The Saffron Hour

In November 2019, I bought a hand-carved planchette from an antique shop in Prague, drawn to its intricate patterns of interlocking circles and a single, unsettling eye at its center. The shopkeeper, an old woman with rheumy eyes, warned me that it was ‘not a toy’ and that it ‘remembered things.’ I laughed it off, paid, and took it home to my small apartment overlooking the Vltava River.

A week later, I decided to use it on a simple wooden board I had made myself, painting the letters and numbers in a deep, wine-red. I had dabbled with a few friends in college, but this felt different—more personal. I set up the board on my coffee table, lit a single beeswax candle, and placed my fingers on the planchette. I spoke aloud, ‘If any spirit is present, please show yourself. But do not scare me, do not hurt me. I am curious, not afraid.’ The room fell silent except for the distant hum of the city.

For nearly an hour, nothing happened. I was about to give up when the planchette began to tremble. It slid, slowly, to ‘H’, then ‘E’, then ‘L’, ‘L’, ‘O’. I asked, ‘Who are you?’ It spelled, ‘I AM THE KEEPER OF THE HOUR.’ Intrigued, I asked, ‘What hour?’ The planchette paused, then spelled, ‘THE SAFFRON HOUR. THE TIME BETWEEN LIGHT AND DARK, WHEN THE BOUNDARY THINS.’ I asked for more, but the candle flickered and went out. The planchette stopped moving. A chill ran down my spine, and I ended the session, feeling a strange mix of excitement and unease.

The next evening, at precisely dusk, I felt an inexplicable pull to sit at the board again. The sky outside was a beautiful blend of orange and purple—saffron, I thought. I lit a new candle and placed my fingers on the planchette. It moved immediately, spelling, ‘YOU HAVE RETURNED. GOOD. I HAVE A STORY TO TELL.’ I asked, ‘What story?’ The planchette replied, ‘A STORY OF ORDINARY TERROR. NOT SPIRITS OR DEMONS, BUT OF A MAN WHO BOUGHT A PLANCHETTE AND FORGOT HE WAS NOT ALONE.’ A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘EVERY NIGHT AT THE SAFFRON HOUR, YOU WILL SEE. JUST LOOK UP.’

I looked up from the board, and my reflection in the window showed a shadowy figure standing behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing. My heart raced. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a passing cloud. But I felt a presence. I ended the session and went to bed early, leaving all the lights on.

At dusk the next day, I was reading on my couch, deliberately avoiding the board. But at the exact moment the sky turned saffron, a strange calm settled over me, and I found myself walking to the coffee table, sitting down, and placing my fingers on the planchette without conscious thought. It spelled, ‘YOU ARE PUNCTUAL. I LIKE THAT. LET US CONTINUE.’ I tried to speak, but my voice was a whisper. ‘Continue what?’ ‘THE STORY OF YOUR EVERYDAY LIFE, BUT WITH A TURN. TONIGHT, I SHALL SHOW YOU THE BEAUTY IN THE BANAL.’ I felt a cold breeze, and the room seemed to warp slightly at the edges. The planchette moved to ‘W’ and ‘A’ and ‘T’ and ‘C’ and ‘H’—’WATCH.’

The candle flame stretched upward, and the room darkened except for the board. In the flickering light, I saw my own face reflected in the window, but it was not my reflection. It was me, but older, with hollow cheeks and empty eyes. The face smiled, a slow, horrible smile that stretched too wide. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t move. Then, the vision faded, and the candle returned to normal. The planchette spelled, ‘THAT IS YOU, TEN YEARS FROM NOW, IF YOU STOP LISTENING. BUT YOU WILL NOT STOP. BECAUSE YOU ARE CURIOUS.’ I pulled my hands away, trembling. ‘What do you want from me?’ I demanded. The planchette remained still for a moment, then spelled, ‘NOTHING. I ONLY WANT TO OBSERVE. YOU ARE MY WINDOW TO THE LIVING. BUT REMEMBER, EVERY NIGHT AT THE SAFFRON HOUR, I WILL COME. AND YOU WILL COME TO ME, UNLESS YOU CAN CONTAIN YOUR CURIOSITY.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the old woman’s warning. I decided to get rid of the planchette, but when I went to throw it in the river, my hand refused to let go. A voice inside my head—not mine—whispered, ‘You cannot discard your own curiosity. It is a part of you.’ I withdrew my hand, my heart pounding, and took it back home.

Days passed. I tried to avoid the board, but every dusk, I found myself drawn to it, as if an invisible leash was pulling me. Each session, the Keeper showed me something new but disturbingly normal: a crack on the ceiling that looked like a face, the sound of footsteps on the floor above when no one was there, a shadow that moved faster than the light. The Keeper never threatened me, never screamed, but the terror was in the subtle wrongness, the feeling that the world was shifting just slightly out of alignment.

One evening, in late January, I asked, ‘Why me? Why do you show me these things?’ The planchette spelled, ‘BECAUSE YOU LOOKED. MOST PEOPLE DO NOT LOOK. THEY GO THROUGH LIFE WITH BLINDERS ON, NEVER NOTICING THE THIN SPOTS, THE PALE HOURS. YOU, HOWEVER, SOUGHT THE VEI. I AM GRATEFUL. AND I AM GENEROUS. I WILL GIVE YOU A GIFT: THE ABILITY TO SEE THE SAFRRON HOUR ALWAYS, NOT JUST AT DUSK.’

I woke up the next morning, and the world looked different. Colors were slightly more saturated, shadows had a faint purple tint, and I could see, just at the edge of my vision, the outline of a figure standing in every room I entered—never threatening, just watching. I knew it was the Keeper, always there, waiting for the next hour. I have not slept well since, but I have also never felt so alive. The Keeper was right: the terror is not in the extraordinary, but in the ordinary that becomes too real, too present. And now, at every saffron hour, I sit with the board, and we watch together, in silence, as the world shifts and thins, and I am no longer sure if the Keeper is a spirit, a demon, or just a reflection of my own unending curiosity.