The Unseen Congregation

It began as a dare from a friend who didn’t believe in anything. He left the old wooden board in my apartment, a joke gift from a thrift store, with chipped letters and a scorch mark in the corner. I was skeptical, but alone on a rainy Tuesday, I decided to test it. I set up candles, placed my fingers on the planchette, and asked the empty room, ‘Is there anybody there?’

The planchette slid to ‘YES’ so quickly I nearly pulled my hand away. My heart hammered. I steadied myself, asked, ‘How many spirits are in the room with me?’ The pointer moved with eerie precision to ‘3’, then to ‘9’, then to ’39’. I stared at the board, not understanding. Then the planchette flew to ‘GOODBYE’ and stopped dead.

I laughed nervously, calling it a fluke. But the air felt thick, as if something had shifted. I tried again the next night. This time, I felt a cold draft despite the closed windows. ‘Is there anybody there?’ The planchette slid to ‘YES’ before I even finished. ‘What is your name?’ It spelled ‘ALONE’. I frowned, ‘Your name is alone?’ The pointer slammed to ‘GOODBYE’ with a force that rattled the board.

I should have stopped. But curiosity is a poisoned hook. The third night, I lit no candles. I wanted to see if darkness would change anything. I placed my fingers on the planchette, and it started moving on its own, dragging my hand with it. ‘How many spirits in the room?’ It spelled ’21’. I looked around, seeing nothing, but the shadows seemed to deepen. I asked, ‘What happened to the other 18?’ The pointer traced ‘DEAD’. A cold sweat broke on my neck. ‘Did you kill them?’ It spelled ‘YES’ with a violent jerk. I asked, ‘What is your name?’ Then, to my horror, it began spelling the name of my ex-girlfriend, Lily, whom I hadn’t seen in years. I pulled away, but the board spelled ‘GOODBYE’ with such force it cracked.

I stood, shaking. My stomach churned, and a wave of nausea hit me. I stumbled to the bathroom, the hallway feeling longer than it should, the walls pressing in. As I reached for the door, I heard it—a low hum at the edge of hearing. At first I thought it was the pipes, but then it rose into a dissonant choir, a hundred voices singing in a language I didn’t know. The bathroom door swung open on its own.

Inside, the mirror was fogged, but not with steam. Words were written in the condensation: ‘WE STILL SING.’ I stared at them, my reflection blurred. The hum grew louder, vibrating through my skull. I turned to flee, but the hallway was gone. Instead, I saw a long, dark corridor lined with doors. From behind each door came the same hum, synced into a single, awful melody.

I woke up on the bathroom floor, my head throbbing. The board was in the corner, the planchette missing. I searched everywhere, but it was gone. The humming persisted, faint but constant, like a second heartbeat. I tried to leave my apartment, but the door wouldn’t open. It was as if something was holding it shut.

That was three nights ago. The humming has grown louder. I see shadows moving at the edge of my vision, figures that vanish when I turn. The number 39 haunts me—I counted them in my dreams, standing in a circle in my living room, their faces blank, their mouths open in that silent song. And last night, I found my own name scratched into the bathroom mirror, next to the words ‘YOU ARE THE 22ND.’