BJ's Roadhouse: Fanfiction, Etc.: Time Will Tell: Part 1; Prologue

Written by: Adrienne

Lydia Deetz was not tired of loneliness. On the contrary, the pensive, dark-eyed, sixth grader welcomed it. What complaints can be made of a companion that makes itself neither seen nor heard, yet can be felt everywhere at once? Lydia sighed, patiently clearing her round table of her stepmother's latest attempt to reform her bedroom's "abysmal" décor. Lydia watched it fall two stories, grinning in satisfaction as it landed in the dew-sodden grass far below her open window. She had always thought that doilies looked far too much like snowflakes, anyway, so endowing this one with the gift of flight hardly seemed a crime. Come morning, Delia would find it sodden by night damp and blow a typical redheaded fuse. Come morning, Lydia would be two miles away, peddling down a country road with the autumn wind in her sleek black hair and a Polaroid camera swinging about her neck.

Lydia dragged the table to the side of her bed, careful not to upset the antique oil lamp parched upon it. That lamp, though most of the time unlit, meant more to her than any other worldly possession. In Lydia's mind, its phantom flame burned in memory of the woman who had died while giving her life. Her grief-stricken father, Charles, in fear of raising her alone with his condition of chronic paranoia, had been quick to remarry. Delia was the only mother that Lydia had ever known.

For the longest time, it had been all the beleaguered Charles could do to allay his precocious, inquisitive young daughter's questions: Why don't I look like you? Why don't I look like Mom? Why won't you show me what's in the picture frame you keep locked in your top drawer? Why do you cry when you look at it? And can you show me how to make a picture?

Delia encouraged Charles to give in to the four-year-end's insistent demands, after his second breakdown. His work had begun to suffer, and Delia's interior design enterprise would soon follow if she did nothing to heal her husband's newly opened emotional scar. Lydia was shown the mystery portrait. She was taken to the cemetery just outside the town limits of Peaceful Pines, and Charles' old Polaroid was placed in her hands. The first photograph that Lydia ever snapped now sat side by side on her dresser with the once-locked-away frame. The resolution proved profitable but alienating for them all. Delia went about her artistic endeavors unhindered by a completely psychotic husband, and Charles moved his drafting business into their own home, adopting a soothing hobby (bird watching) at the encouragement of his therapist. And from that day forward, Lydia chose a path so seldom traveled that it ensured the family's distinctly unified separation once and for all.

As she grew, Lydia took to reading the darkly beautiful verses of the poet whose words her father had lovingly included in her mother's epitaph. Delia's wariness of her preference to keep company with the gothic texts of Poe rather than girls her own age only intensified Lydia's belief that all things bright and... well, "Delia" went against the proper order of things. Black was definitely her color. And why watch television when the world outside was so full of moving things to be captured in suspended animation, marvels of dynamic shadow and light to be kept safe and beautiful and immortal for all time?

Lydia glanced over her shoulder at the pictures as she scooted the table into position. A raven-haired woman with milk-white skin and arresting, delicate features smiled wanly back, oblivious to the glossy snapshot of a granite tombstone perched in a smaller frame beside her. Lydia knew the fuzzily captured inscription by heart:

d. 25th of August, 1976

Beloved daughter of Elaine and Myron Kent

Cherished wife of Charles - Mother of Lydia Eve

"And though I venture through the unknown,

Those that I love shall never be alone"

Lydia recited it reverently under her breath, reaching under her pillow with a trembling hand to retrieve the matchbook she'd stolen from the kitchen earlier. She repeated herself until the words nearly lost their meaning. She was suddenly afraid, suddenly wondering why she had decided to do what she'd been anticipating all day. Lydia could not help but feel like a traitor, leaving her father out of such a momentous decision. But the truth was, she knew it would have seemed absurd to him. He simply didn't believe in things like that the way she did- in fact, he skirted around them with a nervous smile and a hastily murmured, "Whatever makes you happy, Pumpkin!"

And, quite simply confessed, Lydia had never tried it before. She lit the oil lamp with care, trying desperately to convince herself that the tears coming to her eyes were induced by the smoke rather than her newfound need to commune with a force she didn't completely understand. Lydia had tried for so long to accept that fate had marked her for life in the moment of her mother's death, that she was fated to find beauty in all things generally regarded by the world as arcane, bizarre, and intangible. The advent of Lydia's twelfth birthday had wrought a change that she was ashamed of: an increased self-awareness, a vague longing to fit in. Delia's disapproval of her antisocial habits was beginning to hurt. Her father's subtly implied worry hurt even more.

