The Casket Room

I never believed in the supernatural, not really. But when my best friend, Mara, invited me to spend the weekend at her family’s estate, I couldn’t resist. The place had been a Victorian funeral parlor in the 1920s, and her great-grandfather had turned it into a sprawling mansion after the business declined. The attic still held old embalming tools and a line of empty caskets—dusty relics of a morbid past. Mara was a thrill-seeker, always dragging me into haunted houses and ghost tours, so when she proposed a séance in the old display room where bodies were once presented to grieving families, I laughed and agreed. We were twenty-two, invincible, and desperate for a scare.

The room we chose was at the end of a long, narrow hallway on the third floor. It smelled of mothballs and decayed rose petals. The wallpaper, once crimson, had faded to a sickly brown, peeling in strips like dead skin. A heavy oak table sat in the center, and on it rested a vintage Ouija board—ornate, with a planchette that looked like a tiny coffin. Mara lit candles around the perimeter, their flames casting dancing shadows. ‘Ready?’ she whispered, her eyes glittering. I nodded, though my heart was thudding. We placed our fingertips on the planchette, and Mara began, ‘Is anyone here with us? We come in peace.’

The planchette shuddered, then slid to ‘YES.’ I gasped, pulling back slightly, but Mara held it firm. ‘What is your name?’ she asked. It spelled ‘AGATHA.’ ‘How did you die?’ The planchette moved to ‘H-E-A-R-T.’ My blood turned cold. Mara’s great-grandmother, who died in this very room, was named Agatha, and she had suffered a massive coronary while preparing a body for burial. I had heard the story from Mara’s mother—how Agnes, as they called her, collapsed right beside the casket of a young woman who had died of a broken heart, or so the family legend went.

But the board spoke again. ‘BAD.’ The planchette slammed into the corner as if shoved by an unseen force. Mara laughed nervously. ‘She’s sassy.’ I tried to smile, but a chill ran down my spine. ‘Let’s ask if she’s alone,’ I suggested. The planchette moved to ‘NO.’ ‘Who else is here?’ It spelled ‘T-H-E-Y.’ ‘Who are they?’ The planchette began to move in a frantic, jerky circle—not following any letter. Then it stopped at ‘Y-O-U.’ I yanked my hands away. ‘This isn’t funny, Mara.’ But Mara’s face had gone pale. ‘I’m not moving it,’ she said.

The candles flickered, the flames turning from orange to blue. A draft swept through the room, lifting the dust from the floorboards, and a low hum began—like a distant organ playing a minor chord. The planchette started moving on its own, tracing letters so fast we couldn’t follow. When it finally stopped, it had spelled a name: ‘LILIAN.’ Lillian was Mara’s older sister, who had died two years ago in a car accident. The room fell silent. Then the casket in the corner—an old, unused one with a cracked lid—creaked open. From inside, a voice whispered, ‘You should not have come.’

We fled down the stairs, our footsteps echoing in the empty halls. But the mansion seemed to grow corridors, stretching endlessly. We found ourselves back at the third-floor landing, facing the door to the display room. It was ajar, and inside, the board was awaiting us, the planchette spinning in a frenzy. A cold hand gripped my shoulder. I turned—there was nothing, but the hand tightened, nails digging into my skin through my shirt. I heard Mara scream, and when I looked, she was being dragged toward the room, her heels scraping the floor. I grabbed her, but I felt a force pulling me too. The last thing I saw before the door slammed shut was the casket lid closing on its own, and inside it, two forms—one of a woman in a black dress, the other, a little girl with hollow eyes.

We never left. The mansion remains, a local legend. Visitors say if you listen at the third-floor door, you’ll hear two voices—one laughing, one sobbing—and the planchette moving of its own accord, spelling out the names of those who come to play.