Angie had always felt somewhat disconnected from the world. A walker through it, not of it, not in it. That was one of the reasons that, even though she liked witchcraft, she hated Wicca. All that gatekeeping, all that talk of "feeling like you'd come home". She'd never felt home anywhere.
Maybe that was why she liked old houses. Abandoned places. They weren't her home, but they weren't anyone's home. She'd developed a nice little side hustle with her Ouija- sorry, "spirit board". She'd set up in someone's house and see what she felt. Most of the time nothing, but occasionally there was a presence there that did make itself known.
It amused her to leave a house knowing that there was a ghost, or a spirit, or worse, living there and not doing anything about it. Not that she could. Exorcisms were *way* beyond her pay grade.
The House on Elton Street had been abandoned for as long as she could remember. A lot of wannabe urbex vloggers had tried to get into its depths, but every single one never made it past the kitchen. The second floor? The bedrooms? The backyard? No-one ever got that far before "they had to turn back". A good story, better if true.
Angie had no intention of going that far. She set up her Oui- her *Spirit board* and her candles in the front living room, not caring if anyone saw the flickering lights from the street. A bit of chalk, some herbs and flowers - she didn't have any real reason for why she used particular ingredients, sometimes it just *felt* right.
She nustled into her cushion and laid her hands on the planchette and exhaled.
"Hello? Is anyone there? I have a board if you want to talk to me."
She moved the planchette around idly, wondering if anything would...
Angie burst into laughter.
"Oh come on, you're not a demon. That shit may work on the easily fooled, but at least talk to me normally." She felt a soft tugging on the planchette.
She laughed again. She liked this ghost. They were funny.
"Oh, I like you." Her smile was enough to split her face open. "Are you a human?"
"Pleased to meet you Marco. I'm Angela. Angie for short."
"Y? You mean... why? Why am I here?"
"Um..." She pondered that. With ghosts you needed to be clear. Waffling could confuse them. 'Because I could' was an answer. 'Because I was bored' was valid too. Not satisfying for a ghost, especially one who seemed playful like Marco. He was probably lonely after however many Lance Preston wannabes broke into his house. ... That was the answer.
"Because talking to ghosts is more fun than being alone."
A little close to the bone, but accurate. She often wondered if ghosts had senses beyond the standard ones humans did. If along with sense of taste, smell, time and direction, they could sense truth.
Her hands floated the planchette across the board, not being drawn to any particular letter. Was he gone? Was he ever her- a tug towards... L
That... that shook Angie. She didn't like being called out by the ghost like that. Was it the ghost? Had she pushed the letters out herself? She felt a shiver up her spine and onto her shoulders. She didn't like that.
She felt as if the conversation was being wrenched from her hands. Time to change the subject. She shook the shiver off and asked;
Lived here. Not Home. He just lived here. She could relate.
"What happened to the Indian family that lived here last?" She'd done her research. The Chandala family had lived here over 20 years ago. The daughter had 'had bad dreams' but had refused to say anything about it. Later ended up in an institution for attempting self-harm.
They had tried to stay in the house, but the father lost his job for some reason and the mother apparently tried to go to his job in his clothes as if nothing had happened.
Before that, ownership records were less clear, but there were many, MANY stories in the years since.
Angie's hands pushed the planchette across the boards but felt no presence pulling them. But, she didn't feel alone. Something was in the room with her. It was dark and dusty and quiet, but something moved around her.
"Do you remember the family?"
So, he was still there. Maybe not wanting to answer. Maybe couldn't answer. Maybe he worried what she would think. Maybe he didn't want to risk pushing her away. She found a little comfort in that, like a little warmth at the base of her spine.
"Did you ... did you do anything to make them leave?"
"You accidentally drove them off?" She interrupted, wanting to save him writing it all out.
'Fascinating', she thought. Maybe he was trying to communicate but they didn't know how to respond. Unlike her. Maybe a pious Hindu family didn't have a patch on a socially isolated goth. That... that actually comforted her too. As if she was uniquely able to bridge the gap that they couldn't. The warm feeling grew a little.