What hurt the most was the knowledge that neither of them could possibly understand the depth of her reverent melancholy- how could they, when she did not even understand it herself? Lydia gritted her teeth and bravely fought off tears, for she was about to consult the only person who possibly could. She knelt resolutely beside her bed, pulling a flat, dusty box from beneath. Wouldn't Delia be humiliated to know what she'd found in the attic among her old art projects, Lydia thought as she slid the Ouija board out of its box. She placed it on the table squarely before the oil lamp, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She cast the box aside, nervously turning the planchette over and over in her hands. With one last glance at the photograph of her mother, Lydia placed the heart-shaped pointer upon the board.

Lydia rested her fingers lightly upon the planchette, taking a deep breath. She closed her eyes, fully expecting to be engulfed in a warm, comforting glow. Her mother would come. She had to. If no one living could show Lydia the way, surely someone Beyond would. And not just any someone, Lydia hoped.

Confused, Lydia blinked, shifting her fingers timidly. She felt nothing. The arc of bold letters and numbers seemed to glare at her in annoyance. Had she truly expected it would be that easy? Had she truly expected it to work?

Lydia stared at the board in desperation, beginning to slide the planchette directionlessly this way and that. Her anger was as swift and inexplicable as her urge to use the Ouija board upon its accidental discovery in the first place. Frustrated, she slammed a fist hard upon the unresponsive pointer.

"You mean to tell me that no one's there?" Lydia demanded harshly. "No one at all? And to think I believed--"

The board leapt from the table with such force that both her hand and the planchette were flung off. Lydia jumped backward with a yelp, watching the board settle back onto the table as if it had never budged. The planchette, which she was certain had landed on the floor, sat obediently upon the board. Steeling herself, Lydia resumed her seat- and shivered. The planchette had not landed at random. Encased in the plastic window of the pointed was the word, NO.

Breathing shallowly, Lydia placed her fingers tentatively upon the planchette. "Deadly-vu!" she murmured, awestruck. The plastic was no longer cool, as it had been to her touch mere moments ago. It was warm enough to have spent at least two minutes sitting beneath her radiator. She licked her lips, finding that words had all but escaped her.

"Do you mean n-no as in... as in no one's there? I mean, that would hardly make sense, but-- AAAH!"

The planchette raced three inches to the side beneath her feather-light touch and slid just as emphatically back to NO.

"O-Okay," Lydia stammered, reminding herself to breathe. "Then someone's there?"

The planchette zigzagged so frantically beneath her fingers that she could barely keep up with it.

WHADDAYA THINK? It spelled out brusquely.

Lydia scowled, emboldened by the unseen mover's curt demeanor. "Is this some kind of prank? Are you my mother?"

The planchette vibrated eerily for a few moments before flying into a similarly sarcastic reply.

YOU TELL ME, BABES, 'CAUSE I DIDN'T START THIS ONE. AND I SURE HOPE NOT! THAT'S ONE HECK OF AN IDENTITY CRISIS.

Lydia shook her head in disbelief, having gotten the distinct impression that whoever it was on the other end was laughing at her. "This isn't funny!" Lydia hissed.

"Darn right you didn't start this-- I did! And I want to speak to my mother! Where is she?"

LIKE I'D KNOW THAT. SHE COULD BE IN SANDWORM LAND BY NOW, the planchette replied, trembling violently on the last letter of "sandworm."

"I don't have time for this nonsense," Lydia countered furiously. "You want to hear something? I didn't do this for kicks. My mother's been dead for years, and all I wanted was a few words with her. And what do I get? A jerk like you... whoever you are! Just answer me! Is she there or not?"

The planchette seemed to freeze for a few seconds, caught in tangible hesitation.

