The Whispering Room

When I was a teenager, I spent my summers at my uncle’s old house in a quiet town. The house had a bright, welcoming front, but the back rooms were always dark and cold. No one really used them except for storing old furniture and forgotten things. I never felt completely at ease there—something about the stillness made my skin crawl.

One evening, my uncle had gone out, leaving me alone. Bored and looking for something to do, I remembered an old trick a friend had told me about. Instead of an Ouija board, you could use a needle on a string over a circle of letters. The needle was supposed to point to letters and spell out messages. I wasn’t sure I believed in that sort of thing, but I was curious.

I drew a rough alphabet on a piece of paper and dangled the needle above it. At first, nothing happened. Then, I lightly tilted the needle and let it spin. It slowly pointed to different letters. I asked silly questions, but the answers didn’t make sense. Then, on a whim, I asked what I would be when I grew up. The needle spelled out the word “wood.”

A strange chill ran down my spine. I stopped the game and spent the rest of the evening outside, waiting for my uncle. I told my friends later, and we laughed—what did “wood” even mean? Would I become a tree?

Years passed, and I forgot all about it. Until, one day, I found myself working at a furniture store, surrounded by wooden chairs and tables. The memory hit me like a shock. Had the needle known all along?

To this day, I still avoid old houses with dark, quiet rooms.