The Still Flame

At fifteen, I was dating a boy named Caleb who would have walked through fire for me. When I mentioned I wanted a spirit board, he spent weeks scouring online auctions until he found an antique one, its wood dark and polished, the letters and numbers engraved with an unsettling precision. I tried it a few times in my bedroom, alone, but the planchette never moved. I chalked it up to a pretty piece of decor and forgot about it.

One late autumn night, with the harvest moon hanging low and fat over the fields, my friends and I decided to give it a proper try. My younger sister, Jane, and her two friends were also staying over, and we thought we’d spook ourselves silly in the old grain silo that stood a hundred yards from the farmhouse. The silo was a huge, grey, cylindrical thing with a wide opening but no door, facing the yard light that cast a sickly yellow glow. We used it to store old tractor parts and burlap sacks, and the cats loved to curl up in the warm, dusty corners. Behind it, a small wooden cross marked the grave of my beloved dog, Rusty, and beyond that, the horse pasture fence where we’d call the horses for their evening oats.

We carried the board out there, along with a thick candle and a box of matches, and arranged ourselves in a circle on the cold concrete floor, our breath misting in the chill. The silo blocked most of the wind, but the flame of the candle danced erratically, casting wild shadows on the corrugated metal. I remembered reading somewhere that if the flame flickers but the shadow of the candle doesn’t move, something is there. So I watched the shadow, which stretched long and distorted against the curved wall. The flame jumped, but the shadow remained perfectly still, as if painted on. A shiver ran down my spine.

We placed our fingertips on the planchette, and I asked the usual questions: ‘Is anyone here?’ ‘Will you speak to us?’ The planchette stayed motionless. The girls giggled nervously, and my sister rolled her eyes. ‘This is boring,’ she said. But then, the candle flickered violently, and the planchette twitched, sliding to ‘Y’. A collective gasp. ‘It’s moving,’ someone whispered. I felt a pressure under my fingers, not from the others, but from something else—cold, insistent. The planchette began to move in slow, deliberate circles, then spelled out: ‘MOVE THE CROSS.’

We all froze. The cross behind the silo—the one on Rusty’s grave. I laughed, trying to break the tension. ‘That’s silly,’ I said. But the planchette moved again: ‘MOVE IT. NOW.’ The girls looked at each other, fear replacing the earlier excitement. My sister was pale. ‘What does it want?’ she whispered. I pulled my hands away. ‘This isn’t funny,’ I said, but no one was pushing the planchette. It kept moving, tracing the words slowly, as if savoring the fear.

Against my better judgment, I stood up and walked behind the silo. The yard light cast a long shadow of the cross across the dead grass. I knelt and tried to pull it out, but it was set in concrete. I tugged and twisted, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s stuck,’ I called back. Then I noticed the ground beneath the cross was disturbed, as if something had been clawing at it from below. The dirt was fresh, dark, and slightly sunken. A cold wind blew, and I felt a presence behind me, heavy and patient.

I ran back to the group, and we decided to end the session. We blew out the candle and rushed to the house, laughing nervously, trying to convince ourselves it was a prank. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the still shadow, the message, the disturbed earth. I finally drifted off, but was jolted awake by a scratching sound coming from outside my window. I pulled back the curtain, and there, just at the edge of the yard light, stood a dark, humanoid shape, its head cocked as if listening. It was too tall, too thin, and its limbs bent at unnatural angles. It didn’t move, just stood there, watching.

I screamed, and my parents came running, but when they looked out, there was nothing. They dismissed it as a shadow from a tree, but I knew what I saw. The next day, I went to Rusty’s grave. The cross was still there, but the dirt was piled up higher, as if something had tried to dig itself out and been pushed back. I felt a deep, primal fear, and I knew the Ouija board had opened a door. I tried to burn it, but the board wouldn’t catch fire—the wood seemed to resist the flames, and the letters remained etched in the embers.

Over the next week, things escalated. I’d find hoofprints in the yard that didn’t match any horse. The cats refused to enter the silo, hissing and yowling at the entrance. And every night, I’d see that figure beneath the yard light, its head slowly turning to follow me as I moved. It never came closer, but it never left, either. It was waiting for something.

My sister woke up screaming one night, claiming something had grabbed her ankle and pulled her off the bed. When we checked, there were finger-shaped bruises on her skin, too big for any human hand. The adults started to get worried, and a few of the farmhands mentioned seeing a strange, tall man lurking near the tree line, always disappearing when they approached.

I went back to the silo one last time, determined to send whatever it was back. I brought the board and the candle, and I sat alone in the circle. I lit the candle, and the flame burned steady. I placed my hands on the planchette and asked, ‘What do you want?’ The planchette flew to the letters: ‘YOUR LIFE.’ I gasped and tried to pull away, but the planchette pinned my fingers to the board, pressing down with an icy force. The candle flame shot up, then died, plunging the silo into darkness. In the black, I heard a low, guttural breathing, and something cold wrapped around my ankles.

I screamed and kicked, scrambling backwards, but it held tight. I felt claws dig into my skin, and I clawed at the concrete floor, trying to escape. Just as I thought I’d be pulled under, I heard a growl, and a familiar warmth pressed against my leg—Rusty, my dog, his ghostly form solid and fierce. He lunged at the darkness, snarling, and the grip on my ankles released. I scrambled to my feet and ran out of the silo, not stopping until I reached the house.

When I looked back, the yard light flickered, and for a moment, I saw Rusty standing guard over the grave, the tall figure retreating into the shadows, hissing. The next morning, the board was gone. I never found it, but I knew it was out there, waiting for someone else. And sometimes, when the wind blows through the silo, I swear I can hear a whisper: ‘Move the cross.’ But I never will.