The Hollow Frame

The night air was thick with the smell of sawdust and fresh paint when we climbed through the gap in the fence. The house was nothing but a skeleton of two-by-fours and concrete, a half-finished promise that had been abandoned for years. My friend Maya had heard about it from her cousin, who swore it was haunted. We didn’t believe in ghosts, not really, but we were bored and looking for a thrill. So we brought a board and a planchette, and we sat in the center of what would have been the living room, surrounded by the hollow frames of future walls.

We set up the board on a cracked piece of plywood, lit a few candles that sputtered in the wind, and placed our fingertips on the plastic pointer. At first, nothing. Then a tremor, a draft that didn’t feel natural, and the pointer began to slide. It moved in smooth, confident glides, spelling out a name: DANIEL. He told us he was a carpenter who had died on this land, a ‘good man,’ he said, and he asked if we wanted to know his favorite song. We laughed, feeling a sense of relief. He was friendly, almost fatherly. We talked for over an hour, and when we had to leave, we asked if we could continue later. He agreed, and we promised to return.

But we didn’t. The next weekend, we were at my house, just me, Maya, Tyler, Sam, and Jess. We brought out the board again, this time in the garage, where the air was stale and the light was harsh. We asked if anyone was there, and the pointer quivered, then spelled out a single word: NO. We asked for a name, and it spelled NONE. We asked for an age and sex, and it spelled MALE, 40.

‘Why are you talking to us?’ Tyler asked. The pointer moved to YOUNG. A chill ran down my spine. ‘Do you want to hurt us?’ I said, my voice shaking. The pointer moved to YES. ‘Who?’ Maya whispered. The pointer began to move, but it was different now—slow, deliberate, scraping the board with a sound like grinding teeth. It spelled A-L-L. We were stunned. ‘OK, we’re leaving,’ I said, and we all stood up. But the pointer started moving again, as if it was rushing to catch our attention. WHY? it asked. ‘Because you want to hurt us,’ I called back, and we said goodbye, and we left the garage, our hearts pounding.

We thought that was the end of it. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I was in my room, lights off, and I had a feeling that I wasn’t alone. I asked out loud, ‘Is anyone there?’ The room was silent, so silent I could hear my own blood rushing. Then I felt it—a cold, firm grip around my ankle through the blanket. I screamed and kicked, but the grip held for a second too long. I flicked on the light, and the room was empty. The blanket was undisturbed. My friends came running when they heard me, and we spent the rest of the night in the kitchen, huddled together, not daring to speak.

But the next day, we started to notice things. Little changes. Shadows that seemed to move in our periphery. A door that opened on its own. Jess swore she saw a face pressed against her window, featureless and pale. We tried to ignore it, but the feeling of being watched never left us.

A week later, I was home alone. The house creaked and settled, and I heard a voice from upstairs, calling my name in a low, raspy tone. I went up, and in my bedroom, I found the board–the same board we used–set up on my bed. The pointer was there, waiting. I didn’t touch it. I backed away, and as I did, I saw the word written in the dust on my mirror: ALL.

I ran. I drove to Maya’s, and when I got there, her face was pale. She said she’d had a dream, or maybe it wasn’t a dream. In the dream, she was in a forest, and there was a tree with a face, and it spoke to her. It said, ‘I have marked you.’ She lifted her sleeve, and there was a black mark on her wrist, like a bruise but darker, like a stain. I looked at my own arm, and I had the mark too.

We tried to find out what the mark meant. Tyler’s cousin, who was into the occult, told us that it was a seal, a binding sigil. It meant that Daniel—or whatever he was—had claimed our souls. The mark was a promise that we would come to him, one by one. We tried to remove it with salt and sage, but it stayed.

The deaths started soon after. Sam was the first. He was driving late at night, and he swerved to avoid a figure in the road, a figure that looked like him, but with hollow eyes. He crashed into a tree. He didn’t die instantly, but as he lay there, he said he saw the figure approach and whisper, ‘Now you’re free.’

We were devastated. We thought it was a coincidence. But then Jess. She was taking a bath, and she felt hands around her throat, and she drowned. The coroner said it was a seizure, but she had marks on her neck that looked like fingers. Tyler went next. He was in the garage, and we heard a crash. When we found him, he was dead, his body contorted, his eyes wide with terror. In his clenched fist, he had a piece of paper with the word ALL on it.

Now it’s just me and Maya. We’re writing this in a motel room, far from that house, far from the garage, but we can still feel the presence. The mark on my arm is spreading, creeping up towards my elbow. Maya’s is on her chest. We know it’s only a matter of time. We’ve tried to leave, but wherever we go, we find the board. Once, we found it in our trunk. Another time, it was on the nightstand when we woke up. We burn it, and it comes back, charred and smoldering.

Last night, we made a decision. We decided to call Daniel back, to ask him what he wants, to bargain for our lives. We set up the board in the motel room, and we placed our fingers on the pointer. It started moving immediately, faster than ever, scraping so hard it left gouges in the plastic. It spelled out: YOU CANNOT RUN. I asked him, ‘What do you want?’ The pointer whirled, a dizzying blur, and then stopped on the word ALL. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and when I turned, there was nothing. But in the mirror, I saw a reflection—not mine, but a man’s face, weathered and gray, with empty sockets. He smiled, and his lips moved soundlessly, but I read the words: ‘You are already mine.’

We are the last two. We are writing this in case someone finds it, to warn you. If you ever play the game, if you ever talk to Daniel, do not finish the sentence. Do not let the pointer spell ALL. Because when it does, he will come for you, and he will not rest until every one of you is free. And we are not free. We are trapped in this world, marked, waiting for the moment when the hollow frame of our lives will be filled with his presence. And we will join the others in the endless dark, where the only sound is the scraping of the pointer on the board, spelling our names, one by one, until there is no one left.