We’re pleased to announce the winner of the February WWWC: Salvatore Pesaturo! Responding to the prompt ‘holding on’ Salvatore’s ‘Dollhouse on the Rig’ sees a psychic with dubious capabilities startled by his first real brush with the supernatural.

Read Salvatore’s winning story below.

Helicopter blades thrummed as a chopper landed on the oil rig with a thud, wind whipping through Edwin’s hair as he tore off the seatbelt and headset. Oil workers in red jumpsuits gawked at him, speckled across the platform like chickenpox. A psychic walked into an oil field; there must be a joke in there somewhere, he thought.

Edwin disembarked, and a large, stern-faced man shook his hand. ‘I’m John. You’re the clairvoyant?’

Clairvoyant was a strong word, but he wasn’t a fraud – not exactly – he’d just never demonstrated a skerrick of supernatural power. Some would call him a dreamer, others an unscrupulous huckster, but there’s no such thing as bad press, right?

Edwin nodded. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ John didn’t smile. ‘Sorry, trade humour.’

‘Just wave your candles around and stop everyone panicking. I’ve got night shift coming up and I don’t want these superstitious idiots pissing themselves.’

#

John was the rig boss. Total sceptic himself, but his crew had pressured him into hiring Edwin when things started going bump.

Edwin set up in an office, lighting his Kmart candles to set the mood before reverently laying his Ouija board on the table. Hopefully no one noticed the Hasbro logo in the corner. A séance was a classic tool for hauntings. Useless for talking to spirits, but a great way to convince clients you were worth your hourly.

The believers sat around the table with Edwin, and John, who sneered at every opportunity.

‘Everyone, place your hand on the planchette.’ he indicated the triangular pointer on the board. ‘Now, we invite the ghost to commune with us.’

The workers complied, and Edwin broke into his best baritone. ‘Oh, unrestful spirit. Speak. How may we appease you?’

For a long moment, nothing happened. The trick was to maintain suspense until everyone thought it was bunk, then start steering it imperceptibly. He’d done this hundreds of times.

Suddenly the counter moved so quickly that Edwin’s shoulder popped. A collective gasp bubbled from the crew as it jerked again. Was this an actual spirit? Edwin might really earn his money this time. Another movement, and a word took shape:

Fathe—

John was on his feet and the board clattered against the floor as he upended it, his breath heavy and eyes wide. ‘Enough.’

#

Everyone went to bed, but Edwin couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t wanted to be a fraud. He’d just been overenthusiastic when he became a professional psychic, starting the business in hope that the powers would develop, but none did. And, well, he had to do something for his clients.

Now a real ghost had communicated with him, and John wanted to hide it.

Rattle, rattle.

Edwin sat bolt upright and strained his ears for the noise but couldn’t hear over the gentle lapping of the ocean. Maybe he’d imagined it.

Rattle, rattle.

Edwin stood, still clad in his polka dot pyjamas, and crept into the hall. With every step, the shuddering became louder. Why weren’t others pouring from their rooms? Were they accustomed to the rig’s dulcet rumbles?

 He stopped at a door and placed his ear against it. Bingo. He eased it open and squinted through the gloom.

A dollhouse?

It may have once been pink, but time or darkness rendered it a soulless grey. The light from the hallway draped it in shadows, like black paint smeared across its façade.

And it shook. Violently.

A snort startled Edwin, and he searched for the source. It was John, asleep in a threadbare cot. Edwin’s heart hammered as he closed the door and returned to his room.

Why would the grizzled old rig boss be holding on to something like that? A grown man with a dollhouse in an oil rig. There must be a joke in there.

Curiosity consumed him over the coming days. He ran the usual scams, but his heart wasn’t in it. Each night the clattering got louder, but no one else heard.

Thankfully, John’s night shifts started soon.

#

Edwin donned a black turtleneck and cargo pants and followed the noise. This time the rhythmic sounds of sleep were absent, but the dollhouse quaked like always.

He unfolded his Ouija board in front of the dollhouse and sat down. The air buzzed with energy and sweat dotted his brow. He was so close to what he’d always wanted, a real connection to the spirit world.

‘Speak to me, spirit,’ he said.

Minutes ticked by. Nothing.

A lump rose in his throat. He’d been stupid to let himself think it was finally happening.

Heavy footsteps pounded against the metal floor in the hall, and Edwin knew it was John, not because of the prickling in his nape, but a change in the dollhouse’s cadence. Slower. Calmer.

Edwin grabbed his Ouija board and dived into an austere wardrobe, leaving the door open a small sliver so he could see.

John burst in. When he crouched by the dollhouse, his hardness evaporated, and he seemed tired. Worn.

‘Shh. It’s okay,’ he crooned. ‘Daddy has you.’ He stroked its side, and the tremors calmed. ‘Tell papa what’s wrong.’

John pulled out his own Ouija board.

It moved without his touch, spelling out words rapidly:

Can I come out and play?

‘Sweetie, we’ve talked about this. The men are getting scared. I had to call that fraud to calm them down.’

The planchette whizzed across the board again.

I want to go.

‘Don’t leave papa. Not again.’ His voice broke. ‘Please.’

But I’m lonely.

‘I’m here now, angel. I’m here now.’

John sat cross-legged with the dollhouse and told his daughter stories, cycling through a roster of old favourites, and slowly, the rattling subsided. The room changed, as though the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and the music of a child’s laughter echoed faintly.

When John’s break ended, he left the dollhouse alone, the spirit now silent. Contented.

It was the first ghost Edwin had seen as a professional psychic, and tomorrow he’d be telling John he couldn’t take his money. There must be a joke in there somewhere.

Salvatore Pesaturo became a writer after realising his dreams of being a wizard were unrealistic. His writing has been published in the Arcanist, NonBinary Review, and the Chaser Annual. He hopes to share his stories with the world and one day make enough from them to afford the occasional cup of coffee.

This story was first published in the Arcanist.