LOOK... OKOKOKOK. SO I DON'T EXACTLY KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. THE NEITHERWORLD'S A BIG PLACE. NOT TO INSULT YOU, BABES, BUT USING ONE OF THOSE CONTRAPTIONS ISN'T THE SMARTEST WAY TO GO. KINDA RANDOM. YOU NEVER KNOW WHO'LL BE PASSING BY WHEN YOU CAUSE A DISTURBANCE. JUST SO HAPPENS YOU GOT A GUY WHO CAN'T RESIST PULLING SOME STUPID MORTAL'S LEG, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I--

Lydia angrily pinned the planchette to the board. "Stupid? Are you implying that simply because I thought I could contact my mother I'm-"

HEY HEY HEY, it spelled out jerkily, sliding free of her grasp and moving more smoothly of its own accord. Lydia pulled her hands away as if she'd been burned. I WASN'T FINISHED. STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY MOUTH.

And to Lydia's horror, the planchette metamorphosed into a pair of white plastic jaws with glassy teeth. It promptly swallowed the whole of the letters on the board.

"Who are you?" she demanded fearfully, backing up onto her bed. "What are you? And do you know--"

NO, BABES, FORGET IT, the mouth cut in, spitting one letter at a time to form the arrangement in clear sentence form on the board's newly blank surface. I DON'T KNOW HER, CAN'T HELP YOU, END OF STORY.

"You're cruel," Lydia whispered, the tears returning. "Why are you mocking me?"

The mouth exploded in a flurry of agitated black letters, each one dancing to its rightful spot on the board. Melting into its normal shape, the planchette slid hesitantly between YES and NO before reluctantly spelling out, LOOK, I'M... SORRY. I GUESS YOU REALLY ARE SERIOUS.

"Brilliant deduction, Brainless," she muttered. "Are all ghosts as shallow as you are?"

HEY, WHOA, the planchette challenged. IF YOU WEREN'T INSULTING ME, KID, I'D SAY THAT I LIKE YOUR STYLE. AND IF YOU INSIST ON USING B-WORDS, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, USE THE RIGHT ONE.

"I don't follow," Lydia said cautiously. "Although I should be telling you the same thing."

AWWW, COME ON! The planchette begged. TELL ME, TELL ME!

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Lydia asked, finding her lips drawn into a faint smile.

CALLING YOU WHAT, BABES?

"Bingo," Lydia replied wryly.

HEY, YOU ARE GOOD AT THIS, I'll GIVE YOU THAT MUCH. WELL, WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO CALL YOU? YOU HAVEN'T TOLD ME YOUR NAME OR ANYTHING, YOU KNOW.

"You first," Lydia offered.

NOW YOU'RE TALKING! The planchette spelled out smoothly, carried by a fresh, devious enthusiasm. Lydia was amazed at the personality it was capable of transmitting.

BEETLEJUICE, it continued, sweeping unhurriedly between to each letter with a grand showman's flair.

Lydia giggled in spite of herself. "That's nonsense!" she laughed. "I asked for your name."

OH, SO FIRST YOU CALL ME STUPID RIGHT BACK AND THEN YOU MAKE FUN OF MY NAME. SWELL.

"That... That's your name?" Lydia asked contritely.

YEAH, YEAH, SUCKS TO BE ME. JUST SAY IT ALREADY.

"Don't you want to know mine?"

WOULDN'T YOU RATHER TELL ME IN PERSON?

Lydia blinked. "Well, isn't that what I'd be doing anyway?"

"Why?" Lydia asked suspiciously.

WELL, the planchette spelled weakly, faltering in a stricken change of pace, I... I DIDN'T WANT IT TO COME OFF AS FLATTERY OR ANYTHING... BUT, WELL, I KINDA LIKE YOU... NOT TOO MANY PEOPLE GIVE A CARE, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN? IT'S LONELY DOWN HERE... DARK... EMPTY...

"Empty?" Lydia asked, her voice breaking with sympathy in spite of her previous wariness. That was something she knew all too well. Confusion, emptiness... and yes, she could finally admit it: Loneliness. She, Lydia Deetz, was lonely.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Beetlejuice," she said softly. "But it's not much better up here, either."

The planchette jumped excitedly. THAT'S ONCE!

OH... YOU KNOW, IT'S ONCE-- INCREDIBLE! NO ONE'S SAID MY NAME IN AGES, BABES... YOU DON'T KNOW HOW GOOD IT IS TO HEAR A HUMAN VOICE--

"You mean a stupid mortal voice... Beetlejuice?" she teased gently.

