The pencil sat in the center of a piece of white paper divided into four squares: two of the squares held the word YES, two of the squares held the word NO.

“You just balance the pencil on the other pencil crossways,” said Em.

El set one pencil on top of the other, as her sister had asked. When the pencil tilted and the eraser touched the paper, Em snatched it up. “No, it’s gotta balance!” she said.

“Why?”

“So Charlie can move it. He’s, like, a spirit. A ghost. Really weak. He can barely move anything. So we have to make it as easy for him as possible. Have you even seen a horror movie before?”

At eight years old, Em was the older sister, and fully in charge. El was two years younger than her sister. Em carefully laid down the pencil on top of the other pencil, making small adjustments until the pencil was perfectly balanced. She gave the end of the pencil a tiny tap: it swung several inches, so that the point hung over a quadrant of the paper that said YES.

“See? If Charlie does that, it means ‘yes.’” She gave the pencil a tap in the other direction. The point of the pencil swung over to NO.

“And when he does that, it means ‘no.’”

“So, we just ask him questions? Yes or no questions?”

“Yes. But the first question is always, ‘Charlie, Charlie, can you play?’ And only after he says ‘yes’ can you start playing. And when you’re done, you have to ask if he’s done. You say, ‘Charlie, Charlie, are we done?’ and he says ‘yes.’ You can’t leave the game until he says it’s over.”

“What if he doesn’t say ‘yes’?”

“He’ll say ‘yes.’ You just have to ask. And you can’t just say ‘Charlie, Charlie, we’re done.’ Charlie decides when we’re done.”

“Okay.”

“Repeat it back to me. What do you have to do?”

“You have to ask. ‘Charlie, Charlie, are we done?’ And you have to wait until he says ‘yes.’”

“What if he doesn’t say ‘yes?’”

Em scoffed. “He has to say ‘yes’. It’s the rule. But you have to ask. Charlie decides.” She fussed with the paper impatiently. “Any other questions?”

El had many, many more questions for her sister, but she didn’t expect to get any more useful information. Plus, she was excited to ask Charlie about Josh, a boy at school she was hoping would ask her out. She told her sister no.

Em straightened out both pencils so that they formed an exact cross at the center of the paper, parallel to the lines drawn on the paper that made up the four quadrants.

Em spoke in the most funereal tones she could muster. “Charlie, Charlie, can you play?”

Nothing.

El asked. “Charlie, Charlie, can you play?”

Outside, the wind sighed.

The pencil shuddered for a brief moment. The point of the pencil glided over to YES and stopped.

The two girls looked at each other with wide eyes, unsure of how to proceed. Their Dad had always forbidden them from playing with a Ouija board. They were dangerous, he had said. This wasn’t exactly a Ouija board, but it was close enough.

Maybe Em had blown on the pencil to move it and thus scare her sister.

El asked, “Charlie, Charlie, are you here in the room?”

The pencil shuddered again, but did not otherwise move.

“Wait,” asked Em. “If the pencil doesn’t move, but it’s over the YES. Does that mean Charlie isn’t answering? Or is he answering ‘yes’?”

“I dunno. I think it means ‘yes’.”

Em’s turn. “Charlie, Charlie, does Josh like me?”

Nothing.

“Charlie, Charlie, will Josh ask me to the prom?”

Nothing.

Em said, “I don’t think Charlie cares about Josh and the prom. Let’s give him something with a little more meat on its bones.”

El felt a sudden fear rush through her blood.

Em said, “Is our Mom there? Is she there with you?”

“No! That’s not right! Don’t ask him that!”

“Why? You know you were thinking it too. It’s why we play these games.”

“It’s not why I play,” said El.

Em scoffed. “We’re both thinking it. We both want to do it.”

El knew her sister was right.

Em said, “C’mon, take my hands. Let’s ask Charlie together.”

El reluctantly reached across the table and took both her sister’s hands. Em said the words in a more solemn manner than her previous questioning; Em merely mouthed the words along with her.

