The Slap on the Wrist

Three summers ago, when I was twelve, I spent a sweltering July afternoon in my grandmother’s attic, dust motes swirling in the slanted light from a single round window. I had just finished a battered paperback from a yard sale—a true account of a medium who helped a restless spirit cross over. The book was filled with methods: focusing on a name, clearing your mind, sending out a call. My grandmother was downstairs, napping in her recliner. The house was old, creaking with age, but it had been blessed by a priest years ago, so I never felt truly afraid.

Bored and curious, I sat cross-legged on a dusty trunk, the book open beside me. I began to concentrate, repeating the name from the story—a name the author had changed, but I felt it held power: Edwin. I chanted it silently, then aloud, my voice thin in the hot air. I imagined a doorway in my mind, a threshold between the living and the dead. My skin prickled. The air grew heavy, and I felt a presence, like a held breath. Then, a sharp, stinging slap landed on my left wrist, so real that I yelped and dropped my focus. The presence vanished. I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding, and rushed downstairs, the book left forgotten.

I told my grandmother what happened. She listened, her face unreadable, then said calmly, ‘That was a warning, child. You were prying open a door that should stay shut. Something on the other side—maybe not evil, but not friendly—slapped you to stop you. Or it could be your guardian angel, trying to protect you.’ She pointed to the reddish mark on my wrist. ‘That mark is proof. Do not try again.’ I agreed, but I was young and restless, and the summer dragged on.

Three days later, I was in my bedroom, idly doodling. Without thinking, I started whispering Edwin’s name under my breath. Immediately, the temperature in the room plummeted. The light bulb flickered. From the corner of my eye, I saw a shape flicker—a tall, thin figure with no face. I turned, but it was gone. My wrist began to tingle, then burn, as if the earlier slap had left an invisible scar. I felt a cold breath on my neck, and a voice, like gravel, said, ‘Don’t.’

I fled to the living room, where my grandmother was watching television. She looked at me, my face pale, and said, ‘You tried again, didn’t you?’ I nodded, shamefaced. She sighed, went to a cabinet, and brought out a small jar of salt. She sprinkled a line across every windowsill and doorstep in the house, muttering a prayer. ‘This won’t keep out the clever ones,’ she said, ‘but it will slow them down.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Around 2 a.m., I heard a scratching at my window. I pulled back the curtain and saw a hand—pale, impossibly long-fingered—pressed against the glass from outside. My two-story window. The hand slowly dragged across the glass, leaving a trail of dirty streaks. I screamed. My grandmother ran in, flicked on the light, and the hand was gone. But the streaks remained, and they smelled like decay.

The next day, I tried to tell myself it was a tree branch, but we had no trees near the house. I went to the attic to retrieve the book, intending to burn it. But when I picked it up, a page fell out. On it, written in faded ink, was a warning: ‘Do not speak the name. They hear you. They find you. Your guardian cannot stop them.’

I never told my grandmother about that page. I burned the book in the backyard, watching the flames consume it. But even now, two years later, I still feel a phantom tingle on my wrist. Sometimes, when I brush my teeth or reach for something, I see her—a dark, bent shape standing just behind my reflection, watching. I know it’s only a matter of time before it speaks again, and this time, it won’t be a warning.