How I Came to Be Possessed By The Ghost of Tallulah Bankhead
“The first rule of sapphic ghost portals is they’re only accessible during rainstorms,” Dani says, turning off Sunset and into the McDonald’s parking lot.
Overhead, a low blanket of dark clouds hem in the sky.
Dani’s favorite form of escapism is chasing obscure urban legends. I’m skeptical, but even her most harebrained quests are better than sitting in my room doomscrolling. I’ll take an otherworldly distraction from the state of this one. “Great, I’ll make T-shirts. ‘We Get Wet for Ghosts,’ they’ll say.”
She ignores me. “You read the primer, right?”
“Of course.” I open the binder on my lap, A Guide to Old Hollywood’s WLW Scene, and flip through the famous faces. “Why haunt this place, though? Shouldn’t they, I dunno, move on?”
Dani snorts. “Yeah, lesbians are famously good at that. How many exes are you friends with again?”
A raindrop splats onto the windshield, cutting off my retort. The storm’s beginning.
†
Dani gives the passcode she found on an internet message board to the bored teen behind the first register. “We’re in the sewing circle?”
He stares at her blankly. “Ma’am this is a—”
“I can help you over here.” An elderly cashier, whose name tag reads Mabel, waves us over to her station. “Was that the garden special you were after?”
Our nods cast raindrops onto the counter. Dani’s beaming, and an unexpected flutter of nerves kicks off under my ribs.
Mabel grins. “Lester, I’m taking my break.”
A grunt comes from behind the broken ice cream machine.
She pulls a small piece of machinery from her apron pocket, a knot of plastic and gears, and winks. “He’ll be wrestling with that thing all night. Keeps him outta my hair.”
Mabel leads us past the restrooms to an unmarked door. “You’ll have an hour or so before you’re back in the supply closet.” She pushes it open. “Welcome to the Garden of Alla.”
The doorway opens into a clear night, a warm breeze carrying the scent of magnolias and gin. In front of us a cobblestone path winds through Spanish-style bungalows, the ones bulldozed to build this stripmall. At the path’s end there’s a pool crowded with faces from Dani’s primer. Marlene and Greta. Mercedes deAcosta. Eva Le Gallienne.
Alla Nazimova herself, dark haired and glamorous, waves at us. The long taper of her cigarette holder leaves a lazy trail of smoke that dissipates into the air, taking the last of my cynicism with it.
Beside me Dani’s hyperventilating quietly.
Wonderstruck, I turn to Mabel. “Why?”
She pats my cheek. “So we remember them, dear.”
I catch the eye of a gorgeous blond lounging by the bar. She waggles her fingers, her languorous smile making my pulse stutter.
Closing the door behind her, Mabel pauses. “Oh and don’t try to sleep with Tallulah, she'll possess you.”
© 2026 JA Logwood
JA Logwood can be found lurking in the woods of New England where she's raising feral children and friendly goats with her wife. She adores speculative fiction, cozies of any genre and all things queer. Her work has appeared in Rat Bag, Pulp Literature and A Coup of Owls.