Chapter Text
“Please?” Donna drawls, staring up at Ben with pleading eyes meant to draw him away from her words, as if she forgot about the million other times she’s tried this tactic— and failed miserably.
The soft clacking of their shoes could be heard against the pavement. It's a nice, breezy September afternoon, and Ben has finally finished a long day of school with a promising weekend ahead of him. The temperature has finally begun to cool down, and the humidity from the previous months is gone, leaving Ben free to admire the slowly yellowing leaves that are a sign of the new season looming around the corner. It would’ve been the perfect day, that is, if it wasn’t for his sister.
Throughout their years of school together, they’ve fallen into a comfortable routine of parting ways in the morning (Donna heading out earlier every day to have some extra alone time with Brady) and meeting back up once the school day ends to walk home together. Ben had always been comfortable with this, enjoying the little routine they had; however, as a result of Donna’s recent nagging, he was slowly considering the valid excuses he could make as to why he couldn’t make the trip with her back to their house anymore.
Without looking at Donna, he replies.
“Absolutely fucking not.”
Perhaps Ben could’ve said it more nicely. Maybe he should’ve turned Donna down softly while biting back the instinctual urge to smother himself with a pillow before he was driven to insanity.
But, being asked the same trying question over and over has this special way of ticking a person off, especially when said person has had to deal with the same question being asked every day for a week straight with no sign of it being dropped anytime soon.
“Can you help me break into the abandoned janitor’s closet so that I can summon a ghost?”
That was the question that his loving sister had mercilessly dropped onto an unsuspecting Ben one early morning while he was blissfully pouring himself some cereal, unaware of the mischievous glint in the eyes of the girl innocently blinking up at him from the other side of the kitchen counter. A wolf in sheep’s clothing at its finest.
At first, Ben had just stared at Donna blankly—too groggy to process what she had said—up until the oats he was pouring began spilling out of his bowl and scattering beneath his feet, bringing him back to reality.
That was mistake No. 1, as any reaction other than audibly screaming in sheer horror was apparently taken by Donna as a maybe, which, to her, translated to an enthusiastic yes.
Scratch that. That was mistake No. 2. Mistake No. 1 was made way before that when Ben had agreed to watch a series of low-budget ‘found footage’ horror flicks with Donna one night after she had a particularly rough argument with Brady.
That day, she had come home teary-eyed and shaky, desperation enveloped her voice as she asked Ben if she could stay in his room for the night. She looked like a wounded puppy, eyes glossy with unshed tears.
“I know that you’re busy and all,” She mumbled into her arm that was busy wiping at the tears on her face, “I get that. But, I just... don’t want to be alone. So, I thought maybe we could hang out tonight. You know, like have our own sibling bonding moment.”
The way her inflection grew higher as she finished speaking made it sound like she was asking a question, rather than providing a suggestion.
She said it so unsurely, like Ben’s rejection was inevitable, and Ben would be lying if he said that the realization didn’t make his stomach sink in guilt. So, he did what anyone would do.
“Yeah,” he replied softly, “Of course.”
If Donna wanted a small escape from reality for a few hours, who was he to turn her down?
After an all-nighter full of enduring bad CGI, Donna’s constant commentary over the poor dialogue, and stale popcorn being mindlessly thrown into his mouth until all he could sense was salted butter, Ben had made a halfhearted mental note reminding himself to never take pity on his sister ever again.
However, by that time the damage had already been done, as that night had subsequently sparked her interest in the horror genre, which didn’t stop there; her fixation later manifested into her interest in the paranormal, which then led to Donna somehow convincing herself that she could be the next Ed and Lorraine Warren once given the right equipment (never mind the fact that Brady couldn’t care less about ghosts).
The only thing Donna needed now was a partner in crime who would accompany her in her paranormal endeavors. And for some reason, Donna seemed to think that Ben would be the perfect fit.
Mistake No. 3 was humoring her.
“What’s so special about the old janitor’s closet?”
New York City was old, no doubt about it.
Being one of the original 13 colonies meant that with its history came many ghost stories and urban legends. Ben was all too familiar with the stories of hook-handed boogeymen abducting children, abandoned asylums emitting wails decades after their use, sightings of blurred figures too eerie to be chalked up to a hallucination, and so on.
They were the focal point of discussions at late-night gatherings, typically being told with a night light in hand in hopes of spreading unease to everyone that listened, making the hairs on the back of listeners’ necks stand up as they suddenly became more aware of every little sound which possibly indicated that they weren’t the only ones there listening.
