Alexander Raphael
Red Maple Avenue.
The setting sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky with a layer of orange-red twilight. Dusk enfolded the empty long street and the rows of two-story houses along its sides.
In front of house 369,
Dean and Alvin moved back and forth, hauling supplies from the car into the living room:
A dozen three-liter barrels of gasoline, a heap of ignition devices, two sets of deep blue cotton coats, a fully charged powerful searchlight, a high-powered tape recorder with an amplifier, and a disco tape that promised to stir their blood.
There were also four toy water guns, but this time, their ammo was gasoline instead of water.
A box of tracer rounds, loaded into the M1911A1—just one was enough to ignite a gasoline barrel, far more efficient than .45 ACP.
All told, the expense amounted to over seven hundred dollars.
Finally, the two carefully inspected the candles, incense burner, and sage needed for the ritual, then donned their thick cotton coats.
…
“Dean, shouldn’t we wait for Holden to join us?” Alvin asked, carrying a barrel of gasoline as he poured a pale yellow circle along the edge of the living room.
“That guy’s not interested in our ‘Halloween party.’ We won’t wait for him,” Dean replied, drawing a circle around the kitchen with another barrel. “Are you mentally prepared?”
“If the séance succeeds in summoning Alexander’s ghost, it might attack us.”
Alvin’s tense face relaxed as he ran a hand through his oily, medium-length hair, grinning to reveal yellow teeth.
“I haven’t got many days left anyway. If I meet God a bit earlier, so be it.”
“You’re so young—you haven’t gone to college, married, or had children. There’s no need to risk your life for an old man like me.”
Dean’s body stiffened beneath his thick coat at these words, and two voices arose within him.
Reason urged him to turn and flee—to escape the dreadful spirit.
But something deeper compelled him onward.
Things had reached this point; the investigation was sixty percent complete, and they had prepared everything to face the ghost.
If he still shrank from every risk, lacking even a shred of courage, he might as well resign himself to being an ordinary man.
“I’ve made my decision.”
“Buddy, if I make it through tonight, I swear I’ll return to Compton at once and help you testify against the Blood Gang’s scum.”
“Don’t talk about ‘if.’ I’ll do my best to keep everyone alive.”
Soon, the two poured gasoline circles in every room on both floors and distributed the remaining dozen barrels in every corner.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of gasoline.
One match thrown into the gasoline could spark a fire that would turn the wooden house into a sea of flames, reducing everyone—living or ghost—to ashes!
The entire house became a trap, purpose-built for the spirit.
Dean nodded in satisfaction, loaded the tape into the recorder for a test, and as the lively, rhythmic melody of the disco classic “Polama Blanca” filled the air, he took a deep breath and extended his hand to Alvin.
A young, strong, slender hand met an old, calloused one, rough and lifeless.
They clasped tightly.
“Tonight, let's fight side by side!”
“Let’s rehearse a few times.”
…
Time slipped swiftly by.
Night fell, and the moon rose.
Dean and Alvin drew the curtains, shut the windows and doors, letting darkness envelop the living room.
They approached the coffee table where the spirit board lay.
A row of candles was lit, the incense burner’s sage smoldered, its smoke curling endlessly, stretching long in the candlelight.
The delicate fragrance unconsciously relaxed their bodies.
Dean turned again to check both sides: torch, recorder, searchlight—all placed beneath the sofa and table, within easy reach.
His Colt, loaded with tracer rounds, nestled in the shoulder holster beneath his asbestos coat.
A gasoline-filled water gun was tucked into his waistband, and several lighters lay in his pocket.
Everything was ready.
Dean stood, placing the spirit board between his and Alvin’s knees.
Then, with his right hand, he grasped the tear-shaped planchette, its sharp tip lightly dragging across his left index finger, opening a slender cut that bled.
He held his bloody finger over the board, letting the drops stain the letters.
The shadow on the wall simultaneously extended its right hand, like a black-robed figure in a mysterious ritual.
