The Glass Table

It was the summer I turned thirteen, and my sisters and I were staying with our grandparents in the small town of Ashwick, far from the noise of the city. Our cousins, Alice and her adopted sister, Maggie, were a few years older, and one afternoon they decided to visit Maggie’s new apartment, which was just a few blocks from our grandparents’ house. I begged to go along, and after much pleading, they let me.

Maggie’s place was on the top floor of an old building that smelled of dust and mothballs. The apartment was sparse, with only a few boxes and a single bed in the corner. But in the middle of the living room stood a low glass table, its surface etched with strange symbols. Alice and Maggie exchanged a glance, and then Maggie said, ‘We should try something fun.’ She pulled out a piece of paper and a marker, and began to write the letters of the alphabet in a circle on the table’s surface, along with the words ‘yes’ and ‘no’. She placed a small, empty wine glass upside down in the center.

I had heard of such things, and I was both excited and nervous. ‘Is this safe?’ I asked. They laughed and said it was just a game. We sat around the table, our fingers resting lightly on the glass, and Maggie began to recite an old rhyme she’d learned from a friend. At first, nothing happened. Then, the glass began to tremble, and it slid across the glass table to the letter ‘H’. I pulled my hand away, but they insisted it was just our subconscious moving it. We tried again, asking silly questions, and the glass moved with surprising speed, spelling out answers that made no sense. I grew uneasy, but I didn’t want to seem childish.

Then Alice asked, ‘Is there anyone here with us?’ The glass shot to ‘Y’, then ‘E’, then ‘S’. A cold draft swept through the room, though all the windows were shut. I looked around, and for a moment, I thought I saw a shadow pass behind Maggie, but it was just a trick of the light. We asked for a name, and the glass spelled ‘E-L-I-Z-A’. I had never heard that name before. Maggie’s face went pale, and she whispered, ‘That was the woman who died in this apartment last year. She was a lonely old lady who never came out.’

I wanted to leave, but they insisted on asking one more question. ‘What do you want?’ The glass moved with violent speed, and then it stopped, and the glass table cracked right down the middle. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, and the lights flickered. I screamed and ran to the door, but it was locked. My sisters and cousins were frozen, staring at the crack. Then, the ringing stopped, and a whisper seemed to come from everywhere: ‘Stay.’ I felt a force push me back, and the glass table began to vibrate, and the letters on the paper turned to ash, floating up like black snow. The room grew dark, and I saw a figure in the corner—a tall, thin shape with long, stringy hair and a face that was not a face, just a void.

I don’t remember how we got out, but we all found ourselves on the stairway, shaking, with the door to the apartment open behind us. We never spoke of it again, and my sisters and I were never allowed to visit Maggie’s apartment again. But years later, I learned that Maggie had moved out immediately after that day, and the landlord had sealed the apartment, saying it was ‘uninhabitable’. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear that whisper, ‘Stay,’ and I wonder if the glass table is still waiting, with our names scratched into its surface, ready for the next visitor.