The Last Candle

I’ve never been able to fully explain what happened that night, and I doubt I ever will. My grandmother, Agnes, had come to stay with us for a week, and to pass the time on a rainy evening, we decided to drag out the old talking board my mother had kept in the attic. It was a plain wooden board with faded letters, and it had never worked for us before, but we were desperate for something to do.

We set it on the scarred oak table in our farmhouse kitchen, the one with the lazy Susan that always squeaked. The only light came from two thick candles we’d placed on either side of the board, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. My brother, Liam, was there too, and we all placed our fingertips lightly on the planchette, which felt cold despite the warmth of the room.

For the first few minutes, nothing. Then the planchette began to move, hesitantly at first, spelling out words that seemed playful, even mischievous. It claimed to be a young boy named Charlie who liked to hide things. We laughed, asking it where it had hidden my missing keys, and it spelled ‘UNDER THE SINK’. Sure enough, there they were, covered in dust. We were thrilled, but Charlie was exhausting, always cracking jokes and moving the planchette in wild circles.

After a while, our arms got tired, and Liam said, ‘Can we take a break? Maybe we can continue later.’ The planchette spelled ‘YES’ and then ‘I WILL BE HERE’. We all removed our hands and stretched. My grandmother went to the kettle to make tea, and Liam went to the bathroom. I sat in the dim light, watching the candles flicker.

When we returned, we placed our fingers back, expecting Charlie’s antics. But the air in the room had changed. It felt heavier, and I noticed the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. The planchette moved slowly, deliberately, spelling ‘JOHN’. I felt a sudden, inexplicable anger rise in my chest, hot and sharp. I looked at the planchette, and I asked, my voice laced with a hatred I didn’t recognize, ‘This isn’t the same spirit, is it?’

The planchette moved to ‘NO’ and then to ‘THIS IS JOHN’. My grandmother’s hand trembled, and Liam’s face was pale. ‘We should stop,’ my grandmother whispered, but I felt a weird compulsion to continue. ‘What do you want, John?’ I asked, my voice cold.

Instead of answering, one of the candles blew out with a sharp puff, as if someone had blown directly on it. The remaining candle flickered violently, its flame turning blue for a moment before settling back to orange. The planchette began to move rapidly, spelling out a message that made my blood run cold: ‘YOU LET ME IN’.

I tried to pull my hands away, but they were stuck to the planchette, as if glued. My grandmother was screaming, but I could barely hear her. The flame of the last candle shrank, growing smaller and smaller, until it was just a tiny ember. The room plunged into darkness, and I felt a freezing hand close around my wrist. A voice, not from the board but from right next to my ear, whispered, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

Then everything went black.

I woke up on the kitchen floor, the board in pieces around me, the last candle nothing but a pool of wax. My grandmother was sobbing in the corner, and Liam had his hand over his mouth. The clock showed three in the morning, though it had only been ten at night when we started. We never spoke of it again, but I have not been able to use a Ouija board since, and I can still feel that cold grip on my wrist, even now, as I write this.