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the flame on the candle shot up, roaring to several times its normal height, almost like a blowtorch. The voice of the sobbing woman changed, the sorrow replaced by anger. As the woman let out a horrible scream of rage, Lisa pulled back from the table, breaking her contact with Brian and Carrie.
    The flapping cupboard door slammed shut so hard it rattled all the dishes on the shelves. The candle flew across the room and smashed against the wall above the kitchen sink, spattering wax in all directions. The pencil in Brian’s hand burst apart, disintegrating in a fury of splinters.
    Brian’s eyes flew open. He looked at Carrie and Lisa as if he were on the verge of a heart attack. In a voice that sounded like rustling cornhusks, he whispered, “What in God’s name is going on here?”
    The same words were shouted almost simultaneously by an older, sharper voice. Dr. Miles came rushing into the room, her robe flapping, her long white hair flying behind her. For a moment Lisa thought her grandmother looked like a ghost herself.
    Brian clearly thought so too. He started back from the table, then relaxed just a hair as he realized who it was.
    â€œWe were doing automatic writing, Gramma,” said Carrie, her voice soft, scared.
    Dr. Miles’s eyes widened, and she was clearly furious. Turning to Brian, she said—quite politely but in a voice sharp as a knife’s edge, “I think you had better pick yourself up and head for home.”
    That made Lisa feel awful; Brian was so clearly shaken up that it didn’t seem fair to send him out into the night all alone.
    Dr. Miles seemed to sense the same thing, for she immediately relented and asked him to stay for a little while. “You can help us clean the place up,” she said tartly. “Which I would like to have done before Lisa and Carrie’s parents get home.”
    There wasn’t that much to clean up, really. Two or three dishes had slipped out of the cupboards and shattered on the floor. There were splinters from the pencil, and wax where the candle had struck the wall. The wax was the only real problem. It had left grease spots on the wallpaper that wouldn’t come out, no matter what they did.
    â€œLeave it,” said Dr. Miles finally. “Sit down. I want to talk to you. All three of you.”
    When they had gathered at the table, Dr. Miles glanced up at the wax stain and said, “It almost blends into the wallpaper anyway. One of the virtues of having a busy pattern.”
    Lisa felt the tension ease a little. But if her grandmother was less angry, she was no less serious. “I’m not going to say this again,” she said sternly. “So pay attention. What you did tonight was foolish. I would be angrier, but it’s my own fault this all began. I doubt I have ever done anything more mindless than teaching you girls about automatic writing yesterday. But I was desperate for something to distract you, and I didn’t really think things out.”
    She paused, and looked each of them in the eye. “You’re young. You may not want to be reminded of that fact, but it’s true—sometimes painfully so, to someone of my age. Now, automatic writing can be fun. But it can also be dangerous, especially for young people. Poltergeist activity like you saw here tonight, rare as it is, usually occurs in households where there are teenagers. Your minds are still developing. The subconscious is in chaos. Automatic writing is a way to tap that subconscious. But it’s uncontrolled.”
    She stared at Lisa. Lowering her voice, she said intensely, almost urgently, “The mind has powers we don’t yet understand. You can do yourselves great damage. Please, use some common sense. Let’s not stir anything up again. All right?”
    They all nodded their assent.
    Dr. Miles smiled. “Good. Now, I’d just as soon your parents didn’t know about this. So if you’re willing,