The deal was struck one lazy January day

in the Winnie-Gate over an illegal pint

for all present . The pile of over salted chips costing

each less than a good night’s sleep

and the sound of pool balls smacking in time

off the green velvet stained with half chewed

cigarette smoke and twenty-pence bets

to the tunes of the day being played

with carefree abandon

from the cannibalised juke box,

cannibalised through our own choices

and 80s regalia and the only acknowledgment

to our deeds was the fashion for the rolled up

denim jacket sleeves and the girls sporting big hair.

 

The following day the dare had to be met

and in our ignorance we should have known

best to leave alone, to not tamper

with the spirit that stalked the annexe of the college’s

convent like department

and as we sat in near darkness, heightened by the cold

January day, the silence we felt was almost too

much to bear.

 

I have never been near a Ouija Board since then

and although I keep my two packs of Tarot cards

safely encased in a red silk handkerchief,

I will not play with the elements again.

 

We stopped before it got too far,

we stopped because we were scared

seventeen year olds dabbling

in something in a place that already

felt as though should be torn from the Earth and

made to rest like the fashions of the time

and yet for months after, I found myself

hating being in that room, in the small chapel

of merciful fright and if not for the drama

of the day, would have happily taken flight

there and then as the killer’s name and her suicide

was slowly revealed.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015