The Suspended Sphere

I was twelve the summer my cousin Maya came to stay with us, the summer the air in our backyard turned thick and watchful. We were on the old trampoline, the one with the faded blue mat and the sagging net that no longer kept anything in. My new volleyball, a gift from my father that I’d been so proud of, was the center of our world. We tossed it back and forth, laughing as the sun bleached the sky to a pale, empty white.

Maya gave the ball a high, wild toss, and it sailed over the net, tumbling in the air. I was on my back, looking through the diamond-shaped holes of the net, my gaze following the ball as it began its descent. The grass, the dirt, the scattering of pebbles, all waited below. But the ball never hit them. It froze mid-air, about four feet above the ground, as if caught by an invisible hand. The spinning stopped. The world seemed to hold its breath. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but it was still there, hanging in defiance of gravity.

‘Do you see that?’ I whispered, my throat dry. Maya, who had been about to jump down, froze. She looked at me, then at the ball, then at the space around it. There was nothing there, no rope, no string, no person. Just the ball, suspended in the still air. A prickling sensation ran up my spine, and I felt a sudden urge to run, but my legs were like lead.

Then, as quickly as it had stopped, it fell. It hit the ground with a soft thud, rolling a few feet before coming to rest against a dandelion. The sound was ordinary, but it seemed to echo in the silence that had wrapped us. Maya and I exchanged a wide-eyed look, our minds racing for an explanation. I scrambled off the trampoline, my heart hammering, but when I picked up the ball, it was just a ball. No cold, no residue, nothing unusual.

We went inside and told my parents, who dismissed it as a prank or a trick of the light. ‘Maybe a gust of wind,’ my mother said, but the sky was calm, the leaves on the maple tree perfectly still. For the rest of the summer, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us from the edge of the yard, just beyond the fence, where the shadows gathered even in the afternoon.

A few weeks later, after Maya had gone home, I was playing alone in the garden, digging for worms near the compost bin. I felt a presence behind me, a heavy, cold weight in the air. I turned slowly, expecting to see my father or a neighbor, but there was nothing. Yet the air seemed to shimmer, and for a split second, I saw it: a tall, black silhouette, featureless and darker than a shadow, standing at the base of the old oak tree. It had no face, but I felt its gaze on me, empty and hungry.

I ran inside, not looking back, and didn’t leave the house for the rest of the day. My grandmother’s locket, which I always wore, felt suddenly cold against my chest. I clutched it, remembering her warm hands, her stories of old spirits and the thin veil between worlds. She had always said, ‘The restless ones are not always malevolent, but they are always hungry for attention.’ This presence wasn’t my grandmother; I knew that with a certainty that chilled me. Her love was a warm light, but this was a consuming absence.

Weeks passed, and the incident faded into memory, but the feeling of being watched never left. At night, I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for sounds in the yard. One night, I heard a soft thud against my window, like something hitting the glass. I crept to the window, my breath fogging the pane, and looked out. On the lawn below, the volleyball was resting, illuminated by the moonlight. But it was standing upright, balanced impossibly on its own, as if someone had placed it there with intent. And behind it, at the edge of the woods, I saw the black figure again, standing perfectly still, its head tilted as if looking up at me. I backed away, pulling the curtains shut, and slept with the lights on.

The next day, I told my father I wanted to take down the trampoline. He asked why, and I couldn’t articulate it, but he saw the fear in my eyes. The trampoline was dismantled, and the volleyball was locked in the garage. But the feeling didn’t end. It followed me into the house, into my room, into my dreams. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, convinced I saw a dark shape in the corner, but when I turned on the lamp, it was gone.

This continued into the fall. The leaves turned brown and fell, and the days grew shorter. One evening, as I was walking home from a friend’s house, I passed by the backyard. The trampoline was gone, but the grass was still bare in that spot, like a scar. I felt a cold draft, and I turned to see the figure standing in the middle of the yard, right where the volleyball had frozen. This time, it wasn’t just a silhouette. It was detailed, with long, thin fingers, and a face that was smooth like an egg, void of features. It raised its hand, and for a moment, I thought it was going to speak. But instead, it pointed at me, and then slowly dissolved into the twilight, like smoke.

I ran all the way home, taking the long way around to avoid the yard. I locked every door and window, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been trying to tell me something. My grandmother’s locket was cold, even against my flushed skin. I opened it, looking at her faded picture, and I whispered, ‘Please, what does it want?’ But there was no answer, only the silence of the house.

That was the last time I saw it clearly, but I never truly felt alone again. Even now, as an adult, I avoid that house, that street, that city. And sometimes, when I’m in a quiet place, I think I catch a glimpse of a black figure in the corner of my eye, standing just at the edge of my vision, waiting. The volleyball still sits in my parents’ garage, untouched, a reminder of that summer when the world tilted, and something else stepped in.