11. LO #4
I seem to be the only other person in the room who feels that way—other than Stevie, who’s watching this all play out from next to me with an amused smirk.
Everyone else is staring at her with wide, attentive eyes, listening eagerly like every word Sunniva says is the most important thing ever uttered.
“We’re all on board with this?” she asks. Everyone sitting in the living room nods, and Nico approaches her with
“Paulina, would you like to speak to your son?”
Chills climb up my back. A woman looks at Sunniva like she can’t tell if this is a cruel joke or not. She stands up, her hands visibly shaking as she puts them to her mouth in disbelief.
“Right now?” she asks. She looks like she’s in her forties, her brown hair pulled back into a shiny ponytail.
She wears loose-fitting jeans and a shirt that’s practically falling off her thin frame.
It’s not until she reaches the front of the room and stands next to Sunniva that I can see the details of her face—the bags under her eyes, her sunken cheeks.
I recognize the grief that’s written all over her because I’ve been there. Some days, I’m still there.
Sunniva nods. She takes Paulina’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “He’s been asking for you.”
“And I can still see him next week, like we scheduled?”
“Of course. But if I can bring you two together again sooner, it’s my duty to offer that,” Sunniva says. There’s fake warmth in her voice.
“What the hell is going on?” Stevie whispers, leaning closer to me so I can hear her.
I shrug, unable to offer anything at all.
I might believe there’s a ghost in my house, but I’m a lot more skeptical that this woman somehow has the ability to speak to all of these people.
It’s almost definitely an elaborate scheme, the equivalent of a teenager pulling out an Ouija board and pretending the pieces are moving on their own.
Except this woman is charging what has to be an absurd amount of money per ‘session.’
Nico shuts the curtains, and the house goes almost completely dark in an instant, other than some lamps that have been left on.
Everyone is quiet as Sunniva delicately sets her things up at a small table—papers from the folder she grabbed upstairs, a candle, a small stone.
She sits down, and Paulina sits down across from her.
From here, we can see everything—neither Sunniva nor Paulina are shielding anything.
We have a perfect view into what they’re doing, which will make it easier to figure out how Sunniva has been fucking with everyone.
“First, we’re going to invite Bobby in,” Sunniva explains, looking out to the crowd of eight or so in the living room. They’re a captive audience—not one fidget, not one sound. She turns her attention to Paulina. “Do you have something of Bobby’s?”
“Always,” Paulina says in a soft, mousy voice. She grabs her purse, fumbling through the motions of grabbing something from inside. She pulls out a well-loved baseball, still green with grass. “Something told me to bring this in particular today. I’m glad I did.”
Sunniva smiles knowingly. I resist the urge to vomit.
Sunniva picks up a box of matches from the table and strikes one. She holds it over the candle until it lights and then shakes out the match, leaving the candle to burn. The candle has been clearly used before, dried wax stuck down the sides in frozen streams.
She closes her eyes, and Paulina does the same. Her mouth moves, but she doesn’t seem to be saying anything; it’s so quiet in the house we’d be able to hear her if she were.
She opens her eyes and turns back to her audience.
Her eyes travel over toward me and Stevie in the process.
The look in her eye is one of certainty and confidence, as if she knows I’ve been doubting her and she can’t wait to prove me wrong.
“Once we welcome Bobby, we’re going to ask him some questions.
He’ll use this stone right here to answer our questions.
We keep them strictly to yes or no, but sometimes, someone will speak to us. ”
Stevie and I glance at each other.
Bullshit , she mouths.
“Bobby, are you with us? Can you hear me?” Sunniva asks in her sickeningly sweet, fake therapist voice. “Can you blow the candle out for me, Bobby? Just like you’ve done before. Let us know you’re here.”
Of course, it would be a candle to signal the presence of a ghost—it’s the easiest thing to fake. A gentle breeze would be enough to convince someone that there’s some kind of paranormal presence in the room.
“Bobby? Baby? It’s mommy,” Paulina says. I can hear how tight her throat is and how hard she’s fighting off tears. My stomach knots.
Everyone—me and Stevie included—holds our breath, waiting to see if anything is going to happen. My eyes are carefully studying the scenery of the room for any kind of setup. Maybe a light, intentional breeze, maybe Nico will do something, maybe Sunniva has a way of getting the candle to blow out.