Ben also knew them well enough to know that it was all bullshit and that they were all stories made with one goal in mind: to scare people. Sure, when Ben was younger, he had believed them, but that’s coming from the same kid who probably would have looked up if someone had told him that ‘gullible’ was written on the ceiling (definitely a result of being childhood best friends with Stuart).
Which is why when Donna had told him, in a dead serious tone, that there was a supposed ghost lurking in their school’s old janitor’s closet which hadn’t been used in decades, all Ben could do was give Donna a pointed look before telling her that she should probably seek professional help if she was genuinely considering damaging school property just to get into some stuffy room with dust particles old enough to make someone drop dead on the spot just through inhalation. Why go through the trouble of looking for dead people if we’ll just end up killing ourselves in the process?
“I’m being for real,” Donna says, trying to plead her case for the 10th (maybe 11th or 12th) time this week. “I overheard Nancy talking about it in third period. She said that the reason no one uses it anymore is because apparently some dude died in there back in the 60s or something.”
The words slip out of her lips so casually, like the news of someone who potentially got left for dead in a creepy basement is the latest juicy gossip, which, to be fair, kind of is.
Their school had been built almost a century ago, and it shows. It had always been pretty behind on upkeep, barely being renovated to fit modern standards. The heating system was damn near non-existent, with most kids attending classes wrapped in jackets and hats during the winter just to get by without freezing to death.
So, during the 60s, when students began reporting hearing banging sounds coming from the basement, it was easily labeled as the sound of rusting pipes. Plus, since the only reported sounds were of some echoey clangs and nothing more, the school never bothered to investigate further, instead opting to seal the closet where the noise was coming from with a master lock to muffle the distracting noise and move on. Problem solved.
And that's how the legend of the janitor ghost was born, which could still at times be heard thumping to this very day.
That's according to the jackass seniors at least, who go around every year during Halloween terrorizing freshmen by painting their faces white and hiding in the bathrooms in hopes of catching some poor unsuspecting kid off guard with their pants around their ankles, then proceeding to turn off the bathroom lights and bang against the stalls until their victim from then on decides that they’d much rather hold their bladder in till they get home for the next 3 years.
Only now, despite the story being passed down for generations, full of made-up rumors and creative lore about who the ‘ghost’ was, only just last month did some students discover through a couple of alumni that there actually was someone down there all those years ago. It wasn’t just some urban legend that was used as a ruse.
Ben didn’t believe in ghosts— doesn’t believe in them—but he’s only human. So sue him for not wanting to break into a room in a dark basement which had (or has) the remains of some dead guy in it.
Ben rolls his eyes. “Does it matter? Either way, you’re not gonna find anything down there. Well, not anything you’ll like. And I’m sure as hell not going to commit a felony for you just so you can live out your ghost-watching dreams.” Ben says, conveniently leaving out the part where he scorns her for believing that ghosts, of all things, are real. Ever so stubborn, Donna wouldn’t have listened either way.
“It’s not a felony! Just trespassing, I guess.” Donna supplies, as if it’s any better, “Or maybe breaking-and-entering, I don’t know…but either way, it’s not that big of a deal!”
They both come to a halt at the crosswalk. Cars hum past them as they wait, allowing Ben to focus his attention on something else for a couple of seconds. Then, the light green illuminates once again, leading them to walk across the striped crosswalk, and for Ben to once again turn back to the conversation he’s had time and time again.
Ben wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
“Doesn’t change the fact that I’ll get kicked out of school for it.”
Ben was already on the school’s radar. His monthly fights were definitely not something he could add to his achievements, and his C+ in Pre-Calc didn’t exactly make him a stellar student. Donna knew this better than anyone, regularly hearing the arguments that ensued between Ben and their mom about those very topics.
Yet, that didn’t deter her.
“Only if we get caught.”
“Wow, would you look at that? Your true colors are finally showing.”
He can tell Donna is barely containing the urge to scoff at him. “Ben, trust me. I have a feeling that I’m actually onto something here,” she says, practically begging, “And I’m like, never wrong,” her arms cross across her chest, bracelets dangling as they move against her.
“Think about it. Everyone is losing their minds over the janitor ghost, but nobody knows who they are. If we find out their identity—some information about who they were, not only will we be basically going down in the history of our school, but we’ll be bringing someone to justice!”
“Oh my god! But none of that is going to happen, Donna!” Ben snaps, fed up, whipping around to face her, “We aren’t going to find jack shit down there because ghosts don’t fucking exist!”
