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Tyler’s mom keeps the Ouija board in the hall closet, stacked in the middle of Monopoly and Boggle. It had been his older brother’s once, left behind when he’d moved away from home. Now it sits on Tyler's bedroom floor, the cardboard warped at one corner where someone must've stepped on it years ago.
The plastic planchette is chipped at the tip. Tyler flicks it so it spins. "Are you scared?"
"Of a board game?" Marek’s cross-legged, knees poking through the rips in his jeans. He rifles through a nearby bag of Doritos and pulls out a fistful. "Yeah, I'm shakin’ in my boots." He crams the chips into his mouth and brushes orange dust from his shirt.
Tyler lights three candles pilfered from the bathroom—his mom's power outage stash. He arranges them around the board and gets up to kill the overhead light. The room drops into shadow, candle flames distort their silhouettes against the walls.
"Okay." He settles back down across from Marek. "How does it work?"
"How should I know?"
"You're always watching horror movies."
"Yeah, and everyone who uses these things dies or gets cursed or some shit." Marek sighs and wipes his greasy fingers on Tyler's bedspread before reaching over to rest them on the planchette. "Alright, both of us have to touch it."
Tyler mirrors him. Marek's knuckles brush his.
"Now what?"
"Ask it something, doofus."
Tyler clears his throat. "Um, hi. Is there anybody here?"
They sit there in silence. The candles flicker. Downstairs, the phone rings.
"This is bor—"
The planchette moves, cutting Marek off mid-thought as his attention snaps downward. It drifts toward YES and stops.
Tyler jerks his fingers away like he's avoiding a mousetrap. "Holy shit."
"Put your hand back," Marek says.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because we have to ask it stuff. That's the whole point."
"The whole point is summoning demons? Cool, great idea, Marek."
"We're not summoning demons, dude. Just do it. Don't be a pussy."
Tyler places two fingers back on the planchette. Marek's fingertips are right next to his, trembling. Tyler bites back a snarky retort.
"What's your name?" Marek asks. His voice cracks.
The planchette veers left.
M.
The plastic window slides across the alphabet, highlighting the letters.
A.
R.
"No way," Tyler mutters. Marek's face goes ashen as his eyes track the movement.
E.
K.
Marek makes a startled noise in the back of his throat. He yanks his hands back and tucks them under his armpits, whole body gone rigid. "Stop! You're doing that."
"I'm not doing shit!"
"Nope, fuck this, we're done." Marek scrambles to his feet, kicking the board in the process. The bag of chips spills across the carpet. One of the candles tips over, splashing hot wax onto Tyler's hand. He yelps and tries to shake it off.
"It knows my name, Tyler."
Tyler's on his feet now too, backing away. His heel catches on a pile of dirty clothes and he stumbles, grabs the edge of his desk for balance. Wrestling magazines tumble to the floor in a glossy cascade.
"Maybe it's, like, reading your mind or something," he says.
"Oh, that's so much better. Yeah, I feel way less freaked out now, thanks." Marek's hand fumbles along the wall, slapping at it until he finds the switch. The room floods with light as the ceiling fan kicks on with a buzz.
They stand there, breathing hard. The board is half-folded where Marek kicked it, the planchette near Tyler's bed.
Marek drags both hands down his face. "Okay,” he says, “we're good. Lights are on. We're good."
Tyler's still gripping the edge of his desk. Marek bends down to blow out the candles, hand cupped around each flame. Smoke spirals toward the ceiling in thin gray ribbons.
"Shouldn't we say goodbye to it or something?" Tyler asks. "I think you're supposed—"
"I'm not saying anything to it." Marek straightens up and turns to face him. His pupils are huge. "I'm pretending this never happened."
Tyler crosses the room on tiptoe. He picks up the board delicately and folds it back into its box. The stylized letters promise a MYSTIFYING ORACLE.
"Where are you putting that?" Marek asks. He's backed up against the door now, one hand on the knob.
"Under my bed."
"No way. Put it in the garage or—or bury it in the backyard."
"I'm not burying it. Not tonight, anyway"
"Then I'm not staying here."
Tyler hesitates, the box in his hands. Marek's face is still pale, jaw clenched. His other hand flexes at his side.
"No, stay." Tyler says. “How about under the bed, but I'll push it all the way back?"
"I don't like this."
"It's fine. We're fine."
"What if we, like, opened a portal or something?"
"It's a board game, Marek. Remember?"
But Tyler's not sure if he believes it himself. He keeps looking at the window, at the gap where the blinds don't quite close. The street light outside casts shapes across the glass. Tree branches, probably. Just branches.
He drops to his knees, shoves the box under the bed frame. He has to lie flat on his stomach and reach with both arms to wedge it between a duffel bag and some old shoes.
"Good?" Tyler asks.
Marek crouches and peers under the bed to check. His hair falls in his face. He lingers, making sure nothing is amiss.
"I guess," he says finally.
Tyler picks up the spilled chips one by one and drops them back in the bag. His hands have stopped shaking but there's a weird buzzing in his ears that won't go away.
Marek walks to the window, yanks the blinds all the way up. "D’you think it's still in here?" he asks.
Tyler looks around his room. At the posters on the wall, the pile of tapes on his dresser, the glass of water on his nightstand. Everything looks unchanged, perfectly ordinary.
"I dunno," he says with a shrug. “Maybe.”
Marek nods. He's still staring outside, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders are hunched up near his ears.
“We should probably sleep with the window open or something so it can leave,” Marek murmurs. “Just in case.”