The Cold Draft

Mara and I had been in the creaky Victorian at the edge of Maplewood for about six weeks. The house smelled of old wood and dust, and the radiators clanked like arthritic knees. We found the Ouija board in the attic, buried under yellowed newspapers. It felt like a dare. We started using it every night, and soon we made contact with a spirit who called himself Edwin. He said he’d lived there in the 1960s, died of a stroke in the hallway, and lingered because the house was all he knew. We corroborated with the county records: an Edwin Whitfield, wife and daughter, died 1968. We even found a child’s drawing in the pantry—a crayon family labeled ‘Daddy, Mommy, and Me—Kelly.’ It was signed by Kelly.

Tonight, Edwin was cagey. He barely moved the planchette, answering our questions with single letters, his presence like a static hum. I was impatient. I kept asking, ‘Is there anyone else who wants to talk? We’re open to new voices.’ I forgot my usual rule about only inviting spirits who meant no harm. I just wanted new conversations.

Suddenly, the room plunged into cold. The air bit my skin, and the candle flames flattened as if pressed by an invisible hand. The planchette shot to the center of the board, paused, then began to jerk violently in a zigzag pattern. The letters it tore through didn’t form words. They felt like a tantrum. Then, as quickly as it started, the planchette went still. A single letter was highlighted under the clear plastic: ‘S.’

Mara grabbed my hand. Her fingers were ice. ‘That’s not Edwin,’ she whispered. The board trembled. The planchette slid to ‘O.’ Then ‘M.’ Then ‘E.’ It spelled ‘SOME…’ and stopped. The temperature warmed slightly, and the candles flickered back. We stared at each other. ‘Some what?’ I said. Edwin’s presence returned, weak, like a fading radio signal. He pushed the planchette: ‘LEAVE.’

We didn’t leave. We should have. The next morning, we found the board in the hallway, the planchette missing. Cracked floorboards formed a scratch pattern that looked like a word: ‘AREA.’ We searched the house but found nothing. That night, we tried again with a different board. The new spirit came quickly, and it didn’t use the board. It spoke through the radiators, clanking out a rhythm. We deciphered it: ‘YOU LET ME IN.’

The house changed. Doors creaked open and slammed shut. Our cat hissed at corners. Sleep became impossible. I began to see a shape in my peripheral vision—a tall, skinny figure with no face. The cold spots moved. We tried to banish it, but the board only spelled ‘NO.’

Then, one night, Mara woke me. She was standing at the foot of the bed, pointing at the closet. The door was ajar, and inside, on the floor, lay the planchette. We approached. It was covered in a thick, black residue that smelled like rot. As we looked closer, the residue formed words: ‘SOMEWHERE ELSE.’

We ran. We drove to a motel on the highway, but the cold followed. We tried to sleep, but at 3:33 AM, the motel phone rang. A voice, low and gravelly, said, ‘You have a new house now.’ We checked out at dawn. Back at the Victorian, we found the Ouija board in the living room, the planchette still missing. But the board was scorched, and a single word was burned into the wood: ‘ELSEWHERE.’

We haven’t gone back. We’re staying with a friend in the city, but I feel it. A chill that creeps up my spine when the room is silent. And last night, I saw a reflection in the mirror—tall, skinny, faceless—and it was standing in my doorway. The motel’s name on the receipts? The Hillside. The city? Nowhere. It is following, and it always whispers: ‘Somewhere else.’