January 08, 1961 - 12:23 pm
I slept for fourteen hours, interspersed with nightmares. But how long had it been since I'd slept for so long? Possibly since I was a teenager. It's as if my body's energy needed recharging. My leg still hurts, but I think I've got used to it. The time-travel sickness has faded too: all that's left is a nagging headache. It took me a while to remember where I was. When I was. And now, as I finally open my eyes in the rays of light filtering through the gaps between the window planks, I can finally behold the place where I took refuge last night, in haste.
It's a humble house. A small kitchen inside a square living room with an old sofa, a single bedroom with a shower room and toilet. The furniture is from the forties, and it's covered in dust. The place is carefully walled off to repel people like me. Clearly, I wouldn't have been able to enter if I hadn't teleported in, and no one will probably know I'm there. There's no running water or electricity. All of that was certainly cut off long ago. Nevertheless, I use the toilets: it's something often left out of the story, but it's part of reality. I notice that the mattress was that of a single bed: someone used to live here alone.
In the living room, I let my eyes wander. There are horticultural books in the shaky bookcases, chipped crockery including a single mug, and a pretty black-handled leather satchel. And most of all... numerous pots of houseplants and flowers, withered long ago. In the dim light streaming in, I stand for a moment on the dust of what was once a carpet, contemplating the story told to me by the objects. Tiny air dusts dance in the clear rays, and my stomach rumbles: I haven't eaten anything since the popcorn and bad hot dog from the 2019 bowling alley.
So I try to make myself look decent. My jeans are beyond repair, but I make cuffs under both my knees, to at least hide the fact they're torn. I find a toothless comb, which allows me to untangle my hair a little, and I zip up my perfecto: that way, the zeppelin won't raise any more questions. I adjust my bowling shoes and take a deep breath, as if I'm about to enter the fray.
"Brace yourself, Rin," I say to myself.
And *Crack !*
So here I am outside, in this residential street now bathed in the Texas January sun. There are a few houses, low-rise buildings and the smell of roasted corn. The air is calm, and you can hear the humming of the nearby shopping avenue. It's an outlying district of Dallas, far from the picture you'd expect.
I reach into my pockets and find a dollar bill. Certainly the equivalent of twelve or thirteen, in the purchasing power of my own era. It's stamped "series 2017": I hope the person I'll be giving it to won't look at it too closely. But I soon realize that's not my main problem. At Stadler's, the only restaurant in the area, I could have eaten a whole menu in exchange for this bill. But I spot a rectangular sign claiming 'White only', and I renounce pushing the door open. I pass on my way, shoving back my hands into my pockets.
Being 'mixed race', as they say, I've already attracted curious looks in more clement times. Because depending on the angle, on the way I tie my hair up or not, on a make-up line that changes everything, I disturb the senses, and people don't really know where I come from anymore. Back in my platinum-blond days, no-one could figure it out. But one thing's for sure: I'm not going to risk being thrown out now.
I opt for a small local grocery store, run by an old man, almost blind anyway. First, I buy a drink, because I can't take it anymore. A soda for 10 cents and an apple for 2, can you believe it? Anything that fizzes and refreshes is called a 'coke', here. I buy a few slices of Kraft brand sandwich bread for another 20 cents, the first of which I share with a street pigeon. The rest of my change is spent on Bayer aspirin. And here I am, as broke as a church mouse, but a little fuller at least.
I hang around the movie theater, resisting the temptation to turn invisible to get in. I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn't do this anymore, even if I feel my resolutions are a little eroded today. I cross the street, to the alley where I arrived last night. The garbage cans have been collected, the brick walls are still the same. There's no sign of another arrival.
Sighing, I decide to wait a little, just in case the others do the same. I lean against the wall, and end up crouching, while time ticks away. An hour passes, maybe two, maybe three. I begin to realize that no one will come. And just as I'm dozing off, I hear Mark's hoarse voice draw me back to consciousness.
"Hey, Zeppelin kiddo, you were supposed to find yourself another spot".
