The Cotton Field’s Last Harvest

I live on the edge of nowhere, in a converted trailer park my landlords call ‘The Grove.’ The land was once a cotton plantation, and the past clings to the soil like the summer humidity. To the north, a small, overgrown cemetery holds the remains of the old plantation owners; to the south, a more neglected patch of ground marks where the enslaved were buried in unmarked graves. I’d always been drawn to such places, a self-proclaimed expert in the occult, and this seemed like the perfect setting for a session with the board.

My girlfriend, Maya, was skeptical but indulgent. She’d heard my stories, my boasts about contacting spirits, and she wanted to see it for herself. I chose a night with a full moon, its pale light filtering through the live oaks draped in Spanish moss. We set up the board on a flat stone near the slave cemetery, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. I lit a black candle, its flame barely flickering in the still air, and began my ritual.

‘We come in peace,’ I intoned, my fingers resting lightly on the planchette. ‘We seek to communicate with any spirit that wishes to speak.’ At first, nothing happened. Maya’s breathing was the only sound. Then, a faint vibration, a whisper of movement. The planchette began to slide, slowly at first, then with more purpose. It spelled out: ‘MINE.’ I felt a chill despite the warmth. ‘Mine what?’ I asked. The planchette flew across the board, spelling: ‘YOUR VOICE.’

I laughed nervously, trying to maintain control. But Maya grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. ‘I don’t like this,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s stop.’ I ignored her, my curiosity piqued. ‘Who are we speaking to?’ I asked. The response came: ‘HE WHO WAITS UNDER THE ROOTS.’ The air grew colder, and the candle flame dipped as if something had breathed on it. The planchette began to move erratically, tracing patterns that made no sense. Then it stopped, and a voice, not mine or Maya’s, but a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from the ground itself, said, ‘You should not have come.’

I looked around, but there was no one else. Maya’s face was pale, her eyes wide. ‘That wasn’t me,’ she said, her voice trembling. The voice spoke again, this time clearer: ‘This is my field. My harvest. You will be my final crop.’ The candle went out, plunging us into darkness. We fumbled for our phones, the glow revealing the board, now cracked down the middle. The planchette was gone. Panic seized us, and we ran back to the trailer, leaving everything behind.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the cracked board, heard that voice. The next morning, I went back to retrieve the board, but it was gone. Only a patch of scorched earth remained where we’d set it up. I tried to forget it, to convince myself it was a trick of the mind. But Maya started to change. She’d sit for hours staring at nothing, muttering to herself. When I asked what was wrong, she’d only say, ‘He’s waiting.’

One evening, I found her in the backyard, digging with her bare hands. ‘What are you doing?’ I shouted. She turned to me, and her eyes were black, like the void. ‘I’m planting,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘The roots need to grow.’ I tried to pull her away, but she was strong, stronger than she should have been. She shoved me, and I fell, hitting my head on a rock. When I came to, she was gone.

I searched for days, calling her name, but there was no sign. The police found her car abandoned near the old plantation house. I went there myself, drawn by a compulsion I couldn’t explain. The house was a decaying shell, its windows like empty eye sockets. Inside, the floorboards were covered in dirt, and in the center of the main room, there was a mound of soil. On top of it lay the Ouija board, intact, and next to it, a planchette carved from bone. I screamed, but no sound came out.

I know now that this land has a hunger, a thirst for the souls of those who disturb it. The voice was not a spirit of the dead, but something older, something that fed on the pain of the past. It had used me to bring it to life, and now it wanted me to stay. I tried to burn the board, but the flames turned blue and cold, and the board remained unharmed. In desperation, I took it to the slave cemetery and buried it, hoping to return it to the earth from which it came.

But tonight, as I sit in my trailer, I see the soil in my backyard moving, as if something is burrowing up. And I hear a voice, soft and familiar, calling my name. It’s Maya. But I know it’s not her. It’s the thing that took her voice, and it wants mine too. The harvest, it seems, is not yet over.