AWWW, STOP. I SAID I WAS SORRY ABOUT THAT.

"I guess you're right. We're even now, Beetlejuice."

"EEEEEYYYYYYAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAHAAAAAHAAA!"

Lydia's scream was drowned out by the peal of hysterical, blood-curdling laughter that erupted from all sides of her room. The shutters were torn open by a forceful gust of wind, and the oil lamp's feeble orange glow was snuffed out. Lydia cowered on the bed, bathed in semidarkness, for the evening had faded to night. She stared at the Ouija board upon her round table, now lifeless and inanimate. Shaking from head to foot, she inched forward, extending a finger to touch the abandoned planchette.

"B-Beetlejuice?" she asked uncertainly.

"Ah, ah, ah! That's my name, and that'll do!" warned a gravelly voice from close behind her.

Lydia whirled around to find herself facing a pair of yellow-rimmed, glowing green eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but found that her tongue was-- literally, positively-- knotted perfectly at the middle. She gaped soundlessly at the specter that stood on the opposite side of her bed. His wild blond hair fell in a wicked halo about his bluish-white face, his devilish but oddly mischievous grin triumphant. His crooked teeth were- well, in that she couldn't tell-- but were they really green? Lydia mumbled frantically.

"Now, babes, this is no time to get tongue-tied. Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Beetlejuice asked, snapping his fingers imperiously.

Lydia's tongue promptly untwisted itself. She gasped for breath, too shocked to speak. She stared the ghost up and down, wondering if the latest horror novel had gone to her head. One thing for certain: Lydia had never seen a more ridiculous outfit. He wore a purple shirt and black tie beneath a gaudy black and white striped suit. The pointed heels of his leather boots only added to the undeniable goofiness of his appearance. For a moment, Lydia forgot why she had wanted to scream in the first place. A ghost in pinstripes named Beetlejuice. With green teeth, no less. Why not?

"Well?" the ghost prompted, tapping his foot and raising an eyebrow. But he didn't scowl, as she had expected he would. Instead, he smiled and offered her his red-nailed hand.

"I'm Lydia," she said, extending her own delicate fingers. And, for the first time in a very long while, she laughed.


