Posthumous

It was long past midnight by the time Cece pedaled her bike into the gravel driveway of her dead uncle’s house. The moon shone like a beacon in the darkened sky, lighting her way. She had planned everything to be just so—even tracking the phases of the moon to ensure she’d be able to see on a night like this. Still, she was tempted to stop near the garage door, where she knew the motion-sensor light was. Light was comforting. It also attracted unwanted attention at this time of night. So, she carefully avoided it and headed toward the grove of trees just beyond where the driveway curved to the left. Heaven knew she didn’t want to get caught creeping around Elbert Allen’s property—not in the gun-toting, property-sensitive, conservative-run state of Idaho. They’d shoot her head off without waiting for her explanation. 

Cece coasted to a stop next to one of the biggest trees in the grove and adjusted her backpack straps. She recognized the red chalk marks on the trunk of the tree—the marks she had made the day before. If there was one thing she hadn’t wanted to risk, it was losing her bike in the grove. It wasn’t just her mode of transportation; it was her getaway car. Bike. Whatever you called it. 

She clambered off of her bike, tired from the long ride, and leaned it against the marked tree. Without pausing to stretch like she normally would, she picked her way through the tall weeds. They brushed against her pant legs, and an image of skeleton hands reaching up out of the ground popped into Cece’s head. She shook her head, trying to banish the image. Just because it was October didn’t mean she had to spook herself. 

It didn’t take her long to reach the extra garage behind the house. If she remembered correctly, this was the building her mom called the shop. Cece reached her hand into her right jeans pocket and pulled out the keyring, trying her best not to let her shaking hands drop it. It took a couple of tries, but she eventually found the right key to the shop door. 

After taking one last paranoid glance around her, she opened the door and slipped inside, breathing in the musty, lawn-clippings smell of the shop. She turned on the flashlight she’d stuck inside her jacket pocket before she left home, and a feeling of relief flooded her chest. Thank heavens for light. Still, she cupped her hand around the light until it barely shone—just a dim, orange glow. 

Cece had been in the shop just last week with her mom. As the owner of the property and a real estate agent to boot, her mom had wanted to poke around on the property to get a sense of what needed fixing, who might want to purchase it, and, most importantly, the market value. That was when Cece felt it was safe enough to ask questions about her recently deceased uncle. Her mom typically avoided the topic of her brother at all costs—they hadn’t even gone to the funeral because of some ancient squabble over the siblings’ inheritance—but being on his property made it tough to change the subject. So, Cece asked all the questions she had been too scared to ask before: What was Elbert like? Did he ever want to reconnect with his family? And so on. 

At one point, her mom stopped poking around inside the shop long enough to confront Cece. “Why all these questions, anyway? You’ve never shown much interest in Elbert.” 

“For one thing, you always change the subject when I ask you about him,” Cece had pointed out. “For another, you told me once that he was a writer, like I am. So, yeah, I’m interested.” 

Her mom rolled her eyes, but she answered all of Cece’s questions from that point forward. 

Now, Cece caught herself wishing that her mom could be here in the shop. The woman might be difficult to get along with, but she was fearless. Nothing could spook her. 

Cece sighed. There was no point making fruitless wishes when she had a mission to accomplish. She wove around the various lawn equipment, boxes, and rusted car parts until she reached the workbench in the back. She took off her backpack and set it on top of the workbench before searching for a chair. Spotting a metal stool a few feet away, she grabbed it and set it down gently beside the workbench. Cece attempted to ignore the cobwebs strung between the legs of the stool, but the thought of spiders crawling over her creeped her out too much. Looking around again, she found an old broom and used it to clear away the cobwebs. After triple-checking to make sure there were no spiders still lingering on the stool, she finally sat down. 

It was time to get down to business. Cece unzipped her backpack and took out her makeshift Ouija board—a flat piece of cardboard with letters and numbers scribbled on it in black Sharpie—and the planchette, which was composed of three pencils taped together in a triangle. Finally, she grabbed a few candles from her backpack, placed them on the workbench around the board, and lit them using a match. The flickering light of the candles cast enough light to see, so she turned off her flashlight and stuffed it back into her jacket pocket. 

Cece took a deep breath and placed her trembling fingers lightly on the pencil-planchette. “Uncle Elbert, are you there?” 

The words came out softer than she wanted, so she cleared her dry throat and tried again. 

“Elbert Allen, this is your niece, Cece Lawrence. I need to talk to you.” 

She waited for a few seconds before realizing she should probably ask another question. It wasn't like she wrote a “hello” option on the board, anyway. 

“Elbert, are you there? Can you hear me?” 

All three candle flames flickered as the planchette moved up and to the left. It paused over the letter C, then moved to A. Cece whispered each letter. 

“C-A-L-L-M-E-E-L.” 

