The Uninvited by Cat Winters

complete a task they didn’t finish when they were alive. Others”—she brushed a sheet of dust off the curved letters of the word O UIJA on the lid—“they roam the earth, unsettled, restless, unsure what to do or where they belong. And then there are the lucky ones.” She sank back in her chair and drew a deep sigh with a lift of her chest. “If only all spirits could follow their lead.”
    I leaned forward on my elbows. “What happens to the lucky ones?”
    “They accept their fate”—she sighed again—“and just enjoy themselves.”
    “In heaven, you mean?”
    “I was raised a strict Catholic, so I’m not sure if I can truly refer to a Spiritualist realm as heaven. But, yes, they’re making the most of the afterlife. Have you ever heard that poem, ‘Gather your roses while ye may’?”
    “Yes, of course. It’s ‘To the . . .’ ” I cleared my throat, for the contents of the poem suddenly seemed quite personal, even if May misquoted the words a smidgen. “ ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time,’ by Robert Herrick.”
    “Well, they’re still gathering, still enjoying the party, the lucky bastards. I wish my poor Eddie could be one of them.”
    I stared at the way my fingers lay in a pale and quivery pile on the table, like an unsettling heap of squirming larvae. I spread out my hands and willed them to stay still. “Does Eddie visit you?”
    May cast her eyes to the lamp shining above us, the warm light glistening against her moist eyes. “Yes.”
    “What does your medium say about his tendency to do so? What type of spirit is he?”
    “A wanderer.” She inhaled through her nose. “Those are the ones who tend to experience pangs of concern for their living loved ones. It’s part of their restless nature.”
    “Do you think I’m witnessing wanderers, then?” I found myself leaning even farther forward, my elbows easing across the slick grain of the wood. “Are these spirits of lost loved ones worried about how I’ll handle the news of death?”
    “Perhaps.” May returned her eyes to mine. “They might be attempting to comfort you.”
    “Unfortunately”—I glanced at the window beside us, mistaking the shadow of a tree limb for the silhouette of a man’s arm—“they don’t bring me one single shred of comfort. I’m actually scared to death one of them will show up at any moment, letting me know I’m about to lose someone else. This flu. That German.” I shook my head. “I don’t know. It just seems likely I’ll see my brother whom I lost to the war, and then someone else I love will”—I swallowed and shuddered—“disappear.”
    May peeked at the window as well but seemed untroubled by the shadows. “So many people are dying out there right now, Ivy. I doubt there’s time for spirits to bring warnings of every single fatality at the moment.”
    I shuddered again, and then I pushed myself to my feet. “I should get going.”
    “Where?”
    “To see the German.”
    “But—”
    “I know it sounds ridiculous after he threw me out, but there’s a prickling deep in my bones that insists I have to go to him.”
    “Don’t fall in love with him.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You heard what I said.” Her eyes glinted with mischief, but her words carried more caution than cruelty. “Don’t fall in love with the German. Unless”—she set the Ouija board box down into her lap—“you’re absolutely sure”—she smiled and looked me straight in the eye—“you won’t get caught.”

 
    UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ....................................
    Chapter 7
    I rapped my knuckles against one of the rough-edged planks boarding up the Liberty Brothers door.
    No one answered.
    I peeked over my shoulder for signs of watchful eyes in the dark and then knocked again.
    “Mr. Schendel?” I called inside. “It’s Ivy. I would really like to speak to you.”
    I lowered my hand and leaned toward the door. My shadow seeped