The Glass That Walked Alone

On the last Friday of October, the air in the old farmhouse felt thick with a silence that seemed to listen. I was there with my cousin Myra, her older brother Caleb, and Caleb’s friend from college, Ezra. We had gathered around the worn oak table in the parlor, the only light coming from a flickering kerosene lamp that cast dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Myra and I were both brought up in the church, and when Ezra produced the battered box from his duffel bag, our protests were the loudest. But Ezra, with his easy grin and persuasive charm, talked us into it, claiming it was just a game, a way to pass the long night until the storm outside broke.

We cleared the table of its dusty knickknacks, and Ezra placed the makeshift planchette—a chipped saucer with a hand-drawn arrow—on the board. The board itself was something he’d found in the attic of this old rental, its letters painted in a faded red that seemed to bleed into the wood. We all placed a single finger on the saucer, our knuckles white with tension. For a long while, nothing happened. We asked silly questions, trying to break the unease. Myra asked in a mock-serious tone, ‘Are you a friendly ghost?’ and Caleb asked, ‘Do you prefer pancakes or waffles?’ The saucer didn’t budge. I thought it was all nonsense, a way to scare ourselves silly.

Then, more out of boredom than curiosity, I asked, ‘Are you a loner?’ The words hung in the air, and for a heartbeat, nothing. But then, a tremor ran through the saucer. We all froze, our eyes darting from one another, each thinking the others were shaking it. But as the tremors grew stronger, the saucer started to glide, slow and deliberate, across the board. It moved to the letter ‘A’, then ‘L’, then ‘O’, then ‘N’, and finally ‘E’. The letters spelled ‘ALONE’. We didn’t breathe. The only sound was the rain hammering against the windows like desperate fingers.

When it stopped, the silence was suffocating. We all pulled our hands back as if burned. Ezra tried to laugh, muttering something about us moving it unconsciously, but his voice was shaky. Myra whispered, ‘It’s just a game,’ but she was pale. We decided to put the board away, but as Ezra reached for it, the saucer suddenly spun on its own, flying off the table and shattering against the wall. We all jumped back. The lamp flickered violently, then steadied.

That’s when we heard it—a faint, muffled sound, like someone sobbing, coming from the walls. We all turned to the corridor that led to the bedrooms. The crying grew louder, and then a voice, thin and reedy, called out from the dark: ‘I’ve been alone for so long.’ We stood frozen, our hearts pounding. Myra grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. Caleb whispered, ‘It’s just the wind,’ but he didn’t believe it.

The crying stopped abruptly, replaced by a sound of shuffling footsteps, heavy and slow, coming down the hallway. We backed toward the front door, but it was locked, the brass knob cold and unyielding. Then the footsteps stopped just outside the parlor doorway, which was a gaping black rectangle. We stared into that void, waiting.

From the darkness, a figure emerged, but it wasn’t human. It was a tall, gaunt shape, woven from shadow and dust, with hollow eyes that seemed to drink the light. It spoke, its voice like gravel grinding, ‘You asked if I am alone. I have been alone for a century. But now, you will keep me company.’ And with that, the lamp went out, plunging us into absolute darkness.

We scrambled, screaming, but the darkness was a cage. We bumped into each other, disoriented, and the cold fingers of the entity brushed against our arms, our faces. It whispered our names, but in voices that weren’t our own—my mother’s voice, Myra’s late grandmother, Caleb’s old dog. It mocked us with the comfort of the familiar.

I don’t know how we escaped. We stumbled into the storm, the rain lashing at us as we ran without direction, clutching each other. When we finally looked back, the farmhouse was dark, a silhouette against the lightning-struck sky. But in the window, I swear I saw it—a pale face, pressed against the glass, watching us leave.

We never spoke of that night again, not even among ourselves. We all moved away, went our separate paths. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I feel that cold hand on my shoulder, and I hear that voice, whisper-thin: ‘I am still alone. And I remember you.’ And I know, deep in my bones, that the glass we moved that night spelled not just a word, but a promise.