The seance
Chapter 12 – The Seance
Ava Carter’s POV
I stood frozen outside the locked room, the key trembling in my hand. Damon hadn’t moved since he dropped it on the floor, his expression a mix of defiance and despair. The hallway was steeped in shadows, the silence so thick it was as if the house itself held its breath.
“Open it,” he said finally, voice low.
I inserted the key into the lock. It clicked louder than I expected. The door creaked open slowly, revealing darkness that felt deeper than the rest of the house. I switched on the flashlight on my phone and stepped inside.
Dust coated the air like ash. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling. The room was lined with shelves full of books—old, cracked, and smelling of mold. But what caught my attention was the circular table in the middle of the room.
Six chairs.
Six candles, melted down to nubs, sitting in rusted holders.
A spirit board in the center.
“A seance room?” I whispered.
Damon nodded behind me. “My grandmother held one here. After Isobel died.”
A chill slipped down my spine. “Why?”
“She didn’t believe Isobel died naturally. Thought her spirit would linger if justice wasn’t served. They held one seance... and never returned.”
I moved slowly around the table, fingers brushing over the dust-covered board. The planchette sat untouched in the center.
“Did they contact her?”
Damon shook his head. “They tried. But something else answered.”
I looked at him sharply. “Something else?”
He stepped into the room, his tall frame casting distorted shadows on the walls. “After the seance, one woman went mad. Another went missing. My grandmother… she locked the room and said it must never be opened again.”
“Then why give me the key?”
“Because I’m starting to believe the only way to end this is to finish what they started.”
I turned toward him slowly. “You want to hold another seance.”
“I want answers. You deserve them. Emilia deserves peace. And Isobel… if she’s trapped, she needs to be released.”
The room felt heavier now. Like the house had heard him and disapproved.
But deep down, I knew he was right. This place wasn’t just haunted by memories. It was alive with something that didn’t want to let go.
---
That night, we prepared the room. Damon lit the candles with steady hands. I sat across from him at the table, my heart pounding as the flames flickered.
Emilia watched from the doorway. "I don’t like this game," she whispered.
“It’s not a game, sweetheart,” I said gently. “You don’t have to stay.”
She hesitated. “She won’t like it.”
“Who?”
“The one who lives behind the mirrors.”
My blood ran cold. Damon’s hand tightened around the edge of the table.
“Go to your room, Emilia,” he said.
She lingered for a heartbeat, then turned and walked away. Her footsteps faded, but her words clung to the air like a warning.
Damon placed the planchette in the center of the board. “Ready?”
I swallowed hard and nodded.
We both placed our fingers lightly on the planchette.
“If there’s a spirit present,” Damon began, his voice steady but quiet, “please make yourself known.”
Nothing happened.
We waited. The candle flames danced.
Then… the planchette moved.
I gasped.
It slid toward the letter Y.
Then E.
Then S.
My skin prickled with goosebumps.
“Is this Isobel?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
The planchette stilled.
Then moved to N.
Damon stiffened. “Who are you?”
The planchette circled for several seconds, before slowly, deliberately moving to M… then I… then R… R… O… R.
Mirror.
My heart thudded violently in my chest. I looked up and found the cracked wall-mounted mirror on the far end of the room, half-shrouded in a sheet.
A gust of wind suddenly blew out one of the candles.
Damon and I looked at each other.
“I think she’s watching,” I whispered.
A noise made us both jump—a soft thud, like someone had fallen. Then came the unmistakable sound of footsteps running upstairs.
“Emilia,” Damon said, standing abruptly.
We bolted from the room and raced up the stairs to her bedroom. The door was ajar.
Inside, she sat in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, crying.
“She’s mad at me,” she whimpered.
“Who, baby?” I knelt beside her.
“The lady in the mirror. I told you. She doesn’t like being seen.”
I looked at Damon. We needed help.
Not just spiritual help—but someone who knew this history better than us.
“Is there anyone,” I asked, “anyone who was here when the original seance happened?”
He hesitated. “There’s one. Helen Whitlow. She was the maid during that time. She moved to town after the house was abandoned. She might talk… if she’s still alive.”
---
The next day, Damon took Emilia to a nearby park while I drove into the neighboring town. I found Helen’s address listed under a local senior care facility. The place smelled like bleach and flowers. A nurse pointed me to a sunroom where an elderly woman sat in a rocking chair.
“Ms. Whitlow?”
She turned slowly. Her skin was creased with time, but her eyes were sharp.