The Glass Counter

In the autumn of 2016, I found myself in the smoky, labyrinthine city of Kolkata, visiting my cousin Rohan and his friends at their flat in a crumbling art deco building. I’d planned to stay for just three days, but within hours of my arrival, I was swept into a strange diversion. Rohan and his two roommates, Ananya and Srijan, were obsessed with the occult. They’d procured a peculiar artifact: a heavy, antique glass tumbler, etched with faint, swirling patterns, and a hand-painted board covered in letters and numbers. They insisted it ‘worked better’ than any cheap plastic planchette, and they wanted to conduct a session that very night. I was always a skeptic, but the gleam in their eyes and the warmth of the evening convinced me to join.

We set up in the flat’s unused study, which was cluttered with dusty books and old furniture. A single overhead bulb cast a sickly yellow light. We placed the glass tumbler in the center of the board, and lit four thin, red candles at the corners, their flames guttering in the still air. I, Rohan, Ananya, and Srijan sat around the table, our hands resting lightly on the glass, which was cold despite the warm room. Following the ritual, we closed our eyes and began a chant: ‘We invite any spirit that wishes to communicate to come closer, to join us now.’ We focused on the glass, feeling the smooth surface beneath our fingers. After perhaps twenty minutes of this, I felt a slight vibration, like a faint hum, rimming the rim of the glass. I opened my eyes, and the others were staring intently. The glass began to tremble, then slide across the board, first in slow, erratic arcs, then with more purpose. It stopped at ‘N’. Then ‘O’. Then a pause.

The glass spelled out a name: ‘NORA’. We all exchanged glances, but no one claimed to know a Nora. We asked, ‘Who are you?’ The glass slid to ‘I’ and then to ‘F’ and then to ‘O’ and ‘R’ and ‘W’ and ‘A’ and ‘R’ and ‘D’. It spelled ‘IFORMARDB’. We frowned, trying to decipher. It was only when it repeated, faster, that Srijan gasped, ‘It’s spelled backwards! It’s reading ‘DRAWROFI’ – no, it’s ‘IFORMARDB’ – but if we read it from the last letter to the first, it’s ‘DRAWROFI’? That doesn’t make sense.’ The glass then shot to ‘Y’ and ‘O’ and ‘U’ and then to ‘A’ and ‘R’ and ‘E’ and then to ‘N’ and ‘O’ and ‘T’ and then to ‘A’ and ‘L’ and ‘O’ and ‘N’ and ‘E’. It spelled, ‘YOUARENOTALONE’. A chill ran through me.

We asked, ‘Nora, are you a spirit?’ The glass flew to ‘Y’ and ‘E’ and ‘S’. Then it spelled ‘TURN’ and ‘THE’ and ‘GLASS’ and ‘OVER’. Without thinking, I gripped the glass and lifted it slightly, turning it upside down. As I did, I felt a sudden cold draft, and the candle flames flickered violently. On the underside of the glass, there was a tiny scratch, almost invisible, but when I held it to the light, I saw it was actually a pattern of tiny letters: ‘E’ and ‘K’ and ‘N’ and ‘A’ and ‘L’ and ‘L’ and ‘A’ and ‘B’. I read them aloud, ‘EKNALLAB…’ Srijan whispered, ‘That’s ‘BALLANKE’ reversed.’ He paused. ‘But if you read it right, it’s ‘BALLANKE’… No, it’s ‘BALLANKE’ is ‘EKALLAB’ is ‘EKALLAB’…’ He was getting confused.

Ananya, who had been silent, suddenly said, ‘That’s not a name. It’s ‘BALL ANKLE’. Like a ball and anklet. Or maybe ‘LOCK AND KEY’? No…’ The glass, now upside down but still under our fingers, began to slide again. It wrote on the board: ‘COUNT THE GLASSES’. We all had our glasses of water on the table. There were exactly four. But as we looked around, we saw a fifth glass, identical, sitting on a dusty shelf in the corner. It wasn’t there before. Rohan went to pick it up, but as he lifted it, a foul smell emanated from it, like rotting meat. He dropped it, and it shattered on the floor, revealing a small, rolled-up piece of paper inside. With trembling hands, he unrolled it. It was a handwritten note in a spidery script: ‘YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE DISTURBED THE COUNTER.’

We tried to end the session by saying ‘Goodbye’ to the spirit, but the glass simply kept sliding, ignoring our plea. It spelled ‘THE COUNTER’ and then ‘HAS’ and then ‘MADE’ and then ‘ITS’ and then ‘MOVE’. Then it stopped. The candles went out one by one, though there was no wind. We were in darkness, and we heard a faint ticking sound, like a clock, but it was coming from the broken glass scattered on the floor. As we fumbled for the lights, the ticking grew louder, and we realized it was not a clock, but the sound of glass shards coming together, reassembling into the shape of the tumbler. But this time, it was not transparent. It was black, and it was counting, in a low, guttural voice that seemed to come from inside our own heads: ‘One. Two. Three.’ We fled the room, but the sound followed us, counting down. When we finally managed to lock the door, we stood panting in the hallway, and the count stopped. But we knew something had attached itself to us, something that used the glass as a medium, and that it would not stop until it had finished its count.

That night, we huddled in one room, trying to sleep, but every time one of us closed our eyes, we heard a new voice whispering in our ear, a voice that sounded like Nora, but also like the broken glass, saying, ‘You are the next number.’ The next morning, we found the black glass sitting on the kitchen table, its surface now smooth and polished, and on it, written in a waxy substance, was the number ‘4’. We were four people. We realized, with a terrible certainty, that the glass was not a tool for summoning spirits; it was a counter, a collector, and it had chosen us as its next set of objects to count. And as we stood staring at that malevolent tumbler, we knew that no matter where we went, it would follow, always counting, always waiting for us to make a mistake, to be the one who would be counted out.