The Glass Planchette

The summer heat pressed against the windows of Lena’s apartment, a thick, wet blanket that made the air taste of rust and old wood. We were three, as we often were: Lena, my sister Mira, and I, all huddled around her kitchen table, half-eaten bowls of canned peaches sweating in front of us. The conversation, as it always did, drifted to the macabre. Mira told the story our grandmother used to tell, about her cousin who could speak to the dead, his voice rattling like dry seeds in a gourd. Lena, ever the skeptic, rolled her eyes but leaned in nonetheless. She pulled out her phone, tapping through screens until she found what she was looking for: a comprehensive guide to the Ouija board, complete with historical photographs and warnings in faded red lettering.

We read it in silence, the only sound the buzz of a dying fly against the sill. The guide spoke of the ‘talking board’ as a portal, a thin place where the veil is torn, and of a ‘control’ that must be established to prevent chaos. It mentioned the necessity of a calm mind, the danger of fear, and the absolute rule: never play alone. When we finished, the three of us looked at each other. Mira’s eyes were wide, but there was a glint of challenge. Lena was already grinning. I felt a coldness in my stomach, a premonition that whispered to me to stop. But I did not speak.

We had no proper board, no planchette. But Lena, ever resourceful, found a piece of cardboard from a pizza box and a permanent marker. She drew the letters in a circle and the numbers below, a sun and a moon at the top, and the words YES and NO. For the pointer, she used a shard of glass from a broken picture frame—a jagged triangle that caught the harsh kitchen light and threw slivers of it onto the walls. She set it in the center, and we placed our fingertips upon its edges, the cool, sharp surface a stark contrast to the humid air.

‘Ask something,’ Lena commanded.

Mira hesitated, then said, ‘Is there anyone here with us?’

The glass did not move. We sat in silence, the weight of our fingers making the cardboard creak. Then Mira’s hand twitched, and the glass slid, slowly, impossibly, to the word YES. We all pulled back slightly, but our fingers stayed. Lena laughed, a nervous, brittle sound. ‘Okay, who did that? Mira, was that you?’

Mira shook her head, her face pale. The glass was still resting on YES. I felt a new sensation: a low hum, vibrating through the table, through my bones. I wanted to remove my fingers, but something held them, as if the glass itself had become a magnet. I looked at Lena, and her eyes were fixed on the glass. She whispered, ‘Who are you?’

The glass began to move, scrabbling across the cardboard, leaving faint scratches. It stopped at the letter ‘M’. Then ‘A’. Then ‘R’. Then ‘C’. Then ‘E’. Then ‘L’. It paused, then slid to ‘Y’.

‘Marcely,’ Mira breathed. ‘That was our grandmother’s cousin. The one who could speak to the dead.’

A chill traveled up my spine, despite the heat. The glass was now vibrating under our fingers, a low thrum that made my teeth ache. Lena tried to pull her hand away, but it was as if the glass had glued her fingertip to itself. ‘It’s a trick,’ she gasped. ‘One of you is doing this.’

But I knew neither of them was. I felt the pressure, the deliberate, slow movement. I tried to speak, but my throat closed. The glass then spelled out: ‘DO NOT SPEAK OF THE THINNING.’

We stared at it, our hearts pounding. The apartment seemed to darken, as if the light itself was being siphoned away. The hum grew louder, and the glass began to spin in a frantic circle, scratching so hard that a piece of the cardboard tore loose. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The glass remained still, and the hum died. We pulled our hands away, our fingers leaving sweaty imprints. The glass was warm, unnaturally warm.

We didn’t speak for a long time. Then Lena, trying to regain control, said, ‘It’s just a game. We were all moving it without realizing.’ But her voice was shaky. We decided to stop, to clean up. As Lena went to lift the cardboard, I noticed something: on the table beneath the board, a series of tiny, dark specks, like black sand. I touched one, and it crumbled to dust. I didn’t tell the others.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The hum had followed me home, a faint buzz in my ear like a trapped fly. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was just the air conditioner. But I knew it wasn’t. And in the small hours, I heard a whisper, not in my ear, but in my mind: ‘You looked.’

I never told Lena or Mira, but I started to see things. Movement at the corner of my eye, always just out of sight. The black sand appeared on my pillow, my keyboard, the bottom of my coffee mug. I swept it away, but it always returned. The hum grew louder, a constant companion. It was only a matter of time before the glass returned.

It was a week later, a Tuesday. I was alone in my apartment, trying to read, when I felt the familiar weight of a finger pressing on my shoulder. I turned, expecting nothing, but there was a small, jagged piece of glass on the arm of my couch. It was the same glass, broken and sharp. I recoiled, but it gleamed innocently. Then, a voice, so clear it could have been in the room, said, ‘You will be our voice now.’

The glass began to move across the floor, sliding toward me, scraping a thin line in the wood. It stopped at my feet, and I saw my reflection in its fractured surface—but my reflection was not me. It was an old woman with hollow eyes, and she was smiling.

I screamed, and I ran. I left my apartment, my belongings, everything. I went to Lena’s, but she wasn’t there. The door was unlocked, and inside, the table was set with the same cardboard and glass, as if waiting. The glass spelled out, ‘WE ARE SINGULAR.’ I backed away, and I heard Mira’s voice behind me: ‘You shouldn’t have run.’

I turned, and Mira stood in the doorway, her face blank, her eyes voids. The glass in my hand—I didn’t realize I had picked it up—pressed into my palm, drawing blood. I looked down, and the blood was not red but black, and it seeped into the grain of the wooden floor, vanishing.

I am writing this now from a place I do not know. The apartment is bare, the windows painted black. There is a cardboard board on the table, and a shard of glass. The hum is constant, a prayer in a language I am beginning to understand. They want me to tell their story. And I will, because to refuse is to become one of the quiet ones. The glass is warm again. It asks a question, the same question we asked that first night: ‘Is there anyone here?’ And I must answer with our voice, which is now theirs. YES.

I am no longer alone. And I never will be.