For a moment.

There are candles lit about the room,
a faint glow, whispering across the board.

Our faces are illuminated as we light the incense,
chills of excitement creeping along our spine,
or was that fear we felt?

Four girls are trying to connect,
in an abandoned attic, in an abandoned house.
Their hands are touching the wooden peice,
a hole is in the middle,
they are searching for answers.

One father is dead, one grandmother lost,
and the world seems to have stopped,
everyone says they are gone,
but are they here, waiting for a moment,
waiting for a chance to say their goodbyes?

Our fingertips delicately meet,
'Who is pushing it!' one whispers, a nonbeliever.
The piece moves, stopping on a phrase.
Yes, yes, someone is here.

We all ask who, our voices shaking,
a melodius vibratto, in whisper.
The piece moves again, a french man.
He has been sitting, sitting a long time.

He was murdered, loved.
He was killed by his need of her.
He lost his life becuase he could not live,
unless he could have her.
His name was Ven, or at least-
that was what he said.

One started crying,
it was too much.
'There is no such thing as ghosts,
who is moving the piece,
who is doing it!'

Coldness descended, she had pulled away her hands,
Ven was gone, and we were alone again.
Alone in an attic,
that for a moment had become a portal.

That for a moment had held ghosts,
wisps of humans, souls left-
ghosts with their messages,
that needed to be said.