The Hollow Stare

The afternoon sun bled through the slats of the boarded-up windows in Eli’s basement, casting long, dusty fingers across the concrete floor. It was supposed to be a day of rebellion, a skip from the monotony of school, but the thrill had quickly soured into boredom. Eli, Maya, Jonas, Priya, and I—Dana—sat in a loose circle on the mildewed carpet, the air thick with the smell of old wood and neglect.

Eli had suggested the Ouija board, a relic his older brother had stashed in a shoebox, its cardboard corners worn. None of us had ever used one, but the idea sparked a nervous excitement. We cleared a space, set the board on a rickety card table, and placed our fingertips on the planchette. The room was dim, lit only by a single bare bulb that swung slightly from a draft, and the shadows danced like specters.

At first, the planchette moved in halting circles, spelling out gibberish. We laughed, attributing it to our collective jitters. But after a few minutes, it grew bolder, sliding with purpose across the polished wood. We asked simple questions—names, ages, favorite colors—and it answered with eerie precision. The air grew colder, and Goosebumps prickled my arms.

Emboldened, Maya asked, ‘Can you show us you’re here? Do something to prove it.’ The planchette shot to ‘NO’ and then to ‘WHY?’ before spelling out, ‘BECAUSE THE LIGHT.’ We all looked around, confused. The light? The bare bulb flickered as if to emphasize the point. Eli, ever the skeptic, said, ‘Maybe it needs to be darker. Like, really dark.’

He led us to his storage closet, a windowless space crammed with old furniture and forgotten boxes. The only light was a flashlight, which he clicked off as we entered. The darkness was absolute, swallowing us whole. My heart began to pound. In the corner, half-hidden behind a broken chair, I spotted a doll—a clown, its painted grin frozen, its eyes hollow and black. It gave me the creeps, but Eli grabbed it and placed it on a small space heater against the wall. ‘We’ll use this as a marker,’ he said.

We set up the board again in the pitch black, our hands trembling on the planchette. This time, the presence felt different—heavier, more malevolent. We asked its name. It spelled ‘MALACHI.’ We asked how it died. It spelled ‘HANGED.’ We asked if it could move the clown. It spelled ‘YES.’ Then, silence.

A creak came from the corner. The space heater whirred, its coils glowing orange, casting a faint, sickly light. We watched, breath held, as the clown doll—head tilted at an unnatural angle—slowly rose from its perch, hovering in the air for a moment, then dropping to the floor with a clatter. A collective gasp. Then, the heater’s cord began to slide, snaking toward us like a living thing.

We scrambled to our feet, knocking the table over, the board clattering away. But the darkness was absolute, and we were disoriented. I felt a cold hand brush my ankle, and I screamed. The others screamed too, and we stumbled into each other, trying to find the door.

Finally, Eli found the doorknob, and we tumbled into the relative light of the basement. The door slammed shut behind us, and we heard a low, guttural laugh—not human—echo from within the closet. We stood frozen, trembling, the laugh fading into the hum of the house.

We didn’t speak on the way home, each lost in our own terror. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the house sent my heart racing. The next morning, I found Eli’s house key on my doorstep. Tied to it was a note, scrawled in red ink: ‘I know where you live.’ The clown’s hollow stare burned into my mind, and I knew—this was just the beginning.