The Bewitching

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

“Spirits, might we seek your counsel?” Ginny asked. A loud knock reverberated across the room. We looked around, nervous. Then there came two knocks in quick succession. I gasped. Before any one of us could ask Ginny what was happening, the knocking had grown so violent it made the table vibrate. It was as if someone was punching the surface. I was not holding anyone’s hands anymore; I was pressing down on the table to keep it from being toppled. I thought the wood would splinter under my fingertips. “Ginny!” Mary Ann yelled. The knocking ceased. All was still and quiet. Ginny sat stiffly, palms pressed against the table. Her eyes were wide open. “You are in deadly peril, Virginia,” she said. The words were odd. They didn’t sound as if they came from her mouth. Her lips hardly moved, and the voice seemed to rise from her chest rather than her throat. These words were between a whisper and a croak, coarse and spoken with difficulty. It didn’t sound like Ginny at all. Somehow, during this whole mad ordeal, the candle had remained in place, burning bright. Ginny bent forward, her forehead almost touching the table, and the candle blew out.