The Last Question at the Culvert

It had been a summer of dares and boredom, of long nights that bled into each other. My cousin Della and I had gotten fixated on the old planchette board, fueled by grainy internet videos and the cheap thrill of pretending the world had more teeth than it showed. We’d dragged our friend Marcus along for our sessions, setting up at the abandoned drainage culvert on the edge of town—a massive concrete pipe that yawned under the old highway overpass. The walls were covered in faded graffiti, and the air always smelled of damp rust. We’d done it there a dozen times, getting mostly gibberish, the occasional cold spot, and once, a planchette that flew off the board so hard it cracked on the concrete. But that night, under a bruised sky, it was different.

It was near midnight, the summer heat finally giving way to a sticky breeze. Della had smuggled out a bottle of cheap whiskey, and we were all a little loose. Marcus set up the board on a flipped-up milk crate, and we sat cross-legged on the damp floor, our fingers barely touching the planchette. Della did the talking, as usual. ‘What’s your name?’ The planchette twitched, then slid to ‘X.’ We laughed. ‘How old are you?’ It moved to ‘7.’ A weird choice, but okay. ‘Are you a girl?’ The planchette rocked, then darted to ‘Y.’ We grinned—standard stuff. But then it stopped. The planchette sat heavy, like it was pressing into the board. Marcus said, ‘Maybe it’s done.’ Della shook her head. ‘Ask something else.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Why are you here?’ The planchette shuddered, then moved slowly, deliberately, spelling out letters: G-R-A-V-E. We stared. Della’s grin faded. ‘That’s not a word,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s a name,’ Marcus offered. But then the planchette began moving on its own, dragging our fingers with it, faster than we could think.

It spelled out a long string of gibberish, then repeated ‘GRAVE’ three times. Then it spelled ‘CURIOUS.’ Della pulled her hands away. ‘That’s not funny, Marcus.’ Marcus held up his hands, showing they were clear. ‘I didn’t do that.’ I noticed then that the air in the culvert had gotten thick, and the graffiti on the walls seemed to shimmer, as if it were fresh paint. A chill ran down my back. Della grabbed the planchette herself, fingers on it alone. ‘If you’re real,’ she said, her voice shaky, ‘answer me one thing. What do you want?’ The planchette shot to the corner of the board, then spelled: ‘YOU.’

We all felt it—a pressure, like a hand pressing down on our shoulders. The lights from the overpass seemed to dim, and the culvert’s mouth darkened, as if something blocked the exit. We tried to pull our hands away, but they were stuck, glued to the planchette. It started moving again, faster, spelling out a single phrase over and over: ‘LAST QUESTION’ and ‘TRUTH.’ We were all panting, scared now. Della screamed, but no sound came out. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The planchette went still. Our hands came free, and we scrambled to our feet, grabbing the board, the crate, everything, and ran out of the culvert into the open night. We didn’t stop running until we reached Della’s car, and we drove away without speaking.

We never touched the board again. But that’s not the end. A week later, I found a small stone in my pocket—black, smooth, with a single word carved into it: ‘CURIOUS.’ I threw it away. The next day, Della called me, whispering that she’d found a similar stone under her pillow. We met up, shaken, and realized Marcus wasn’t answering his phone. We drove to his house, but his mom said he’d been acting strange, talking about ‘the grave under the culvert.’ We haven’t seen him since. Last month, on the anniversary of that night, I received a letter postmarked from our town, with no return address. Inside was a polaroid of the three of us, taken the night we played, but in the photo, there was a fourth figure standing behind us—a little girl with hollow eyes. And on the back, in handwriting that wasn’t mine, it read: ‘You answered my last question. Now I have yours.’

I still feel a weight in my pocket sometimes, like a stone is forming there. I’ve stopped looking in mirrors, because once, I saw her reflection behind me, smiling. I know she’s waiting for me to ask another question. But I never will. I’ve learned the only way to end the game is to never play again.