Fucking Spirits

Chris was setting down the bird when she noticed the Ouija board. Close. On the table. She'd forgotten she had it. Almost as curious about herself as she was about others, she'd originally bought it as a possible means of exposing clues to her subconscious. It hadn't worked. She'd used it a time or two with Sharon, and once with Dennings, who had skillfully steered the plastic planchette ("Are you the one who's moving it,ducky?") so that all of the "messages" were obscene, and then afterward blamed it on the "fucking spirits."
"You playin' with the Ouija board?"
"Yep."
"You know how?"
"Oh, well, sure. Here, 1'11 show you." She was moving to sit by the board.
"Well, I think you need two people, honey."
"No ya don't, Mom; I do it all the time."
Chris was pulling up a chair. "Well, let's both play, okay?"
Hesitation. "Well, okay.** She had her fingertips positioned on the white planchette and as Chris reached out to position hers, the planchette made a swift, sudden move to the position on the board marked NO. Chris smiled at her slyly. "Mother, I'd rather do it myself? Is that it? You don't want me to play?"
"No, I do! Captain Howdy said no."
"Captain who?"
"Captain Howdy."
"Honey, who's Captain Howdy?"
"Oh, ya know. I make questions and he does the answers."
"Oh?"
"Oh, he's nice." 
Chris tried not to frown as she felt a dim and sudden concern. The child had loved her father deeply, yet never had reacted visibly to her parents' divorce. And Chris didn't like it. Maybe she cried in her room; she didn't know. But Chris was fearful she was repressing and that her emotions might one day erupt in some harmful form. A fantasy playmate. It didn't sound healthy. Why "Howdy"? For Howard? Her father? Pretty close.
"So how come you couldn't even come up with a name for a dum-dum bird, and then you hit me with something like 'Captain Howdy'? Why do you call him 'Captain Howdy'?"
"'Cause that's his name, of course," Regan snickered.
"Says who?"
"Well, him."
"Of course."
"Of course."
"And what else does he say to you?"
"Stuff." 
"What stuff?" 
Regan shrugged. "Just stuff." 
"For instance."
"I'll show you. I'll ask him some questions."
"You do that." 
Her fingertips on the planchette, Regan stared at the board with eyes drawn tight in concentration. "Captain Howdy, don't you think my mom is pretty?"
A second . . . five . . . ten . . . twenty...
"Captain Howdy?"
More seconds. Chris was surprised. She'd expected her daughter to slide the planchette to the section marked YES. Oh, for pete's sake, what now? An unconscious hostility? Oh, that's crazy. 
"Captain Howdy, that's really not very polite," chided Regan.
"Honey, maybe he's sleeping."
"Do you think?"
"I think you should be sleeping."
"Already?"
"C'mon, babe! Up to bed!" Chris stood up. 
"He's a poop," muttered Regan, then followed her mother up the stairs.

William Peter Blatty, The Exorcist