He looks drunk, so I don't think his lecture will last very long. When Klaus gets to this point, he's usually about to stop talking at last. This thought makes me sad, and I don't retort anything.
"Besides - yesterday - I 'might could' have seen you..."
"What?"
"I saw you disappear into old man Wilson's shack."
I just stare at him. He seems more interested in the fact that I went in, than in the fact that he saw me teleport: he must be used to seeing double, or even hallucinating.
"I needed a place to sleep".
"The neighbors don't like squatters. And 'people like you'. In ten years they've had a whole bunch of them evicted, and they finally got the place walled off. 'Fizyu', I wouldn't hang around there..."
He returns to slouch against the bank wall.
"Besides, everybody knows it's haunted."
"What did you say?"
Mark lifts his brown-paper-wrapped bottle.
"Yeah, they threw them out by the scruff of the arse, those buggers. They don't like idlers like you and me, who-"
"No, what did you say next?"
He grumbles, shaking his head, as if my understanding was really limited.
"Say, you've got the engine runnin' but ain't nobody driving, girl".
It's the pot calling the kettle black: he's himself sinking into Jim Beam whiskey. I get up and take a painful step in his direction.
"Say it again!"
"Ah I don't know! Now let me snooze."
"Haunted. You said it's haunted."
He rolls his cloudy eyes and gestures to remove my hand from his collar, which I've grabbed unwillingly.
"It is. You're goin' to calm down, kiddo".
He lies down on his piece of cardboard, facing the wall and giving me one last texan 'Assit'! And within a second, he starts snoring.
I stand motionless over him, blinking three times. I leave him the rest of my bread and half my coke, because I think he's earned it. Without even hobbling that much anymore, I turn the corner of the alley where I first appeared, I walk along the storefront of 'Rosati and sons Swap', I face the window where I almost cried last night. There, behind the glass, amidst a jumble of second-hand items... the Ouija board seems to have been waiting for me. I stare at it. I look at the door, I clench my fists in my empty pocket. I had promised myself I'd never do this again, never. But I'm out of money, out of everything and everyone. I close my eyelids for a long moment, then reopen my dark eyes, probably with an overly determined look.
*Crack!*
No one will ever know how this odd spiritism object managed to fly away.
Sitting over the dusty coffee table, I stare at the black letters carved in the worn wood of the Ouija board, the little teardrop-shaped planchette resting on top. I stare at the alphabet, the numbers. 'Yes', 'No', 'Hello', 'Goodbye'. A sun and a black crescent moon, as if I needed to recall that.
I've never held a seance with such a board. As you can imagine, until recently, I'd had my fill of ghosts. However, I know that I'm not supposed to do this alone, nor to do it if weakened. That I should clean this place up and air it out. I objectively don't meet any conditions, apart from having a dim light and a strong will. Honestly? Right now, I don't give a damn about risking being possessed by an evil spirit haunting me for ten years. Let's lure one in, first, then we can talk.
I look around me: at the shelves, the books, the old crockery and the faded flowerpots. The 'old Wilson', Mark said, eh? My index and middle fingers settle on the planchette. And after a long breath... I slide it all the way to 'Hello', keeping my touch light.
"Hey, Wilson," I say in a way that's certainly not ceremonious enough.
I feel a bit stupid for a second. As if I had no right to do this. As if I'm just going to talk to the dust, and end up stupid and alone, in the middle of my gloomy squat. I sigh. I have to force myself to do this the right way. And maybe I've got an advantage on my side, because I can feel energy. I close my eyes, scanning everything in the room. The potential energy of elevated objects, the energy they would convert if they happened to fall. The one nestled in the heart of matter, even in the core of dead plants. I breathe quietly, letting my environment resonate with me. And then I say, a little more politely:
"Mr... Mr. Wilson. I was told you were still here".
At first, nothing happens, and I'm seized by a doubt that could easily make me give in, and curl up on the bedroom mattress or the antique sofa. But I hold on and focus. I feel that - under my fingers - the planchette has just moved. Just a little. Or maybe it's just a trick of my mind.
