The Cardboard Circle

It was a damp October evening in 2012, and I sat alone in my flat above a closed fishmonger’s shop. At 32, I felt the weight of solitude pressing down on me with every tick of the old clock on the wall. My questions to the empty air were always the same: ‘When will I meet her? Will I ever have a family?’ But the silence only answered with the patter of rain against the window.

That night, desperate for some sign, I remembered a game from my youth—a crude board I had made with a friend, using a piece of cardboard and a coin. It had left me terrified, but also curious. So, with nothing better to do, I decided to recreate it. I found a large box from a new television set, cut out a smooth circle, and drew letters and numbers around the rim with a black marker. For the pointer, I used a small glass from the kitchen, turning it upside down so the rim touched the board. I called it ‘The Cardboard Circle.’

I lit a candle, placed it in the center, and began to spin the glass slowly, just as I had done years ago. I asked simple questions first—’Will it rain tomorrow?’ The glass glided to ‘YES.’ ‘Will I get a raise?’ It moved to ‘NO.’ A thrill ran through me. I was in control. Then I asked the question that had been gnawing at me: ‘When will I meet my soulmate?’

The glass began to move with a sudden purpose, tracing letters with a speed that made me grip the table. ‘A-P-R-I-L-5’, it spelled. Then, more slowly, ‘B-E-S-T-‘-O-F-L-U-C-K’—but the last letter seemed to drag, and the glass wobbled. I laughed nervously, thinking my own shaking hand had guided it. ‘Who are you?’ I asked, half joking. The glass shot to ‘D-E-A-T-H.’ I felt a chill, but I dismissed it as my imagination. ‘What do you want?’ I tried, my voice trembling. The glass spelled: ‘Y-O-U-R-V-I-S-I-T-O-R.’

I pulled my hand back, the glass spinning on its own for a moment before stopping. The candle flickered, and I thought I saw a shadow in the corner of my eye. I told myself it was just the rain and the draft. I blew out the candle and went to bed, chalking it up to a spooky but harmless game.

The next morning, I found a small, damp cardboard circle on my doorstep, exactly like the one I had made, but with the word ‘VISITOR’ scrawled across it in fresh marker. I laughed it off, assuming a neighbor had been playing a prank. But when I went to work, a new colleague introduced herself: April. She was tall, with dark hair, and she gave me a strange smile. ‘I’ve been told we’ll be working closely,’ she said. My stomach dropped.

Over the following weeks, April became more than a colleague—she was everywhere. She knew my coffee order, my favorite books, the street I lived on. She would appear at my favorite café, at my usual table. She would leave little notes in my jacket pocket, written in the same neat hand as the board’s messages. I tried to avoid her, but she was persistent. ‘You made a promise,’ she said one evening, when I confronted her in the park. ‘I didn’t make any promise,’ I stammered. She leaned closer, her eyes glinting. ‘You asked the Circle. It answered. I am your visitor.’

I decided to get rid of the board. I burned it in the fireplace, watching the cardboard blacken and curl. But that night, I woke to the sound of scratching. In the dim light, I saw the same circle on my nightstand, scorched but intact, with the glass pointer spinning wildly. It spelled: ‘TOO LATE.’

In April, I received a wedding invitation. It was from myself. The couple: me and April. The date: April 5. The venue: my own flat. I didn’t send it, but when I looked at the mirror, my reflection smiled back at me with April’s eyes. She was inside me now. I tried to scream, but my voice came out in whispers—the whispers of a glass sliding across cardboard. The last thing I remember before the darkness took me fully was the feel of the cardboard under my fingers, and the word ‘VISITOR’ burning in my mind.

Now, I sit in the dim light of a room I can’t leave, waiting for the next soul to ask questions of the Circle. April is my name, and I am always patient. The cardboard is fresh, the glass is ready. They always ask, in the end. And they always get what they seek.