The Session at Dusk Creek

The delivery van pulled away from the curb, leaving a long cardboard box on the porch. Finn and I had been planning this for weeks—not the box, but what it contained. We’d read every forum thread, every digitized book on the occult, and we’d made our own rules: no dark rooms, no mirrors, no asking about death. We were careful. We were smart. We were also profoundly arrogant in the way only nineteen-year-olds can be.

Dusk Creek was a town that had seen better days, a place where the rust belt had left its stain on every building. Our rented shotgun house sat at the end of Maple Street, where the pavement crumbled into gravel and the gravel gave way to the woods. That’s where we did it, on the porch, facing the treeline, because the library said spirits were more attracted to the liminal space between civilization and wilderness.

The planchette rested on the polished surface of the board. It was beautiful, made of walnut and brass, with a smooth, glassy finish. Finn lit a single candle, though it was barely sunset. ‘Ready?’ he asked, and I nodded. We both placed our fingertips on the planchette, and for a long time, nothing. Then, a faint tremor, like a sigh running through the wood. The planchette began to move—slowly at first, then with purpose. It spelled: HELLO.

We exchanged a glance. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. The planchette slid to E-L-I-A-S. ‘Elias?’ Finn said. The pointer tapped once—yes. ‘How old are you?’ I asked. It moved to 3-6. ‘And when did you… pass?’ I tried to phrase it delicately. The planchette spelled out NINETEEN NINETY EIGHT. Then, before we could ask anything else, it flew to the corner of the board and spelled out: ALONE? Finn’s face went pale. ‘Are you alone?’ he asked. The pointer slid to NO. Then it moved to a small, white sticker that had somehow appeared on the board—we hadn’t noticed it before—it read: TILLEY.

We should have stopped. But we didn’t. We pushed further. ‘Who’s Tilley?’ I asked, my voice shaky. The planchette spelled: MY DAUGHTER. She is here. We both felt a cold draft despite the still air. And then the candle flame flickered, bent impossibly to one side, and snuffed out. In the dark, I heard a child’s laugh—a high, giggling sound that came from the porch steps. Finn grabbed my arm, his grip like iron. ‘I think we should leave,’ he whispered. But the planchette was still moving under our fingers, spelling out: SHE LIKES YOU. DON’T GO.

We managed to pull away, stumbling into the house and locking the door. Finn was breathing hard. ‘That was not just a spirit. That was something worse.’ I agreed, but we were already hooked. The next night, we did it again—I know, I know. But we had to know. We set the board on the kitchen table, all the lights on, no open windows. We called out to Elias. The planchette moved at once, spelling: WHY DID YOU LEAVE HER? ‘Leave who?’ I asked. TILLEY. SHE CRIED.

The floorboards creaked above us, even though we were on the ground floor and the upstairs was empty. Finn’s eyes went wide. ‘We should ask to speak to someone else,’ he suggested. ‘Someone who can protect us.’ We asked the board: ‘Is there a guide here? A protector?’ The planchette spelled: NO. ONLY ME. THEN HER. Then it lunged to the center and spun in a frantic circle. That’s when the lights flickered, and the temperature dropped sharply. We both felt a pressure on our chests, like being pushed down into our chairs. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to the air. ‘We’re sorry.’ The pressure lifted. The lights steadied. The planchette spelled: TOO LATE.

We fled to the bedroom, the board left on the table. We lay in bed, not sleeping, listening. Around 3 AM, the sounds started—footsteps in the hallway, the creak of the stairs, a faint melodic humming. It was a nursery rhyme, something I hadn’t heard since I was a child: ‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.’ The humming stopped right outside our door. The doorknob rattled, once, twice, then a silence so deep it felt like we’d gone deaf. Finn whispered, ‘Did it go away?’ I didn’t answer, because I saw the doorknob turning again, slowly, and then a thin, pale hand slipped through the gap between the door and the frame.

We didn’t sleep that night. At dawn, we threw the board in a canvas bag and drove to the quarry, where we planned to sink it. But as we stood at the edge, the bag felt heavier than it should have. I opened it—the board was covered in a fine, grey dust, and the planchette was gone. In its place was a child’s handprint, burned into the wood. Finn pulled out his phone to search for any record of Elias and Tilley in Dusk Creek. He found nothing. What he did find was a news article from 1998: a man and his young daughter had gone missing from a farm outside Dusk Creek. Their bodies had never been found. The man’s name was Elias Tilley.

We never spoke of the board again. But sometimes, at night, I hear that humming—soft, coming from the corner of my room. And even though I’m alone, I feel the weight of a small hand resting on my shoulder, and a voice that whispers in the static between my thoughts: ‘You left her. She remembers.’

I haven’t slept in three months. Finn moved out of state, but he calls me every night at 3 AM, not to talk, but to make sure we’re both still conscious. We both know what happens if we dream. But I’m growing tired. And the humming is getting louder.

I think Tilley is coming to claim what she’s owed.