The Uninvited Guest in the Static

I never believed in the supernatural, not really. The DIY spirit boards I crafted from old pine and copper wire were more of a hobby, a way to pass the lonely hours in my isolated cabin outside of Frostpine. I’d made a dozen of them over the years, each one a little more elaborate than the last, but they always felt like props, not portals. That was until the winter the lights started misbehaving.

It was a Thursday night, the kind where the cold seeps through the log walls and the silence presses in like a physical weight. I decided to try one of the newer boards, a circular one with a hand-carved planchette that I’d finished just that afternoon. I lit a few candles, not for ambiance, but because the power had been flickering all day. The static on the radio in the corner scratched and hissed like a trapped insect.

I asked the usual questions, the ones you always ask when you’re trying to provoke a response. ‘Is anyone here?’, ‘Do you want to talk?’. The planchette barely moved, twitching in lazy circles that felt like my own subconscious jitters. Then, without warning, it shot to ‘GOODBYE’ with such force that the board scraped across the table. I laughed nervously, ‘Okay, message received,’ and clicked off the recorder I’d been using. But as I stood to blow out the candles, the bathroom light flickered wildly, strobing in a way that made my heart stutter. It had never done that before, and it didn’t stop until I yanked the chain. The silence that followed felt different, like a held breath.

Last night, I tried again. I don’t know why, maybe because the power went out completely at dusk and the dark felt too heavy. I lit every candle I owned and set up the board on the floor in the living room, where the radio was now spitting out nothing but white noise. I asked again, ‘Is anyone here?’ The planchette began to move, slow and deliberate, spelling out letters. It formed a name: ‘ELSIE.’ My grandmother’s name. A shiver ran down my spine. I asked a question only she would know, about the hidden tin of butterscotch candies behind the loose brick in the old hearth back in her house, and the planchette moved to ‘YES’.

I laughed, a nervous, disbelieving sound. ‘Grandma? Is it really you?’ The planchette spelled: ‘YOU’VE BEEN RUDE.’ I felt a warm, familiar amusement, the same teasing tone she’d used my whole life. ‘Sorry, Grandma,’ I said. ‘Life’s been crazy.’ The planchette spelled: ‘DON’T MIND. BUT CAREFUL. THERE ARE OTHERS.’ The candles flickered in unison. The radio static sharpened, and for a moment I thought I heard a whisper beneath it, something with too many voices. The planchette began to move again, faster, straining against my fingers as if something else was gripping it.

I tried to pull my hand away, but my fingers were stuck to the plastic as if by static. The planchette traced the word ‘EMPTY’ over and over, circling, getting faster until it slipped from my grasp and spun across the floor, leaving a gouge in the wood. The candles all went out at once, plunging me into absolute darkness. The static from the radio swelled to a deafening roar, and in that roar I heard a voice that was not my grandmother’s, not anything human. It said, clear as a bell, ‘You let me in.’

I spent the rest of the night huddled in the bathroom, the only room with a lock, listening to the radio scratch in the living room. The power came back at dawn, and the radio was silent. But I could still feel it, a static charge in the air, a weight in the room that hadn’t been there before. I haven’t destroyed the board. I don’t think that would help. Because whatever came through that night, it came into my house, and I don’t think it intends to leave. Every time I look at the gouge in the floor, I see that it’s not a scratch—it’s a word, carved by the force of something that wanted to be heard. It says: ‘WAIT.’ I don’t know what I’m waiting for. But I’m starting to think the boards were never about talking to the dead. They were about opening a door, and I have no idea how to close it.