#katherine arden | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

after-witch · 6 months

Text

Horrorfest: The Dead Speak [Smiling Man x Reader]

Title: The Dead Speak [Smiling Man x Reader]

Synopsis: Your mom always told you not to play with Ouija boards. Maybe you should have listened.

For Horrorfest request: A party game seance of ouija board. Nothing seems to happen, maybe the vibes change a little, but not much else. Until they are walking home and encounter a very friendly lost young gentleman.

Word count: 2210

notes: references to dead people and ghosts, reader is drinking/tipsy

You were the only one who didn’t want to play with the Ouija board. Not because you had some deep-rooted belief in them, not really; you’d never encountered spirits or accidentally summoned a demon or anything like that after pulling out the Hasbro mass market produced party game.

But your mom had believed in them. She refused to let you bring one in the house, had adamantly reminded you before every childhood sleepover--”Absolutely no Ouija boards, my sweetness--and had even told one of your friends that they had to leave their mall-bought Ouija board hair bow in the car before they came inside for dinner.

No one else here seemed to have the same qualms, parent-induced or not, so you shrugged at being the odd one out and didn’t raise a fuss. Especially since the party was almost over, and all that remained were you, the host, and a few stragglers.

It was Halloween night, after all--people just wanted to have fun.

Which in this case meant the party host running around the house and shutting off all the lights while someone else dug out a bag of unused tea candles and began to light them. It wasn’t the brightest--no pun intended--idea. A fire hazard, for sure. Especially since most of the guests had already tackled the spiked apple cider and ghost-shaped jello shots, which were currently warming up your belly.

But you’d be damned if the candles didn’t make everything look dim and spooky. Your mind felt fuzzy from the darkness and the booze as you settled down with the group in the living room, scooting on your butt up to the coffee table where the board had been set up.

“Everyone knows how it works, right?” The host asked. Her deep red lipstick was smeared--from drinking or kissing--and she’d tossed aside her witch hat a while back.

Of course you knew. Everyone knew. You put your fingers on the planchette and pretended that you weren’t moving it around while people asked questions. Inevitably someone would accuse another person of moving it and the fun would eventually dissipate. Or so you’d seen at slumber parties, while you dutifully sat on the bed and finished painting your nails or simply watched, hugging a pillow, wondering if it was betraying your mom to play with Ouija outside the house.

That was when you were a kid, though. There was no deep-rooted feeling of betrayal now as you rested two fingers on the planchette. Only a vague sense of giddiness, spurned on by the alcohol, by the very existence of Halloween night.

“Is there a spirit in the room with us?” The host asked softly.

Was it your imagination, or did the candles flicker? They seemed dimmer, somehow. Probably because they were cheap tea lights.

And then the planchette moved--probably the host, you thought--towards the most obvious (and fun) option:

YES.

Someone giggled. You snorted, and wondered how many jello shots were left on the counter. You were going to walk home, anyway.

“Who are you?”

“What if it’s a demon?” Someone asked. You couldn’t quite tell whose voice was coming from where in the dark. And you didn’t know everyone at the party, anyway, aside from the host and a few people who’d already left.

“Then we’ll ask him politely yet firmly to leave,” you said, giving your best Hank HIll impression. One person laughed, so at least someone here appreciated your ability to reference an unholy amount of TV shows or movies at the drop of a hat.

But the planchette didn’t slide across the letters DEMON. Instead, it shifted towards three letters in slow succession.

M...O…M.

Something queasy turned over in your gut. The spiked cider and sub sandwich that had been sitting out too long, probably.

“Is anyone’s mom dead?” The host asked, then immediately gasped. “Oh fuck, sorry, that was shitty to say.” She glanced at you sheepishly. Your cheeks heated up and your stomach turned sour again.

Your mom was dead. But you probably weren’t alone, even in a small group. Cancer was a bitch and it took a lot of people, didn’t it? Ah well. You brushed aside that sour feeling and reminded yourself that your friend was drunk.

She cleared her throat. “Whose mom are you?”

The planchette started to move. The sound of the plastic moving over the cardboard was thin and dragging, like someone scraping their nails down a box.

Letter by letter, the planchette spelled your name.

You took your hands off the planchette and felt words fly freely out of your loose, alcohol-tinged lips.

“That’s really fucked up. Are you kidding me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The host--your friend, if you would even call her that anymore--put her own hands up in defense. Everyone else slowly let their fingers fall away from the planchette, watching the exchange between you two in awkward silence.

Party over.

“I swear to God I’m not moving it. I’m sorry, fuck, you know I wouldn’t do that. I swear to God I didn’t.”

You scooted back from the table and stood up. You felt sober, suddenly, even though your spinning head from getting up too quickly said otherwise.

“Whatever. I’m out. This is just mean.” You shook your head, ignoring your friend’s protests--

And that’s when the planchette started moving again.

Slowly. Letter by letter. With no one’s hands on the damn thing.

“What the hell?” Someone asked.

You didn’t want to look. You wanted to get out of here. It was a sick prank, that’s what it was. But the planchette kept moving, and finally someone leaned over and began to sound out the letters, until they formed a sentence.

A sentence that made your bowels clench so hard you thought you would piss yourself.

I TOLD U NEVER TO PLAY WITH OUIJA BOARDS

It couldn’t be. This was sick. This was wrong.

This was…

“Mom?”

The words left your lips soft and shaky. You weren’t sure anyone else heard them.

But then the awful planchette slid across the board again, and someone read the letters until they made sense; terrible, horrifying sense.

