The Oakwood Concordance

My name is Evelyn Marsh, and I was born in the autumn of 1962 in a small, rainswept town called Darrow. My parents, both amateur folklorists, had a fascination with the occult that bordered on reverence. They collected antique divination tools, dusty grimoires, and strange talismans from their travels. Our house, a crumbling Victorian on the edge of the woods, was filled with their peculiar treasures. But their favorite was an old, hand-carved Ouija board they had acquired from an antique dealer who claimed it came from a haunted manor in the English countryside.

I was thirteen when they first used it. I remember the night clearly: the dim light of the oil lamp, the rain tapping against the window, and the faint smell of my mother’s lavender perfume mixed with the scent of old paper. They sat opposite each other, their fingers resting lightly on the planchette. They asked silly questions at first, laughing at the responses that seemed to spell out playful answers. But then, the atmosphere changed. The planchette began to move with a purpose, tracing words with a force that made their knuckles turn white. My father’s face grew pale, and my mother’s eyes widened in terror. They abruptly ended the session, and from that night on, they were never the same.

They became jumpy, constantly looking over their shoulders, and whispering to each other in hushed tones. A week later, they built a bonfire in the backyard and burned the board, along with all their other occult paraphernalia. I watched from my window as the flames consumed the wooden planchette, and I heard my mother say, ‘It’s the only way to break the link.’ I never asked what they had contacted. At that age, I was more interested in my crush, a girl named Clara, who lived on the other side of town. We were both girls, and in 1975, that felt like a dangerous secret. So I stayed away from home as much as possible, meeting Clara in the woods, in the library, anywhere but my house. I thought my parents’ strange behavior was just their usual eccentricity.

By the time I was fourteen, I felt brave enough to invite Clara over. I wanted to show her my room, the place where I kept my own small collection of oddities—a pressed flower from a plant my mother claimed was from a witch’s garden, a smooth stone with a natural hole, a tarnished silver locket that my grandmother had left me. I thought my parents might be happy that I was finally home more often, but they seemed distant, almost afraid of me. They would stare at me with a strange intensity, as if they were trying to see something that wasn’t there. One evening, I came downstairs to get a glass of water and found my father standing in the hallway, pointing at a blank wall. ‘It’s been watching us, Evelyn,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘Ever since we used that board. It followed us home.’

I brushed it off as his imagination. But that night, as I lay in bed, I felt a cold spot in the corner of my room. I turned on the light, but there was nothing there. I told myself it was just the draft from the old windows. But then, I heard a whispering, too faint to make out words. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to sleep.

The next night, Clara came over. We were sitting on my bed, listening to records, when the door, which I had left ajar, slowly swung shut by itself. Clara laughed nervously, but I felt a chill run down my spine. I got up and opened the door, but it was as if an invisible force pushed it back. Clara screamed, and I saw her face contorted in fear. I grabbed her hand and pulled her down the stairs, out of the house, and we ran to the porch, breathless. ‘What was that?’ she asked, her voice shaking. I didn’t have an answer. I felt a sudden dread, as if something had attached itself to me.

After that, I began to notice things. Shadows that seemed to flit at the edge of my vision, objects that moved on their own, a word scratched into the wallpaper of my room: ‘MINE’. My parents grew more agitated. They refused to sleep in the house, setting up tents in the yard. When I asked them what was happening, my mother finally broke down. ‘We woke something, Evelyn,’ she said, tears streaming down her face. ‘It was in the board. It’s been with us ever since. But it was never meant for us. It was meant for you.’

I didn’t understand. I was just a girl in love with another girl. I had nothing to do with their experiments. But then, I started to feel a presence, especially when Clara was around. A cold hand on the back of my neck, a whisper in my ear: ‘She’s not yours.’ I thought I was going mad. I wanted to tell someone, but who would believe me? My parents were of no help; they had retreated into their own fear.

In the spring of 1977, Clara disappeared. She went for a walk in the woods after an argument we had about her wanting to move away with her family. She was gone for hours, and when she didn’t come back, I searched for her. I found her in a clearing, sitting on a mossy stump, staring blankly ahead. When she looked up at me, her eyes were black, like bottomless pits. She smiled, but it was not her smile. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Evelyn,’ she said, but the voice was not hers. It was a cold, ancient sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. I backed away, terrified. She stood and walked towards me, her movements unnatural, like a marionette. ‘You can’t escape me. I am the Oakwood Concordance, the sum of all that has been bound here. Your parents tried to use the board to contact me, but they were too weak. I chose you. You will be my vessel.’

I ran. I ran through the trees, branches whipping my face, my heart pounding. I didn’t stop until I reached the edge of the woods, gasping for air. When I looked back, the clearing was empty. Clara was gone. I never saw her again. The police searched, but found no trace. My parents, consumed by guilt and fear, eventually went to a mental institution. I was left alone in that house, knowing that something had taken the one person I loved, and it was still there, waiting.

I moved away, changed my name, tried to start a new life. But I have never been free. I feel it brush against me in crowded rooms, hear its whisper in the silence, see its shadow in the corner of my eye. It taunts me with glimpses of Clara—her face in a crowd, her laugh in a distant echo. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that it will never let me go. It has claimed me, and I am bound to the Oakwood, waiting for the day it will come for me in full.