	Time Will Tell Written by: Adrienne ~Prologue~ Lydia Deetz was not tired of loneliness. On the contrary, the pensive, dark-eyed, sixth grader welcomed it. What complaints can be made of a companion that makes itself neither seen nor heard, yet can be felt everywhere at once? Lydia sighed, patiently clearing her round table of her stepmother's latest attempt to reform her bedroom's "abysmal" décor. Lydia watched it fall two stories, grinning in satisfaction as it landed in the dew-sodden grass far below her open window. She had always thought that doilies looked far too much like snowflakes, anyway, so endowing this one with the gift of flight hardly seemed a crime. Come morning, Delia would find it sodden by night damp and blow a typical redheaded fuse. Come morning, Lydia would be two miles away, peddling down a country road with the autumn wind in her sleek black hair and a Polaroid camera swinging about her neck. Lydia dragged the table to the side of her bed, careful not to upset the antique oil lamp parched upon it. That lamp, though most of the time unlit, meant more to her than any other worldly possession. In Lydia's mind, its phantom flame burned in memory of the woman who had died while giving her life. Her grief-stricken father, Charles, in fear of raising her alone with his condition of chronic paranoia, had been quick to remarry. Delia was the only mother that Lydia had ever known. For the longest time, it had been all the beleaguered Charles could do to allay his precocious, inquisitive young daughter's questions: Why don't I look like you? Why don't I look like Mom? Why won't you show me what's in the picture frame you keep locked in your top drawer? Why do you cry when you look at it? And can you show me how to make a picture? Delia encouraged Charles to give in to the four-year-end's insistent demands, after his second breakdown. His work had begun to suffer, and Delia's interior design enterprise would soon follow if she did nothing to heal her husband's newly opened emotional scar. Lydia was shown the mystery portrait. She was taken to the cemetery just outside the town limits of Peaceful Pines, and Charles' old Polaroid was placed in her hands. The first photograph that Lydia ever snapped now sat side by side on her dresser with the once-locked-away frame. The resolution proved profitable but alienating for them all. Delia went about her artistic endeavors unhindered by a completely psychotic husband, and Charles moved his drafting business into their own home, adopting a soothing hobby (bird watching) at the encouragement of his therapist. And from that day forward, Lydia chose a path so seldom traveled that it ensured the family's distinctly unified separation once and for all. As she grew, Lydia took to reading the darkly beautiful verses of the poet whose words her father had lovingly included in her mother's epitaph. Delia's wariness of her preference to keep company with the gothic texts of Poe rather than girls her own age only intensified Lydia's belief that all things bright and... well, "Delia" went against the proper order of things. Black was definitely her color. And why watch television when the world outside was so full of moving things to be captured in suspended animation, marvels of dynamic shadow and light to be kept safe and beautiful and immortal for all time? Lydia glanced over her shoulder at the pictures as she scooted the table into position. A raven-haired woman with milk-white skin and arresting, delicate features smiled wanly back, oblivious to the glossy snapshot of a granite tombstone perched in a smaller frame beside her. Lydia knew the fuzzily captured inscription by heart: IN MEMORIAM Helen Lydia DEETZ b. 4th of May, 1952 d. 25th of August, 1976 Beloved daughter of Elaine and Myron Kent Cherished wife of Charles - Mother of Lydia Eve "And though I venture through the unknown, Those that I love shall never be alone" Lydia recited it reverently under her breath, reaching under her pillow with a trembling hand to retrieve the matchbook she'd stolen from the kitchen earlier. She repeated herself until the words nearly lost their meaning. She was suddenly afraid, suddenly wondering why she had decided to do what she'd been anticipating all day. Lydia could not help but feel like a traitor, leaving her father out of such a momentous decision. But the truth was, she knew it would have seemed absurd to him. He simply didn't believe in things like that the way she did- in fact, he skirted around them with a nervous smile and a hastily murmured, "Whatever makes you happy, Pumpkin!" And, quite simply confessed, Lydia had never tried it before. She lit the oil lamp with care, trying desperately to convince herself that the tears coming to her eyes were induced by the smoke rather than her newfound need to commune with a force she didn't completely understand. Lydia had tried for so long to accept that fate had marked her for life in the moment of her mother's death, that she was fated to find beauty in all things generally regarded by the world as arcane, bizarre, and intangible. The advent of Lydia's twelfth birthday had wrought a change that she was ashamed of: an increased self-awareness, a vague longing to fit in. Delia's disapproval of her antisocial habits was beginning