Ouija

A cold oppressive malice fell
Upon the room as outside roared
A howling gale, a soundtrack to
Three girls beside a Ouija board.

Three little sisters, six, eight, ten,
Up past their bedtime, dead of night.
Sat in a circle bleary eyed,
Their faces washed in candlelight.

The elder sibling's trembling hand
Dropped on the planchette, slowly met
By four more fingers from her kin,
Each coated in a film of sweat.

A sharp intake of breath and then
"Are any spirits present here,
We seek a soul we lost too soon
Our now departed mother dear."

One voice turned quickly to a choir
As all three children without pause,
Demanded from that rosewood board
A peek through otherworldly doors.

Five minutes passed, so too five more
But still the planchette would not slide.
The youngest child now fighting tears,
Her disappointment hard to hide.

When suddenly out of the blue,
A welcome reprieve from the stress,
The planchette jerked and glided left
Up to the spot that spelled out YES.

A loud collective gasp escaped
Their mouths to see that pointer bob,
Then race across the polished wood
To spell out quickly "I am Hob."

But shock was very soon displaced
By squeals of joy, a sense of pride,
Their beaming smiles a just reward
For contact with the other side.

With hearts now thumping in their chests
A palpitating hope filled throb,
The middle child leaned in and asked
"Who are you please sir, Master Hob?"

A short-lived pause then quick again
In playful fashion quite bizarre,
The planchette skipped across the board
"My dear, I am the Morning Star.

But wallow not in your despair
Your mother asks, this is the gist,
Go over to your father's desk
And with his flick knife slit your wrist.

For then the walls of our two worlds
May be dissolved and once again,
You and a mother whom you miss
Can be together free from pain."

The eldest child removed her hand
Recoiling at the strange request,
A seed of doubt sown in her mind
About their paranormal guest.

"Our mother would not wish us harm
In this life or the one to come,
The soul you claim to represent
Does not sound like our caring mum.

Who are you really, Master Hob?
I sense a spirit spawned in hell
Who never once has roamed those halls
Of heaven where our loved ones dwell."

A violent scratching filled the room
As on the vibrant red veneer,
The planchette gouged into the wood
And made a pentagram appear.

"Provoke me not to anger, child.
Believe me when I tell you this,
The arcane powers I possess
Project beyond the great abyss.

I am the rightful king of kings,
Now do exactly as I say.
Resist and be in no doubt, child,
I shall compel you to obey."

The youngest, unafraid, jumped up
Defiance blazing in her eyes.
"We sought the soul of our sweet mum,
Instead we found the Prince of Lies.

You have no power over us,
We don't believe you, do your worst."
The youngest child began to choke,
"So be it last-born, you die first."