In ten seconds, the sandalwood spirit board absorbed the blood, and the once-ash-gray letters began to glow faintly red.
Dean gritted his teeth, pressing his wounded finger and the planchette onto the board.
Alvin did the same.
Both took deep breaths, relaxed, and cleared their minds.
They slowly moved the planchette in circles around the board.
Amid the rhythmic, gentle buzzing,
Dean’s voice sounded.
“Friends gather, hearts are sincere.”
“Souls draw near—we summon you.”
The planchette spun and buzzed.
Dean’s measured voice echoed in the closed hall,
“I now begin the divination. May the benevolent spirit lingering in this house heed my words.”
“Honored elder, Alexander Raphael, is your soul near us?”
The planchette spun and spun.
Dean and Alvin listened intently.
Whoosh—
Suddenly, a cold wind blew from the planchette, scattering the candle and sage smoke.
Both sat upright as if electrified.
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A strange force pushed against their fingers, pinning the planchette in place.
A tingling chill climbed from the contact point up their hands and arms, as if icy fingers crawled along their skin.
The sensation jolted both, who instinctively eased their grip, letting the planchette rest.
Something had arrived!
A wild force surged from the darkness, speeding the planchette faster than they could push it.
Spattered with blood, it darted dizzyingly among the letters and numbers.
After five seconds, it stopped on a word—
“YES.”
Dean licked his dry lips, his heart pounding in his throat, and switched to “God’s Eye” perspective.
But the 360-degree vision revealed only dim emptiness in the living room.
He couldn’t locate the ghost.
It proved that, apart from “Shadow,” Dean couldn’t see the other spirits.
Meanwhile, a flush of excitement appeared on Alvin’s wrinkled face as he winked at his companion.
Onward!
“Master Alexander, may I ask you a few questions?”
Buzz—
The planchette skimmed several letters:
I, n, t, e, r, e, s, t, i, n, g
Interesting?
“Interesting.”
Dean raised an eyebrow—what did that mean? Would he allow it?
But before he could speak,
Alvin blurted,
“Do you—do you know Pannon Garcia?”
Buzz—
The planchette moved.
“Yes.”
“Do you know where he is?”
…
Buzz—
The planchette fluttered like a mischievous butterfly, taking its time.
“He’s standing right beside me.”
The answer caught Alvin off guard; he instinctively looked around.
There was not even a ghostly shadow—let alone a living person.
But in the next second, realization struck him like lightning, leaving him slack-jawed.
Pannon was standing near the ghost Alexander, yet they couldn’t see him. There was only one possibility—Pannon, like Alexander, had become an invisible spirit!
“No, no!”
Alvin’s eyes reddened, clutching his chest and breathing heavily.
“How could Pannon be dead? He’s just missing!”
“He’s missing!”
Buzz—
The planchette moved.
“He’s dead.”
The cold retort made Alvin release the planchette, slumping onto the sofa like a soulless husk, his face ashen.
Dean watched his grieving companion quietly, unsurprised.
How could the living repeatedly visit a relative’s dreams?
“Master Alexander, can you make Pannon appear? Let us see him?”
Dean asked the empty darkness.
Whoosh—
A chilling wind circled the back of his neck, as if weighing its options.
But it quickly returned to the planchette.
“Next question.”
What did that mean? Refusal?
Repeatedly brushed off, Dean felt a deep unease—the ghost of Alexander was like a cat lurking in the shadows, savoring their fear.
Alvin’s lips trembled; he placed his fingers back on the planchette and asked another question.
“How did Pannon die?”
“Buzz…”
The blood-red planchette moved so fast it was a blur, whipping up a gale from the dark corners that tossed their hair and clothes, nearly closing their eyes.
The curtains billowed like kites.
A cluster of white candles by the table was blown into the air, slamming against the wall and extinguishing.
The room dimmed.
A hoarse, aged, rasping voice suddenly sounded,
“For the sake of the great experiment, I killed Pannon!”
I killed Pannon!