The planchette stayed on the letter L. Cece’s eyes watered. She’d stopped blinking for fear of missing a letter. She blinked several times to clear her vision. 

“You want me to call you El?” she asked, her voice nothing but a hoarse whisper. Again, the planchette moved. This time, it stopped on the word “yes” scrawled in the upper lefthand corner of the board before returning to the center. 

Cece forced herself to take a deep breath—in through her nose, out through her mouth. Just like her mom taught her when she used to have nightmares as a little girl. Finally, after a few moments of silence, she spoke again. 

“Okay, I can do that. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, El. I just have a few questions, then I’ll let you be. Is that okay with you?” 

For the second time, the planchette landed on “yes.” 

“Perfect.” Cece nodded, trying not to show how terrified she was. “I guess I’ll start with an easy question, then. My mom told me that you were a writer, and you always carried a notebook and pencil with you wherever you went. Is that true?” 

The planchette returned to “yes.” 

She straightened up and almost grinned before remembering that she was communicating with a ghost. “Awesome. That means we have something in common. I’m a writer too. The only thing is, I've encountered somewhat of a writing block recently. I’m sure you know what those are like.” 

Cece hesitated, not sure if she really wanted to continue. Then, her mom’s voice echoed in her mind: “Finish what you start, no matter what. We're finishers in this house, Cecilia.” Before she could overthink, Cece spoke again. 

“Anyway, I’m stuck, and it's bad. I’ve been wanting to apply to grad schools to get an MFA in Creative Writing, but I haven’t been able to write a decent creative sample. Deadlines are coming up, and I can hardly sleep because I’m so worried. I need—I don't know. Something. Anything to get me out of this rut. Do you think you can help me?” 

This time, El was the one to hesitate. Cece held her breath until the planchette finally moved. It stopped on “yes,” and she let out the breath in one whoosh. 

“Awesome. Thank you. So, uh… you got any ideas?” 

The planchette moved to “yes” again. 

“Okay, what are you thinking?” 

“B-O-X.” 

Cece frowned. “Box?” 

“I-N-H-O-U-S-E.” 

“In house. Is there a box in your house?” she asked. 

“Yes.” Cece nodded. 

“Okay, I think I have the key to your house on this keyring. Do you know where this box is?” 

“U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-I-R-S.” 

“Under the stairs. Gotcha.” For the second time, she hesitated. “Is there anything else you want to tell me before I look for the box?” 

This time, the planchette moved to the word “no” in the upper right hand corner. 

“Alright. Thanks for your help. I guess this is goodbye?” “Yes.” The planchette remained on the word “yes,” and Cece waited a few more seconds to make sure El didn’t have anything else to say. She removed the planchette and Ouija board from the workbench and put them in her backpack. With three quick puffs, she blew out the candles. 

A sudden gust of wind rattled the shop’s garage door, and Cece startled. She let out a long breath as she realized what the sound was. 

“Stupid nerves,” she muttered, instantly regretting the words. They sounded small and reminded her of how vulnerable she was. Without waiting for the wax to cool, she shoved the candles into her backpack and dug the flashlight out of her jacket pocket. Goosebumps pricked her arms as she clicked the flashlight button and cast the beam around the shop, making sure there was nothing in there with her aside from Uncle El’s spirit. The thought of a third presence—even a friendly one—gave her the heebie-jeebies. 

Not wanting to wait even a millisecond longer, Cece zipped her backpack closed, slung it over her shoulder, and stood up. She tripped over a weedwacker on her way out and winced both at the noise it made and the pain in her foot. Not pausing to assess any damage, she rushed around the junk until she was outside again. She closed the shop door behind her and locked it, her hands trembling with adrenaline. 

The autumn breeze brushed against her face and played with tendrils of her sandy hair. Cece turned to face the breeze, appreciating how it cooled her flaming cheeks and settled her nerves. Once she felt like she could move again, she cupped her hand over the flashlight and made her way over to the house. 

In the silvery moonlight, the house loomed over her. Cece silently reminded herself that everything looked creepier at night and pressed forward, reaching the back door in no time. Again, it took her a few tries to find the right key. She winced as the door squealed on its hinges. Briefly, she wondered if all doors in haunted houses did that. Was it a requirement or something? 

Shaking her head clear of thoughts, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her quickly, hoping that it would lessen the squeal. It didn’t. Cece stood still for a moment, gathering her courage before she uncovered the head of the flashlight. 

Dust motes floated around in the bright beam of light, disturbed from their resting places by her presence. Deciding not to wait around and get creeped out in the process, she walked over to the stairs and went down them. The stairs popped and groaned underneath her weight. In the dead of night, they sounded eerily similar to gunshots. 

