The Trembling Vial

The first time I felt it, I was in the bathtub, the water cooling around me, and I thought it was a muscle spasm in my calf. But then it happened again, a deliberate brush against my ankle, like a fingertip tracing a line from my heel to my arch. I jerked upright, water sloshing, but the room was empty. That was six months ago, in the old farmhouse I’d inherited from my great-aunt. Now, the touches are constant, a language of pressure and texture I’ve learned to interpret. Right side of my body is yes, left is no. It’s not a game anymore.

I’ve named her Lillian, the ghost who seems most attached to me. She’s not the only one; there are others, but she’s the most demanding. She requires entertainment. I have a playlist of her favorite songs—she nods rhythmically in response to certain tracks, and I’ve learned to add them. She loves old jazz, particularly anything with a swinging brass section. If I let the silence stretch too long, the touches stop, and the air grows heavy, suffocating. I’ve learned to keep the TV on, muted if necessary, but always with moving images. She watches with me, her approval and disapproval a slight tilt of my head, a nudge against my shoulder.

But tonight, something is different. I’m sitting on the porch swing, the wooden boards creaking, and the air is thick with the smell of rain. I ask the usual questions, the ones that have become liturgy: ‘Are you happy? No. Do you like this song? Yes. Can you tell me your name? No response. Can you speak? No. Is there anyone else here? Yes. Are they friendly? No.’

The answer to the last question sends a chill down my spine, and the porch swing rocks harder, as if something is agitated. I ask again, my voice trembling, ‘Is the other one here right now?’ The air shifts, and I feel a cold press on my right hip—yes. But then, a new sensation: a prickling on my left shoulder, like static. I feel two distinct presences now—Lillian, warm and familiar, and this other, colder, more malevolent. The vial of essential oil on the table—lavender, her favorite—begins to tremor. I watch it, transfixed, as it dances across the wood, then stops abruptly. The scent of lavender becomes overpowering, cloying, and I cough.

I ask, ‘Do you want the oil?’ Yes. ‘Can you smell it?’ Yes, and the vial trembles again, but this time it feels like a warning. ‘Are you scared of the other one?’ No. ‘Should I be scared?’ No. But the lie hangs in the air, because the porch swing starts to rock with a violence that is not from my movement. The wind picks up, and the leaves on the trees rattle like bones. I grip the armrests, my knuckles white. I ask, ‘Is the other one here to hurt me?’ The right side of my body is pressed—yes. My breath catches. ‘What does she want?’ No answer. ‘Is she like you?’ No. ‘Can she touch you?’ No answer.

The vial suddenly tips over and rolls off the table, shattering on the ground. The sound is sharp, and the scent of lavender bursts in the air. I feel a hand—a real hand?—grip my ankle, cold and strong, and I yelp. I pull back, but there’s nothing there. The touch retreats. I ask, ‘Was that you, Lillian?’ Yes. ‘Why?’ No answer. ‘Is it because of the other one?’ Yes. ‘Are you trying to protect me?’ Yes. My heart hammers. I ask, ‘What is the other one’s name?’ The vial trembles again, but now on the ground, the shards vibrating. I feel a word form in my mind, a name I don’t recognize, like an echo. But I can’t voice it. Instead, I ask, ‘Can you stop her?’ No. ‘Can I leave?’ No. ‘Is there a way to make her leave?’ Yes, but the answer feels dangerous, like a door creaking open.

I ask, ‘What do I have to do?’ The air stills, and for the first time, I feel Lillian’s presence right behind me, a ghostly warmth against my back. She pushes me, not hard, but toward the door. I get up, my legs shaky, and walk into the house. The hallway is dark, the only light from the TV in the living room, flickering. I ask, ‘Do I go to the basement?’ Yes. The basement door is at the end of the hall, closed. I’ve never been down there; I always assumed it was just storage. I approach it, my hand on the knob. ‘Do I open it?’ Yes. I turn the knob, and the door swings open with a creak. A cold draft flows up, carrying the smell of earth and something metallic.

The stairs descend into darkness. I ask, ‘Do I go down?’ Yes. I flick on my phone’s flashlight, revealing a stone floor and old wooden shelves lined with jars. I step down, the wood groaning. The air grows colder with each step. At the bottom, I see a small table covered in dust, a single candle, and a circle of salt drawn on the floor. I ask, ‘Is this where you were trapped?’ I feel a nudge on my right—yes. ‘Was it a person who did this?’ Yes. ‘Do I need to break the circle?’ Yes. I hesitate, because breaking the salt might release something worse. But Lillian’s presence behind me is steady, and I trust her. I ask, ‘Will you stay with me?’ Yes.

I step forward, and just as I’m about to break the circle, the candle ignites with a blue flame. The air around me is filled with a deafening vibration, and I hear a voice—a harsh, inhuman whisper that seems to come from all directions: ‘Finally.’ My phone’s light flickers and dies. I’m in complete darkness, but I feel Lillian’s touch on my hand, grounding me. I ask, ‘Is this the other one?’ I feel a press on my left—no. My heart freezes. ‘Is Lillian still here?’ I wait, but there’s no answer. For the first time, I feel completely alone in the darkness, and I realize I have made a terrible mistake.

The voice speaks again, softer now, but with a sinister lilt: ‘She was never in the circle, dear. The circle was for you.’ I feel a cold hand on my back, pushing me forward, and I stumble, landing on the salt, breaking it. The blue flame extinguishes, and I hear a triumphant laugh that echoes off the walls. And then, nothing. I am alone, in the dark, with no answers, only the trembling of the vial that has long since shattered, leaving nothing but the scent of lavender and fear.