they say she made much of magic. it influenced her though she dreaded and detested the bold and passionate pursuit of candlesticks, the séances in the parlor. she became pale and ugly in her distress, waiting to see what could be done, sweeping the protoplasm of ghosts from her skirt with a shudder.

she would hide behind the door and wait for the ether to rise, so frightened by what she saw. she kept very small, despite her discomfort, employing her tongue for thousands of spirits. she’d pause and listen for a rush of air, a black seeping into the candlelight. this is taking too long, she'd say, and sigh.

almost done with her rude questioning, her eyes drifted open. the cat was throbbing under the table, and she blushed when the phone rang, thrusting her fist into her lap, attempting to still her skirt's frustration. counting each ring, blood filling up her mouth, a new girl standing at the back of the room. exploding would feel good.