“But this guy did exist!” Donna yells back, throwing her hands up in frustration. “We’re not just going in blind here like some Scooby Doo wannabes! We know this guy existed, we know that they died in that closet, and we know that, regardless, this is on school grounds! Nothing bad is going to happen—no one has even bothered going there in years! I know what I’m doing, so help me just this once, and I promise I’ll leave you alone!"
Ben inhales sharply, a rebuttal forming on the tip of his tongue. Then, it quickly fizzles out as he processes Donna’s words.
“I promise I’ll leave you alone!”
For once, Ben gives himself some time to actually think, to weigh out his options rather than shutting everything down completely. Surprisingly, he finds the logical side of him slowly faltering, succumbing to the idea of appeasing Donna for both of their sakes, his dignity being hurled to the back of his mind like an afterthought.
“How... how do you even know we won’t get caught if we do this? There's no way it isn’t monitored down there or something.”
Donna is stunned into silence, expression unreadable, staring at Ben like she herself can’t process the fact that Ben might actually be up for it. Then, the blank expression is replaced with something else. Her eyes glint excitedly, already smiling as she begins speaking again, but slowly, as if Ben is a spooked animal that might startle if she raises her voice too high.
“Actually, I’ve already done all the calculations.”
“Uh-huh,” Ben huffs, raising his eyebrows unconvincingly, but says nothing more. Donna takes this as a good sign.
She gives him a slight eye roll before continuing. “I’ve already asked around in advance, and it turns out that on Wednesdays the teachers all leave early to go to their scheduled meetings, and there also aren’t any after-school clubs that day either, except for the cheer team, but they’re going to be practicing in the gym. So we’d basically be all alone aside from the cleaners, but they’re usually busy in the lunchroom during the afternoon, so either way we’d pretty much be in the clear.”
Ben suddenly finds himself wondering how many people Donna had to ask to figure all that out. Curse Donna for being the social twin.
“And, I kind of already snooped around the basement,” Donna quickly adds, looking away with the smallest hint of shame on her face to the point where Ben almost believes that it's sincere, “And there aren’t any cameras down there, so...”
The words linger in the air, silence creeping over them in its wake. Ben looks away, opting to fix his gaze on the buildings ahead, which were an indicator that they would soon reach their apartment complex.
When he looks back at Donna, she seems expectant, ready to challenge or answer whatever it was that was going to come out of his mouth.
He wants to say something other than ‘no’, something that would get Donna to drop the idea completely, but he can’t think of anything. He’s never been the best with words, especially when it came to talking Donna out of something.
Then again, if Donna really was going to go through with this, he’d rather it be with him than some other person who could get her in trouble, right? And it would finally get Donna off his back once and for all.
Just break into the janitor’s closet in the basement, stay there until Donna does whatever it is that she plans on doing until she’s satisfied, and close the lock back up before returning and booking it home. Sounds easy enough.
Jesus Christ. One week subjected to psychological torture from Donna, and he had already cracked.
After a couple of seconds of silence and Donna’s eyes boring holes into the back of his skull, he sighs in defeat.
“Well, I know how to pick a lock.”
Donna looks back up at him with a wide grin on her face, trying—and failing—to conceal the smugness Ben can so clearly see.
“You’re the best!” Donna beams, practically latching herself onto Ben as she puts her arms around his middle in a deathly tight grip that leaves him stumbling backward in surprise.
“I know. You so owe me. Big time,” Ben deadpans, before slowly returning the embrace. But the gesture doesn’t wash away the wave of dread that oozes through him coldly.
Maybe, if Ben prays to every god out there, the universe will somehow convince Donna to change her mind by the time Wednesday evening arrives.
The rough staircase railing that leads to the basement is cold beneath his fingertips. Chips of worn blue paint rub off onto his skin in the process as he slides his hand off, making Ben grimace slightly as he instantly regrets touching the railing that most likely hadn’t been properly cleaned in years.
Although the two of them are completely alone, they both remain silent, as if breathing too loudly would instantly get them caught. They both take cautious steps as they descend, a soft patter of their shoes being heard as they take an effort to sync their walking to make as little noise as possible. The soft rattle of Donna’s bag also breaks the otherwise deafening silence, full of candles and other ‘essentials’ Ben couldn’t be bothered to ask about at the moment.
The weight of the tension wrench and the end of a snake rake rests heavily in his pocket. Even though they’re small and light enough to fit into Ben’s palm with ease, it still feels like a burden to carry, guilt and unease making his body uncooperative.
