They Commune With the Dead Using Biscuit Crumbs and Wine

This séance tastes like vinegar and grit. Elin believes with every butterfly of her heart. You let her, because it's easier than explaining. She doesn't have the dead cloying in her mouth, the rot of them spread across her tongue like you do.

You’ve never seen a ghost, but you can taste his anger. He pushes dirt and oil between your teeth. He wants her all to himself, even though she wouldn’t know he was here if not for you.

And she doesn’t, not yet.

Elin is eager—she taps her nails on the bottle, a habit of impatience she’s had since you both were little, when it was sippy cups instead of wine bottles. You’ve already wasted time chatting and drinking and scoffing down your nerves. She is not as patient as you are.

Elin places a hand flat on the wooden floor. “This is where he kissed me for the first time.”

Her voice is giddy but it’s not the kiss that keeps him here. His death spored in this room—over whispers and biscuits, and later, arguments. It was an argument that sent him out that night. But not with Elin, with you. If not for you, he wouldn’t have been on that road. If not for this room, he would still be alive.

Elin crumbles the Garibaldi—his favourite—in a disjointed circle. She sneaks a currant between her fingers and slips it in her mouth. When she sees you watching she bubbles out a laugh and offers a dried fruit to you, too. Elin presses it between your lips and you blame your blush on the wine.

“You can’t touch the biscuits, right? It has to be me, otherwise he might not come?” Elin smiles, and you nod. That’s what you told her.

She takes another swig from the bottle before pouring the glass and placing it in the centre of the ring. This is a ritual of your invention but you tell her you found it in a book at your grandmother’s house—she had a talent for these things, you said. But you’ve never needed rituals to commune with the dead.

Elin closes her eyes and grasps your hands. As you watch her, the lingering notes of currant sour in your mouth—he chokes you with tartness, lest you forget about him.

“Hear us,” says Elin, loud and unwavering. “We’ve laid out an offering. Your favourites. Please, come and share with us. We are ready, and willing, to receive you.”

This is it.

You squeeze her hands, fingers digging into her wrists, and suck in a gasp like you’ve not tasted air in weeks. When she opens her eyes, you hold your face in a memorised expression of shock—eyebrows knit just like his. You breathe and squeeze and say, “Elin?”

Pitched lower than usual, the name is all it takes for Elin to rush into your arms, spilling the wine and scattering the crumbs like blood on gravel. Before you have time to change your mind, you hold her face in your palms and you kiss her. He wants to kiss her as much as you do—as you always have.

On her lips, there is no evidence of his haunting.

It doesn’t last. When she pulls away, there is a car crash in your throat—metal, oil, fire, skin.

You let your expression drop and slump back to the cold floor. She says your name and you wake for her, feigning a blot in your memory—how long has it been? you ask.

Elin fusses about you but she doesn’t mention the kiss. You touch your fingers to your lips and she flushes.

The wine dries sticky and neither of you say a word.

© 2022 Elou Carroll

About the Author

Elou Carroll is a graphic designer and freelance photographer who writes. Her work appears or is forthcoming in If There’s Anyone Left Volume 3, The Deadlands, In Somnio: A Collection of Modern Gothic Horror (Tenebrous Press), Spirit Machine (Air and Nothingness Press), Ghostlore (Alternative Stories Podcast) and others. When she’s not whispering with ghosts, she can be found editing Crow & Cross Keys, and spending far too much time on twitter (@keychild). She keeps a catalogue of her weird little wordcreatures on www.eloucarroll.com.