The Burnished Marble

I was seventeen the summer my mother brought home the burnished marble table from an estate sale. It was a beautiful thing, dark green stone with veins of gold, and it came with a heart-shaped piece of wood and a metal pointer. My mother, ever the enthusiast of the occult, had bought it on a whim, but she warned me, ‘Never use it without asking for the white light of protection.’ I laughed it off, but she was serious.

My friends, Sarah, Mike, and Lily, were fascinated by it. They’d come over after school, and we’d sit around the marble in my basement, the only light a flickering candle. At first, it was a game. They’d put their fingers on the pointer, and I could feel the subtle pushes and pulls as they tried to move it themselves, trying to fake messages. It annoyed me. I wanted real answers, not their silly games.

One evening, I had had enough. I slammed my hand on the marble, making the pointer jump. ‘Fingers off!’ I shouted. They were shocked, but I was firm. ‘From now on, I’m the only one who touches the pointer. You’ll write your questions on paper, and my mother will read them to herself, so I don’t know what you’re asking. That way, there’s no way I can fake it, right?’

They agreed, intrigued by the new rule. My mother, who had been watching from the stairs, nodded and took on the role of intermediary. She would shuffle the papers, pick one, and read it silently, then wait for my response.

That first session under the new rules, I felt a strange change. The air grew cold, and the candle flame flickered. The pointer moved on its own, not with any push from me. It spelled out letters with a slow, deliberate motion. My mother’s face paled as she read the answer to a question. She whispered to me later that someone had asked if there were spirits present, and the answer had been a stark ‘YES.’ But I felt no malevolence, only a presence, watchful and calm.

Weeks passed, and we had many sessions. Spirits came and went, mostly mild, some curious. But one night, after my friend Janet’s mother died, everything changed. We had attended the wake, but I hadn’t gone to the funeral – I’d never been comfortable with open caskets. A few nights later, we gathered as usual. My mother read the first question: ‘Are there any spirits with us?’

The pointer lurched, almost violently, to the word ‘YES.’ Then, before I could ask for a name, it began to move again, faster, spelling out ‘JANET.’ Janet looked up, her eyes wide. She hadn’t written that question. Her mother’s name was Mary, not Janet. I asked, ‘Who are you?’

The pointer traced a line, then stopped on the word ‘MOTHER.’ The hair on my arms stood up. I glanced at Janet; she was trembling. I asked, ‘What do you want?’

The pointer flew to a corner of the board, where I had taped a list of numbers and letters. It spelled, ‘TAKE OFF THE SILVER.’ We all looked at each other, confused. Janet’s mother had been buried with her wedding ring, a silver band. I felt a chill, and the presence seemed to press down on us, heavy and angry.

I knew I had to close it properly. I tried to move the pointer to ‘GOODBYE,’ but it resisted, stuck on the word ‘NO.’ The candle blew out, plunging us into darkness. I heard a scream – it was Lily. I fumbled for the light switch, and when it flicked on, we saw the marble table had a deep crack running through its center, as if something had struck it from within.

We never used the board again, but that was just the beginning. Over the next months, I would find small, dark spots on the marble that grew like mold, no matter how I cleaned them. Janet’s mother’s grave was reported disturbed, the silver ring missing from her hand. And every night, I heard a faint scratching from the basement, like a fingernail tracing the stone.

One night, I went down to check, and I found the pointer, which we had locked in a drawer, sitting on the marble, moving on its own – spelling ‘YOU BURNED THE WRONG ONE.’ I realized then that the spirit was not Janet’s mother, but something older, something that had been waiting in that marble for decades, and my mother’s purchase had given it a door. I looked at the crack, and I saw it was shaped like a hand, reaching out.

I tried to smash the marble with a hammer, but it wouldn’t break. I tried to burn it, but it wouldn’t catch. Finally, I wrapped it in black cloth and drove it to the river, casting it into the deepest part. As it sank, the water turned a deep, angry red, and I knew it wasn’t over.

Now, I’m telling you: do not bring such things into your home. Do not place your fingers on that pointer, and do not ever, under any circumstances, neglect to close the board properly. Because the marble is patient, and it is always watching. It remembers the one who let it in, and it will find a way back.