Ben had successfully retrieved the items he needed the night before, muttering half-assed excuses to his mom as to why he was taking apart pieces of old windshield wipers and garden equipment (that had lain untouched in the back of their closet for years) in the middle of the night. She had given him an incredulous look, seemingly unconvinced that Ben needed metal tools for his art project that just-so-happened to be due the following morning, but said nothing more before returning to bed.
Even though Ben was in the clear, the thought of damaging school equipment didn’t look any more appealing than it had looked before. Even if they did successfully break in without causing any harm, who's to say they won’t get caught in the act? What if they get inside only to find someone already down there with them?
Once they reach the final step, Ben can feel the shift in the energy around them. The tension is almost suffocating, and the light from the top of the staircase, slowly fading away into obscurity, doesn’t help his buzzing nerves.
Carefully, Donna shuffles through her shoulder bag until she picks out a flashlight, wordlessly passing it to Ben. He nods his thanks and turns it on, beginning to fumble with the metal door to the basement.
Surprisingly, it isn’t locked, creaking open with a loud screech that has the two of them glancing at each other in wide-eyed alarm. However, the world around them remains silent, and there are no footsteps heard in the distance, so Ben assumes that no one is close enough to hear the noise. He waits a couple of seconds longer for any sign of movement near them, but finds none, so he returns to the door, prying it open just a little more to be able to squeeze through, cringing as the door continues to shriek.
The two shuffle inside, quickly swinging the door, which closes with a loud slam, and any natural light source they had disappears immediately. All that’s left now is darkness, which engulfs the two of them as they tread further, scanning their surroundings with the soft flicker of the flashlight.
Large water boilers hiss in their vicinity, pipes rattling overhead. The walls look filthy, dark splotches of black and brown staining the frigid grey stone. Particles of dust are illuminated with the flashlight, floating softly in the air, reminding Ben that this room could very well be an active biohazard.
“I’m pretty sure no one can hear us anymore,” Ben whispers, despite the implication of his words. He takes a few hesitant steps, careful not to trip over the old wires carelessly ditched on the cold ground.
Donna nods slowly, fixing her gaze on the cobwebs surrounding the ceiling. “Yeah. Probably not.”
The air is well below room temperature, sending shivers down Ben’s spine. His skin prickles with goosebumps, making the hairs on his hands stand up uncomfortably as he holds the flashlight up towards the walls.
“You’ve never been this far down, right?” Ben questions—though, by the lack of Donna’s usually confident demeanor, he can already guess the answer.
“No,” Donna confirms, “I’m not even sure if there’s a lightbulb in here.”
Ben pauses, trying to calm his nerves, which are already blaring sirens in his head, screaming at him to turn back around. He reaches his free hand into his back pocket for his phone in hopes of getting just a little more light, but he finds both of them empty. Stunned, he pats them down for an extra measure, but finds nothing.
Well, shit.
Instead of going into a full-on panic attack and further worrying an already tentative Donna, Ben takes a deep breath in, ignoring the way his heart is thumping loudly in his chest, before resuming his walking with Donna quickly following suit.
If he had misplaced his phone somewhere and had no means of contacting anyone if they happened to get stuck underground, that was totally, one-hundred percent fine. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
“So I’m guessing you don’t know where exactly the janitor’s closet is supposed to be, then?” Ben prods further, tightening his grip on the flashlight, which had slowly begun to flicker. If that creeped either of them out, neither of them voiced it.
“Well, no,” Donna admits from his left side, a bit too truthfully for Ben’s liking, “Not really…“
“Great,” Ben replies cheerfully. He can’t help the way it comes out, his voice dripping with sarcasm as his lips quirk upwards to feign amusement. “So I guess we’ll just have to guess our way through the—“
BANG
They jump.
The flashlight goes out.
They hold their breath, remaining stiffly in place. With their only light source gone, the vast darkness fully absorbs their surroundings, leaving Ben struggling to adjust his eyes to the pitch black.
From what he can decipher in the darkness, he can vaguely register Donna next to him, darting her eyes across the room in a way he can only describe as panic.
“...Did you hear that?”
The words tumble out of his lips dumbly before he can even register what he is saying. The sound was booming, practically scaring Ben out of his skin—but maybe, by some miracle, he had imagined it. Maybe his mind was taunting him for his paranoia, playing a cynical trick on him.
Twice.
“Of course, I heard that dumbass! It practically ruptured my eardrums!” Donna hissed back, bringing her hands up to her ears for emphasis and accidentally bumping Ben’s elbow in the process.