“Charlie, Charlie. Is our Mom there?”

The pencil shuddered but did not move, continuing to hover over the word YES.

“I don’t know if that means yes or not,” said El.

“Charlie, Charlie, is our Mom there?”

Another shudder.

El told her sister, “Ask him something only Mom would know.”

Em took her sister’s hands. “Charlie, Charlie, was I born before my sister? Was I born first?”

Another shudder, and this time it was followed by motion, as the pencil slowly moved toward NO and settled.

“PROMISE me you didn’t do that! Promise you didn’t blow on the pencil.” El demanded.

“I promise, El. That’s not me. I didn’t move the pencil.”

“But it’s wrong,” El whispered. “I was born first.”

“I know.”

“What does that mean?”

Em leaned in to her sister and spoke as quietly as she could. “I think it means that we’re not talking to Mom.”

“What?”

“That’s not Mom.”

“Then who is it?”

“Shhh,” said Em. “Charlie will hear you.”

The pencil swung to YES in a movement so fast El’s eyes barely registered it.

“He heard you,” said Em.

“I’m scared,” said El.

“Charlie, Charlie, should we be scared?”

Another shudder of the pencil, but it didn’t move.

El asked, “Charlie, Charlie, are you going to hurt us?”

The pencil did its usual shudder and slowly turned clockwise, a full three hundred and sixty degrees, until it was back where it had started, the point hovering over YES.

El felt tears welling, threatening to fall. Her throat closed up. She began to breathe in short, fast gulps of air. She looked to Em, who looked back to her, wide-eyed and mute.

And then whoosh! The cat jumped on top of the table and shook it just enough so that the top pencil fell off the bottom pencil, landing harmlessly on the paper below. The tension evaporated. Both girls laughed loudly.

“Buttercup, I love you,” El told her cat, and gathered the feline in her arms.

“Girls, is everything all right?” called their Dad from another room.

El said, “Everything’s fine, Dad,” and it felt close to the truth.

Everything’s fine.

Em said, “You’re right, El. Dad was right. This game is scary and dangerous. I’m sorry; we’ll never play this stupid game again.”

As if on cue, Dad called them to supper. Em lept from her chair and ran to the dinner table.

El said, “Charlie, Charlie, we’re done now, okay?” and followed her sister out of the room.

Buttercup followed them.

When the room was empty, and without any fuss whatsoever, the pencil that had been on top of the other pencil began rolling across the table and fell to the floor. The pointed lead of the pencil broke upon impact.

El and Em and Dad ate supper, not in silence, but with more restraint in their conversation than usual. Dad tried to bring up subjects to prompt a response, but the girls mostly reacted with short replies that required no follow-up.

When they’d finished their meal, Em cleared the table, then went to her room. El rinsed the dishes and set them in the dishwasher, while Dad settled behind his laptop.

No one noticed the pencil roll down the hallway, following Em, or heard the tell-tale rattle of wood on wood. No one saw it disappear under the door.

El dropped a plate when she heard the scream from her sister’s room.

The sound of china shattering echoed in her ears, over and over and over, as she rushed to Em’s room. Buttercup bolted from harm’s way at the sound of the plate breaking. She heard her Dad’s running footsteps in the hallway, and heard them stop behind her, trying to understand.

El hurled the door open and stood in Em’s doorway.

She saw her sister’s back as Em kneeled in front of the open hamster cage.

Em held a lump of matted fur in one of her hands, a slender pencil in the other. Her hamster, Toby, squirmed in her hand. Relief washed over El that Toby was still alive.

Her relief faded as she saw the sharpened pencil poised in Em’s hand, pointed directly at her beloved pet.

 Em turned to them and revealed a lopsided, toothy grin. Her pupils swam in a dull gray haze, like a fog rolling in behind her eyes.

“I didn’t say we were done playing,” said Charlie.