The Uninvited Deck

In the winter of 2009, I was living in a rented cottage on the edge of the Pennines, a place that seemed to swallow light. My job as a seasonal archivist meant I had three months of enforced idleness, and I filled them with reading and long walks. It was during one such walk, in early March, that I found the deck.

It was lying on a mossy stone by a disused well, half-hidden under a drift of dead leaves. The box was worn, the artwork faded, but the cards inside were pristine. I picked it up, expecting some trick, but there was no one around. The name on the box was ‘The Hollow Path.’ I had never heard of it. Something about it felt wrong, but I took it home anyway.

That night, I decided to do a simple three-card spread: past, present, future. I shuffled awkwardly, unsure of my technique. The first card I drew was the Moon—a silver crescent over a labyrinth. The second was the Hermit, holding a lantern. The third was the Tower, struck by lightning. I laughed, attributing it to my rusty skills, and put the deck aside.

But over the next few days, I noticed things shifting in the cottage. A cupboard door would open on its own. A chair would be pulled out when I entered the kitchen. At first, I blamed the wind, but the windows were sealed. Then, on the third night, I woke to find the deck laid out on the floor in a perfect circle, every card face up, forming a pattern I didn’t recognize.

I tried to move the deck, but it seemed glued to the floorboards. I called a friend, a local historian, who came over. She examined the cards and turned pale. She said the images weren’t standard tarot; they depicted places and faces she recognized from local folklore. One card showed the well where I found the deck, with a figure in the water. Another showed the cottage, with a shadow in the window.

That evening, after she left, I attempted to gather the cards. They felt cold and slick, like wet stone. As I picked up the Tower card, I felt a sharp sting, and a drop of blood fell onto the card. The figure in the card—a tiny man tumbling from the tower—seemed to look up at me with glee.

From that moment, the cottage began to change. The walls seemed to breathe, and I heard whispers in the static of my radio. The deck would always reappear, even if I threw it away. I took to carrying it with me, hoping to return it to the well, but every time I approached, the water would boil, and a foul smell would rise.

On the last night of March, I decided to perform a full reading, desperate for answers. I laid out the Major Arcana in a spiral. As I placed the final card, the world seemed to shift. I saw the past: a woman who had lived here a century ago, a practitioner of folk magic, who had used the deck to communicate with the dead. She had died in a fire, and her spirit was trapped within the deck.

Now, it wanted a new vessel. I saw my own face reflected in the Moon card, and my reflection smiled back at me. I tried to throw the deck into the fireplace, but the flames turned blue and a voice boomed, ‘You found me. You are mine.’

I woke up the next morning on the floor, the deck scattered around me. I felt a strange calm. I cleaned the cottage, packed my belongings, and moved away. But in my new apartment, I found the deck in my suitcase. It sits now in a locked drawer, but I can feel it, pulsing, waiting.

I don’t touch it anymore. I don’t need to. I know that when the time is right, it will call for me again. And I will answer.