ABSOLUTELY NO OUIJA BOARDS, MY SWEETNESS

My sweetness. A nickname only your mom had called you growing up. She called you that to her last breath, wheezing and agonized.

You leaned over and immediately retched onto the carpet, blobs of bright green jello mingling with chewed up pieces of Italian sub. Before anything else could be said, by the board or the guests, you ran, barely stopping to snatch your purse from the entryway, leaving as fast as your shaking legs could carry you.

The streets were dark and mostly empty. It was long past time for kids to be in bed, stomachs filled with chocolate and piles of Skittles, parents picking out their favorite candies to hide in the cupboard. All that was left were the late night party-goers walking home in varying states of disarray, carrying heels in their hands or making jokes too loudly in the startling darkness of the night.

And then there was you, head buzzing, stomach reeling, walking home after a Ouija board apparently contacted the spirit of your dead mother.

“Excuse me?” A man called out behind you.

You jumped, and slid your hands into your purse to wrap your fingers around your keys. You knew it wasn’t going to do much, but it would do something, if it came to that.

You slowly turned around, grip on your keys tighter than ever, and saw a young man wearing a skeleton hoodie and sweatpants.

He looked befuddled. He looked, more specifically, lost.

And he also looked… familiar. Was he at the party? You squinted, trying to clear your head. He might have been. Did he follow you to see if you were okay?

You definitely knew him from somewhere, but you couldn’t quite place him.

Still, your fingers reflexively gripped your keys. He glanced down at your hands, then took a step back and put his own hands up where you could see they were empty.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.” He grinned a little, and shook his head. “I’m just completely lost and was wondering if you could help me. I didn’t bring my phone out tonight. Trying to live in the moment, you know?”

You swallowed, tasting the remnants of bile. Something about him, really--it was itching at the back of your scalp. Did he go to the same college? Maybe you saw him on campus. Or maybe he really had been at your friend’s house and you just didn’t remember.

“Um,” you said. “Were you at the party?”

He tilted his head a little, and smiled boyishly.

“Not quite.”

Well, that wasn’t an answer. Your fingers loosened on the keys, though, as your heart rate returned to something like normal and you figured if he was going to try something, he’d have done it already.

You blinked at him for a moment and then remembered what he said. “Oh! Uh, where were you trying to go? I can use my Google Maps if you want.”

It was hard to see from the streetlights, but you could swear there was a twinkle in his eye when you said that. Shit, maybe you were drunker than you thought.

You fished your phone from your purse and after a few unsuccessful swipe attempts, brought up Google Maps.

But… it wouldn’t load. That was weird. You didn’t have any bars--also weird--but you downloaded the local map just in case your 5G ever shit the bed. But the map wouldn’t load. It simply displayed a blank black and gray space in night time mode, refusing to let you bring up directions.

“Uhh,” you mumbled. “My phone is absolutely not working.”

He didn’t look phased. He simply shrugged. “That’s okay. I actually live off Main Street, it’s one of those split houses… yellow and red and--”

“I know where that is!” You blurted. Then covered your mouth, messy lipstick and all. “I mean. If you want, I can walk you there. Unless you’d rather go alone, and I can just give you directions.”

“You seem pleasant enough company,” is all he said. And you ought to have thought about that more, because it was a really strange way to phrase things, wasn’t it? But all you thought about was how creepily your night ended and how he looked pretty cute and maybe you could exchange phone numbers when you got to his place.

You walked, side by side, making idle conversation. He told you his name. You gave him yours. He said he liked your costume. You said you really liked his sweater, totally Halloweeny, and he seemed to genuinely appreciate the compliment.

The streets felt more familiar the closer you got to Main Street, although there was still only the odd stray person or car slowly idling down the road.

Anxiety still slept in the bottom of your stomach but you tried to ignore it. It wasn’t so bad, to talk to a good looking stranger now and then. Especially after what happened at the party.

(Was it really your mom?)

You didn’t want to think about that. About mom. About whether or not her spirit was hanging around in some ghastly limbo, chastising you for finally playing with a Ouija board like everyone else had done for decades.

Eventually, you were there, at the driveway of the old house that had been split into apartments like so many others a few years ago. You fumbled with your phone and were able to ask for his phone number, lips curled into a smile, when he spoke.

“Did something happen? At the party? Something unusual?”��

Your awkward smile fell.

“Um.” It would be weird to tell him, right? Especially after seemingly hitting it off on the way home. You didn’t just tell strangers that you maybe encountered a real ghost while using a Ouija board after doing a few shots and drinking questionably spiked apple cider at a friend’s house. Did you?

“No,” you lied. “Just a boring ol’ Halloween party, I guess.”

“Ah,” he said slowly. “That’s a shame. I thought it might have been an interesting story.”

You suddenly felt stupid and lame and why would this cute guy want to give you his number, anyway? You were some drunk weirdo who walked him home and that was that. You mumbled some sort of farewell and began to walk off, eager to get home and get into your pajamas.

“You know,” he said, and you stopped and turned to listen to him. Maybe he was going to give you his contact information, after all. “You should be careful with Ouija boards, my sweetness. You don’t know what you might invite in.”

Oh. For the second time that night, you felt like you were going to vomit.

“Why did you call me that? How did you--you said you weren’t at the party.”

“I wasn’t,” he said simply. “Not quite.”

How did he know, how did he know, how did he know?

And this mystery man in his Halloween sweatshirt, with his blonde cornfield hair and some awful, unknowable answers in his expression, simply looked at you.

And smiled.

#smiling man #small spaces #fanfiction #katherine arden #afterwitch writes #aw horrorfest

71 notes · View notes