51. Attempting to Summon

Alvin glanced out the window. Unbeknownst to him, the torrential rain had stopped, and the sky was as clear as a pool of spring water, washing away the sorrow and confusion from his heart.

“Do you still think Panon killed Alexander now?” he asked.

“Not sure,” Dean replied, taking a sip of cola to soothe his throat. “In your story, Panon didn’t show any signs of violence—nothing related to the occult, either. But you haven’t seen him in twenty-eight years. Time changes everything.”

“So how do we find him? Any leads?” Alvin pressed. “If you two help me find Panon, I’ll go back and testify.”

Holden thought for a moment. “The chance of finding Panon directly is almost zero. We’ll have to start with Alexander. There must be some connection between them—logic says they would have had private contact in the past. So I plan to visit Alexander’s old house, where his family still lives, to look for evidence or clues.”

“You’ve checked out Alexander’s family?” Dean asked.

“I have. He has a son living in Sparks County, Nevada. But he’s just a regular guy, not involved in the psychic world.”

“Will that work?” Alvin asked.

“No guarantees, buddy,” Holden replied helplessly. “Both these cases are old—cold cases, really. The odds of cracking them are slim. We’ll need a lot of luck to get to the truth.”

“But I can’t wait,” Alvin said, clenching his fists.

Dean glanced at the system progress. After listening to Alvin’s account, the investigation had reached forty percent. With only half the allotted time left, he too couldn’t afford to wait. A slow, by-the-book investigation like a cop’s wasn’t his style—he needed a shortcut.

“Holden, why go the long way? Even the IRS can’t find Panon—your scientific methods might not work here. Alexander died a gruesome death in this very house. Why don’t we cut through all the complications and summon Alexander’s ghost directly with the spirit board? We could get information about Panon straight from him!”

Dean took the spirit board from the wooden box and placed it on the table. “Let’s hold a séance!”

A cold wind howled through the window, slapping their faces. Outside, the cawing of crows could be faintly heard.

“I never realized you were so superstitious when you told those ridiculous stories before,” Holden said, shaking his head in disappointment. “It’s not Halloween, and I don’t have time to play ghost games with you.”

“And I never realized you were so stubborn,” Dean said with equal disappointment, staring at Holden. “I thought you were different from the average FBI or cop, open to new ideas—that’s why I agreed to work with you.”

Holden raised an eyebrow, tugged at his black tie, and forced a smile. “Fine, let’s give it a try. But I’m ready to watch you be shocked and disappointed—another lesson for you: trust in science, don’t be fooled by mysterious nonsense. Alvin, what do you think?”

Alvin took a deep breath and nodded.

...

Necromancy is a profound art. The three of them knew little about it, so they bought some candles and a Halloween spirit board manual for teenagers from a nearby supermarket. Dean and Alvin shut all the windows and drew the curtains, making sure not a ray of natural light could enter. The hall was as dark as a tomb.

They lit candles, placing them at the four corners of the coffee table, surrounding the spirit board—Ouija board at the bottom, planchette on top. The flickering candlelight illuminated the letters and numbers on the board, but three or four meters away, darkness reigned.

Half of each man’s face was bathed in a warm glow, the other half lost in shadow. From Dean’s angle, Holden and Alvin, sitting across from him on the sofa, seemed to be grinning with eerie, twisted smiles.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” Dean asked. “Two Blood Brotherhood killers died in this house just days ago. Their ghosts might hate us.”

“What are you trying to prove?” Holden shook his head. “If such unscientific things really existed, we’d just catch them and hand them over to the authorities.”

“Shall we begin?” Alvin asked impatiently, flipping open the manual and reading aloud, “Each person, one finger—any finger—placed lightly on the teardrop-shaped planchette.”

All three did as instructed.

“Now I’ll push the planchette around the board in a circle. Don’t press down yet,” Dean said, moving it smoothly over the board. The feeling was odd—it was like wiping down a corpse, he thought.

“Now Holden’s turn.” “Dean.” “OK.”

“Now we begin the summoning.” Alvin was nervous, his face pale, his fingers trembling as they rested on the board. He took a deep breath, stared into the void, and spoke clearly:

“Friends gathered, hearts sincere.
Let the spirit draw near, we summon thee here.
Alexander Raphael, revered master of the spirit world,
I, Alvin Garcia, beg you to appear and guide me.”

