Follow The Instructions To The Letter

I was languishing in the bath that day with a face mask on when the doorbell screamed obnoxiously through the house. I settled back down and decided to ignore it as I wasn't expected anyone but then it screamed again, and again, and again.

I splashed out in a huff, pulling on my dressing gown and thanking any and all deities that the small window in my front door was frosted as I hurried down the stairs. I yanked open the door just in time to see the garden gate slam. I caught a brief glimpse of a nondescript man heading back down my road and stepped out to give him a piece of my mind but my foot hit a small stuffed envelope on my doorstep. My anger dissolved and was replaced with rabid curiosity. I picked up the envelope and brought it back inside for inspection.

Taking a seat on the stairs I ripped it open. To my surprise a few American bank notes dropped onto my hall carpet. I realised the envelope was stuffed to the brim with more notes. As much as I might have wanted the money, hello kitchen refit, an envelope full of cash that wasn't even in my currency was obviously suspicious so I fished through for an explanation. First of all I found a letter in hastily scrawled writing:

Chrissy,

I felt bad taking your money as I'm tapped out and I can't perform it for you. I've returned a lot of it in American dollars in case things go south and you need to split. I gave you $20,000 and kept the extra from the exchange to take off myself, I'm not perfect ok? Even if it goes right you might be in need of a holiday anyway. I've included what you need to do if you want to do it without me. Follow the instructions to the letter. I can't help you if you mess it up.

Good luck, you'll need it.

Mr. Magic

I read the letter countless times, my hands shaking with a mix of excitement and nerves.

I'd lost my parents out of nowhere three months before. It was a car crash and they both died instantly. Not being able to say goodbye was something that hung over my dreams and waking moments like a storm cloud. On a recommendation from a friend, I found Mr. Magic. On his surprisingly basic website he promised he could perform a ritual that let you speak to your lost loved ones. The connection wouldn't stay open for long but you'd have time to say goodbye and know they were at peace. It was too good to pass up so within two days of finding him I'd transferred him the required £20,000 and I was impatiently waiting for him to contact me with a date. It was most of my savings but honestly who could put a price on closure?

Behind all the money was an A5 black notebook. The cover was worn like it had been thumbed through every day for years and there were extra pieces of paper taped and clipped in causing them to poke out at odd angles. The notebook is the aspect that's starred in all my nightmares since. Sometimes I drop it and it begins to bleed all over the carpet. Other times I open it and a decaying hand grabs my throat and squeezes hard. I always wake up screaming with my bedsheets sticking to my drenched skin.

With hindsight something serious had obviously happened to Mr. Magic for him to give me this notebook filled with all his spells and rituals but I was too excited to consider it at the time. I only used the agreed one that he'd marked with a lime green post-it on which he'd scrawled 'Chrissy'. I've since burned the book so I couldn't try any others even if I wanted to.

After hiding the stacks of money somewhere safe I wiped off my face mask which had been on far too long, drained my now cold bath water, and threw on some comfy clothes. Even though it was daylight I drew all my curtains before starting on the ritual, I guess I was scared of anyone peeking in my windows and thinking I was strange.

The ritual was much easier than I expected. All I had to do was light the candle, a thin snub of a thing in the bottom of the envelope that was supposed to be imbued with herbs or crystals or some such. I then had to write the full names and dates of death of the person or people I wanted to connect with and burn that piece of paper with the candle. I had to have a radio turned on but not tuned to a station, just the gnawing static in between, and they would communicate through that. As it was so easy I lost heart and began to think all the warnings about it going wrong were to put me off trying a bogus ritual and realising I'd been ripped off. I followed through though because I couldn't live with myself if it turned out to be genuine and I hadn't tried.

The paper hadn't quite burned up completely when the radio crackled and I jumped so hard I bit my tongue. After a few more crackles I clearly heard my father's voice call my name, closely followed by my mother's. We had a wonderful reunion that brought me to floods of tears. They assured me they were together and at peace. I spoke to them for longer than I expected to be able to do and when I turned off the radio and blew out the candle I was exhausted but content.

The following day passed without incident until it was time for dinner. I was dancing around to the latest pop rubbish on the radio and burnt my food.

"Pillock!"

My father's joking insult cut through the music.

For whatever reason the connection hadn't severed completely. My parents couldn't come through all the time but over the next few weeks I kept the radio on almost 24/7 and we'd talk when we could. It was as close to having them back as I was going to get and even with everything that happened afterwards I cherish that time.

The first time I heard someone other than my parents was when I was sunbathing in a park on a wonderfully bright Saturday. I didn't want to have conversations with my parents outside the house for obvious reasons so I hadn't taken my radio but a group of teens next to me were blasting music. The music skipped and sputtered a little before a small voice rang through.

"I know you can hear us. I need you to pass on a message for me."

I sat bolt upright staring at the group but they'd carried on as normal so it became obvious quickly that I was the only one hearing the voice.

"Just do this one thing for me. I'm begging you." It pressed again.

I couldn't deal with it so I grabbed my belongings and rushed home. The voice kept crying out to me, begging me not to leave. I cried a little as I ran home.

That was three weeks ago and it's been happening more and more. It's not just radios anymore either, they can come through on anything playing music or even a video. I tried burning the book and throwing out what was the left of the candle but it hasn't worked. I didn't sign up to be a messenger for the dead and my parents are having to push to come through.

I'm not sure what I did wrong but I've packed a few essentials and the stacks of cash and I'm going to track down Mr. Magic to find out. He said in his letter that he couldn't help but I don't know who else would. I'm not sure what I'll do if he can't.