Under the Lake by Stuart Woods Page B

happening. There was something peculiar in the movement of the table. It seemed to slowly undulate beneath his spread hands; it seemed nearly to breathe.
    “Will you identify yourself?” Joyce asked. The tablemoved again, even more distinctly, seemingly in response to her question.
    “Can you speak?” Joyce asked. No one spoke, but the table moved again. “Please move the table once for yes and twice for no. Can you speak?”
    The table moved twice, distinctly. There was no mistaking it, Howell thought. The hair on his head nearly stood on end. He could feel his scalp crawl.
    “We would like to know your name,” Joyce said. “I will go through the alphabet. Please move the table once when I reach a letter in your name. A,” she said. “B . . . C . . . D . . . ,” she continued, with no response. Then, on R, the table moved. Joyce continued and reached Z with no further response. She began again. On A the table moved, then again on B. Joyce finished the alphabet with no further response, then started over. “B . . .” The table moved, then was still as she chanted the letters. “I . . .” Movement. And again at “T.” “Rabbit,” Joyce said excitedly. “Your name is Rabbit.”
    The table moved once, for yes.
    “Do you wish to contact someone at this table?” Joyce asked.
    Yes, the table said.
    “Who? I’m sorry, is it me?”
    The table moved twice; no.
    Joyce continued around the table. “Is it Jack?”
    No.
    “Is it Helen?” No.
    “Is it John?”
    Howell tensed, resisting the urge to take his hands from the table. The table moved. No. He slumped in relief. Then he felt angry with himself. This was some sort of parlortrick, and he was getting sucked into it like a tourist. “Is it Scotty?”
    The table moved once, then stopped. There was a little gasp from Scotty. Then there was a gasp from everyone. The table had left the floor and was moving slightly up and down at about chest level.
    Howell felt near to panic. He was hallucinating, he was sure of it. He felt the same way he had on the appearance of the young girl in the cabin the night of the storm. Think reality, he kept saying to himself. It wasn’t working.
    “Don’t move, anybody,” Joyce said firmly. “It’s all right, just relax. It’s all right, Scotty.”
    Howell looked at Scotty. She was sitting rigid, wide-eyed, staring straight ahead. Then he saw something else. He was sitting facing the lake, and across the room, standing, looking out the window, stood the girl of the thunderstorm.
    “Why do you wish to contact Scotty?” Joyce asked, then quickly corrected herself. “I’m sorry . . . Ah, are you happy or unhappy? Once for happy, twice for unhappy.”
    Howell looked down at the table, a few inches below his nose; he wanted to hear this. It moved twice. Then everything stopped. Howell thought it was like when a refrigerator turned off; you weren’t aware of it until it stopped. The table was back on the floor. A moment later the crickets resumed. He looked back to where the girl had stood. She was no longer there.
    “It’s over,” Joyce said. “I don’t think we’ll get it back.”
    •   •   •
    Later, when everyone had gone, Howell and Scotty sat in front of the fire. “You know anybody named Rabbit?” he asked her. He had to try to figure this out.
    “Nope. I didn’t even know there was anybody named Rabbit.”
    “Maybe it’s a nickname. You know anybody around here? Have you spent any time in the area? I mean, before you came to work for Bo.”
    “Nope. I grew up in Atlanta—in Decatur, really. My dad’s a surgeon at Emory Hospital. I’d never even seen the lake until a month ago.”
    “Were you frightened when it picked you out?” he asked.
    “No, oddly enough. I suppose I should have been, but I just wasn’t. Funny.”
    “I was scared shitless there for a minute,” he said, “when the table came off the floor, but I’m not scared now. I mean, I don’t want to flee the