slackened, but plenty remained. “Lila?” she asked.

           Kristal nodded, the glint of her eyes wringing Hannah’s gut.

“This is all my fault,” Hannah said. She had picked the house where Lila had barged into their lives. The divorce having left her with little money, she had allowed wishful thinking to cajole her into treating its unrealistically low price as a good deal and stroke of luck rather than what it was: a warning. She had managed to scrape together enough to move them out of the home six months later, but that had proven too little, too late; Lila had followed. Hannah, thus, deserved the ghost’s harassment. But Kristal did not. She had already suffered for years at the hands of a father who possessed a toxic combination of mental illness and depravity—the last thing she needed was an undead stalker. And, yet, she had borne the brunt of the haunting.

           Hannah didn’t know why. Her working theory had to do with how Kristal had reacted when they’d looked up Lila’s history. It had revealed that, as they’d thought, Lila had owned the house where they’d met her thirty years ago. The child of abusive parents, she had, as an adult, weaved in and out of psych wards and taken medication. Hearing this, Kristal had rolled her eyes and said, “Figures she’s a psycho.”

           Soon after that, the haunting had become more focused. More aggressive. Books flying off shelves, aimed at Kristal; dishes zooming out of cabinets, shattering on the far wall; doors opened and slammed by impossible hands. And then it had intensified still more. Lila had started appearing to Kristal at the worst times. As a result, she’d tripped on the stairs, sustaining a concussion when her head hit the last step; she’d missed the carrot she’d been cutting, nearly slicing her thumb clean off; she’d slipped and fallen in the shower; and, of course, the car accidents.

This had to stop, Hannah told herself, before the specter could achieve her goal.

It had to stop now. 

*         *         *

           She bought a Ouija board from a toy store at the mall. Though these things typically required more than one person, she didn’t want to burden Kristal any more if she didn’t have to, so she stashed it in the back of her closet as she used to do items she couldn’t afford to let Devin find and waited until Kristal was at work to break it out. She lifted the box’s lid with her fingertips as one would a hot coal, took out the board and planchette, and set them up on the coffee table before the ceramic tissue box she’d inherited from her late grandmother (one of her only delicate possessions Devin hadn’t destroyed). Her pulse quickened, sweat prickling her pores and sticking her t-shirt to her back. Did she really want to do this? she asked herself. What if it didn’t work? What if its failure to work proved the least of her problems? She’d heard horror stories about these things; sometimes, they made situations worse.

           But, then, how could this situation possibly get worse?

           She took as deep a breath as her stiff lungs allowed, placed trembling hands on the planchette, and asked, “Lila, you there?”

           A force tugged her hands. She jumped, jerking them off the planchette. But it continued to move until it landed on “Yes.”

           She should not have done this. She should have just hired a psychic. Yes, it would have cost more, and no, she couldn’t afford it, but sparing herself the risk of this would have been worth the debt it would incur.

           Perhaps she should stop. Put the board away, pretend that this had never happened. But she had learned from those horror stories that, once one opened the door, it stayed open until forcefully closed. Might as well press on.

           She did not place her hands back on the planchette; clearly, Lila didn’t need them. In a trembling voice, she asked, “What do you want with Kristal?”

           The planchette moved. Her heart shriveled, but she forced herself to keep her eyes on it, to read what it spelled: “Nothing.”

           Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean, nothing? Why’re you harassing her, then?”

           The planchette resumed moving.

           “Not me.”

           She shook her head, more confused than ever. “Not you? Then who is it?”

           Again: “Not me.” Then: “Ask her.”

           A shiver undulated up her spine. She had so many questions, but, clearly, Lila did not plan on answering them. Her suggestion that Kristal could do so seemed unlikely. But Hannah had to take any chance she had at this point.

           She said goodbye. The planchette moved to “Bye.” Hands still trembling, she packed up the board and returned it to her closet.

*         *         *

           Kristal pushed peas around her plate but showed no interest in eating—a behavior she adopted all too commonly at mealtimes lately. Hannah, again, had to remind herself that she no longer had to worry about this triggering Devin’s rage before saying, “There’s something I’ve gotta talk to you about.”

The lines beside Kristal’s mouth deepened. “Yeah?”

Stomach churning, she explained what she’d done. Kristal’s face blanched, eyes glinting much like they had when she’d realized that Devin had fallen victim to yet another of his dangerous delusions. When Hannah had finished, she said in a shaky voice, “No. No, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

           “Kristal.” She reached across the table and laid a hand on one of hers. Ducking to meet her gaze, she said, “You can tell me anything, Kris. You know that.”

           “Not this.” Tears glittered in her eyes. Hannah’s heart shattered, but she forced herself to resist the urge to prompt her, instead waiting until, finally, she spoke again:

           “I’m just like her. Like Dad.”

           Hannah’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

           Kristal sniffled, swiping back a tear. “It isn’t Lila. I…I keep seeing things. Scary things. Things that aren’t there, but they look real, they really look real…”

           Hannah’s heart hit her shoulder blades. Her stomach knotted, her pulse rivaling the flap of a hummingbird’s wings. As an observer, she should have known.

           As a mother, she should have known.

           Forcing strength into wobbly legs, she rose, rounded the table, and pulled Kristal close, letting her sob into her blouse. She fought through the agony the sound created and started working on a plan. She’d tell Kristal that she shouldn’t feel ashamed, that she was not her father, that she would recover. She would get her help—inpatient, outpatient, medication—whatever she’d agree to. She would support her in any way she could. She would pray.

Something flickered in the corner of her eye. She looked up to see that Lila had come in, Hannah’s grandmother’s tissue box in hand. She glided to them on silent feet, placed it beside Kristal’s plate on the table, and disappeared.