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“Spirit, I command you to leave this realm,” Alice said before reciting words in her arcane language.
When she finished, she snapped her fingers. The wraith writhed as if in pain; its shadowy body faded from existence. It was gone.
Alice breathed a sigh of relief and hunched over to catch her breath. Guinevere dove under the bed as if to check on Max.
“Did you get it?” Alice’s reflection asked.
“Yeah,” she responded. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Good. I need you in here.”
“In a moment,” Alice yelled.
Alice turned and plopped onto the bed. She buried her face into her hands. She lifted her head up, but she still covered her mouth with her hands. Alice glared at an irregular spot in the hardwood flooring, but it faded out of focus. She tried so hard; everything was perfect. The drawing on the floor. The words. Everything.
Why didn’t he respond? Why did the wraith come through?
Tears welled in her eyes. She wanted to scream, but she didn’t want to terrify her faithful pup cowering beneath her. Alice fell backward, patting the bed.
“Come here, Max.”
Alice’s words trailed off. Her hand hit a bump in the bed running under her back. Alice sat up and scouted the object by rubbing her hands over the mattress. There was a hump. She slid off the bed and onto the floor.
Max emerged from under the bed and nestled against Alice, her ears pulled back in fear. She whined and cried as she tried to get as close to Alice as possible. Guinevere emerged from under the bed as well, floating around the bedroom as the vigilant guardian.
“It’s okay, Max. It’s gone,” Alice reassured the frightened pup.
She rubbed the dog’s side with her free hand, while flipping the covers over the mattress. She delved her other hand in between the mattress and the box spring. It grazed something. Something rectangular with a bit of a rubber coating.
Alice withdrew it from the mattress. It was one of Hugo’s hockey sticks. A hockey stick he kept in their bedroom closet.
Alice gasped. Her breathing picked up, and her body trembled.
“How did this get there?” Alice asked as she examined the blackish-gray graphite shaft.
“Get in here now,” Alice’s reflection yelled.
Alice stood, letting go of the cowering dog, and entered the bathroom, still holding on to the hockey stick. Max followed as far as the threshold where the hardwood floor gave way to the black and white tile of the bathroom.
Alice’s reflection was as worn and weary as herself. Her hair messy and frizzed out. Dark rings around her eyes. She paced back and forth in the mirror. “You have to believe me,” Alice’s reflection said.
“Believe what?” Alice responded.
“Believe me,” Alice’s reflection said as she stared into Alice’s eyes.
“I believe you.”
“I heard him. He screamed. I heard him call out. He said, ‘How do I get out of here?’ Then I heard the closet door open.” Alice’s reflection paused. “Where did you find his stick?”
Alice held up the hockey stick. “I found it under the mattress.”
They both raised their eyebrows.
“You don’t think?” Alice asked.
Alice’s reflection smiled. “Yep. He’s still here. Our Hugo is still here.”
Alice focused on the scuffed up white tape wrapped around the blade of the hockey stick. Her smile drifted into a tight point, her lips pursed.