"If you're here... please... show yourself".
It's strange to almost beg in the void. But again, the feeling of the planchette moving returns, and this time I reopen my eyes to check where it is. There, on the old Ouija board, the little prank now rests distinctly on the word 'Yes'.
My blood is racing, and my senses are searching for the faintest glimmer of energy anywhere in the small rooms of this walled-off place. Behind me, on the ceiling, under the table. But it's in the bedroom that I spot it, near the bed where I slept. There, faintly, there is a presence moving. Calm and resigned, like the way Ben is too often. Whoever I'm dealing with is a sorrowful spirit. I take another breath, and ask the question I must as a precaution.
"Mmmm are you... a good spirit, or one of those who would like to - you know - haunt my nights for just coming to bother you?"
The planchette rattles, I feel it buzz shortly, and I see a trickle of energy around it, making it move. The shape from the room has come closer, I can see it clearly now, in all its human form. In the same way as I used to see Ben, at first. And the planchette points to the Sun: a favorable omen about the person I'm talking to.
"My name is Rin. What should I call you?"
Presenting myself properly seems a basic respect to me. And the board slides along, no longer quivering. 'W. A.' I call out the designated letters. 'Y. N. E'.
"Wayne."
I smile.
"Hi, Wayne".
And saying this, I look up from the board, right at him in the doorframe, where he stands. I see his astonishment as my eyes catch his energy beam. He steps back, he hadn't imagined I could ever see him. But now that I've summoned him, I owe him an explanation. If he ever felt in danger, the consequences could undoubtedly be terrible.
"I'm able to see your spectral energy, Wayne. I know... I know this sounds crazy. But if you come closer, maybe I can get you to talk."
I've already done it on Ben, on myself too. I know how to materialize just enough of my head, my vocal cords and respiratory system to be able to speak through immateriality. I doubt I'd be able to do much more, because as a matter of fact: without Klaus, I'm unable to materialize a ghost entirely. Despite my plea, Wayne doesn't come closer. Legitimately: after all, he doesn't know me. It's an odd feeling: I'm conjuring a ghost all by myself, and he's the one who's afraid of me. Because maybe he's worried: if I'm able to materialize him, then maybe I'm also able to destroy him.
"I don't mean you any harm...", I say. "I have... I have a deal for you."
A deal? This word seems to make him react, and suddenly he's moving fast, unrealistically fast. In a flash, he's on the other side of the coffee table, almost on top of me, with his human shape now cristal-clear to me. Wayne Wilson wasn't very tall, with a slightly arched back and a large, receding forehead. Gnarled fingers, strong neck. And little eyes that I guess had once been bright, now that I can see the details of its features. Beneath my fingers, the planchette has eagerly come back to settle on 'Yes'.
I take this as permission, clinging to his empty yet piercing gaze. And gently, as I would do to Ben, I nudge the spectral energy of the old ghost to furrow itself with matter. He suddenly breathes in, as if trying to swallow all the air he can. And he looks at me again, his voice now audible in the small, dingy room.
"Damn, girl, what the hell are you?"
His spectral voice seems to come straight from the darkness, and I give him an apologetic smile.
"I don't really know, Wayne. Can I really call you Wayne?"
"Everyone used to call me that down here."
From Mark's words and the neighbors' reactions, I can tell that Wayne Wilson was once a child, then a local figure of this area.
"You've spent your whole life here, haven't you?".
I ask this with genuine interest. The living have always interested me, that's a fact. Now I'm discovering that the dead do too.
"I used to run the little gardening store where that bloody hat seller is now".
I sense a hint of bitterness in his voice. I gaze again at the many flowerpots around me, now as dead as he is, but which he once grew with his bare hands.
"Were you a gardener yourself? A nurseryman?"
He chuckles sarcastically.
"Then an indoor gardener. Or a gardenless nurseryman."