Once she reached the basement floor, Cece rounded the staircase and found the cramped closet underneath the stairs. In broad daylight, her mom had opened the closet and peered inside before shutting the door again. Cece asked her what was inside, and her mom simply shook her head and said “junk.” They moved on without saying another word. 

Now, poised with her hand on the closet’s doorknob, Cece wished she had pressed her mom for more information. What if there were spiders in there? Or mice? Worse yet, what if there were multiple boxes, and Cece had to go through the contents of each one? She shuddered at the thought of spending more than five minutes down here. 

“C’mon, Cece,” she chastised herself aloud. “Just open the door. On the count of three. One, two, three.” 

Before she could chicken out, Cece opened the door and looked inside. 

Papers littered the floor. There were a few blankets, neatly folded, in the slanted part of the closet. Directly in the middle, a small, clear plastic tub sat on top of a cardboard box. On the other side of the tub and box, there was an ancient vacuum. A thick layer of dust covered everything in the closet, and Cece stifled the urge to sneeze. Once it passed, she pointed her flashlight directly at the tub first, curiosity overcoming her. She spotted stacks of what looked like photographs inside, along with more papers. Maybe if she ever came back to this house by day, she’d take a look at the photos. As for now, she shoved the flashlight between her arm and side, grabbed the handles of the tub, and moved it on top of the pile of blankets. She took a moment to wipe her now-dusty hands on her jeans before turning her attention to the box. Making sure to use her legs instead of her back, she scooted the box out of the closet and closed the door. She grabbed her flashlight from her armpit, unfolded the flaps of the box, and stared at the contents, shocked. 

Notebooks. The box was stuffed full of notebooks of all sizes. Cece lifted out the spiral notebook on the very top of the main pile and read the writing scrawled on the front of it: Elbert Allen—Volume 27. Return if found. With an air of reverence, Cece knelt down and flipped through the pages. Sure enough, they were covered in scratchy cursive, all the way to the end of the notebook. She set Volume 27 aside and picked up another notebook from the pile. This one had similar writing on the front, except for the volume number: 28. The notebook underneath was Volume 29. Cece grinned and shook her head in disbelief. Heck, she thought. If El and I had met while he was alive, we would’ve gotten along well. I just hope something in these notebooks will inspire me. 

Cece’s digital wristwatch beeped, signaling the beginning of a new hour. Using her flashlight, she checked the time. 3:00 a.m. 

Not wanting to dawdle any longer, she placed the two notebooks back in the box and folded the flaps closed. She stood up, tightened the straps on her backpack, and placed her flashlight on top of the box. A surprised grunt escaped her as she hefted the box. Heading toward the stairs, Cece peeked around the edge of the box to locate the first stair. Each step creaked as she went up carefully. One misstep could delay her mission significantly—or even put an end to it, if she hurt herself. 

Cece stepped onto the first floor landing and breathed out a sigh of relief. She maneuvered past the dining table and chairs, making her way toward the back door. Once there, she set the box down, picked up the flashlight, and turned it off. It took a short while for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but once they did, Cece put the flashlight in her jacket pocket and opened the door wide. For the second time, she hefted the box and moved forward. She set the box down on the back step for a moment while she closed the door and locked it again. 

An owl hooted nearby, sending a shiver down her back. She picked up the box and frowned as her arms trembled from the heavy load. For a moment, she caught herself wishing she lifted weights, and she almost had to laugh out loud. Her, Cece Lawrence, lifting weights? Comical. 

Cece hurried through the darkness to her bike and set the box on the rear rack. She unshouldered her backpack, unzipped it, and retrieved a rope, feeling grateful she’d thought to bring it. She tied the box to the rack, also grateful her bike was a cruiser and had a rear rack. Lucky, she thought as she tugged on the rope, ensuring the box wouldn’t come loose on the way home. When have I ever been this lucky? 

Once she was done securing the box, she zipped her backpack shut, put it on, and clambered onto her bike. With some effort, she got the bike in motion and began the long, arduous journey back home. 

It took her almost twice as long to get home as it did to get to El’s house, and her leg muscles were burning by the time she pedaled into her driveway. She nearly fell as she dismounted her bike, but she caught herself just in time. Panting, she walked her bike through the backyard and into the shed. It didn’t take her long to undo the rope and hide the box behind the lawnmower, but to her, it felt like it took forever. Every movement reminded her of how utterly exhausted she was, both from sleep deprivation and exercise. 

Once she felt sure her mom would never notice the box, Cece exited the shed and snuck back into her house. She paused after she closed the back door behind her. Sure enough, she could hear the faint sound of her mom snoring. Being careful to make as little noise as possible, Cece headed to her bedroom. 

As she closed the door behind her, the tension left her body. Cece stumbled into bed, not even bothering to take her shoes off. Within seconds, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep—the best she’d had in ages.