"I'm exhausted – we should complete a séance," my cousin George stated, similar to she'd said a hundred times finished the late spring. It was raining outside, so we couldn't go to the shoreline.
"Affirm," I concurred.
She got out her Ouija board: a cardboard square shape printed with the letters in order, numbers from 1 to 10, and boxes saying YES and NO. She put the plastic pointer on the board and we put our fingers on it. This was idiotic. We'd completed a pack of séances previously and nothing at any point happened. I smothered a yawn.
"We accumulate here with expectations of getting a soul," George said drastically. "Is it accurate to say that anyone is out there?"
The pointer moved, gradually, toward YES.
"Are you moving it?" George whispered.
I shook my head, beginning to feel anxious.
"What's your name?" I asked the soul.
The pointer explained: ROSE WHITE. Killed. 1959.
George extended her eyes at me. Everybody around the local area knew the miserable story of Rose White, a young lady who hosted vanished from a shoreline get-together in the 1950s. Her vanishing had never been understood.
"Cut it out, Lucy," George whispered.
"I'm not doing anything!" I demanded.
The table shook underneath us, and the lights gleamed, at that point went out. We both shouted.
"What do you need, Rose?" George asked, tears spilling down her cheeks.
The pointer moved gradually to more letters. YOU I overturned the board, bounced up, and walked out on.
"I would prefer not to do this any longer, George!" I cried. "It's excessively unnerving!"
George swung to me, the understudies of her eyes had turned white, and she had an odd grin all over.
"I'm not George. I'm Rose."