The Blue Vase

Last autumn, I was at my cousin’s farmhouse in rural Vermont with my twin brother, my half-sister, my older brother, and his college roommate. The farm had been in the family for generations, but my cousin had inherited it recently and was fixing it up. We were all bored one rainy afternoon, so we decided to make a spirit board out of an old piece of plywood and a drinking glass. We’d done it before at sleepovers, but nothing ever happened.

We set up the board in the dusty parlor, placing a blue vase from the mantel in the center as a weight. My cousin insisted on drawing a circle of salt around us, and we lit some candles. My twin and I went first, our fingers resting on the upside-down glass. We started with silly questions, but soon I felt a strange pressure behind my eyes, and the room seemed to tilt. My twin said she felt dizzy too, and my brother’s friend complained of a headache. My cousin, who was watching, suggested we take a break and open a window. We said goodbye and stepped outside onto the porch.

The fresh air helped immediately, and we laughed it off. But when we went back in, the heaviness returned. We decided to quit, but my older brother, always a skeptic, wanted to try one more time. He and his roommate sat down, and we watched. The glass began to move in a jerky circle, spelling out a name: ‘MARGARET.’ My brother asked, ‘Who’s Margaret?’ The glass slid to ‘YOU KNOW.’

We all exchanged glances. My cousin’s face went pale. She whispered, ‘There was a Margaret who lived here in the 1800s. She was the wife of the original owner. She died in this house.’ My brother scoffed, but the glass started moving faster, spelling: ‘BLUE VASE. MY VASE.’ The vase on the board rattled, then tipped over, shattering on the floor. The candles snuffed out as if by a gust, leaving us in darkness.

We scrambled to turn on the lights, but they wouldn’t work. The room grew cold, and we heard a faint, rhythmic knocking from the walls, like someone tapping from inside. My twin grabbed my arm and said, ‘We need to leave.’ We ran for the front door, but it wouldn’t budge. The knocking grew louder, and the floorboards creaked as if something heavy was moving in the attic above.

Then, in the dim light from the windows, we saw the shards of the vase begin to lift off the floor, floating in mid-air, forming a rough human shape. A voice, dry as dead leaves, whispered, ‘You broke it. Now you’ll stay.’ We huddled together, and I noticed my cousin was crying, saying, ‘I’m sorry, Margaret, I didn’t mean to take it.’

As the shape drifted toward us, my brother’s roommate shouted, ‘The salt circle! Get back in the circle!’ We all scrambled back into the salt, and the shape stopped at the edge. The knocking stopped, and the room fell silent. We stayed there, frozen, for what felt like hours, until the first light of dawn crept through the windows.

When we finally dared to move, the salt circle was intact, but the vase shards were gone. We never spoke of it again, and my cousin sold the farm a month later. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint tapping from my own walls, and I wonder if Margaret isn’t still looking for her blue vase.