The Weeping Glass

Mara had always been drawn to the old hotel on the edge of town, its Victorian facade crumbling like a forgotten hymn. When her husband, Leo, suggested they spend their anniversary weekend there, she agreed, hoping to rekindle the spark that had dimmed between them.

The hotel, the Severn, was a relic of a bygone era, its halls echoing with the whispers of long-dead guests. They were the only visitors, save for the taciturn innkeeper, Mrs. Holloway, who seemed to materialize from the shadows whenever they needed something. On their second night, after a dinner of bland soup and stale bread, Mara and Leo found themselves in the hotel’s cavernous parlor, nursing glasses of cheap wine. A sudden downpour rattled the windows, and the wind howled like a wounded animal.

‘Let’s try to find the game room,’ Leo suggested, his voice a bit too cheerful. They wandered the corridors, their footsteps muffled by layers of dust, until they stumbled upon a door that led to a small, musty room. In the center stood a round table, and on it, propped against a stack of ancient magazines, was a weathered Ouija board. Mara’s heart quickened. She had never used one, but the allure was undeniable, a forbidden fruit dangling in the gloom.

Leo raised an eyebrow. ‘Seriously? You want to mess with that?’ But Mara was already pulling out a chair. ‘It’s just a game, Leo. We’re adults.’

They sat across from each other, their fingers resting on the planchette, a piece of wood worn smooth by countless hands. Mara closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Is anyone here with us?’

At first, nothing. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the drumming rain. Then, a faint vibration, almost imperceptible. The planchette twitched, sliding to the word ‘YES.’

Mara’s breath caught. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

The planchette moved again, slower this time, spelling out ‘E-L-I-Z-A.’

‘Eliza,’ Leo repeated, his tone mocking. ‘Nice to meet you, Eliza. Are you a friendly ghost?’

The planchette shot to ‘NO’ with such force that it nearly flew off the board. A cold draft swept through the room, extinguishing the candle they’d lit. In the darkness, Mara heard a faint sound, like a woman weeping. It seemed to come from the walls.

‘We should stop,’ Leo said, his voice tight. But Mara couldn’t. She thought of her mother, who had passed away five years ago, and a desperate hope swelled in her chest. ‘Eliza, do you know my mother? Her name is Margaret.’

The planchette trembled, then spelled ‘DEAD’.

‘I know she’s dead,’ Mara snapped. ‘But is she here? Can you bring her to me?’

A long pause. The planchette slowly traced the letters: ‘I WILL SHOW YOU.’

The room grew colder, and the weeping grew louder, turning into a wail. The board began to shake, the planchette sliding erratically. Leo yanked his hands away. ‘Mara, this is wrong. Let’s go.’

But Mara was transfixed. The board’s letters seemed to glow faintly, and a name appeared: ‘MEREDITH.’ That was her mother’s name. Tears welled in her eyes. ‘Mama? Is that you?’

A distinct feminine voice, soft and trembling, seemed to emanate from the air itself. ‘Mara… why did you leave me?’

Mara’s blood ran cold. ‘I didn’t leave you. You passed away. I miss you so much.’

The voice grew sharper, more bitter. ‘You didn’t come to my funeral.’

‘I was sick, Mom. I had pneumonia. I’m so sorry.’

‘You never visited my grave.’

‘I did, but…’ Mara’s voice broke. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’

The planchette shot to ‘LIAR.’ The board flipped, scattering across the floor. The room plunged into darkness, and the weeping transformed into a distorted, guttural laugh. From the corner of her eye, Mara saw a shape—a woman in a tattered gown, her face obscured, her hands outstretched, fingers like claws. The thing hissed, ‘You left me to rot. Now you will stay with me.’

Leo grabbed Mara’s arm, dragging her toward the door. The door slammed shut, and the temperature plummeted. The laughter surrounded them, pulsing with malice. Mara screamed as she felt something icy wrap around her ankle, pulling her back. Leo shoved the table, sending the board flying, and the door creaked open. They stumbled out into the hallway, the door banging shut behind them.

They ran to their room, locking the door, cowering under the covers until dawn. The next morning, they packed in silence, not daring to speak of what had happened. As they checked out, Mrs. Holloway gave them a knowing look. ‘You found the board,’ she said, not a question.

Mara nodded, shamefaced.

‘Eliza was my sister,’ Mrs. Holloway said, her voice flat. ‘She died here a hundred years ago, waiting for her lover who never came. We buried her in the garden. But she never left. She’s always hungry for company.’

Mara and Leo fled without another word. They never spoke of the Severn again, but Mara couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed them home. At night, she heard the faint sound of weeping from the walls, and sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she thought she saw a woman in a tattered gown standing behind her, reaching out with icy fingers. She has since burned the Ouija board, but the weeping glass remains, and with it, the knowledge that some doors, once opened, can never be closed.