The Weathered Board of Millbrook

My name is Sam and I come from Millbrook, a small town in the rust belt that time seems to have forgotten. Once a thriving mill town, now it’s a patchwork of abandoned factories and quiet streets where everyone knows everyone. The whole area is dotted with old, decrepit buildings, and folks say the past lingers here, maybe more than it should.

This story is about the time I bought an old Ouija board at a church rummage sale. It cost me fifty cents, and I figured, why not? I was never one to believe in that hocus-pocus stuff. The board was dusty, wooden, with the letters and numbers painted in fading black. The planchette was a simple heart-shaped piece of wood, worn smooth. There was a sticker on the back: ‘Made in 1962’.

At first, I used it alone in my apartment, just messing around. To my surprise, it seemed to work. The planchette would slide under my fingers, spelling out names and messages. It was fun, a little spooky, but I figured it was just my subconscious moving the thing. But the more I used it, the more responsive it became. It was like it was learning, gaining energy from somewhere.

One night, I decided to try it with my friend Brian. We sat across from each other, the board between us on the kitchen table. The lights were low, just a candle flickering. We asked the usual questions: ‘Is anyone here?’ The planchette moved to ‘YES’. ‘What is your name?’ It spelled ‘E-L-I-J-A-H’. ‘How did you die?’ The planchette shot to ‘MURDER’ and then to ‘YOU’ and then to ‘NEXT’.

That chilled my spine. Brian laughed, but I could tell he was uneasy. We ended the session, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had opened a door. The next day, I felt a presence in my apartment. Shadows at the edge of my vision, a cold spot in the hallway. A few days later, I was home alone, and the board was sitting on a shelf in my closet. I felt a sudden, intense urge to use it again. But this time, I set rules: no asking about death, no asking about the future, and we would always say ‘Goodbye’.

Brian wasn’t keen on coming over anymore, so I used it alone. The planchette moved with a life of its own, spelling out messages faster than I could keep up. ‘LEAVE MILLBROOK’, ‘THE MINE IS HUNGRY’, ‘YOU ARE IN HER PLACE’. I asked, ‘Whose place?’ The board spelled ‘MARY’. Then ‘SHE SEES YOU’. I tried to end the session, but the planchette wouldn’t move to ‘Goodbye’. It kept circling, and then it spelled ‘TOO LATE’.

That night, I had nightmares. I was walking through an abandoned mine, the beams overhead creaking, dusty air suffocating. A figure stood at the end of a tunnel, a woman in a ragged dress. She turned, and her face was gaunt, her eyes black. She pointed at me, and I felt a violent cold wash over me. I woke up gasping, the room freezing.

I decided to get rid of the board. I tried to throw it in the trash, but it reappeared on my doorstep the next morning. I tried to burn it, but the wood wouldn’t catch fire. It just sat there, charred but intact, the painted letters glowing faintly in the flames’ light. I panicked. I took it to the abandoned mill, thinking I’d leave it there, buried under the rubble. As I walked towards the mill, the air grew heavier. The building loomed, its broken windows like hungry eyes.

Inside, I found a spot on the dusty floor and dug a hole with my hands. The dirt was cold and smelled of rust. I placed the board in the hole and covered it. As I stood up, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, and saw a shadowy figure at the far end of the mill. It was the woman from my dream. She smiled, a thin, cracked lips. ‘You cannot bury me,’ she said, her voice like grinding coal. ‘I am the mine. I am this town. I have always been here.’

I ran out of the mill, stumbling over debris. I drove home and locked the doors, but I knew it wouldn’t help. That night, I heard scraping sounds from the basement, and a low hum that vibrated through the floor. I didn’t sleep. At dawn, I went to the basement, and there, in the center of the floor, was the board, as clean as if it had never been buried.

I understood then: the board wasn’t the conduit; the board was a key to something that had always been here, waiting. Millbrook was built on the mine, and the mine was a wound in the earth, leaking the darkness that had accumulated over decades. And now, I had opened my own door to it.

I packed my bags that afternoon. I moved out of Millbrook, leaving behind everything but the clothes on my back. I never saw the board again, but I still feel its presence, like a cold spot on a warm day. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I can hear a faint hum, and I know it’s not the house settling. It’s the mine, and it’s waiting for me to return.

I’ve since learned to live with it, the knowledge that some doors, once opened, never truly close. And the board, wherever it is, will always be a piece of me, a reminder of the day I uncovered the history of Millbrook, not the pretty history they tell in the museums, but the real one, buried deep and hungry for company.