The Magnet Room

I never believed in ghosts, not really. My name is Sam, and I live in a cramped studio above a laundromat in the industrial part of Christchurch. The building is old, with pipes that groan and a furnace that hiccups at odd hours. But six weeks ago, something changed. I started feeling a pressure in my room, a force that pushed against me when I walked in. At first, I thought it was my imagination, a trick of the stale air and the flickering fluorescent light. But it grew stronger, more insistent, until I felt like I was wading through water just to get to my bed.

Then came the hands. Not physical hands, but a magnetic pull that would lift my arms without my consent. It was gentle, almost playful, like a child tugging at a sleeve. I tested it, clearing my mind, and found that if I asked a simple question, a yes would make my right arm rise. A no would leave it still. My heart thumped as I realized I was communicating with something. Something in my room.

I began a series of questions, my voice barely a whisper in the sterile air. ‘Are you a ghost?’ No movement. ‘A demon?’ Still nothing. ‘Are you… are you a succubus?’ My arm floated up, light as a cork. I pressed further, my pulse roaring in my ears. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked, and my hand twitched, tracing letters in the air. The name ‘Mara’ emerged. I repeated it, and my arm rose in confirmation.

Mara, she called herself. I felt her presence as a pressure, a warmth that seeped into my bones. I tried to hear her voice, but it was like trying to catch smoke. Only the magnetic dance of my limbs gave her away. I started to record my sessions, keeping a journal of her answers. I asked her age, her origins, what she wanted. She was ancient, she said, and she fed on life force, but she claimed she meant no harm. She liked me, she said. She liked the way my mind worked.

But soon, the questions turned darker. I asked if she had been with others before me. My arm rose. I asked if she had hurt them. A pause, then a slow, deliberate rise. I began to panic. I tried to banish her, to cleanse the room, but that only made the pressure worse. The magnetic force became a cage, pushing and pulling me as I struggled to move. I felt drained, a hollow ache in my chest.

One night, I woke to find my body pinned to the bed, my arms stretched out as if crucified. The pressure was immense, like being crushed under a wave. A cold whisper touched my ear, a voice I finally heard, raw and hungry: ‘You wanted to hear me. Now listen.’ My limbs moved on their own, lifting me into the air, my head brushing the ceiling. I saw my reflection in the dark window, my face contorted in fear, and beside it, a shimmering outline of a woman with too-long arms and eyes like black pits.

I begged her to stop. I said I would do anything. She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. ‘I have been waiting for a vessel like you,’ she said. ‘So full of life, so eager to open a door.’ The pressure intensified, and I felt my essence being pulled, a steady drain that left me weak and trembling. When she finally released me, I collapsed on the floor, gasping.

Now I know the truth. Mara is not a succubus in the old tales. She is a parasite, a mind that consumes and moves on. And I, in my curiosity, have given her a foothold. The magnetic field in my room is her anchor, and she grows stronger with each question, each drop of my energy. I can feel her coils around my thoughts, her patience like a patient spider.

I am writing this as a warning. If you feel a pressure in your room, a gentle tugging on your limbs, do not answer. Do not ask names. Do not invite them in. They are not lonely spirits seeking companionship. They are hunters, and you are the prey. I am still here, but I am fading. Mara is always with me now, a constant weight on my chest, her voice a whisper in my mind. And she is hungry.