Ben makes an active effort to ignore Donna’s very rude diss to his intelligence in favor of dealing with the problem at hand. It’s definitely not because of how dry his throat suddenly feels, worried that his voice might reveal just how unsettled he is by all of this. Too late to back out now.
“Well,” Ben breathes out with a shaky breath, “...Do you have your phone with you?”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure, yeah,” Donna blinks, looking down at her bag like she just remembered she had it, “Let me check.”
She rummages through it in an attempt to feel for the shape of her phone, still sticking close to Ben’s side. After about a minute of struggling, she curses under her breath, bending down to hastily dump everything out.
An Ouija board falls to the ground with a clatter, along with a lighter, a couple of candles, and a spray can that rolls away from them into the distance before Ben can get a good look at the label.
“What’s with the can?”
“Extra precaution,” Donna says dismissively.
After what feels like forever, Ben finally hears the sound of a zipper pulling, as well as an audible groan as Donna realizes that her phone was safely tucked away in one of the bag’s compartments the entire time (Sweet payback).
Ben has never been more relieved to see the basement light back on in his life.
“…No signal.”
Now, with the help of the flash from her phone, Donna hastily stuffs everything nearby back into her bag before getting up and looping the straps through her arm and onto her shoulder.
“I think the noise came from down there,” Donna raises her hand, pointing to the further end of a corridor to their right. It’s not much different from the rest of the basement, except that the path is much narrower. If they go there, they’ll have to walk in a single file.
Ben nods, finding it pointless to show any signs of protest. That was where the noise had come from, so it only makes sense that that’s where they’ll find what they’re looking for, if the rumors were true.
This time, Donna steps forward first, leaving Ben to follow close behind.
The two walk in silence as they approach the corridor. They seemed to have come up with an unspoken agreement along the way to focus on listening for any other signs of unusual noises. Though, unluckily for them, there hasn’t been any; Ben can’t tell if he feels relieved or disgruntled.
Their footsteps are louder now, the noise bouncing off the close walls and down the hallway. The ceiling is a lot lower, too, to the point where Ben has to duck to avoid the cobwebs hanging a little too close for comfort.
Donna stops to a halt, staring at the sight in front of her. Ben follows her gaze.
“Holy shit,” Ben gapes, mouth falling open.
In front of them stands a sight to behold: a splintered wooden door, adorned with dozens of locks looped together in an attempt to keep it closed. The door stands out like a sharp thorn, even from the already run-down interior of the basement.
Well, they found what they were looking for.
“What?” Donna drawls, “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
His eyes narrowed, a slight furrow forming between his eyebrows. “I don’t. But look at the door,” he points sharply.
The locks are rusted, the edges of their gold color fading into a dark brownish-black color that leaves Ben feeling queasy at the sight. The smell of copper hits him strongly, a sharp, distinct odor that will probably linger on his clothes for days.
“I thought you said there was a lock,” Ben gritted, sharply turning his head towards her, “Not a whole army of them! How am I supposed to handle this?” He can already feel his frustration bubbling, slipping into his voice with ease.
To be fully honest, Ben barely even knew how to pick a lock in the first place. He had only done it once—way back in middle school—using one of Donna’s old hairpins to successfully unlock one of those tiny metal locks that came attached to diaries. It took about 20 minutes of fidgeting with the plug and an abundance of frustrated huffing before he got it to pop open, which, for a cheap, flimsy lock, was pretty pathetic.
That's not to say that Ben was going in completely blind; he did his fair share of research, which consisted of him watching a series of YouTube videos the night before, and passing out with his thumb still hovering over the play button.
So, yeah. Maybe Ben had bitten off a bit more than he could chew.
For once, when Donna looks at Ben, she seems sheepish—apologetic, even.
“Oh. Uh…whoops? I’m sure you can handle it.”
It takes everything in Ben not to turn around. If it weren’t for the fact that Donna was the only one with a light source, maybe he would.
“Donna, if I die in here, I’m seriously coming back as a ghost to haunt your ass.”
She smiles dryly, her flash aimed at the door. “You won’t be talking like that once I pull out Mom’s vacuum.”
“Oh, like you’d even go near that decrepit thing.”
Moving in front of her, Ben bends down to be at eye level with the locks. He takes the items out of his pocket, reaching his hand out to steady the first lock. Carefully, he fiddles with the keyhole, placing the tension wrench inside with one hand while stuffing the rake inside with the other. He tries replicating what he saw in the videos, all blurred together in his mind. Slowly, he moves the rake back and forth within the keyhole, twisting the wrench in his pocket, and thankfully, he hears the popping of the lock cylinder.
