Page 96 of Tempest

Y can be read through the circular window in the planchette. I whip my fingers off that plastic faster than I thought possible.

“Clover, did you move—?”

Our triangle of candles is snuffed out.

“Clover. This isn’t funny!”

“It’s not me!” she says through the darkness.

I can’t see her. Without the candles, I can’t see anything. Belatedly, I feel for my phone, trying to remember where I left it.

A bang reverberates beneath my feet. A hollowed-out, torturous wail follows, high-pitched and mirroring the one I heard when stumbling through the forest.

“Clover, stop this now. I’m not kidding.”

“I swear it isn’t me!”

There’s a tickle at the back of my neck, morphing into a bone-deep chill as it travels down my spine in a playful staccato. Something is using my spinal cord as their piano.

“Clover!”

“What’s happening? Are you okay?”

A small flame illuminates the table between us and parts of Clover’s face. She’s lit one candle. We face each other across the board, catching our breath.

She doesn’t see the shadows take shape above her head, forming into shoulders, into arms, and then into black, elongated talons darting for her neck.

“Clover.” Her name comes out as a croak.

Clover’s eyes widen. “What?”

“B-“ My voice hovers above a whisper. “Behind you.”

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