The Charred Crescent

My name is Carter, and I’m a freshman at Northeast State. I live with my folks in a ramshackle farmhouse off a gravel road in the middle of the Hoosier National Forest, surrounded by miles of cornfields and trees that block out any hint of civilization. My buddies from the city love coming out here for the parties—no neighbors to complain, no cops, and the whole place feels like a haunted house, especially at night with the wind moaning through the old barn.

We’d spent most of the summer hanging out in the backyard around a fire pit, drinking cheap beer and telling ghost stories. My girlfriend at the time, Dana, was obsessed with Ouija boards. She’d bring hers every time and insist we ask it questions—about the future, about spirits, about anything. I humored her, but it was starting to get on my nerves.

One night, after a few drinks, Dana set up the board as usual. The planchette started moving, spelling out words. At first, it was harmless: ‘HI,’ ‘DANA,’ ‘YOU ARE PRETTY.’ But then it started typing out messages specifically to her, calling her a liar and a whore. Dana’s face went pale, and she started sobbing uncontrollably, louder than I’d ever heard her cry.

I was sitting with my friends by the fire, and when I saw her breakdown, I snapped. I stormed over, grabbed the board, and threw it onto the flames. ‘That’s it! I’m done with this crap!’ I shouted. The board sizzled, and then I heard a hiss, like something angry and alive. I grabbed a branch and poked at the board, trying to get the moon symbol to catch fire. It took forever, but finally, the wood ignited, curling and blackening.

As the board burned, Dana’s crying turned into a low, guttural laugh—a sound that didn’t belong to her. The fire flickered, and for a split second, I could have sworn I saw a silhouette in the flames, grinning. Then, just as suddenly, the fire died down, and Dana snapped back to normal, looking confused. ‘What happened?’ she asked, wiping her tears.

We all tried to laugh it off, but something felt wrong. The air had changed, heavy and thick, like before a storm. My friends left soon after, and Dana went home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d stirred something up.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing scratching at my window, like twigs scraping against the glass, but it was too rhythmic to be the wind. I pulled back the curtain, and there was nothing there. Just the dark, empty yard. But then, I saw it—a small, charred crescent shape burned into the glass, as if the moon symbol from the board had been seared onto the window. I blinked, and it was gone.

Over the next few days, things got worse. Every mirror in the house fogged up when I passed by, and I’d see faint words written in the condensation: ‘YOU BURNED ME.’ One morning, I found the word ‘DIE’ carved into the wooden doorframe of my room, as if done with a knife. I tried to tell my parents, but they dismissed it as pranks.

Dana stopped answering my calls. When I finally drove to her place, her mother told me she’d been admitted to a psychiatric ward after locking herself in her bathroom and screaming at the mirror for hours. I felt a chill run down my spine.

At home, I threw the remaining pieces of the Ouija board into a steel barrel and doused them in gasoline. I lit a match and dropped it. The flames roared up, and from the fire came a voice—not human, but a hiss that sounded like words: ‘You cannot burn what is already ash.’

That night, I woke to find my room bathed in a faint orange glow. I sat up, and there, standing at the foot of my bed, was a figure made entirely of smoke and embers, its face a charred crescent. It smiled, and I smelled burning flesh. ‘You are mine now,’ it hissed, and reached out a hand wreathed in flames.

I screamed and bolted from the room, but everywhere I ran, the halls were filled with that smoky silhouette, blocking my way. I ended up in the kitchen, backed against the stove. The figure appeared in front of me, and I grabbed the first thing I could—a cast iron skillet—and swung it. It passed through the smoke as if it were air, but the skillet hit the stove, turning on a burner.

And then, nothing. I blinked, and the figure was gone. The smell of smoke lingered, and I realized the entire house was now filled with the faint stench of burning wood and something else—like burnt hair.

I fled, driving to a motel on the highway. I didn’t stop shaking for hours, and when I finally fell asleep from exhaustion, I dreamed of a hundred charred crescents burning into my skin.

I never went back. I dropped out of school, changed my name, and moved to the West Coast. But every night, just before I fall asleep, I hear a hissing sound outside my window, and I see a small, charred mark appear on my wall—and I know it’s still there, waiting, watching, and hungry for the fire that once consumed it.