The Weeping Machine

In the summer of 2005, I was a fourteen-year-old with an unhealthy obsession with the paranormal. My older brother, Marcus, who was sixteen at the time, shared my fascination. We lived in a cramped apartment above our mother’s laundromat in the outskirts of a small town called Grey Hollow. The constant hum of washing machines and the smell of detergent were our lullabies. That particular night, Marcus felt a pull, an inexplicable urge to contact the other side. We had done this many times before, using an old, battered board we’d bought from a flea market. We set up in the back storage room, surrounded by stacks of folded linens and the rusty skeleton of a broken dryer. We lit candles, placed a small silver cross on a shelf, and burned sage. As always, we said a prayer before starting, a habit born from past unsettling experiences. Then, Marcus, with his fingertips resting lightly on the planchette, began to trace slow, deliberate circles over the board. After a minute, he asked, ‘Is anyone here?’ The planchette continued its circular path, then came to a stop in the center, hovering over the word ‘YES’. I felt a familiar thrill. ‘Male or female?’ I asked. The planchette slid to ‘MALE’. ‘Do you have a name?’ Marcus inquired. The planchette moved, spelling out letters. It began to spell ‘I R O N…’ but then jerked to a different letter, then another. The final message was ‘IRON’. We exchanged glances. I’d never heard of a spirit called Iron. ‘Iron, what do you want?’ I asked, trying to sound brave. The planchette spelled out, ‘WATCH THE MACHINES.’ A cold draft cut through the warm room, extinguishing two candles. The lights above flickered. Then, the washing machines in the laundromat started simultaneously, all of them emitting a deafening roar. Marcus and I looked at each other, our excitement turning to unease. ‘What is that?’ Marcus whispered. The planchette began to move again, frantically, spelling out a long, frantic message: ‘IT FEEDS ON YOUR SADNESS. IT WEARS THEM AS SKIN. DON’T LET IT SEE YOU CRY. IT WILL WEAR YOU TOO.’ The candles reignited on their own, casting a sickly green light across the room. The washing machines stopped, leaving an eerie silence. We sat frozen for a moment. Then, from the corner where the broken dryer sat, we heard a faint, rhythmic sobbing, like a child crying. I felt a lump form in my throat, a rush of fear and pity. ‘Who’s there?’ Marcus called out, his voice trembling. The sobbing grew louder, more distorted, like a radio station bleeding through. I felt a stinging in my eyes, and before I knew it, I was crying. Tears streamed down my face without warning. The planchette on the board shot to the word ‘THANK YOU’ and then off the board, clattering to the floor. My sobs were uncontrollable. I couldn’t stop. I saw Marcus’s face blur through my tears, his mouth moving but I couldn’t hear him over my own crying. The sobbing from the corner stopped, replaced by a low, mechanical hum. The lights went out completely. In the darkness, I felt a cold, clammy hand grasp my wrist. It was too cold to be human. It began to pull me toward the broken dryer. I struggled, but my body was weak from crying. A voice, like a needle scratching vinyl, whispered into my ear, ‘You taste like sorrow. I think I’ll wear you.’ I heard Marcus shouting my name, but I was being pulled into the depths of the machine, the rusted metal opening like a mouth. I remember a flash of light, and then nothing. I woke up the next morning in my bed, the sun streaming through the curtains. I had no memory of how I’d gotten there. Marcus was sitting by my side, his face pale. He told me I’d been unconscious for two days. He said the board was gone, and the laundromat was closed for a week after the storeroom flooded with something dark and oily. He never wanted to use the Ouija board again. I didn’t remember the details, but I felt a deep, unshakeable sadness, a void that would never fill. Sometimes, at night, I still hear the faint, rhythmic sobbing from the laundromat below, and my tears begin to flow, as if on command. And in my reflection, I sometimes see a pale, shifting shape over my own features, wearing my face, and it smiles.