My cousin and I were always the reckless ones in the family. At seventeen, I thought I knew everything, and at fourteen, Maya was eager to prove she did too. It was a humid summer night, the kind that makes you restless, when we found her mother’s old Ouija board in the attic of her house. The house itself was a relic, a creaky Victorian that had been in her family for generations. We thought we were just playing a game, a silly thrill to break the monotony. I remember the planchette moving under our fingertips, spelling out letters that seemed random at first. Then the air grew cold, and the candle flickered. Maya got scared and pulled her hand away. I laughed, trying to mask my own unease, and quickly closed the board. We shoved it back in the attic and I went home, trying to shrug off the chill that clung to my skin.
Two weeks later, I came back to visit. The moment I entered her room, my blood ran cold. Maya was cowering in the corner of her bed, her eyes wide and fixed on the floor. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. ‘There’s something down the bed,’ she whispered, her voice trembling. My heart hammered, but I forced myself to bend down and look, expecting nothing. But there she was—Maya. Lying under the bed, her face a mirror of the one above, and she said, ‘There’s something above the bed.’ The world spun, and I passed out.
When I came to, I was on the floor, and the first Maya I’d seen was shaking me. ‘I don’t know what that was,’ she said, but her eyes darted to the underside of the bed. My instincts kicked in. I ran to the pooja room, grabbed the Kandha Shasti Kavasam, and started to recite the verses in a shaking voice. The air, which had felt heavy and electric, slowly began to lighten. I kept reading until my throat was raw, and for a moment, I felt a fragile peace. But Maya still complains that something tugs at her blankets at night. Objects vanish from her room, only to reappear in odd places. Sometimes, she says, she hears a low humming under the floorboards, as if something is breathing in the gaps of the house.
Now, I sit with her every night, the prayer book beside us, and I can’t help but wonder: did we open a door that we can never close? Or worse, did we bring something home with us? It’s always there, waiting in the space between the mattress and the floor, patient and hungry. And I fear that one night, it will reach out from underneath—and pull us both in. We haven’t gone near a Ouija board again, but it doesn’t matter. The thing we set free doesn’t need the board. It’s found its home in the shadows beneath, and it’s not content to just hide. It wants to be seen.