Cara’s Love

This prompt (in brackets) is taken from Complete the Story by Piccadilly Inc., which I got from the Scribbler box.

[It began as a practical joke. But by the end of the day, nobody was laughing. It seemed innocent enough at first, because Jerry and I have a history of playing practical jokes on one another. He was the one to start the whole thing, if I’m not mistaken. He] got hold of the Ouija board. Found or bought or stolen, I don’t know. But he showed me the board and insisted we try it out at the cemetery. He insisted on doing it at midnight too, so we could barely see the damn board at all.

Jerry believed in ghosts. I never did. Or didn’t use to. So that night I moved the little pointer around, and when Jerry asked who the ghost was I spelled out C-A-R-A, the name on a tombstone we had passed on our way into the cemetery, though Jerry didn’t know that. Then I kept spelling out that he was cute, and that Cara liked him, and did he like Cara? And he totally bought the whole thing, even blushed. And when we were leaving and I pointed out the tombstone with Cara on it, he was good and freaked out. I didn’t tell him yet it had been me pranking him. I had thought I would take it a little further first, maybe leave him some ghostly love letters or something. But before I could, it was the next day, and Jerry came to school freaked out.

In the frost on his window that morning, a heart had been drawn. I hadn’t done that.

Whatever, I thought. A coincidence. Some kid walking by his house did it.

But it didn’t stop there.

He had other stories over the next few days. A salt shaker knocked itself over at breakfast and his name and a heart were etched in the salt spilled. A drawing of him appeared in his sketchbook left open on his desk. And then it got weirder. He heard his name on the wind. He saw faces in his coffee. Finally I had had enough. I told him it had been me spelling out crap on the board.

He didn’t believe me.

He went to the cemetery that night with a pen and piece of paper, and did that spirit writing thing. Like you hold the pen loosely and let it write. I knew he would be there, and I found him, and tried to take the paper from him and tear it up but he screamed at me and snatched it back and shouted at me to leave him alone.

He’s there now, like he is every night, at Cara’s grave. I don’t know anymore what to believe. It was me moving that thing. Wasn’t it?

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