Page 40 of The Unknown

The glass stops, and all of us wait, breath held, fearful that even the slightest exhalation might influence where it’s going to go. Which, for several seconds, is nowhere. But then the glass nudges forward.

One inch.

Two.

Soon it’s sliding smoothly across the table, on its way to one of the letters situated between me and Violet. Next it quickly glides toward one by Julianne, then the letter directly in front of Violet, then five more located all around the table. When it stops, we’ve spelled out a single name.

CLARENCE

“How?” Heather now sounds even more incredulous, almost angry. “How the fuck did you all guess that?”

“We didn’t,” Julianne says.

“Maybe it was you,” I suggest gently, careful not to upset her even more. “Maybe you guided us to it without even realizing it.”

“But I’m barely touching this glass.”

“Neither am I,” Julianne says.

“Me, too,” Susie chimes in, her voice meek and frightened.

Violet sighs. “Same with me.”

And me. Currently my fingers rest so lightly on the glass’s bottom that I can barely feel it.

“Someone is doing this,” Heather insists. “And I’m going to find out which one of you it is.” She lifts her face, glaring into the darkness above the table. “Azra, tell me Clarence’s middle name.”

Not a second passes before the glass is on the move again. This time, I try to monitor the pressure of my fingers on its bottom, the twitch of my knuckles, the motion of my arm. Am I pulling the glass back toward theClocated near my elbow—or am I the one being pulled? While I can’t be certain, I think it’s the latter. My arm is slack, my touch on the glass light. I’m just along for the ride as it slides across the table, bouncing from one of the letters on my right to another, then another.

C-E-D

The glass then zooms across the table, moving so fast I need to stand to keep up with it. Violet does the same, our chairs scraping the floor as we nudge them out of the way. Soon everyone is on their feet, straining to keep contact with the glass as our arms are jerked back and forth like we’re marionettes.

After three more letters—R-I-C—we’re done. The glass comes to a dead stop, leaving the rest of us breathless and confused, none more so than Heather.

“Cedric,” she says, stunned. “His middle name was Cedric.”

“None of us possibly could have known that,” Susie says.

“Or remotely guessed it,” Julianne adds.

Heather stares at the glass parked in front of theC. Because it’s the farthest away from her, she has to stretch over the table to maintain contact. The fierce gleam in her eyes tells me she’s hell-bent on proving all of this is fake, when even I’m not so sure anymore. There’s a strange,anxious flutter in my rib cage I haven’t felt since I was a little girl, huddled beneath the covers, terrified by the presence outside my window.

“Let’s keep going,” Heather says. “Azra, where is Clarence now?”

Off the glass goes again.

To theW.

To theI.

To theT.

To theH.

We follow it back to the table’s center, where it pauses just enough to indicate a space between words. Then it resumes spelling.

FirstM.