“Told you you could handle it,” Donna whispers.
From this, Ben gets a surge of confidence, quickly removing the first lock of the door and discarding it on the ground, powdery black residue smearing on his fingertips. He moves on to the next lock, repeating the same process, then the next, and the next —and after about 15 minutes or so, the last lock is finally removed.
The two of them are now faced with the wooden door, the only thing standing in their way.
Ben looks at Donna, a silent question in his gaze. Donna nods, taking the step forward to open the door, setting her hair behind her shoulders, and making sure to avoid the splinters breaking the surface of the wood as she pushes.
With a small creak, the door opens, with heaps of dust particles flying out into the open air. The two fall into a coughing fit, hastily backing away from the door to avoid more of it entering their lungs.
“ Jesus— ” Ben chokes out between coughs, eyes prickling with tears, “— Christ!”
Ben can feel the burning tingle of dust in his eyes and lungs. As his throat desperately tries to dislodge the dust mites from his airways, the smell of cigarettes clogs his nose.
Finally, once the dust settles and they regain their breath, Donna braces herself before she prods the door open further, entering first.
Then, Ben takes a deep breath.
And enters.
...
Huh
There’s nothing unusual about the room.
There’s no corpse dramatically sprawled out at the center of the room, no putrid smell (if not counting the mixed scent of bleach and cigarettes) infiltrating the air. Sure, Ben was expecting this, but with the dark, dirty basement and locks that served to deliver a clear warning message, it all felt a little underwhelming in comparison.
It just looks…old. The walls that had likely been bright white at some point have now faded into a yellowish-white color, the paint job peeling in some corners from age. The room is small, with walls adorned with metal shelves that hold outdated cleaning supplies labeled with brands Ben has never even heard of. Above them hangs a lightbulb with a ceiling pull chain attached, and without thinking, Ben grabs it.
“What the hell are you doing—”
Reaching over Donna’s head, he pulls the chain down, powering on a spiraled fluorescent lightbulb. It fills the room with light, covering every crevice in a yellowish tint.
“Making sure you won’t bust your ass maneuvering around in here.”
Though thankful for the stable source of light, Donna doesn’t voice it. She settles for a jab to Ben’s arm instead.
Ben takes one last look out of the closet and down the dark hallway from which they came and decides that he’s grateful for the boring interior of their room. Feeling uneasy at the thought of going back there, he closes the door to get the eerie scenery out of view. Out of sight, out of mind.
When he turns back around, Donna is already starting to set up, bending down and placing items on the ground. She brings out a couple of blue candles from her bag, arranging them in a circle large enough to fit the two of them. Then, she takes out a lighter from her pocket, flicking the spark to life and tilting it with delicate precision as she angles the flame towards each candle wick. Once she’s done lighting the last one, she takes her Ouija board out of her bag and sets it in the middle of the circle, tossing her bag to the side.
Donna fixes the middle, making room for both of them to sit on opposite sides of the board so that they won’t need to worry about being too close to the candles. She then sits down cross-legged on one end of the Ouija board, waiting for Ben to do the same on the other.
“You know, the sooner you sit down, the sooner we can get this over with.” Donna reminds him.
Ben blinks. “Right, yeah.”
Ben walks towards Donna, about to step over the ring of candles.
“Actually—wait.”
He stops, looking up at Donna questioningly. “Yeah?”
“Could you..” she falters for a second, eyes drifting towards the lightbulb, “Turn the light off?”
“Oh. Uh, sure.”
He finds himself staring up light, hand hesitating to reach up to the chain. Ben feels the faint feeling of alarm returning, creeping up his spine, leaving its mark on him through a cold shiver that runs through his body coldly.
Hesitantly, he reaches up, pulling the chain down.
Click
The light vanishes in the blink of an eye. Only the soft dim of candlelight remains, creeping up the corners of his vision in golden and orange hues.
He steps over the ring and situates himself on the opposite side of Donna in front of the Ouija board.
The Ouija board is wooden; It’s a vintage flat board that looks like the most standard copy you’d see online. In big, bold letters, ‘Ouija’ is sprawled up at the top from Ben’s point of view. On the right-hand side, ‘no’ is written out, next to a drawing of the moon in fine line ink. On the left-hand side is ‘yes’ next to a drawing of the sun. The rest is all standard, with all the letters being arranged in alphabetical order and numbers 1-9, then resetting back to 0, with ‘goodbye’ written at the very bottom.
