The Glass That Answered

Six months ago, I was still a kid in many ways, though at sixteen I thought I knew everything. My best friend Mara, seventeen and bold as brass, lived in a crumbling Victorian on the outskirts of Ironbridge, a town where the fog rolled in off the river like a shroud. That night, I brought over a Ouija board I’d bought from a pawnshop, its box worn and smelling of dust and something else, something faintly metallic. I’d never touched one before, but I’d heard the stories, the warnings of doors opening that shouldn’t be opened. Still, I figured it was just a game, a way to scare ourselves silly on a dark, stormy night.

We set up in Mara’s basement, which was more of a root cellar with a low ceiling and exposed pipes that dripped in a steady rhythm. We spread out old sleeping bags, turned off all the lights, and lit a single candle, though we didn’t need it because the moonlight filtered through the small, grimy windows. The board was old, the letters faded, and the planchette was a cracked piece of glass with a red dot in the center. We placed our fingers on it, trembling, and asked if any spirit was present. For a long while, nothing moved. We repeated the question, feeling silly, until the glass began to slide, slowly, as if pushed by an invisible hand, and stopped at ‘YES.’

A chill ran down my spine, but we pressed on, asking for a name. The glass spelled out ‘ELIAS.’ We asked how he died. ‘MURDERED,’ it spelled. My heart pounded. I wanted to stop, but Mara’s eyes were wide with excitement, and she urged on. ‘Who killed you?’ The glass moved erratically, then spelled ‘YOU.’ I laughed nervously, but the laugh died in my throat as the glass then flew across the board, spinning, and stopped at ‘BEHIND YOU.’

We both turned, expecting to see nothing, but there was a figure standing in the shadows, a tall, gaunt man with hollow eyes and a stained apron. He reeked of rot. We screamed and tried to run, but the basement door, which we’d left ajar, was now sealed shut, as if rusted from the inside. The glass on the board began to vibrate, then shattered, sending shards across the floor.

We huddled in the corner, praying, as the apparition flickered and then vanished. The door swung open on its own. We scrambled up the stairs, not daring to look back. Outside, the fog had thickened, and we ran to my car, which I’d parked at the end of the drive. We drove to my house in silence, and we never spoke of that night again.

But since then, I’ve felt something watching me. At night, I hear a faint scratching at my bedroom window, and sometimes, when I’m alone, I see a tall figure in the corner of my eye. And on that Ouija board, which I never touched again, I found a message scratched into the wood, as if by fingernails: ‘I SAW YOU.’ I haven’t used a board since, but I know that whatever came through that night isn’t finished with me. It’s waiting, and it knows my name.