Am I going to have more luck than with the Ouija board? Of course not, but I feel like this is more my style. When I’m writing some of my best stuff, I feel like I’m in a trance and the writing is coming from somewhere else. It sounds strange, I know, but I’m willing to give it a shot.

I take the pencil in my right hand and touch it to the paper. I start making scribbles and long loops. There’s no pattern, no rhyme or reason to it. I try to let my mind wander. Wait, or should I concentrate? No. I think it’s wander. Just relax. I close my eyes and allow my hand to roam across the large sheet of paper. I don’t know how long I’m supposed to allow this to go on. From time to time, I’ll catch myself intentionally drawing loops and then have to tell myself not to plan or attempt to force anything. The pencil continues to hiss across the paper.

I finally open my eyes.

The paper is covered in scribbles, swirls, and loops. The side of my hand is coated in graphite. Tossing the paper aside, I start again on a clean sheet. Deep breaths. I let my hand flow. Closing my eyes might be a bad idea. I can’t tell if I’m becoming ultra-zen-like or if I’m falling asleep.

Without opening my eyes, I swipe the second scribbled-covered sheet of paper from the top and start on the next one. The sound of the pencil moving across the paper and the flowing movement is hypnotic. I try visualizing the room while keeping my eyes closed.

I twitch.

Not because some spirit has seized hold of me, but because for a brief second, I did fall asleep. Can’t do that again. The last thing I want is to fall asleep on this couch in this house, alone.

I open my eyes just a bit, but I can’t open them more than that, even though I’m trying really hard. This feels weird and my eyes refuse to open further. The pencil is still moving but it’s miles away. It suddenly feels like I’m locked inside my own body, that I’m being shut out from my own senses.

I’m panicked but I’m not.

The room is different.

It’s the living room of the Nightingale House but there are lamps mounted to the wall. The couch is firmer. It’s not a couch. It’s a chair with a straight, high back. All the furniture is different. This isn’t my living room.

It is my living room.

It’s my living room. My chair. My house.

I can see the paper in my lap, gleaming, white, pristine. The pencil is in my hand. The point is so sharp.

A thought fills my mind with a pleasant warmth.