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Noelle lights the last candle. Black, for protection.
Beside her, Catti asks, “You sure you want to do this?”
“Yes,” Noelle says, blowing out the match. “I’m sure.” No turning back, she tells herself, not this time.
Everything has been arranged on the dusty floor of Catti’s backyard shed. The stench of frankincense hangs heavy in the air. It’s just past midnight, and outside, the almost-full moon shines bright through the dark clouds. A sharp breeze comes and goes, carrying with it the threat of the year’s first autumn freeze.
It’s the perfect night. For a séance, anyway.
Catti sits down, crossing her legs, and gingerly sets her handmade spirit board down. The unsteady candlelight dances across its wooden surface, and Noelle can just barely read the letters carefully burned into the grooves―yes, no, hello, good bye. “Do you have the picture?” Catti whispers.
“And the bat,” Noelle says, dropping down to one knee and shrugging her backpack from her shoulders. She pulls out the wiffle bat first; it’s been years since anyone has touched it, and she almost feels guilty for disturbing its peace. She lays it next to Catti’s board. Next is the picture, which has been carefully wrapped in layers of Noelle’s softest clothes, for fear of the glass breaking.
Dess was never good at smiling for pictures. Most of the Holidays’ family photos are ruined by the way she would awkwardly snarl at the camera. This was the only picture Noelle could find that captured any semblance of Dess’s real smile. Their father had taken it, and right before the camera went off, he had told a joke that annoyed their mother, and she had shoved his shoulder roughly. In the photo, Dess is bent over in the middle of a loud guffaw, her eyes squeezed shut.
Noelle’s fingertips linger on the frame’s glass surface. Despite the motion blur, Dess’s vibrant beauty shines through.
With a shaky sigh, she hands the frame to Catti, who holds it in silence for a long moment. “It might not work the way you’re thinking,” she says at last.
“I know.” Noelle sits down, folding her legs beneath herself.
“We can try, but anyone might answer the call.” Catti lifts her head. The tip of her tail twitches uneasily. “Anyone can say they’re December Holiday.”
Noelle swallows. “I know,” she says again.
“And… Noelle.” Catti sets the photograph down, propping it up in its place in front of the spirit board. She leans forward and grabs one of Noelle’s hands. “Noelle. Not getting an answer doesn’t… necessarily mean anything either.”
Noelle tries to look Catti in the eye, but the candlelight only serves to intensify the seriousness of her features. Her gaze slides away to focus on the smoldering incense. “I-I know. I know, that none of this will be any real confirmation. I just… need something, anything, to hold onto. Even if it’s not real, even if it’s something I don’t like.” Unconsciously, she squeezes Catti’s hand. “Having no idea… being clueless like this? It’s killing me.”
Catti exhales and pulls her hand out of Noelle’s grip. “I just don’t… want to give you false hope.”
“What else would you have me do, Catti?”
“… I don’t know,” Catti admits. She reaches up and unclasps her necklace, freeing the board’s planchette.
Noelle digs her fingers into the fabric of her skirt. “Catti, before we start, can I ask…?”
Catti makes a sound of acknowledgement, but nothing more.
“Do you think Dess is still alive?”
Catti freezes. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. “I don’t think you want me to answer that question,” she says softly, turning her head away.
Fair enough. Noelle nods and closes her eyes. “Alright. Go ahead,” she whispers.