Page 20 of Ghost in the Cupboard

An important fact to know about ghost-proofing a house so that ghosts can’t get in is that once one gets out, it’s difficult to make them leave on their own. A ghost can be trapped inside a house as easily as it can be trapped outside. The silver around the doors, windows, and other entry points in my house, along with the sage ash imbued paint, meant that the ghost that had escaped the cupboard, would never be able to escape my house. Even if it wanted to do it.

Not without assistance.

“Hey,” I said, “where are you? I know you’re in here somewhere.”

Standing in the middle of the living room and talking to thin air produced no results. Another fun fact about ghosts—unless you actually know a ghost’s name, it cannot be summoned by force. At least, not specifically. A medium, such as myself, can always reach out to the spirit realm and come up with any number of ghosts. However, if I wanted to summon a particular ghost, I needed to know their name. Otherwise, unless they heard the random call to the spirit realm and chose to check it out, they might ignore the call.

A name holds power.

Theoretically, with enough psychic power, and a name, a trained medium could control a ghost. Get it to do the medium’s bidding. The implication of such a thing is terrifying, if you think about it. The government could employ a medium and their army of ghostly spies. A medium could use ghosts to collect blackmail material. The possibilities are endless. It’s another good reason to ghost proof your house. If no ghosts can get in or out, your home is a safe space from any medium who has chosen to use their powers for not so good things.

I’d never attempted to control a ghost in my entire life. The descent into madness and criminal malevolence on the path to power and money is more slippery than a banana peel on a marble floor. One minute you’re a medium simply wanting to increase your income potential, the next you’re trading government secrets with Russia and nukes are flying overhead.

Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but the truth remains.

Ghosts are not meant to be used for evil.

“What’s your name?” I asked. “Mine is Silas. Silas Erie. Talk to me.”

I turned slowly in the living room, waiting for any sign of the ghost. Not so much as a peek of an eye from under a piece of furniture or, as trite as it might be, a “boo.” I made another round through the house, still finding nothing, before the time on my phone screen caught my attention. It was nearing nine o’clock, and there was still work to be done before bedtime.

Though it made me feel uneasy after years of having a spook-free home, I knew I had no choice but to ignore the present ghost issue. I breezed through the kitchen and hurriedly made a plate with sandwich fixings from the fridge, along with a healthy pile of chips alongside it. I took my plate down the hall and pushed open the doorway at the end.

Inside, I took found myself in the moonlight pouring through the glass ceiling and walls of the hexagonal room. A couple of ghosts were floating lazily, listlessly, through the room, their dull eyes focused on nothing. The atrium was the only room of the house that ghosts could enter—and for good reason. It was where I did all of my internet requests for help contacting dead loved ones.

The atrium was a space to do my spirit work in a more controlled, more comfortable environment, safe from too many prying eyes. It also gave me a way to work in my house while also keeping any of the ghosts I summoned from actually entering the spaces where I lived my day-to-day life.

Vines from ivy plants climbed the trellises in the corners, winding their way up the windows. Potted spider plants reached towards the ceiling with their spiky leaves. A four-foot diameter round table sat in the center of the terra cotta tiled floor. Two chairs, across from each other, were pushed under the table. My laptop, its charging cord strung from the charging port in the side of the computer to the plug ten feet away in the wall, was closed, waiting on me. Only moonlight pouring through the glass illuminated the room, casting it in a midnight blue color.

With a sigh, I set my plate of food on the table next to the laptop and pulled the chair out. The feet of the chair scratched against the rough tile before I finally fell into the seat. Simultaneously shoving a handful of chips into my mouth and opening the laptop, it was time to work. Once the laptop was open and I’d typed in my passcode, I went about lighting the single pillar candle that sat at the center of the table. About as big around as my thigh and nearly eight inches tall, the white candle had six wicks to light.

Though too much light made me feel exposed, since anyone who walked onto my property would be able to see inside the room, lighting all of the candle’s wicks was necessary. So large was the candle that if all of the wicks didn’t burn at once, the candle would burn unevenly. So, once I was cast in the warm golden glow of, virtually, six candles burning a mere foot away, I opened the email app on my professional website.

In the blue glow of the laptop screen and the yellow glow of the candle, I sorted through the emails waiting on me. There were plenty of requests for help, but I always focused on prepaid requests. Money gets any request put to the front of the line. Potential clients wanting to ask questions first would have to wait until I’d done the jobs for which I’d already been paid. Fortunately, a little programming from a tech buddy had helped me create a system that sorted my email by paid and unpaid. I opened the first one that was tagged as paid.

Hello, Mr. Erie. My father passed away fifteen days ago, and—

Another person who had a deceased relative with a missing will. I clicked on another email indicated as paid.

Hi, Silas! I wanted to know if you could contact my cousin and ask her what her favorite animal was. I ask because—

I don’t need your explanation, I thought to myself. You are testing if I’m for real before you hire me for another job. I rolled my eyes and opened yet another email.

Mr. Erie. I’m writing to you because my mother’s dying words were—

Someone who wanted clarification about a dying family member’s last thought. Easy enough.

At least a dozen other emails were listed in the paid folder. It was a great day for requests. I easily had a thousand dollars of prepaid requests sitting in my email folder.

Time to get to work. I reached out for another chip, finding that side of the plate was empty. I’d scarfed them all down while checking out emails. So, I grabbed the sandwich and sat back in the chair. Taking a healthy bite of the corner of the ham and cheese, I stared at the candle on the table for a moment, trying to clear my mind of other worries. The two ghosts that had been in the atrium when I’d entered were now in different corners, bobbing above the ground lazily, staring with blank eyes at me.

I opened the first email I’d looked at for a second time. I cleared my throat and spoke loudly and clearly.

“Scooter Dubois!”

I rolled my eyes at the name, hoping the client had provided the man’s government name instead of a nickname.

“I’m Silas Erie, medium, lifeline to the dead, communicator with souls. I have a question from your son. Unfinished business you have on this earth. I summon you!”