Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

be dripping down his forehead. Desdemona gasped as the planchette moved
from side to side before it started spinning in slow circles.
“You actually have to pause on the individual letters,” Nelson said.
“I’m trying,” Wallace snapped. “It’s harder than it looks.” He furrowed
his brow in concentration, tongue sticking out between his teeth. He moved
slower, and it took only a few more moments before he got the hang of it.
“H,” Desdemona whispered.
“H,” Thin Man repeated, writing it down on the pad.
“I.”
“I.”
Wallace stopped.
Desdemona frowned. “That’s … that’s it?” She looked up at Thin Man.
“What did it say?”
Thin Man paled as he turned the pad toward her, hands trembling.
Desdemona squinted at it before rearing back. “Hi. It says hi. Oh my god.
It’s real. It’s really real.” She coughed roughly. “I mean, of course it’s real. I
knew that. Obviously.” She grinned at the camera, though more tightly than
before. “The spirits are talking to us.” She cleared her throat once more.
“Hello, spirits. I have received your message. Who are you? What is it you
want? Did you die horribly, perhaps by being bludgeoned to death with a
hammer in a crime of passion, and have unfinished business that only I,
Desdemona Tripplethorne of Desdemona Tripplethorne’s Sexy Seances
(trademark pending), can help you with? Who is your murderer? Is it
someone in this room?”
“I’ll straight up murder you!” Mei shouted from the kitchen.
“Yes,” Desdomona said after Wallace moved the planchette over the same
word on the board. “You were murdered. I knew it! Tell me, O great spirit.
Tell me who murdered you. I will seek justice on your behalf and when I
have my own TV deal in place, I promise I’ll never forget you. Give me a
name.”
The planchette moved again.
“D,” she whispered. “E. S. D. E. M. O. N—”
Thin Man let out a strangled noise. “That spells demon.”
“Really scraping the bottom of the barrel with these two,” Nelson said,
eying Squat Man as he stood on a chair, holding his device toward the
ceiling.