The chalk and crayon marking the plain maple surface might resemble a compass to the uninitiated, but it was supposed to be a means of focusing our psychic energy. Or, as my friend said, ” bushwa,” the most polite form of the term B.S. in our rich vocabulary for describing things we did not appreciate, “bull!” Steve glared at us across the candlelit table. his efforts to monopolize and focus the attention of the group were wavering. “I impel you, oh mighty ones beyond the veil. I command you to appear! Be not tardy in arriving and manifesting your image and your puissant powers!” My friend snickered, “do you mean piss ant powers?” Once again, another glare. At that point, the candles blew out to the surprise of everyone, but especially Steve. The smoke from the unique candle drifted over the table like a wraith. With a crash, the ricketty card table collapsed, spilling Steve’s paraphernalia over the floor.
We all got up, and Steve seemed to accept defeat. We were leaving as he was picking up the mess on the floor. Unfortunately, this attempt to reach the Great Old Ones Beyond the Veil was a crashing failure. We all shuffled out on our way to cold beers at the Harvard Gardens. As we stepped into the street, we could hear Steve wail – ” the money, where’s my freakin’ money?”
Our friend John, the con artist, hollered back – ” I guess the Great Old Ones needed beer money.”
Later sitting around the table, John opined that contacting the Great Old Ones was a very tough spell. It was much easier to perform a spell of confusion and take the money and run. Then, beneath us, the table rattled, and our beers vibrated. A ghostly voice called out, ” Pour out libations for the Great Old Ones…we thirst!” with that, we raised our glasses and toasted our host.