Donna places a plastic planchette in the middle of the board where there's a vacant space between the letters and numbers. It’s heart-shaped, with a transparent circle near the point.
Ben’s hand reaches toward the planchette.
“Don’t touch it yet!” Donna scolds, swatting his hand away, “Since I’m the expert here, you’re gonna have to listen to me first before we do anything, got that?”
“Mm-hm.” Ben agrees. He isn’t complaining.
“Let me tell you how to properly use the board first,” she starts. “Okay, rule number one: never take your hands off the planchette. We can only do that once we’re finishing up the session and have already said goodbye; otherwise, don’t even think about it.”
“Okay, sounds easy enough.”
“Good. Rule number two: one person has to be the medium to control the conversation; otherwise, it could get too overwhelming for the spirit we’re trying to connect with. I’ll be the medium, so I’ll be the one asking the questions. If you have a question that you want to ask the spirit, ask it through me.”
“Sure.”
“And rule number three: treat the spirit with respect. Like, wait for it to finish answering our questions, say thank you at the end, and don’t be too invasive—they were once human too, y’know.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Hey!” Donna chides, “Don’t bring that kind of energy into this seance. Keep that sassiness up, and we’ll end up connecting with some random petty spirit instead of our janitor ghost!”
“Okay, okay!” Ben puts his hands up in surrender, “I doubt we’ll meet some sort of poltergeist, but fine.”
Donna doesn’t fully believe Ben’s response, but nods anyway.
“Good. Then let’s get started.”
With both hands, Donna places her index and middle fingers on the curve of the planchette. With her head, she motions for Ben to do the same.
Ben takes one hand and gently places it onto the part of the planchette that makes a V shape.
“You don’t need to have both hands on it,” Donna says, “So you’ll be our note taker. You can use my notes app.”
“Okay.” With his free hand, Ben reaches for Donna’s phone, opening it with Face ID to open a new note.
“So, before we do anything, we need to cleanse the board a bit. You know, start fresh. So keep a light grip on the planchette and just follow my lead.”
Carefully, Donna moves the planchette towards her, then begins to make a large circular motion clockwise. They continue that motion for another 3 full circles, then set the planchette back in the middle of the board.
“Now what?” Ben questions, staring down at the board.
“Now, remember not to put any pressure on the planchette, and just let me do my thing,” she answers.
“Ah-hem,” she clears her throat. “We here call upon the spirit world and welcome any kind spirits to talk with us!” she exclaims like she’s reading off some script, but that facade quickly bursts as she adds: “Preferably the Janitor Ghost, though. Please.”
The two are quiet, looking at the board in silent anticipation. The planchette remains still under their fingertips.
“Um..” Donna thinks, “Okay. Are there any ghosts here that want to speak to us?”
Slowly, the planchette moves.
Yes
Donna’s breath hitches.
It returns to the center.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Ben mutters.
“Shut up,” Donna hisses back.
“Hi there, ghost!” Donna smiles, almost making the mistake of letting go of the planchette so that she can raise her hand in a welcoming greeting. “I’m Donna, and this is my brother Ben.”
Ben squints. “I don’t think giving out our personal information to a ghost is a smart idea, Donna.”
“Oh, what do you know about ghosts all of a sudden? I’m trying to be friendly here.”
Donna thinks for a second before continuing. “..Sorry if this sounds forward, but are you the Janitor Ghost?”
For a while, they sit in silence as the planchette remains unmoving. Ben is just about to open his mouth when it twitches between his fingertips, and instead of going to one of the corners, it moves towards the letters.
It begins to spell.
W-H-A-T
Before Ben can think better of it, a loud laugh escapes from his mouth. Donna glares at him.
“Should I write that down in our notes?” Ben smirks.
“Don’t be a smartass," Donna warns, eyes already drifting down at Ben's unoccupied hand.
Despite Donna’s protest, Ben picks up the phone.
“Ben, I’m being serious!”
He types, ignoring whatever threat Donna is currently making at him: Ghost appears to be incompetent.
Maybe, if there was something in the room with them, this would rile them up.
Before Ben can set the phone aside, the planchette begins to move again, gaining speed as it almost flies out beneath his fingertips.
“You didn’t ask it a question—”
J-A-C-K-A-S-S
It quickly returns to the center, knocking the breath out of Ben.
Ben stares at the space on the board that it had once occupied just a few seconds ago, tracing the letters with his eyes.
Ben decides that he’s had enough.
“Donna, you’re seriously not funny.”