What to ask next? She wanted to know more about this ghost, but spelling things out took time.
"What did you do to the people who came here with cameras?"
"You scared them off because they were fools?"
Angie smiled mischievously. Did she dare ask? A warm feeling tickled her belly. She hadn't had a cheeky ghost before and felt like her guard was down, but she was entertained enough.
Bello? What did that mean? Wait... Marco. Italian. Bello was.. well, Bella was beautiful, so maybe it was just the male word for it. Her breath caught a little in her chest. This was unlike any reading she'd done before.
"Beautiful? You think I'm beautiful?"
Angie pulled her hands back from the planchette. She suddenly became aware of her lips, they were dry. Her breath was short. She licked her lips and blinked. Was... was she being hit on by a ghost? No. No, that was impossible. She looked at her hands. She thought they were fat stubby things, not dainty for piano lessons and needlepoint. She stretched them, as if trying to convince herself her subconscious was playing tricks on her. She turned her hands over and looked at their backs... and felt... something.
As if she needed to put her hands back on the planchette. She did and asked,
"Are you here with me Marco?"
"Are... are you touching me?"
A pause. The planchette drifted. No specific message. Warmth tickled her lower back, her stomach. Butterflies in her belly. Bello. He said she was Bello. No-one said that to her. The warmth crept up, like a reassuring hand on her back. Maybe there was.
She smiled. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine him. Older. He seemed older. Italian. 50s or 60s. A silver fox. Charming. A real pull-the-seat-out and open-the-door-for-you. Smoked cigarettes with a meal and cigars on special occasions. Grease in the hair and bet on the greyhounds.
She grinned and breathlessly laughed. She could see him. Dancing all night, and charming the pants off the ladies. And oh the ladies loved him...
Her eyes flicked open and she looked around. The most sordid images had crossed her eyelids and she didn't know what to think. For a moment, she'd almost felt like she was the charming man. Dancing with the ladies, and then afterwards. She looked down at her lap. No. Nothing male there.
It was a room. Just a room. A normal room. She was just pushing a pointer on a board.
"Marco... what do you want?"
Angie laid her hands on the planchette and closed her eyes again. A heavy warmth settled lower now, between her legs. It was... not unpleasant. But unfamiliar. Her breathing was heavy now as she opened her eyes and looked at the board.
Time. He wanted time. Time for what? For living? She felt a presence behind her. Something close, but considerate. Not someone who would willingly hurt an innocent family. Someone who missed what he had and wanted it back. But he couldn't have it, could he? He was in this place he lived in, not his home. He didn't belong.
They weren't unlike in that way. That was a comforting thought. It filled her heart with a warm feeling, being able to connect with a ghost like this. Feeling him behind her. His hands on hers. Pushing the planchette with her.
Wait... that... Angie stopped. Those thoughts hadn't felt like hers. He couldn't be... no... that wasn't like him. He was a gentleman. He wouldn't give someone bad dreams. Her hands on the planchette. He couldn't. He wasn't.
She could feel him standing behind her, caring, close. Close like she hadn't let anyone be before. She could trust him. He was funny. He didn't like the vloggers.She didn't like the bloggers. She could trust him. Warmth curled up around her spine. She felt safe here.
Fingers on the planchette.
Pushing, drifting, half hers, half his. Almost moving it as one.
Name? His name was Marco. Was he asking hers? Had he forgotten?
She pushed the letters,one by one.
Warmth crept up to her neck and into her head, and her fingers pushed the pointer to:
Of course. It made sense. All that time feeling disconnected. Angela had never been real. Just a man who had the wrong body.
Maybe that poor girl had been the same, but hadn't been able to understand. Angelo wiped his lipstick off with his sturdy masculine hand. Whatever had been in this place, if it ever had, was now within him. And he had a long future of dancing ahead of him.