to hurt. Her father's subtly implied worry hurt even more. What hurt the most was the knowledge that neither of them could possibly understand the depth of her reverent melancholy- how could they, when she did not even understand it herself? Lydia gritted her teeth and bravely fought off tears, for she was about to consult the only person who possibly could. She knelt resolutely beside her bed, pulling a flat, dusty box from beneath. Wouldn't Delia be humiliated to know what she'd found in the attic among her old art projects, Lydia thought as she slid the Ouija board out of its box. She placed it on the table squarely before the oil lamp, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She cast the box aside, nervously turning the planchette over and over in her hands. With one last glance at the photograph of her mother, Lydia placed the heart-shaped pointer upon the board. Lydia rested her fingers lightly upon the planchette, taking a deep breath. She closed her eyes, fully expecting to be engulfed in a warm, comforting glow. Her mother would come. She had to. If no one living could show Lydia the way, surely someone Beyond would. And not just any someone, Lydia hoped. Confused, Lydia blinked, shifting her fingers timidly. She felt nothing. The arc of bold letters and numbers seemed to glare at her in annoyance. Had she truly expected it would be that easy? Had she truly expected it to work? Lydia stared at the board in desperation, beginning to slide the planchette directionlessly this way and that. Her anger was as swift and inexplicable as her urge to use the Ouija board upon its accidental discovery in the first place. Frustrated, she slammed a fist hard upon the unresponsive pointer. "You mean to tell me that no one's there?" Lydia demanded harshly. "No one at all? And to think I believed--" The board leapt from the table with such force that both her hand and the planchette were flung off. Lydia jumped backward with a yelp, watching the board settle back onto the table as if it had never budged. The planchette, which she was certain had landed on the floor, sat obediently upon the board. Steeling herself, Lydia resumed her seat- and shivered. The planchette had not landed at random. Encased in the plastic window of the pointed was the word, NO. Breathing shallowly, Lydia placed her fingers tentatively upon the planchette. "Deadly-vu!" she murmured, awestruck. The plastic was no longer cool, as it had been to her touch mere moments ago. It was warm enough to have spent at least two minutes sitting beneath her radiator. She licked her lips, finding that words had all but escaped her. "Do you mean n-no as in... as in no one's there? I mean, that would hardly make sense, but-- AAAH!" The planchette raced three inches to the side beneath her feather-light touch and slid just as emphatically back to NO. "O-Okay," Lydia stammered, reminding herself to breathe. "Then someone's there?" The planchette zigzagged so frantically beneath her fingers that she could barely keep up with it. WHADDAYA THINK? It spelled out brusquely. Lydia scowled, emboldened by the unseen mover's curt demeanor. "Is this some kind of prank? Are you my mother?" The planchette vibrated eerily for a few moments before flying into a similarly sarcastic reply. YOU TELL ME, BABES, 'CAUSE I DIDN'T START THIS ONE. AND I SURE HOPE NOT! THAT'S ONE HECK OF AN IDENTITY CRISIS. Lydia shook her head in disbelief, having gotten the distinct impression that whoever it was on the other end was laughing at her. "This isn't funny!" Lydia hissed. "Darn right you didn't start this-- I did! And I want to speak to my mother! Where is she?" LIKE I'D KNOW THAT. SHE COULD BE IN SANDWORM LAND BY NOW, the planchette replied, trembling violently on the last letter of "sandworm." "I don't have time for this nonsense," Lydia countered furiously. "You want to hear something? I didn't do this for kicks. My mother's been dead for years, and all I wanted was a few words with her. And what do I get? A jerk like you... whoever you are! Just answer me! Is she there or not?" The planchette seemed to freeze for a few seconds, caught in tangible hesitation. LOOK... OKOKOKOK. SO I DON'T EXACTLY KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. THE NEITHERWORLD'S A BIG PLACE. NOT TO INSULT YOU, BABES, BUT USING ONE OF THOSE CONTRAPTIONS ISN'T THE SMARTEST WAY TO GO. KINDA RANDOM. YOU NEVER KNOW WHO'LL BE PASSING BY WHEN YOU CAUSE A DISTURBANCE. JUST SO HAPPENS YOU GOT A GUY WHO CAN'T RESIST PULLING SOME STUPID MORTAL'S LEG, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I-- Lydia angrily pinned the planchette to the board. "Stupid? Are you implying that simply because I thought I could contact my mother I'm-" HEY HEY HEY, it spelled out jerkily, sliding free of her grasp and moving more smoothly of its own accord. Lydia pulled her hands away as if she'd been burned. I WASN'T FINISHED. STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY MOUTH. And to Lydia's horror, the planchette metamorphosed into a pair of white plastic jaws with glassy teeth. It promptly swallowed the whole of the letters on the board. "Who are you?" she demanded fearfully, backing up onto her bed. "What are you? And do you know--" NO, BABES, FORGET IT, the mouth cut in, spitting one letter at