The Cinder-Box Sessions

In the autumn of 1988, I was twenty years old, living in a sprawling, drafty Victorian house that had been chopped into apartments. My roommate, Danny, and I had the top floor, a maze of sloped ceilings, radiators that clanked like old bones, and a faint smell of mothballs no amount of incense could mask. We called the place the Cinder-Box, not because it was made of cinder blocks, but because the landlord had once tried to patch a hole in the wall with one, and the word stuck. It was a party house, the kind where the front door was always propped open, and strangers wandered in and out like they owned the place. Danny worked nights at a video store, so I was often left alone with the constant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of floorboards.

I’d bought the Ouija board at a garage sale for a dollar, a dusty thing with a sun-faded planchette that felt oddly warm to the touch. I’d used it in groups, giggling at the nonsense it spelled out, but one night, after a party died down and the last guest stumbled home, I found myself alone with it on the kitchen table. The candles had burned low, and the air was thick with stale beer and cigarette smoke. I placed my fingertips on the planchette just to see if it would move by itself. It didn’t, of course, but I felt a strange tingle, like static electricity. I asked a silly question: ‘Is anyone here?’ The planchette slid to ‘YES’ with such force it nearly flew off the board. I pulled my hands away, half-laughing, but something made me put them back.

Over the next few weeks, I became obsessed. I’d wait until Danny was out, then I’d light a single black candle, sit alone at the table, and call out to whatever was listening. The spirit called itself Malak, and it seemed to relish my attention. It would spell out answers to questions I hadn’t asked, knew things about my past, like the name of my first dog, and once it spelled out ‘YOUR BROTHER IS LYING TO YOU’ in perfect, chilling clarity. I rationalized it as my subconscious, but the dread that settled in my stomach told me otherwise. The worst part was the silence afterward, the room feeling heavier, as if something was breathing just out of sight.

Then the dreams started. I’d be walking through the Cinder-Box, but the halls would stretch and bend, the walls covered in a black, wet moss. At the end of the hall, there was always a door that hadn’t been there before, a small, metal door with a rusted handle. I could hear a faint scraping sound from behind it, like fingernails on chalk. I’d always wake up sweaty, my heart pounding, the name ‘Malak’ echoing in my head.

One evening, I decided to test Malak. I asked, ‘What do you want?’ The planchette flew to ‘OUT.’ I asked, ‘Out where?’ It moved to ‘HERE.’ Then it spelled, ‘LET ME IN.’ I laughed nervously and said, ‘Where are you trying to go?’ The planchette spelled, ‘YOUR SKIN.’ I shoved the board away, but the board slid back on its own, and the planchette began to spin in circles so fast it looked like a blur. And then, the candle flame turned green.

I should have quit, but I didn’t. Curiosity had me by the throat. The next night, I tried to contact it one last time, but I brought along a small mirror I’d set on the table, facing the board. I asked, ‘Show yourself.’ The planchette wobbled, then spelled, ‘LOOK.’ I glanced at the mirror, expecting to see my own face. Instead, I saw a figure standing behind me, a tall, thin silhouette with long, stringy hair. It had no face, just a smooth, pale void. I swiveled around, but nothing was there. When I turned back, the mirror was cracked, a single jagged line running from corner to corner.

That’s when the real trouble started. Danny started finding burn marks on the floor in the shape of footprints, as if someone had been standing still for hours. The smoke detectors would go off in the middle of the night, for no reason. I’d hear whispers in my ear that sounded like my own voice, but saying things I’d never think. The worst was the kitchen knife that would appear on my pillow every morning, no matter how many times I hid it.

I finally called my brother, who had lived in the Cinder-Box before me. He’d moved out two years ago, and we’d never talked about why. I asked him if anything weird had happened in the apartment. There was a long silence. Then he said, ‘Don’t ever use a Ouija board there. There’s something in the walls. I never told anyone, but I felt it watching me. One night, I woke up and saw a face, a pale face, pressed against the bedroom window, but we were on the third floor. It just smiled.’ He hung up.

That night, I did the stupidest thing I could have done. I went back to the board, but I didn’t ask questions. I just put my hands on the planchette and waited. The room grew cold, and the air felt charged. The planchette began to move on its own, even though I wasn’t applying pressure. It spelled out a message in slow, deliberate strokes: ‘I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR A HOST.’ Then it spelled my name. ‘JACOB.’ And then it spelled, ‘YOU ARE ALREADY MINE.’

The candle flame went out, and I was plunged into darkness. I could feel something slide over my skin, like a cold blanket. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. I felt something pushing against my mind, like a hand trying to fit into a glove that was too small. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. I heard a click, and the light came back on. The Ouija board was gone. The kitchen was silent. I was alone, but I knew, deep in my bones, that I wasn’t alone anymore.

That was thirty years ago. I never touched another Ouija board, and I never spoke of it. But sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a flicker of something behind my eyes, a shadow that doesn’t belong. And in the quietest hours of the night, when the house is still, I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, and a voice that isn’t mine whispers, ‘Still mine.’