It was a dark, but not stormy, night in December. My sister and I were in high school. She and her boyfriend, one of my classmates, and I were sitting in the family room staring at the fireplace.
“Let’s have a seance,” my sister suggested
“Who should we conjure up?” her boyfriend asked.
“How about the Devil?” I replied.
“Good idea.” “Why not?” “Let’s do it”. Everyone concurred.
We sat silently for about 10 minutes as the flames shifted from the familiar hands in prayer tapers to an angular shape with two horns appearing on the top. Slowly eyes and a mustached mouth emerged in the middle of the shape.
For several long seconds, nobody said a word as the facial details sharpened in front of us, the tension crackling louder than the flames.
“Let’s stop the seance, now!” somebody shouted, breaking the collective spell. The flames reshifted as the face receded.
We never had the nerve to have another seance.