The Salt Line

My cousin Dana had always been the cautious one. I was the one who read ghost stories under the covers, but she was the one who checked the locks twice and kept a flashlight by her bed. So when she finally agreed to try the talking board, I knew she was doing it just to humor me, a concession to our annual summer visit. We were at her family’s cabin on Lake Athabasca, a place so remote that the nearest town was an hour’s drive on a gravel road. The cabin itself was old, smelling of cedar and damp, with a fireplace that hadn’t been used in years. Dana had found the board in the attic, buried under a pile of moth-eaten blankets. It was a beautiful thing, hand-painted with a sun and moon, and the planchette was a smooth piece of rose quartz.

Dana brought out her supplies: a bundle of sage, a small brass bell, and a bag of sea salt. ‘We do this right, or not at all,’ she said, her voice firm. She lit a single white candle, its flame flickering in the draft from the window, and traced a circle of salt around us on the wooden floor. I felt a chill run down my spine as she set the board inside the circle. ‘You know the rules,’ she said. ‘No asking about death, no asking about the future, and if anything feels wrong, we say goodbye and leave.’ I nodded, my heart already thumping.

We placed our fingers on the planchette, the cool stone sending a shiver through my hand. I called out, ‘Spirit, are you here?’ Nothing. I tried again, ‘If there is anyone, please move the planchette.’ For a long moment, the room was silent except for the wind outside. Then the planchette began to move, so slowly at first I thought Dana was pushing it. But her eyes were wide, her face pale. It slid to ‘YES’. I felt a jolt of fear and excitement. ‘What is your name?’ I asked. The planchette moved again, spelling out ‘S-T-E-F-A-N’. I wrote it down. ‘Stefan?’ Dana repeated. The planchette slid to ‘YES’ again.

‘How old are you?’ I asked. The planchette moved to ‘1’, then ‘9’, then ‘2’, then ‘7’. ‘1927?’ I read out loud. The planchette moved to ‘YES’. ‘What happened to you?’ Dana asked, her voice barely a whisper. The planchette spelled ‘L-I-G-H-T’. I frowned. ‘Light?’ Dana’s hand trembled. ‘What do you mean?’ The planchette moved erratically then stopped. I asked again, but it refused to move. Dana said, ‘Maybe he’s gone.’ I didn’t believe it. I could feel something watching, a pressure in the air, like the moment before a storm.

We asked more questions. ‘Are you alone?’ ‘NO’. ‘Who is with you?’ ‘M-A-N-Y’. ‘What do you want?’ ‘H-E-L-P’. I asked, ‘How can we help?’ The planchette spelled ‘S-I-N-G’. I looked at Dana. ‘Sing?’ She shook her head. ‘I read about this. Some spirits ask for songs to lure you in.’ But I felt a pull, an inexplicable urge to hum a lullaby my mother used to sing. I started, a soft melody, and the planchette began to move in a circle, faster and faster, until it flew off the board and hit the wall with a sharp crack. The candle went out. Dana screamed.

The room was plunged into darkness, and I felt a cold hand grip my ankle. I pulled my leg away, scrambling back, but the salt line had been broken by our movement. A whisper filled the air, a thousand voices layered over each other, all saying ‘Sing’. I saw shapes in the dark, standing at the edges of my vision, silent and watching. Dana was crying, trying to relight the candle, but the matches kept going out. I grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door. We ran out into the night, barefoot on the cold ground, not stopping until we reached the car.

We drove to the town motel and spent the night in a room with all the lights on, too shaken to sleep. The next morning, we went back to the cabin to get our things. The board was on the floor, the planchette broken. But there was a deep scratch on the floorboards, a line of salt scattered, and something written in the dust on the window sill: ‘I SEE YOU’. Dana refused to come inside. We packed quickly and left, not looking back.

Months later, I still feel a cold spot in my apartment. At night, I hear a faint humming, a melody I don’t recognize. I haven’t thrown away the board, though. It sits in a box in my closet, the planchette cracked, the paint worn. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I think I hear it calling to me, asking me to sing. I ignore it. But last week, I found my window open, and on the sill, written in dust, the words: ‘ALMOST THERE’. I don’t know what ‘there’ is, but I fear I’ll soon find out.