I glanced around and noticed, for the first time, a family crest, carved from wood on the wall right above us. It was close enough for a person, a real person, to reach down and touch the board. Something about knowing the exact location, right next to us, put me on edge.

“Will, can you tell us what year you died?”

1–9–7–4

“Fuck,” Alex said. “That’s the same year as the last one.”

“How old were you, Will?”

2–2

“Why the hell were they so young?”

“Will, can you tell us how you died?”

“No.”

“Okay, you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to. What would you like to tell us?”

The pointer swam around the board, running over all the letters, pausing briefly at “A” and then “Z.”

“A. Z.,” we chanted out loud, reading the dictation. “A. Z. A. Z. A. Z.”

“Does that mean anything to you?” Lonnie asked.

“Maybe he doesn’t know what to say,” I ventured.

A-Z-A-Z-A-Z

It was moving fast, and my fingers were hardly on it at all. Alex visibly lifted his hands up, but it kept going.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” he said.

The planchette stopped. We took our hands away too. “Don’t you want to find out what Will wants to tell us?” Lonnie looked at us.

“It’s just nonsense and numbers. We’re not finding out anything.” Alex waved his hands around, his eyes narrowed at me, as if any of this had been my idea. “You think we can actually do something? You pull this game board out like, what, what do you think is gonna happen? You think this is important somehow? You think the ghost is gonna have you solve some little mystery like you’re Nancy Drew or something? You think these are real people?”

I was crying—sudden big embarrassing tears. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried. I’d gone all those weeks starving to the point of pain and hadn’t even cried then. Why now? Why over some stupid game? I hated Alex, hated how his obvious fear was coming out as anger at us. I hated the way he felt he had the right to control the room—the right to call it quits whenever he wanted. I also hated the fact that he was right—we could move this pointer around all night, but what did it matter? What the hell did AZ mean?

“Oh my God,” Lonnie said, noticing my tears. “Elle—Lonnie.”

She’d given us away, and was laughing at the mistake, but Alex didn’t even seem to notice; he was all worked up, his face red, distracted by himself. “Even if they are real people, or were—you think you actually matter at all to them?”

“Fine,” Lonnie said, annoyed now, her voice tightening up, “Fine, stop playing, nobody said you had to play.”