Chapter 6: The Ritual Begins

“What you saw is both real and not real.”

I chose my words carefully, speaking slow and low. This was delicate work—the kind you can’t rush or gloss over.

“Lillian’s spirit is indeed in this house—that’s real. But what you saw was an illusion created by her anger—that part isn’t real.”

I let that settle in the silence. Sometimes the dead show us what we most fear, not what’s actually there. Anger twists everything, even memories.

As I spoke, I took out a copper penny and handed it to Derek.

It was an old wheat penny, worn smooth from years in Grandpa’s pocket. I’d drilled a hole through the center and strung it on a leather cord. It wasn’t magic, exactly, but sometimes, faith is enough.

“This is something I made myself. Look through the hole in the coin, and you’ll be able to see her.”

I pressed the penny into his palm. His hand shook as he closed his fingers around it, staring at the tiny hole like it was a peephole into another world.

Derek was half-convinced, half-doubtful. After a moment’s hesitation, he still didn’t dare to put it to his eye.

He swallowed, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing. Sometimes, not seeing is safer than knowing.

He said, “Forget it, sir. I really have a shadow in my heart. Can you just... help her move on?”

He sounded tired, beaten down by fear and grief. There’s a limit to what most folks can bear.

I shook my head. “Lillian isn’t unable to move on—she’s unwilling. If her wish isn’t fulfilled, she won’t leave.”

I explained that spirits only linger for a reason—unfinished business, a promise unkept. The living can’t always fix it, but we can try.

“People and spirits walk different paths. Normally, spirits don’t disturb the living. If they do, it means they want something.”

It’s a lesson as old as the hills—when the dead knock, you have to listen. Ignoring them only makes things worse.

When I finished, Derek immediately asked, “Then what does Lillian want? Does she want the driver’s life?”

His eyes flickered, searching for an easy answer. I took a slow breath. It’s never as simple as revenge—sometimes it’s justice, sometimes it’s love, sometimes it’s just wanting to be remembered.

I didn’t answer. Normally, what he said would make sense—Lillian’s anger should come from this.

But there was a nagging sense that something didn’t add up. I needed more than Derek’s story—I needed to hear from Lillian herself.

But all of this depends on whether what Derek told me is true.

I knew that in matters of spirits, the truth is slippery. Only by speaking directly to the source could I know for sure.

My purpose in coming here was simple: to call her spirit and ask Lillian directly.

Sometimes the only answers worth having are the ones you get straight from the dead. I steeled myself for whatever would come next.

After all, spirits don’t lie.

Grandpa used to say, “The dead don’t have time for games. Listen close, and you’ll hear what they really want.”

Under Derek’s gaze, I pulled over a table to serve as the altar, then took out my backpack and began to set up the ritual.

I unfolded a paisley tablecloth, smoothed it over the desk, and laid out my kit—eight homemade flags, a stubby candle, the chipped redwood wand Grandpa gave me. The room filled with the familiar smell of sage and burnt matches.

Eight small flags, a candle holder, a chipped redwood wand—these were all things Grandpa left me.

Each flag was painted by hand—north, south, east, west, and the spaces in between. The redwood wand was carved with old family symbols, its surface polished by decades of use.

First, I placed the candle holder on the altar, lit a candle, and paid my respects.

I let the flame burn for a moment, closing my eyes and breathing deep. It’s a way of setting the boundary—of saying, "I’m here for peace, not trouble."

Then I arranged the flags at the points of the compass, sprinkled a circle of salt—flags for protection, and the redwood wand as a powerful tool.

Salt is old magic, plain and simple. I circled the table with it, making sure the line was unbroken. The air grew still, as if the house was holding its breath.

I set out a Mason jar half-full of salt—Grandpa always said nothing keeps out bad spirits like a good old Ball jar.

But unless I was facing something truly evil, it was rarely used.

I set the wand beside the candle, hoping I wouldn’t have to lift it. Most spirits just want to be heard, not fought.

To call a spirit, there was still one crucial thing missing: a medium.

You can’t open a door without a key. I’d learned to carry simple, honest offerings—things that tied the living to the dead.

I pulled out a folded paper man—like the ones we’d cut in grade school, only this one was marked with Lillian’s initials in red ink—and had Derek prick his finger and let a drop of blood fall onto it. This medium would allow Lillian to appear for a few minutes.

He hesitated at first, but I explained it was harmless—a way to bridge the gap. His hands trembled as he pricked his finger and let the blood drop onto the doll’s chest. The paper seemed to soak it in, curling at the edges.

I placed the paper man on the altar and checked the time—we still needed to wait a bit.

The clock ticked loud in the silence. Sometimes the waiting is the hardest part—the air heavy with anticipation.

Derek, not knowing what I was doing, couldn’t help but ask as I finally stopped.

He fidgeted, eyes flicking from the altar to the dark corners of the room, every nerve stretched thin.

I looked at him. “Didn’t you want to know what Lillian wants?”

I fixed him with a steady gaze, letting him know this was his last chance to back out. When he nodded, I took a deep breath and said, “I’ll bring her out and ask directly.”

The candle flickered, casting Lillian’s name in warped shadows across the wall. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. I looked at Derek. “Once we start, there’s no stopping. Are you ready to hear what the dead want?”