a time to form the arrangement in clear sentence form on the board's newly blank surface. I DON'T KNOW HER, CAN'T HELP YOU, END OF STORY. "You're cruel," Lydia whispered, the tears returning. "Why are you mocking me?" The mouth exploded in a flurry of agitated black letters, each one dancing to its rightful spot on the board. Melting into its normal shape, the planchette slid hesitantly between YES and NO before reluctantly spelling out, LOOK, I'M... SORRY. I GUESS YOU REALLY ARE SERIOUS. "Brilliant deduction, Brainless," she muttered. "Are all ghosts as shallow as you are?" HEY, WHOA, the planchette challenged. IF YOU WEREN'T INSULTING ME, KID, I'D SAY THAT I LIKE YOUR STYLE. AND IF YOU INSIST ON USING B-WORDS, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, USE THE RIGHT ONE. "I don't follow," Lydia said cautiously. "Although I should be telling you the same thing." WHAT? "You heard me." AWWW, COME ON! The planchette begged. TELL ME, TELL ME! "Why do you keep calling me that?" Lydia asked, finding her lips drawn into a faint smile. CALLING YOU WHAT, BABES? "Bingo," Lydia replied wryly. HEY, YOU ARE GOOD AT THIS, I'll GIVE YOU THAT MUCH. WELL, WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO CALL YOU? YOU HAVEN'T TOLD ME YOUR NAME OR ANYTHING, YOU KNOW. "You first," Lydia offered. NOW YOU'RE TALKING! The planchette spelled out smoothly, carried by a fresh, devious enthusiasm. Lydia was amazed at the personality it was capable of transmitting. BEETLEJUICE, it continued, sweeping unhurriedly between to each letter with a grand showman's flair. Lydia giggled in spite of herself. "That's nonsense!" she laughed. "I asked for your name." OH, SO FIRST YOU CALL ME STUPID RIGHT BACK AND THEN YOU MAKE FUN OF MY NAME. SWELL. "That... That's your name?" Lydia asked contritely. YEAH, YEAH, SUCKS TO BE ME. JUST SAY IT ALREADY. "Don't you want to know mine?" WOULDN'T YOU RATHER TELL ME IN PERSON? Lydia blinked. "Well, isn't that what I'd be doing anyway?" SAY IT. "Why?" Lydia asked suspiciously. WELL, the planchette spelled weakly, faltering in a stricken change of pace, I... I DIDN'T WANT IT TO COME OFF AS FLATTERY OR ANYTHING... BUT, WELL, I KINDA LIKE YOU... NOT TOO MANY PEOPLE GIVE A CARE, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN? IT'S LONELY DOWN HERE... DARK... EMPTY... "Empty?" Lydia asked, her voice breaking with sympathy in spite of her previous wariness. That was something she knew all too well. Confusion, emptiness... and yes, she could finally admit it: Loneliness. She, Lydia Deetz, was lonely. "I'm sorry to hear that, Beetlejuice," she said softly. "But it's not much better up here, either." The planchette jumped excitedly. THAT'S ONCE! "What?" OH... YOU KNOW, IT'S ONCE-- INCREDIBLE! NO ONE'S SAID MY NAME IN AGES, BABES... YOU DON'T KNOW HOW GOOD IT IS TO HEAR A HUMAN VOICE-- "You mean a stupid mortal voice... Beetlejuice?" she teased gently. AWWW, STOP. I SAID I WAS SORRY ABOUT THAT. "I guess you're right. We're even now, Beetlejuice." "EEEEEYYYYYYAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAHAAAAAHAAA!" Lydia's scream was drowned out by the peal of hysterical, blood-curdling laughter that erupted from all sides of her room. The shutters were torn open by a forceful gust of wind, and the oil lamp's feeble orange glow was snuffed out. Lydia cowered on the bed, bathed in semidarkness, for the evening had faded to night. She stared at the Ouija board upon her round table, now lifeless and inanimate. Shaking from head to foot, she inched forward, extending a finger to touch the abandoned planchette. "B-Beetlejuice?" she asked uncertainly. "Ah, ah, ah! That's my name, and that'll do!" warned a gravelly voice from close behind her. Lydia whirled around to find herself facing a pair of yellow-rimmed, glowing green eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but found that her tongue was-- literally, positively-- knotted perfectly at the middle. She gaped soundlessly at the specter that stood on the opposite side of her bed. His wild blond hair fell in a wicked halo about his bluish-white face, his devilish but oddly mischievous grin triumphant. His crooked teeth were- well, in that she couldn't tell-- but were they really green? Lydia mumbled frantically. "Now, babes, this is no time to get tongue-tied. Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Beetlejuice asked, snapping his fingers imperiously. Lydia's tongue promptly untwisted itself. She gasped for breath, too shocked to speak. She stared the ghost up and down, wondering if the latest horror novel had gone to her head. One thing for certain: Lydia had never seen a more ridiculous outfit. He wore a purple shirt and black tie beneath a gaudy black and white striped suit. The pointed heels of his leather boots only added to the undeniable goofiness of his appearance. For a moment, Lydia forgot why she had wanted to scream in the first place. A ghost in pinstripes named Beetlejuice. With green teeth, no less. Why not? "Well?" the ghost prompted, tapping his foot and raising an eyebrow. But he didn't scowl, as she had expected he would. Instead, he smiled and offered her his red-nailed hand. "I'm Lydia," she said, extending her own delicate fingers. And, for the first time in a very long while, she laughed. Continued...