The fire at the tip of the candle suddenly begins to move, jumping left to right and then firmly to the left.
I reach out for Stevie’s hand. Even though I believe Sunniva is a bullshitter through and through, I’ve never seen fire behave like that unless there’s a breeze—and there’s no breeze in the house. Not even a draft is coming through the closed doors or windows.
Maybe sitting in on this was a really, really bad idea after all.
Paulina nods frantically. “Good job, Bobby. I’m here. Whenever you’re ready. I want to listen.”
A chill passes through me, and my shoulders shake as I violently shiver.
Then, the flame goes out.
I grip Stevie’s hand even harder, startled. I look around for an explanation, but I can’t see anything. Nico hasn’t moved, and there’s no air coming from any of the vents. There are no fans, no open windows.
“Bobby,” Paulina cries, relief evident in her voice. “Bobby. Hi, baby. I heard you’ve been missing me; I’ve been thinking about you, too. I saw your uncle for the first time since you died. He’s so, so sorry.”
Paulina is so caught up that she doesn’t even seem to realize that we’re all still here and listening to her. She’s only talking to Bobby.
“Do you have any questions for Bobby?” Sunniva asks.
“Um.” Paulina wipes away tears pooling in her eyes. “Bobby—do you remember Uncle James? They’re moving now, your aunt and uncle. They couldn’t handle living at the house anymore, not with the pool. It was too much.”
The pieces are starting to come together for me: Sunniva is silent the entire time and letting Paulina fill the space.
Paulina is certain she’s speaking to her dead son, but it’s probably just Sunniva setting her up to believe that.
It’s so simple but genius, in a terrible, evil kind of way.
Sunniva doesn’t have to do anything but make the people around her believe that it’s real.
“You can just move the stone to tell us, Bobby. We’re here,” Sunniva says. “Do you remember your aunt and uncle?”
The house is quiet, and some people even lean forward in their seats to get a better look at the table.
The stone moves the tiniest bit on the table, and I nearly jump a foot into the air.
When it starts moving across the table, far to the right, I duck the tiniest bit behind Stevie.
It’s like watching a horror movie play out in real time.
The deeper Sunniva and Paulina get into it, the more I want to cover my eyes and pretend it’s not happening.
“Good job, Bobby,” Sunniva says. “Thank you for letting us know you remember them.”
Paulina nods, her face still crumpled with tears. “Do you…do you forgive them? Do you forgive me?”
“He’s told us before he forgives you,” Sunniva says gently, placing a hand on Paulina’s forearm.
I study the table, desperate for any kind of explanation.
But the bottom of the table is exposed, so I’d know if Sunniva was somehow moving it from below.
And no one’s hands have gone anywhere near it.
And then, most obvious of all, a stone isn’t light enough to move with just a soft breeze.
There has to be physical force of some kind.
Paulina sobs into her hands. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been watching you better. You were so young. You couldn’t swim.”
The woman bawls, her bottom lip trembling so hard it looks like it’s vibrating. My eyes burn with tears, and I shake my head. I hate this. I hate watching what she’s doing to that poor woman. And I hate— hate —that I’m watching obvious exploitation of grief in real time. It’s all too much.
I can’t help it—I storm out of the house before I can even think twice. I yank the front door open, flooding the entryway with light, and blink away the sun. As I walk, I blink my eyes in an attempt to readjust to the light outside.
I have too many thoughts and feelings swirling around inside of me to make sense of any of it. I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t.
But mostly, I hate that it all felt real. Even though I logically refuse to believe Sunniva was actually communicating with a ghost child named Bobby, I can’t come up with an explanation to the contrary.
Stevie follows quickly behind me, unlocking the car from a distance. I throw myself dramatically into the passenger seat, crossing my arms. Stevie walks up calmly to the driver’s side door and opens it.
“Do you want to talk—“
“She’s evil! She’s literally evil!” I throw my hands up in the air.
“I agree, it’s fucked up.”
I’m seething—an emotion I rarely, if ever, experience.
Even when it comes to acting or the loss of my mom, I never hold onto a grudge.
I don’t let myself dwell on what ifs, don’t let myself get angry over losing out on a role, or how unfair it is that my mom got sick.
It’s part of life. Holding too tightly onto it all makes me feel like a balloon ready to burst, and I can’t do that to myself.