The Incomplete Sum

I never believed in coincidences, not after the summer of the boards. My name is Elena, and I spent my childhood in my grandmother’s dusty antique shop in Savannah, where the air smelled of old wood and forgotten secrets. She taught me to respect the Ouija board, not as a toy, but as a door that should rarely be opened. When I moved to a cramped apartment in Chicago, I brought the board with me, more out of habit than belief.

One evening, my friend Marcus, a skeptic with a love for ghost stories, spotted it on my shelf. He had never used one, and his curiosity was piqued. That night, with the city’s hum as our backdrop, we sat across from each other, our fingers resting on the planchette. I lit a single candle, its flame dancing in the draft from the old window.

At first, the board was silent, and Marcus grew restless. Then, the planchette began to move, spelling out ‘M-A-Z.’ I asked for the name, and it repeated ‘MAZ’ with increasing speed, the plastic sliding under our fingers as if propelled by an unseen force. Marcus laughed nervously, and I felt a chill. We managed to coax out a full name: Sara Maz. She was a woman who had died in the building decades ago, or so she claimed.

Marcus, ever the daredevil, asked, ‘Sara, would you show yourself?’ I shot him a glare, my grandmother’s warnings echoing in my head: ‘Never invite them in.’ But it was too late. The planchette jumped to ‘YES’.

Then Marcus asked, ‘How many people are in this room?’ The board spelled ‘3.’ I felt the air grow cold. Marcus and I were only two. I looked around, expecting a third person, but saw no one. Then the planchette started to spell out something else, but it was erratic, jumping from letter to letter. It finally settled on ‘INC’ before slowing to a stop.

I pulled my hands away and blew out the candle, but the room stayed dark, the streetlight outside casting long shadows. Marcus laughed, calling it a trick, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were no longer alone. We shoved the board into its box and vowed never to use it again.

That night, I had a dream. A woman stood in the corner of my bedroom, her face obscured by long, stringy hair. She whispered, ‘Three, but not three.’ I woke up drenched in sweat.

The next day, I tried to rationalize it, but odd things began to happen. My reflection in mirrors seemed a split second delayed. I would leave a room, and from the corner of my eye, I’d see a silhouette lingering. Marcus called, his voice shaky, saying he felt someone breathing on his neck the night before.

I decided to research the building’s history. In the archives, I found a record: In 1962, a woman named Sara Maz and her daughter were murdered in apartment 3B. The killer was never found. I lived in 3A. That was when I noticed the number on my door: 3A. The planchette had spelled ‘INC’ – incomplete. A third presence, an incomplete spirit, was now attached to us.

My grandmother had once warned me about ‘the in-between,’ spirits that couldn’t move on because they were trapped in a moment, their story unfinished. Sara Maz was such a spirit, but she wasn’t alone. She was trying to warn us about the third presence – her daughter, perhaps, who was still searching for her killer. The planchette’s ‘INC’ was not a word but a symbol of a life cut short.

I knew we had to complete the ritual, to help Sara find peace, but that meant confronting the killer. The man who had murdered her and her child – I suspected the elderly janitor, Mr. Henderson, who had worked there for fifty years. When I confronted him, his face went pale. He admitted he had a secret, but not what I expected. He told me that Sara’s daughter, Lily, had survived, but was sent to an asylum because no one believed her story. She died there, alone, her spirit still attached to her mother.

Now, I understood. The board spelled ‘INC’ for ‘incomplete’ – their bond was severed, but their spirits were unfinished. To release them, we had to unite them. Marcus and I went to the old asylum, which had been converted into a library. In the basement, we found a wall with names scratched into the plaster. There, one name stood out: ‘Lily Maz.’

We held a séance in that basement, using the board. This time, the planchette spelled, ‘Thank you.’ The temperature rose, and we felt a sense of peace. But as we left, I caught a glimpse of two figures – a woman and a girl – holding hands in the doorway, and then they dissolved.

I thought it was over, but the next morning, I received a letter postmarked from Savannah. It was from my grandmother, who had passed away years ago. The letter was written before she died, and it said, ‘If you ever use the board, remember: the dead never ask for things; they complete themselves through the living. You must never leave a number unspoken.’ Inside, there was a small, old photograph of my grandmother and a girl who looked just like her. The inscription read: ‘Elena, meet your great-grandmother, Sara.’

I realized then that Sara was my ancestor, and the third presence was me, all along. The board had spelled ‘3’ because there were already three of us – me, Marcus, and my own spirit, still tethered to the living but somehow present in that room, a reflection of my heritage. The word ‘INC’ was incomplete because my family’s story was still unfinished, and I was the one to complete it. The board was not a toy; it was a mirror, showing me what I was missing.

I put the board away forever, but sometimes, when I pass a mirror, I see a faint image of a woman with long hair, not threatening, but watching. And I know, one day, I’ll have to face her, to finish the sum.