The Séance at Blackwood’s Folly

In the dusty attic of Blackwood’s Folly, a decaying mansion on the outskirts of a town that had long forgotten its name, I found an old Ouija board. The townsfolk murmured that the house was cursed, that its original owner, Elias Blackwood, had summoned something from the deep woods and paid for it with his sanity. I, a skeptic and a writer in need of inspiration, rented the place for a month, curious about the eerie tales I’d heard.

My friend Celia, an enthusiast of the occult, came to visit. ‘Let’s talk to the dead,’ she said, grinning as if we were about to play a party game. I hesitated, remembering my grandmother’s warnings never to touch a Ouija board, that it was a door, not a toy. But Celia’s boldness and my own curiosity overrode my caution. We set up the board on a rotten oak table, lit a single candle, and placed our fingers on the planchette.

The planchette moved at once, almost violently, spelling out a name: MORVEN. ‘Who is Morven?’ I asked. The planchette slid to ‘FRIEND’ and then ‘LET ME IN.’ Celia laughed, ‘Sure, come in!’ The candle flickered, and a cold draft swept through the room, though the windows were sealed. The planchette spelled, ‘I AM THE ONE WHO REMAINS.’

We continued for hours, the planchette moving faster, spelling words that seemed nonsensical: ‘THE WALLS HAVE TEETH,’ ‘THE FLOOR IS BONES,’ ‘THE LIGHT IS A TRAP.’ I felt a growing unease, but Celia was thrilled, pushing the board to ask if it could prove itself. The planchette spelled, ‘I WILL SHOW YOU TOMORROW.’ We retired that night, laughing nervously.

The next morning, I woke to find Celia’s bed empty. I searched the house, calling her name, until I found her in the cellar, standing in a corner, facing the wall. She was repeating ‘Morven, Morven’ in a low, guttural voice. When I touched her shoulder, she turned, and her eyes were glassy, pupils dilated. ‘You shouldn’t have let me in,’ she said in a voice that wasn’t hers. I dragged her up the stairs, and she snapped out of it, claiming not to remember anything.

But things had changed. The house seemed to breathe, its walls emitting a low hum. Shadows crept at the edges of my vision, and I heard scratching within the walls. Celia swore she saw faces pressed against the windows at night, though we were on the top floor. I tried to leave, but every road out of town led me in circles, and my phone’s battery died despite being fully charged. The house was a snare, and we were caught.

One evening, Celia insisted we use the board again. ‘We have to finish the conversation,’ she said, her voice oddly calm. I refused, but she set it up herself. As our fingers touched the planchette, it spelled rapidly, ‘YOU ARE IN MY HOUSE NOW.’ The candle blew out, plunging us into absolute darkness. A voice, not Celia’s, whispered from the corner: ‘I am the one who remains, and you will remain with me.’

The room filled with a choking stench of rot. I felt something cold wrap around my ankles, and I screamed. Celia was chanting in a language I didn’t recognize. I grabbed her and shook her, but she was limp, her head lolling. I dragged her out of the house, stumbling into the yard, where the moon was blood-red. The house behind us groaned, and every window was full of faces, pressed against the glass, their mouths open in silent screams.

We ran through the woods, branches tearing at our skin, until we reached a road and flagged down a passing truck. The driver took us to a motel miles away, and we collapsed in a room. Celia was silent for hours, then finally spoke: ‘It’s not over. It knows where we are.’

That night, I awoke to find Celia standing at the foot of the bed, a shard of glass in her hand. She was humming a tune I recognized from the séance. I screamed, and she blinked, dropping the glass, whispering, ‘It made me do it.’ But I saw in her eyes something ancient and malevolent. The next morning, I drove away alone, leaving Celia at the motel, because I couldn’t bear the look she gave me—a look that was not hers.

Now, years later, I still hear that voice in my dreams, Morven, whispering, ‘You let me in, and I remain.’ I have a scar on my palm that appeared that night, an intricate spiral that burns when the moon is full. I’ve moved across the country, changed my name, but the presence follows, patient, hungry. I’ve never spoken of this to anyone, but I write it down, hoping that by sharing it, I can sever the link. But I know, deep in my soul, that Morven is not a spirit to be exorcised. It is a part of me now, a splinter in my mind, and when I close my eyes, I see the faces in the windows, waiting for me to return to Blackwood’s Folly, where the walls have teeth and the floor is bones.