The words echoed as if enchanted, reverberating through the living room.
Dust swirled, numbing their eardrums.
Alexander killed Pannon?
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Dean’s mind flashed to Marlene Daly’s words:
“Alexander was always improving the séance, trying to control spirits.”
To think he would target an autistic patient.
This was no benevolent medium—this was a mad, inhuman demon!
Let me see your true face!
Dean gritted his teeth, raised the planchette to his left eye, and peered through the glass.
The darkness, thick as blood, outlined two figures.
Both wore black robes, standing side by side behind the sofa.
They were less than five meters away!
The left figure was shrouded in black, face hidden.
But the right, an old man, held his withered, claw-like hands with long, jagged nails before his chest. His face, exposed beyond the robe, was pallid as a corpse.
His features were twisted, his two eyes black as night bulged grotesquely, and his gaping mouth was filled with jagged black teeth.
His wild white hair bristled like steel needles.
He no longer resembled the spirited man in the photograph, but radiated madness and chilling malice.
A constant aura of dread and disgust emanated from him.
He seemed to sense the gaze—his jet-black eyes bulged like a chameleon’s, turning toward Dean.
As their eyes met, Dean felt as if struck hard on the head; darkness clouded his vision, his temples throbbed, and blood spurted from his nose.
“You killed Pannon? You murdered my only kin, hid his corpse, and made it look like he simply disappeared?”
Alvin’s icy voice pulled Dean back to focus. Alvin reached for a torch,
Lit it.
Flames rose.
The flickering light illuminated the space and Alvin’s pale, resolute face.
“Then, two years ago, who took care of you—the demon—turning you into a ghost?”
“Who killed me?”
“Heh heh!”
A sharp, bizarre laughter filled the air, and the whole house trembled as if in an earthquake. Dust and wood chips rained from the ceiling.
“Who?!”
The floor writhed like angry waves, the two swaying as if on surfboards.
“I’d like to know too—who killed me? I must thank them properly for freeing me from my frail, sickly, pathetic flesh and letting me embrace eternity!”
His black gaze shifted to them, malice so dense it seemed tangible.
“Come, you two—join us. Escape the prison of flesh and embrace immortality!”
Mad, sobbing laughter echoed in the living room.
A cold wind rushed forth!
Dean swiftly switched on the searchlight, its beam piercing the darkness at the source of the voice.
The light was so intense that, hiding behind the lamp, they were blinded to tears, but the evil gale instantly ceased.
Dean endured the discomfort, then quickly turned on the tape recorder with his left hand.
Music began to play—
When sunlight shines on the hills
Night quietly slips away
It’s a brand new day
It’s a brand new day
The lively, energetic melody was like sunlight, instantly dispelling the gloom and terror in the room.
The bright singing carried through the windows to the silent street.
In an instant, the house stopped shaking.
The old ghost’s sinister laughter vanished.
It was as though they had gone from a ghostly, pitch-dark cemetery to a joyful dance party.
It worked!
Noise really could weaken spirits!
Dean and torch-wielding Alvin exchanged a glance.
They raised the planchette’s lens again, peering into the void. In the next second,
Dean’s eyes widened!
Alexander’s pale, decayed face, webbed with black veins, was suddenly right before his nose—
He grinned, revealing black teeth, his mouth stretched to his ears like a bottomless pit!
Ah!
Ah!
Ah!
Hysterical screams echoed!
Glass windows, cabinet cups, plates—all exploded into shards.
Invisible sound waves swept the air, and Dean felt as though he’d been hammered in the chest, sent flying to crash into the wooden wall.
He slid down like mud.
“Dean!”
Alvin shouted in terror, pouring gasoline wildly onto the floor with his left hand, while his right brandished the torch.
Bang!
An invisible force knocked the torch from his hand, sending it skidding across the floor, still burning.
Then a shadow seized him from behind.
With a cry, Alvin was dragged like a rag doll, lifted and whisked away into the darkness upstairs.
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