The Uninvited Guest at Windmere Rest

The antique shop on the edge of Windmere smelled of dust and old regret. I was there looking for a birthday present for my brother, but something else caught my eye: a worn, wooden planchette board, its surface dark with age and the corners scorched as if it had once been burned. The shopkeeper, a woman with eyes like wet stones, called it a ‘spirit board’ and warned me it had ‘a temper.’ She charged me forty dollars, and I laughed as I handed over the cash, thinking it was just a gimmick. That night, I set it on my kitchen table, lit a single candle, and called out into the silence. Nothing happened. Disappointed, I shoved it back into its velvet bag and tossed it into the closet under the stairs, my forty dollars feeling like a foolish mistake.

A week later, my sister Greta came to stay. She was visiting from the city, stressed about her divorce, and I thought a little fun might lighten her mood. I remembered the board and suggested we try it, but she shook her head and said, ‘No way, those things are cursed or something.’ I rolled my eyes and said, ‘Come on, it’s just a toy. Nothing’s going to happen.’ She sighed, maybe wanting to placate me, and together we sat cross-legged on the floor of my living room, the board between us. The room was warm with the glow of the fireplace, and the shadows of the furniture stretched like giant hands. I asked, ‘Is anyone here?’ The planchette trembled slightly, but then went still. I tried again, ‘Whoever is here, give me a sign.’ My sister’s fingers were light on the plastic, but I felt a pull under mine. It moved, slowly, to the ornate ‘Y’ at the top. I looked at her, and she looked back, and we both felt the air change.

I decided to test it. ‘If you are a kind spirit, move to the sun on the board.’ The disk didn’t budge. ‘If you are a malicious one, go to the moon.’ There was a long pause, and then, with a jerk, it slid to the crescent moon. My sister’s eyes widened, and she whispered, ‘We have to say goodbye, close it out.’ But I was curious, and my hand pressed the planchette back to the center. ‘Wait,’ I said, ‘Let me ask it what it wants.’ The board’s surface seemed to ripple under our fingers, and the candle flame flickered, casting wild shapes on the walls. The planchette began to move in a circle, unfocused, as if it were chasing its own tail. ‘It’s not following the letters,’ I said. Greta’s hand was shaking. ‘Stop it, stop it now.’ We forced the planchette to ‘Goodbye,’ and I flipped the board over, pressing it face-down on the carpet. The room felt suddenly cold, as if someone had opened a window.

That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching. I slept poorly, images of the moon and the dark attic dancing in my head. The next morning, Greta was pale and jumpy. She said she heard tapping on her bedroom wall all night. I tried to laugh it off, but a knot of dread had formed in my stomach. The board remained upside down in the hall closet, and I avoided even looking at the closet door. But then, that evening, I saw it: the board was back on the kitchen counter, face-up, the planchette resting on a carved ‘0’ that I hadn’t noticed before. Greta swore she hadn’t touched it, and I believed her. ‘It’s not possible,’ I said, but my voice cracked.

That night, we both decided to get some sleep, but the house seemed to breathe. The floorboards creaked in patterns that didn’t match our footsteps. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, when I saw it: a thin, black tendril, like a wisp of smoke, curling from under the closet door. It slithered across the floor, growing, coalescing into a shape that whispered my name in a voice that was not my own. ‘Who are you?’ I managed to ask, and the form laughed, a dry, crackling sound like old bones. ‘You invited me,’ it said. ‘You called and I answered. But now I am tired of the board.’ The shape moved closer, and I saw a face, featureless but somehow hungry. Greta screamed from her room, and I ran to her, the tendril following, branching into multiple fingers that wrapped around the doorframe.

We huddled together in the hall, watching as the shadows warped and danced. The board was floating in the air, spinning slowly, its letters glowing a sickly green. ‘We need to destroy it,’ Greta whispered. We grabbed the board and tried to snap it in half, but it was unyielding, its wood like iron. We tried to burn it, but the fire would not catch. We tried to bury it, but the ground rejected it, spitting it back up. As we struggled, the tendril grew, wrapping around our ankles, pulling us toward the open closet. ‘No!’ I shouted, and I remembered the old lore: you must say goodbye properly, respectfully. I looked at Greta, and we both said,’Goodbye, spirit. You are not welcome here. We close this gate.’ We placed our hands on the board, and the planchette flew to ‘Goodbye’ with such force that it left a gash in the wood. The tendrils recoiled, and the room was silent.

We locked the board in a steel box and drove it to the lake at the edge of town, where we dropped it into the water. As we watched it sink, I felt a release, but also a lingering coldness. For weeks, we were fine. But then, last night, Greta called me, her voice shaking. ‘It’s back,’ she said. ‘I found the board on my bed, wet and covered in algae. And the moon in my window is not a moon—it’s an eye, watching me.’