The Silver Dilemma

February 8, 2012

by Hayden

I had never touched a spirit board before, and my cousin Elena insisted we try it. She had this old, hand-drawn board on a piece of parchment, and a silver coin that felt unnaturally cold. I was terrified. My late uncle, who had succumbed to a wasting illness, had once visited me in a dream, his eyes full of warning. Now, I wondered if that was a prelude to this.

Elena gave me the rules: absolute belief, no pressure on the coin, and we had to breathe on both sides before placing our fingers. She said if the spirit grew strong, it might try to spell the alphabet in sequence, which meant it was trying to break through. I nodded, my heart hammering.

We sat cross-legged on the floor of her attic, surrounded by dusty boxes and the smell of mothballs. The only light was a single bulb swinging overhead, casting long shadows. We placed the coin on the center of the board, our fingers resting like feathers. I closed my eyes, trying to summon belief, but all I felt was doubt and fear.

The coin began to move. It slid to ‘S’, then ‘8’, then ‘N’. Elena gasped. ‘That’s not a name. That’s a number and letters. It’s spelling something else.’ Before we could react, the coin started tracing the alphabet from A to Z, slowly, methodically. Elena’s face drained of color. ‘It’s trying to get in. Remember the rule.’

I wanted to pull away, but my hand seemed glued. The coin moved faster, the alphabet repeating, and the room grew colder. The light bulb flickered, then popped, plunging us into darkness. I could hear Elena’s breath, ragged. ‘We have to let go!’ I screamed, but my hand wouldn’t move. The coin spun wildly, and a low hum vibrated through the floor.

Then, a voice, not from our throats, filled the attic. It was like gravel and broken glass. ‘You opened the door. Now I step through.’ The coin shot upward, hovered for a moment, then clattered to the floor. We were free, but the air was thick with presence. Something touched my shoulder, ice-cold. I turned, and saw a figure, tall, featureless, darker than the shadows.

Elena grabbed my hand, and we fled down the stairs, stumbling out into the night. We didn’t stop until we reached my car. As we drove away, I looked back at the house. In an upstairs window, a pale face stared back, with eyes like voids. It was my uncle’s face, but twisted, wrong.

Now, months later, I still feel it. A cold breath on my neck when I’m alone. A whisper of static in my ear. I know it came through, and I can’t undo it. Elena won’t talk to me, says she feels it too. Every night, I hear the alphabet reciting in my head, and I know it’s not done with us.

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