The Salt Circle of Cedar Falls

I’ve always prided myself on being pragmatic. Ghost stories, Ouija boards, all that—they were just superstition to me, folklore for the easily spooked. But when my husband’s colleague, a man with a penchant for antique oddities, left a battered wooden spirit board at our house, I couldn’t resist the urge to test it. It sat in the hall closet for months, gathering dust, a silent taunt. My husband, Alan, would laugh off my suggestions to use it, promising we’d do it ‘someday.’ But someday never came, and one crisp October morning, with Alan off at a weekend conference, I decided to satisfy my curiosity. I set up in the study: a circle of coarse sea salt, four cream-colored candles at the cardinal points, the instruction booklet, a notebook, and a pen. I drew the curtains, plunging the room into a dim, solemn light. I took a deep breath, centered myself, and placed my fingertips on the planchette.

At first, nothing. The planchette remained still, as if mocking my efforts. I closed my eyes, focusing on my intent: ‘If there is a spirit present, please communicate.’ A minute passed, then two. I was about to give up, chalking it up to naivety, when the planchette twitched. It slid slowly to ‘HELLO.’ A thrill ran through me. I asked, ‘Who are you?’ The planchette spelled out, ‘L-I-Z-A.’ Lizabet, she said, a woman who had lived on this land in the 1800s. She spoke of her children, her farm, her loneliness. The conversation was innocent, almost touching. I asked if she had any message for me. The planchette moved to ‘D-A-N-G-E-R.’ Then it stopped, and the flame of the north candle guttered and died. A chill swept the room, despite the closed windows.

I lit the candle again, but the air grew thick, pressing against my ears. The planchette began to move on its own, erratic, tracing frantic lines. I tried to lift my fingers, but they were glued to the wood. ‘Liza?’ I whispered. The planchette spelled in violent jerks: ‘N-O-T L-I-Z-A.’ A cold, disembodied laugh filled the room, a sound that seemed to come from the walls. The candles flickered wildly, and the salt circle began to shift, as if something was trying to cross it. I yanked my hands away, breaking the contact, and fell backward, knocking over the south candle. The flame caught the edge of the instruction booklet, and I smothered it with a throw pillow. The room fell silent, but the temperature had dropped several degrees.

I spent the rest of the day convincing myself it was a fluke, a trick of the wind, my own breath. I cleaned up the salt, but the board I placed back in the closet, a nagging doubt gnawing at me. That night, I had nightmares of a faceless woman pressing against the window, her fingertips leaving frost patterns. I woke to find the closet door ajar. I didn’t sleep again.

Over the next few days, things began to move. Keys vanished, only to reappear in the bathtub. A photograph of Alan and me was found face down. And every night, at 3:33 AM, the planchette in the closet would scrape against the board, a dry, rhythmic sound like fingers dragging across wood. I knew I had to get rid of it, but every time I tried to throw it away, something would stop me—a phone call, a doorbell, a sense of dread that made my stomach clench.

Finally, on the third night, I decided to burn it. I carried it to the backyard fire pit, doused it in lighter fluid, and lit it. The board blackened, but it didn’t catch. It curled at the edges, and the paint on the letters bubbled, but the flame died as if snuffed by an unseen hand. I stared, my heart hammering. The planchette was gone. I searched everywhere, but it had vanished.

I called Alan, begging him to come home. He did, but when he arrived, he looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘Why are you so scared? The board’s still in the closet.’ I rushed to the closet, and there it was, untouched, the planchette resting on ‘GOODBYE.’ My blood ran cold. Alan shrugged, thinking I’d been fooled by a prank. But I knew better. I had felt something cross into my world, something that wore the mask of a kind old woman.

That night, I heard footsteps in the attic. I climbed the stairs, flashlight trembling, and found a small leather journal tucked behind a rafter. It was Liza’s diary, written in a spidery hand. The last entry, dated October 1887, read: ‘He is not my husband. He is something else. I have made a terrible mistake. Do not summon. Do not speak. He will follow you home.’ I dropped the journal as if it were on fire. I realized then that I had not been talking to Liza—I had been talking to him. The thing that had killed her and taken her place. And now it had found a new home.

A deep, resonant voice echoed from the study: ‘You invited me.’ I turned, and standing in the doorway was Alan—but his eyes were black, and his smile was too wide. He tilted his head, and in a voice that was both his and not his, he said, ‘I’ve missed you, mother.’ I ran. I ran out of the house, into the cold night, and I haven’t stopped running since. But every mirror I pass, I see him behind me, wearing a different face. And I know that the salt circle was never enough. It never really protects you from what you invite in.