The Polished Oak Invitation

I still remember the weight of that summer evening, the air thick with the smell of jasmine and impending rain. We were at Rhea’s place, a sprawling old bungalow on the outskirts of town, and the three of us—Rhea, Meera, and I—had gathered on the wide, veranda that wrapped around the house. Rhea had recently become obsessed with spirit boards, and her eyes gleamed with a feverish intensity as she pulled out a homemade contraption from under her bed. It was a perfectly smooth, rectangular piece of polished oak, with letters and numbers painted in a garish red. A small, heart-shaped planchette, carved from the same wood, sat beside it.

Meera, pale and fidgety, shook her head. ‘No, Rhea. I’ve heard stories. This isn’t a game. You’re not supposed to mess with things you don’t understand.’ But Rhea laughed, dismissing her fears with a wave of her hand. ‘Don’t be such a scaredy-cat. It’s just a bit of fun. And we have to do it properly—on a night like this, with the moon almost full.’ I, too, felt a knot of unease, but I couldn’t let Rhea go alone, and Meera was already nearly in tears. So, against my better judgment, we agreed.

Rhea led us to a secluded corner of the veranda, away from the wind, where the hanging ferns cast dancing shadows in the flickering candlelight. She placed the board on a low wooden table, and we sat cross-legged around it. ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Place your fingers lightly on the planchette. And we all have to ask together.’ We did as she said, our fingertips barely touching the cool wood. ‘Is there anyone here who wishes to speak with us?’ Rhea asked, her voice trembling slightly with excitement.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The only sounds were the crickets and the distant rumble of thunder. Then, the planchette began to move—slowly, hesitantly, tracing a small circle. Meera gasped and pulled her hand back, but Rhea’s eyes widened. ‘It’s working! Stay with it!’ The planchette glided to the ‘YES’ that was printed in the corner. I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘Ask who it is,’ Rhea commanded, her voice now sharp with anticipation.

We asked, and the planchette moved again, spelling out a name I didn’t recognize: ‘AMARA’. ‘That’s not a common name,’ I said, my voice barely a whisper. Rhea asked, ‘How did you die, Amara?’ The planchette seemed to hesitate, then it lurched across the board, spelling ‘DROWNED’. A cold breeze swept across the veranda, making the candles flicker. I could smell something faintly like wet earth and decay. ‘She drowned,’ Rhea repeated, a hint of awe in her voice. ‘Let’s ask more.’

But I had a terrible feeling. The air had grown heavy, and the shadows seemed to deepen. I noticed that the potted plants around us had started to wilt, their leaves drooping as if they were dying. ‘Rhea, I think we should stop,’ I said. ‘Something doesn’t feel right.’ But Rhea ignored me, her eyes glued to the board. ‘Amara, do you have a message for us?’

The planchette moved with sudden violence, slamming across the board and spelling out: ‘LEAVE’. I felt a jolt of fear. ‘It’s telling us to leave,’ Meera whispered, her face ashen.

But Rhea laughed, a brittle, unnatural sound. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just a spirit playing a prank. Let’s ask something else.’ She pushed on, ignoring the warning. The planchette spelled out more words: ‘BENEATH THE HOUSE’. ‘What’s beneath the house?’ Rhea asked, her curiosity piqued. The planchette answered: ‘YOUR NAMES’. A cold dread settled in my stomach. ‘Rhea, let’s stop now. Please.’

She finally agreed, but with a pout. We lifted our fingers, and as we did, the candles blew out simultaneously, as if a giant breath had taken them all at once. We sat in complete darkness, the veranda suddenly everything still. Then, we heard a sound—a low, wet, sucking noise, like something heavy being dragged across the floor. It was coming from beneath us, from the crawl space under the house. I could feel the floorboards vibrate slightly.

Meera let out a scream and scrambled to her feet. ‘I’m going inside!’ She ran, her footsteps echoing on the wooden planks. Rhea and I followed, our hearts pounding. We locked the veranda door behind us and stood in the hallway, breathing heavily. Rhea looked pale, but she tried to laugh it off. ‘It was just the wind, or maybe a stray cat.’ But we both knew it wasn’t.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the guest room, listening to the sounds of the old house settling. Around 3 AM, I heard a faint scratching, like nails on wood, coming from the wall behind the bed. Then, I heard Rhea’s voice, calling my name, but it sounded off—too high, too soft. I opened my eyes, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, my gaze fixed on the corner of the room where the shadows were deepest. And there, I saw a shape—a dark, feminine figure, dripping wet, standing perfectly still. It raised a hand and pointed at the floor, as if indicating something beneath.

When I finally snapped out of it, dawn was breaking. I rushed to find Rhea and Meera. Meera was sitting on the kitchen floor, rocking back and forth, her eyes hollow. ‘I saw her,’ she whispered. ‘She was in my room. She said we have to dig.’

We didn’t dig. We called the authorities, and they discovered, beneath the old foundation, a sealed cellar filled with jars of murky water, and in the center, an old iron bathtub with human remains inside. The remains were identified as a woman named Amara, who had gone missing thirty years ago. Her death was ruled a drowning, but it was likely she was murdered, sealed away in that cellar.

We learned later that the house had a dark history—previous owners had reported strange occurrences, and some had even fled without explanation. The board, we found, had been crafted from wood taken from the very tree in the backyard, where Amara’s killer had supposedly buried her belongings. It was as if the board was an invitation, a conduit for her restless spirit. We left the house that day, and we never spoke of it again, but the memory lingers. Sometimes, in the quietest hours, I can still hear that low, wet sound, and I know that Amara is still there, waiting for us to come back and finish what we started. And I can’t help but wonder if the board was never meant to contact us—but to invite us to her.