The Eighth Gate

1 | Pendulum Swing

“Infrared camera?”

“Check.”

“EVP tape recorder?”

“Check.”

“EMF meter?”

“Uh.” Mary glanced around, blue eyes raking over her dining room table, where a burgundy towel protected its fine wood from getting scratched by the mess of equipment scattered across it. “I don’t think—“

“It’s here,” Tamara interjected, holding up a black rectangular contraption that resembled a telephone. She cocked her head; her auburn fringe fell into her dark eyes. “We’ve spent almost two years working with this stuff and you still can’t pick out what an EMF meter looks like?”

Mary fought the urge to roll her eyes. Tamara’s tone was laced with offensiveness; she had a tendency to behave as if her techy equipment were her children. “I’m not good with names; you know that. Besides,” she added, “that’s what we have Noah for.”

But Tamara wouldn’t drop it; she hardly ever did. “Do you even know what EMF stands for?”

“Um,” Mary began, racking her brain for a viable answer. Nothing came to her, so she decided to wing it. “Eat… My… Fries?”

Tamara gave her best friend a flat look.”Hi-larious.”

Mary grinned. “Why, thank you, darling.”

A ghost of a smile touched Tamara’s lips as she dropped her eyes to the table, resuming the traditional task of checking over all of the supplies for availability and functionality before they headed out to do an investigation.

“Let’s see…” she muttered, listing each device while ticking them off with her fingers, “thermometer, motion detector, holy water, and… three holy crosses.”

She placed heavy weight over the last three words, clearly emphasizing their importance. She lifted the three necklaces up off the table, letting them dangle delicately from her slender fingers. Tamara cast a serious glance up at Mary. “Can’t forget these.”

Mary nodded. “Never.”

The two girls each reached for a necklace; Mary looped one over her head, allowing the cool texture of hard wood to settle over the skin of her neck. The small, lightweight cross nestled between the low valley of her breasts and already she felt safer…

                                                           †††

These days, if there was one emotion that plagued Mary’s mind almost as much as the constant fear, it was guilt.

They sat in the dining room, Mary occupying the chair at the head of the long chestnut table, its surface layered with a polished, glossy finish. An untouched plate of pasty mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables sat before her, the wispy slivers of heat dissolving into the air as it cooled. A fork and knife slept atop a white napkin, winking with the light thrown down by the chandelier hovering suspended over the table's center. To the left of Mary sat her mother; to the right her father.

Mary kept her head down, gaze fixed on her plate. She didn’t feel in the least bit hungry— a sensation that she had grown quite accustomed to over the past year, although she didn’t quite know what to attribute this lack of appetite to. Could’ve been the medications, the depression, the anxiety—or all three.

A clear of the throat, deep with the reverberations of a rumbling chest. Mary’s father’s voice cut through the silence like the knife her mother was currently using to carve at her dry steak.