Non timebo mala
I will fear no evil.

Junhong missed work the next day, and the day after as well. It wasn’t a huge issue by any stretch as he was known for taking a few days off here and there. However, what he did in lieu of his graveyard shifts at the supermarket was more concerning.

The first chapter of that book was… nothing. It was no more than a poem, and not even one he could read. Symbols he couldn’t even begin to recognize covered the page in uneven stanzas. He must have spent a good three hours invested in research on this foreign language. But there was nothing. No documentation of a seemingly dead language such as this, and even when he attempted to branch out in his information scouring there wasn’t any mention of the book. Was it really that old?

After yielding nothing in his relentless research, he turned back to the book. The second chapter was quite different from the one preceding it. Surprisingly, it was in English. His native language and one that was taught quite extensively at the academy. The chapter itself was nothing to write home about. All it did was tell him things that he already knew. Necromancy was the darkest art among magic. It was forbidden to be practiced by Jews and Christians alike and was considered a form of divination. Theurgy was quite prevalent in necromancy. Ritualistic practices like séances seemed to be a staple of the art. Anything from incantations to wands or magic circles were involved in summoning the deceased.

The repeat of information would have been dull and lifeless if it wasn't for the way that the book explained itself, it’s art. Words were spun together elegantly in majestic, swooping cursive. Handwritten books were something that had gone completely obsolete, but the practice was still appreciated. Whoever the author was must have been quite prudent, for each and every page was organized, neat, and gorgeous. Even merely looking at the words littering the pages was entertaining in itself. There was so much attention to detail and effort and beauty. The author must have had an eye for aesthetics.

For chapters and chapters afterward, the history of necromancy was explained. To be frank, it wasn't all too interesting, yet the textual style kept him enthralled. He learned of Odysseus’ nighttime ritual during which he created a libation made of ceremonial animal’s blood among other things as well as the fundamental values that necromancy could provide. But when he came down to it, Junhong really had no interest in any such divination nor did he with communicating with the deceased. Sure, it would have been nice to converse with his parents one last time and implore where it was they had gone on his tenth birthday. That wouldn't work, though. The book had told him that after twelve months of the death of the physical body all he could come into contact with was the residual spirit which, unfortunately, spoke in no more than the hushed whispers of the dead.

However, that couldn't stop him from inquiring information from others. He just needed advice, is all. What advice could be more profound than from the revelations of the recently deceased? He'd need people, the book said. Four to seven people in total as well as a planchette. All he had was himself and instructions on how to make his own spirit board. The book did seem to be decently dated, though. Perhaps he could get away with one person and a patented ouija board. He could sure as hell try to, at least.

After a week of browsing the Internet for a proper ouija board, Junhong finally landed himself in front of a small shop in town. The sign that was placed high over the large shop window was no longer legible; the words that had once been painted onto it had been faded by the elements. Wind chimes and dream catchers hung precariously off of the dull blue and white awning, and they, too, seemed to have had the colour from them by the weather. The pavement in front of the little establishment was cracked and broken and looked like it hadn't been touched in decades. Upon opening the creaky white shop door, a small bell rang from overhead and echoed throughout the tiny, crowded room. Inside, the shop was like any other cliché antique store from the movies. A darkness seemed to loom overhead despite the humming of the fluorescent lights above. The walls were wooden and shiny with some sort of veneer, and different antique plates, puppets, and pictures hung off of them. Maneuvering through the thin walkway that separated one row of antiques from another was harder than he imagined. Outstretched hands of mannequins caught onto his thin sweatshirt as his feet twisted and tangled when he tried to avoid stepping on old tin toys placed on the floor. When he finally made it to the stained and scratched checkout desk at the back of the store he'd already worked up a sweat.

As expected, no one stood behind the counter. He was sure that the owner just loved to watch their customers squirm as they traversed throughout this eery little antiques shop. A silver bell stood out proudly against the dark varnish of the counter. Like every other teenager who made a bad decision in a horror movie, Junhong tapped the top of the bell. The sound ricocheted off of the thick wooden walls and bounced back to his ears. Unexpectedly, instead of a tall, wide eyed ship keeper appearing behind him, a short, old Native American woman stepped out from what seemed to be a backroom. Her back was hunched from the years she spent walking the earth and her eyes were small and wrinkled, yet they held the wisdom of many lifetimes. The braids she wore were a beautiful shade of silver that came with age and as she spoke her voice had the exhausted but sweet sound that old ladies tended to have.

She asked what he needed, politely of course. For a moment, he was entranced by her dark eyes that hid unspoken wonders. Quickly, though, he was shaken out of his trance and answered her question with another of his own.

“Do you sell antique ouija boards, by any chance?”

The old woman smiled and her eyes shrunk. “Ouija boards are dangerous things to get involved with. You seem to know that, though.”

He saw, for a slight moment, a flash of deviousness across her lips. “How can you tell that?”

