That evening, Dietrich Manx arrived at my place with an Ouija board. Happiness ebbed over his brutally handsome face. So good-looking. Dashing. Easily, he could have been a male model for a local advertising company, but didn’t. Anyone would have agreed with me that he looked like Bradley Cooper. A twin. Face. Body. Everything. Dietrich was younger, though. Thirty-two. A pup, fresh out of his twenties.
He told me, “Look at this delight I found at a thrift store today.” He pulled the battered board and a wooden planchette out of a plastic bag and placed it on my coffee table. Excitement filled his voice when he said, “Find us a few candles. Let’s get spooky tonight.”
“Absolutely not, Dietrich. I won’t. And you won’t either. I know what those boards can do, and it’s not happening in my hou