Under my fingers, the Ouija planchette has shifted to 'No' without either of us noticing. But he's not angry with me, he just looks regretful, and I smile at him a little sadly, aware that our lives don't always take the turn we want.
"You never could get a little piece of land?"
And he sighs, still amazed at being able to breath again.
"Too much debts, not enough guts. And the asphalt of Dallas that coated everything. Fewer and fewer people owned a garden. This world is crazy."
I realize that - for many - the urbanization of those outlying districts must have been a radical change. And above all for those who, just like Wayne, earned their living from the soil: on sap and flowers. The air must have changed in the seventy or so years he's lived here. I think the future of the Earth would sadden him even more. But he doesn't need to know, otherwise - truly - he'll never rest in peace.
"I admire people who know how to grow plants. Your garden would surely have been fabulous."
He smiles sadly. No doubt I've hit the nail on the head as to why his spirit has lingered here with an unfinished task. But finally he lifts his face, wrinkled with pale energy.
"What deal were you about to offer me, you who don't even know what you are?"
I stand still for a second, searching for my words. How do you make a deal with a ghost? I run my hands over my face, and no doubt he senses how important to me is what I'm about to say.
"I'd need you to fetch... someone."
"Someone dead? We ghosts mostly wander alone, my young fr-"
"Someone alive. I mean, I don't know if he's alive right now. But if he happened to be..."
I look at Wayne in the eyes, with unshakeable conviction.
"Then you'd probably see him as a beacon in the night."
This time, Wayne Wilson stops and stares at me, and I immediately sense that I'm not the only strange phenomenon to have recently entered his ghostly horizon. What I've just said makes sense to him, and the expression on his face gives me a wild hope I'm trying to refrain.
"I won't be able to materialize you much longer... I'm sorry if... if it cuts..."
I squint an eye: I don't know how else to say it.
"Have you spotted something - someone - calling to you unintentionally? Is there-"
He interrupts me with his eyes open, raising a hand. He didn't even hesitate.
"I know what you're looking for. I know who."
I knew it: that Klaus was a magnet for ghosts from miles around. And as Wayne stands up, perhaps due to emotion, my focus wavers. His features turn blur, as if he's slipping through my fingers. But I can see him move again, as the planchette on the Ouija board slides over 'Hello','Goodbye', then over the letter K. Wilson stretches out his arm, pointing to the shelf where his books lie, some fifteen chipped jars, and the black-handled leather satchel I'd noticed this morning. I stammer:
"I'll give you whatever you want".
I know that's a risky thing to say to a ghost : Klaus would probably facepalm. But I don't know how else to put it. And he doesn't hesitate.
"Please take my seeds. My flowers, make sure they're sown..."
I stare at him with quivering eyes, then at the satchel. I don't even have the words to thank him. And I lose him, despite my best efforts, as the materiality of his throat fades into spectral energy. He tries to say another word, but it doesn't ring. He drifts away, fading, back into the shadows of that little house where he's always lived. And I know I have to do things right again: I have to end this summoning properly. I close my eyes, less nervous this time.
"Thanks a million for the Seance, Wayne Wilson. Now go back to where you came from."
I look at my fingers on the Ouija, I smile.
"Your seeds will be sown, you've my word."
And with tangible hope beneath my two trembling fingers, I move the planchette one last time to a word that is worth a hundred to me:
'Goodbye'.
Notes:
Here's a chapter I had to do some research for! About the Texan accent, the purchasing power in 1960 (everything you could buy with a dollar!), how a ouija board session works... I've had a lot to keep my mind busy.
In season 1, we saw how much Klaus depended on Rin, but not so much the reciprocal was true. You've probably sensed it since the first chapter of season2: the trend could be reversed now.
You can guess that Wayne's flowers will bloom. The '60s witnessed the rise of a form of early ecological awareness in the midst of urbanization, mainly through the hippie movement (which hadn't yet begun, in that year 1961). Could it be that Flower Power has something to do with an old gardener ghost? May Wayne Wilson rest in peace.
Any comment will make my day!