The Glass That Never Stopped Moving

Some folks in the county still talk about the ruin of the old Faraday house, but they never say why it’s called a ruin when it’s still standing. They just say it’s cursed, and they cross the road when they pass it. I know better. I was there when it started.

In the autumn of 2014, I was sixteen, and my best friend, Dana, had just moved to the edge of town into that very house—a two-story Victorian with a leaning porch and a boarded-up attic. Her parents were renovating, hoping to flip it, but the place had a weight to it, like the air inside was thicker than the air outside. Dana laughed it off, said old houses just had ‘character.’ I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t want to be a wimp.

On Halloween night, Dana’s parents went to a costume party, leaving us with a bag of candy and the whole creaking house. We’d planned to watch horror movies, but at midnight, Dana pulled out a dusty Scrabble board she’d found in a closet. ‘We can use this for a Ouija session,’ she said with a grin. I’d heard stories, but I’d never done it. She insisted it was just a game. So we cleared the coffee table, lit two vanilla candles (that was all we had), and placed a small, heavy shot glass in the middle of the board. We wrote ‘YES’ and ‘NO’ on slips of paper and taped them to the plastic surface.

The first hour was nothing. We asked silly questions—’Is anyone here?’ ‘Will I pass my math test?’ The glass didn’t budge. Dana started yawning. ‘This is stupid,’ she said. ‘Let’s just eat candy.’ I agreed. We blew out the candles and went to the kitchen to raid the Reese’s.

At 3:00 AM, I woke up on the couch. Dana was asleep in the armchair, and the TV was static. I heard a faint scratching from the dining room. Curiosity pulled me in. The Scrabble board was still on the table, but the glass was moving—in slow, deliberate circles, as if someone were pushing it. I called Dana. She groggily came over, her eyes widening. ‘Who’s doing that?’ she whispered. We both watched, frozen, as the glass spelled out ‘M O R E.’

We should have stopped. But Dana, brave or foolish, said, ‘We didn’t say goodbye.’ She reached out and placed her fingers on the glass. I reluctantly did the same. The glass immediately zoomed to ‘YES’ and then spelled, ‘L E T U S O U T.’ A chilling draft swept through the room, making the curtains billow even though the windows were sealed. The candles we had blown out re-lit by themselves, flames standing straight up, not flickering.

‘Who are you?’ Dana asked, her voice trembling. The glass spelled, ‘W E A R E T H E O T H E R T E N A N T S.’ Then it flew to ‘NO’ when we asked if they were friendly. The board went cold, so cold I could see my breath. The glass started to rise, lifting off the board until it hovered at eye level, and I swear I saw a faint, greasy fingerprint on its surface.

The glass shot across the room and shattered against the wall. The lights buzzed and died. Dana screamed. I heard a low, guttural laugh that seemed to come from all directions. We ran for the front door, but it wouldn’t open. The knobs turned, but the door was solid as concrete. We huddled in a corner, and the shadows on the walls began to writhe, forming long, twisted silhouettes that reached toward us.

We stayed there until dawn, praying, shivering, and watching the shapes that lurked just beyond our vision. When the first light crept in, the door swung open on its own. We bolted to Dana’s car and drove to my house without looking back.

We never returned. The police found no evidence, but they did report that the glass shards had vanished, leaving only a greasy residue on the wall. Dana’s parents moved out a week later, and the house has been abandoned since. But sometimes, when I pass by on my way to school, I see a light in the attic window, and I swear I see a face pressed against the glass—a face with Dana’s features, but with eyes that are too wide, too empty. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed. And some games are never over.