“Oh, I have a knack for reading people,” the laugh she let out was hearty and genuine. “You seem like the cautious type. Always making sure to do your research before you leap into something. That's why you didn't go to college, right? Nothing for you to gain from that. You're much happier by yourself.”

Junhong blinked. He was at a loss of words. As she stepped out from behind the counter and began walking through the store with all of the practiced grace of a professional dancer he couldn't help but wonder how she knew all that. Knowing how to read people was one thing, but knowing something so personal was another. Did she perhaps know about the book as well?

“Follow me, please.” She beckoned to him with a long, wrinkled finger. He tried to catch up to her receding figure, yet couldn't steer himself with the same expertise. Luckily, she stopped soon after she'd called out to him. When he caught up, the old woman was standing in front of a bookcase that cascaded towards the ceiling. It's shelves were heavily veneered like the walls and were a dark cherry colour. Many different knick knacks littered each and every shelf. Anything from 1950’s wind up toys to old souvenirs from famous places like Niagara Falls.

What caught his eye wasn't the collector’s edition slinky dog that stood in front of its box with  a faux, painted smile. No, instead it was exactly what he'd been looking for. Displayed right on top of it’s yellowed, frayed box was an old ouija board. Two rows of thick black letters adorned the centre along with numbers zero through nine and ‘Farewell’ written beneath. A waxing crescent moon with a star and the word ‘No’ decorated the right side while a full moon with an off putting facial expression and the word ‘Yes’ adorned the left. Other images gave the board it's own flare: cats on either side of the letters -- one sitting and one standing -- as well as stars in each of the bottom corners. The wood was a light colour and still had it’s glossy finish. In front of the board itself was a yellowed planchette that was cold to the touch.

“How much?” He breathed, still in awe of the preserved beauty of the board.

“You know,” the old woman mused, “I've never seen someone like yourself come in here. Your eyes lack hope and your figure seems to be slouched in surrender. Many people have come in here and inquired about my board, but none of them were like you.”

Junhong waited patiently for her to tell him he could have it for free or an extremely discounted price. No such offer came.

“They've all told me they'd pay anything for this board. Large amounts of money, priceless gems, anything else your young mind can imagine.” She continued. “Yet my board is still here, untouched by those corrupt hands. But you,” She pointed her ring-covered finger at him. “You are different. Innocent, suffering. I can see it. That is why I will trust you with my board. I've had people offer me thousands for this little board. You can have it for one thousand and a half.”

“A thousand and a half,” He reiterated, touching the wallet in the pocket of his sweatshirt. Of course, that wasn't too much for him. There was a small fortune gathering dust in his bank account. Surely, one thousand five hundred was no dent in his funds.

“What do you say? One thousand and a half. No more, and no less.”

Junhong eyed the board before he turned to the old woman and her thin, scrutinizing eyes. “I think we have a deal.”

———

When he left the store, the overcast sky had gave way to darker, more threatening clouds. As cozy as the small shop seemed, he was extremely grateful to have enough room to stretch his limbs. In his hand, he carried a plastic bag containing his expensive ouija board. The old woman had packed it neatly in it's worn box complete with the polished granite planchette and coffee-stained directions. The smirk she'd given him before he left stuck in his mind, and as much as he tried to forget the fraudulent upturn of her lips he couldn't manage to wipe the image from his mind.

Once safe inside his home, Junhong was eager to start the ritual. He brushed the stale pizza crumbs off of his coffee table and withdrew the old wooden board from the box. It contrasted his dark table nicely. After placing the planchette on the ‘Ouija’ logo at the top of the board, he headed towards his room to retrieve the book. While he could rely on the directions, he trusted the words of the book far more. Where the directions said he could converse with the dead by himself, the book said he needed at least three more people.

With the book open to the page he'd dog-eared for this specific occasion and both of his hands placed firmly on the planchette, Junhong recited the short incantation that the book had provided him. The Latin that spilled from his mouth was slow and unpracticed. He hadn't used the old language since his time at the academy, and even then it was usually limited to class time.

He kept his eyes closed -- more so in caution than in spirit -- as he waited for the little granite pointer beneath his fingertips to move. Though he wasn't exactly sure how long he waited, he knew it was more than enough time. Nothing happened. Frustrated and upset, he forced the cover of the book closed and turned to the wrinkled sheet of directions that had come with the board itself. After reading them over, he once again prepared himself for another attempt. Once again, though, his calling for the spirits yielded no results.

Again and again he tried. He switched between the incantation from the book and the directions from the board, and eventually tried different combinations of the two. Yet, still, nothing. After what must have been at least the nineteenth time -- yes, he was counting -- he threw that overpriced wooden slab off his coffee table. The planchette went flying and made a dull thud as it came in contact with his wall. He hadn't really expected it to work in the first place, but for some reason the way that the old woman had looked at him gave him hope. But here he was, standing in the middle of his living room with balled fists and tears streaming down his face all because he let that old woman read him like he was some ing book.

Junhong sniffed and wiped his eyes, taking in a big laboured breath. He was exhausted.