Donna’s eyes widen at the accusation. “What? I’m not the one moving it!" Her voice rises, along with the pitch of her voice, as if she's offended. "Not only are you antagonizing the ghost, but you’re denying its existence? Are you looking for trouble!?”
Throughout all of this, ever since the idea popped into Donna's head, she had never once given thought to any other person helping her out other than Ben. Donna knew Ben's nature and knew he didn't take any paranormal or other form of pseudoscience seriously, yet she still remained adamant that Ben be the one to help her. At this point, her shock at Ben's reaction feels like a mockery. She has to be doing it on purpose. To scare Ben into believing that he, for once, is wrong about something.
“But Donna, you’re the one moving it! You just don’t realize it because you’re subconsciously doing it!”
“That’s not true! Ugh, you—”
Before she can finish, the planchette begins gliding against the board, quickly going over different letters in a circular motion. They're barely holding on as it whips around the board, hovering over different letters that Ben can't even begin to process from the sheer speed.
They can barely register what it says as the letters spell out:
I died in here
Donna goes silent. Ben pales.
Neither of them would have been able to write that in time. No matter how much one of them would have gripped the planchette, it wouldn't have been possible without the other person realizing it.
His heart rate quickens, beating loudly against his chest. He can hear the quickening thumps against his skull. Despite himself, he once again picks up the phone and deletes the previous words.
Instead, he writes:?
“Oh.” Donna breathes, all heat in her voice gone.
She's staring down at the board blankly, thinking about how to approach it now. Ben thinks she might even stop now.
She takes a moment before she opens her mouth again. “What year did you die?”
The question is straightforward. Simple.
The board had already told them on its own that it had died in this exact room, so there was no reason it should have any problems answering now. But if so, not only would it be answering Donna's question, but also confirming its existence among them.
It would confirm that there was something else lingering in the room with them.
Ben doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to confirm that the possibility of what Donna had been implying this entire time was true.
Slowly, the planchette moves.
His eyes dart back to the board, processing each number with a focused intensity.
Before Ben can fully process it, Donna reads it out loud for him.
"Nineteen sixty."
The words linger in the air in the silence. Neither of them dares to break it.
Ben looks at Donna to find her already staring back at him. There’s nothing in her expression that indicates that this is a joke. If anything, her face probably looks paler than his.
Even sitting so close to the candlelight, he feels cold, like a breeze creeping up behind him, waiting to be unleashed at any moment.
This time, Ben is the one who asks the question. He can vaguely recall the words of Donna in his head from earlier, protesting against it, but right now, it doesn't matter to him. All that matters is that he gets his answer.
“What’s your name?” he asks quietly.
The planchette hesitates.
Then, begins to move, slowly, like it doesn’t want to mess anything up.
It takes its time, slowly moving around the wood, testing the letters. It hovers over some while remaining completely still among others.
After a couple of minutes of tentative movement, it spells out:
Ricky Collins
Ben’s eyes are glued to the board. He can’t even bother reaching for Donna’s phone to type all the information down. Regardless, he’s sure that he’s never going to forget it either way.
He feels his hand start to tremble on the board. He can't tell if it's because of him or the energy radiating beneath his fingertips, all staticky and cold.
Donna steps up, regaining her place as the medium. “Was that you who was making that banging noise from earlier?”
This time, the planchette doesn’t hesitate.
Yes
His whole body is trembling now.
Donna looks up at Ben with concern. She looks like she wants to say something to him, but decides not to. Instead, she refocuses her attention on the board.
Once again, she hesitates before asking.
“Have you always been doing that?”
The planchette goes to the letters with practiced ease. It's practically sliding on its own, Ben’s grip getting looser every minute.
Ever since I died
“Donna, I think we have enough information,” Ben says, voice coming out as a hoarse whisper.
The edges of his vision are starting to get blurry. He’s trying to blink it away, but the rapidness of it only makes him feel worse. He isn't even worried about the spirit now, or whatever repercussions may be waiting for them once they leave the room.
All he can think about is the ringing in his skull and how he desperately needs it to stop.
Donna’s about to protest, but then changes her mind the second she looks at Ben’s eyes, barely holding focus. “Shit, are you about to throw up?”
“I don’t know,” he chokes out, “But I can’t keep doing this.”
Donna nods quickly in understanding, ready to open her mouth to thank the ghost and say goodbye.
But then, it happens.
The cool touch against his shoulder.
Ben turns around, weakly letting the planchette fall out of his grasp.
It’s him.
Ricky Collins.