I howled, kicked, and cried while Hanson sang “MMMBop.” The bedside table, now toppled over on the floor, was the only thing between me and the doctor. Between panicked breaths, I looked to my hands; their shape was changing. They widened at the knuckles, my fingers elongated, my nails grew sharp as talons. And red—my skin was now blood red. Everywhere.

It was late. Her maroon kitten heels pounded against the sidewalk, her stride tested the limits of her pencil skirt. There was no time to dawdle. She had to get to the oddities shop before it closed. She needed another tarot reading.

If writers are lucky, their writing will be the seance, their keystrokes—the ouija board.