Alvin’s raspy voice echoed through the hall. Their fingers pressed tightly on the planchette, but unconsciously, their necks twisted, their eyes darting around, hoping to catch a glimpse of something supernatural.

Though the windows were shut, a chill wind swept through the darkness, like a corpse climbing from its grave, breathing cold, fetid air down their necks, making Dean shudder. The candle flames flickered, and their shadows on the wall stretched and tensed, as if an invisible creature were tearing at them.

At the same time, Dean felt a subtle sense of spatial distortion.

In the silent, black space, a pair of eyes appeared, lurking by the doorframe, tugging at their shadows, peeking at them from behind a veil, watching their every move. It licked its lips, tongue flicking, saliva dripping.

Dean’s scalp tingled; he held his breath.

Suddenly, the wind vanished. Some force yanked the presence away. The shadows on the wall returned to normal. The crushing pressure above Dean’s head disappeared, and the room fell utterly silent.

Dean relaxed, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. The others exhaled with relief.

Half a minute passed. The spirit board remained still—no ghostly force moved the planchette to spell out words.

“Master Alexander, are you in this house? Please give us a sign,” Alvin called, unwilling to give up. “If you appear and tell me where Panon is, I swear I’ll find your killer!”

No response. The spirit board and planchette were as still as stone.

A soft chuckle echoed in the darkness.

Holden crossed his arms and looked at Dean. “I’m not surprised at all. The public and the media have exposed hundreds of so-called séances—they’re all tricks. Dean, you’re still too young, too prone to leaps of imagination, confusing suggestion with reality, believing in rumors.”

“Don’t be so hasty, Alvin. Try summoning Panon,” Dean said calmly.

“Panon’s just missing—how could we summon his ghost?” Alvin protested.

“I know. Just try.”

“You still won’t give up?”

...

They took turns reciting the ritual prayers, trying to summon Alexander and Panon. But there was no response from any spirit.

...

“Are you satisfied now? Time to give up and get back on track,” Holden said, watching the pensive Dean. He strode to the window, pulled back the curtain to let the light dispel the gloom, then blew out the candles.

“I told you, séances are a waste of time. Better to spend it driving with me to Sparks County.”

...

“This planchette definitely holds a strange power,” Dean muttered, holding the teardrop-shaped planchette up to his eyes. He could still sense the fear and yearning the “shadow” had conveyed. He mused aloud, “The failure of the séance was our fault.”

“Our fault?” Alvin frowned. “What are you thinking now?”

“One possibility: none of us has any psychic ability, so we can’t summon a ghost. The other possibility: the Halloween manual’s instructions are seriously flawed—some crucial step or ingredient is wrong or missing.”

Dean turned to the exasperated Holden. “We need to consult an experienced medium—someone who knew Alexander Raphael, if possible. You’ll have to use your contacts.”

Holden was silent.

Dean stood up, resolve shining in his eyes. “Visiting an expert is necessary. First, we can learn more about Alexander’s personal life. Second, we can get a real, detailed séance ritual, and maybe figure out what Alexander did in the attic. His actions might be linked to Panon. I’m not doing this just for a Halloween ghost game.”

Holden circled the hall, scrutinizing Dean’s face. “I brought you on to assist me, but now you’re ordering me around like an assistant. What gives you this kind of confidence?”

What gave him that confidence? Dean reflected. Ever since he’d awakened his powers, he’d been bound to the supernatural. Now, he felt he was on the verge of uncovering a hidden truth beneath the world’s surface—he couldn’t turn back.

“It’s not an order, man—it’s a partner’s request,” Dean said earnestly. “And I’m a rookie. I need your help.”

Holden ran a hand through his black hair in exasperation. “Lucky for you it’s me. Anyone else at the FBI would’ve sent you back to Vegas to spend your days patrolling in a car.”

“OK, I accept your criticism,” Dean nodded. “So, the expert?”

“Because you’ve got potential, I’ll use my connections to find you an expert as soon as possible. There’ll be news tomorrow,” Holden said decisively. “But this time we split up. I’ll go to Sparks County and check Alexander’s old house. You two look for the medium.”

...