The Wind in the Pines

In the autumn of 2019, I moved into a small cabin in the Cascade foothills, a place I’d inherited from an aunt I barely knew. The cabin was surrounded by dense pine forest, and the nearest neighbor was miles away. I was escaping a messy divorce, hoping the solitude would help me heal. But the isolation soon felt oppressive, the trees looming like silent sentinels.

One evening, while unpacking boxes in the attic, I found a dusty wooden planchette and a hand-drawn Ouija board, hidden beneath a pile of old quilts. I recognized the style of my aunt’s handwriting on the board. It felt like a relic, but curiosity got the better of me. That night, after a glass of wine, I set up the board on the kitchen table and placed my fingers on the planchette. I asked out loud, ‘Is anyone here?’ Nothing happened for a minute, then the planchette began to move, slowly at first, spelling out a name: ‘HELEN.’ That was my aunt’s name. I gasped and pulled my hands away. The planchette stopped.

I should have stopped then, but I was lonely and intrigued. The next night, I tried again, this time asking, ‘Helen, why did you leave me this cabin?’ The planchette spelled out a message: ‘SHE IS STILL UNDER THE HOUSE.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. I had never been under the house, but there was a crawlspace. I decided to check it out in the morning.

Morning came, and I ventured under the cabin with a flashlight. The space was musty and dark, with a dirt floor. I saw nothing but old junk and cobwebs. But then I noticed a corner where the dirt seemed disturbed, as if something had been buried. I started digging with a trowel I found, and after a few inches, my fingers brushed against something cold and solid. I pulled it out: a small, tarnished locket with a faded photograph of a woman who looked like my aunt, but with a different style of clothing, as if from decades earlier. The locket was inscribed with the initials ‘E.S.’ and a date: 1932.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the locket and the message. I returned to the board, determined to ask more. I said, ‘Who is E.S.?’ The planchette moved quickly: ‘MURDERED.’ I asked, ‘Who murdered her?’ The planchette spelled: ‘THE ONE WHO BURIES.’ I was terrified, but I pressed on: ‘What do you want?’ The answer came: ‘REVENGE.’ I asked, ‘On whom?’ The board suddenly went cold, and the planchette shot to ‘GOOD BYE’ on its own, as if slammed. I heard a scraping sound outside, like something being dragged across the ground. I looked out the window, but saw only darkness.

The next morning, I decided to search the property for any old graves or markers. I walked a perimeter around the cabin, and behind a thicket of pines, I found a small, crumbling headstone, almost swallowed by moss. It read: ‘Eleanor Sorrow, 1908-1932. Rest in Peace.’ I felt a chill. My aunt had mentioned that the cabin had belonged to a woman who had disappeared mysteriously in the 1930s, and there were rumors of foul play. I began to suspect that the spirit of Eleanor was the one communicating, not my aunt.

That night, I had a vivid dream. I saw a woman in a white dress, with long dark hair, standing in a clearing. She pointed to a spot under a large pine tree. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her. Then she faded. I woke with a start, knowing I had to dig at that precise spot. The next day, I took a shovel and went to the tree. The ground was soft, and within a few minutes, I unearthed a rusted metal box. Inside was a bundle of yellowed letters, tied with a ribbon. They were love letters between Eleanor and a man named ‘C.’ The last letter, dated just before her death, was from C, threatening to reveal their affair if she didn’t leave her husband. The husband was my great-grandfather.

I felt a wave of nausea. My great-grandfather had been the town sheriff. I realized that the spirit might be targeting me for revenge against the family. I tried to burn the letters, but the flames turned blue and extinguised. The wind picked up suddenly, and the pines began to creak ominously. I ran back to the cabin, and the door slammed behind me.

That night, the Ouija board was set up on its own. The planchette was moving rapidly, spelling: ‘YOU ARE A SINNER.’ I cried, ‘I didn’t do it!’ The board spelled: ‘THE BLOOD IS IN YOUR VEINS.’ I heard a scrabbling under the floorboards, and the lights flickered. I grabbed the board and planchette, intending to throw them into the fireplace, but the fireplace was burning with a cold blue flame. The board slipped from my hands and landed on the carpet, and the letters began to rearrange, forming a message: ‘SHE IS STILL UNDER THE HOUSE.’ But this time, the ‘she’ was me.

I realized that the spirit meant to take me as a new body. I tried to run, but every door and window was sealed. The wind howled, and the walls began to distort, as if the cabin was alive. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a whisper in my ear: ‘Your family owes a debt.’ I screamed, but no sound came out.

I woke up the next morning on the floor next to the Ouija board. The board was cracked, and the planchette was broken in half. I thought it was over. But then I looked in the mirror, and my eyes were not my own. They were a deep, dark brown, like Eleanor’s. I had brown eyes, but now they were black as pitch. I tried to smile, but my face twisted into a grin I didn’t control. I have been living in this cabin ever since, but I know I am not alone. Every night, I hear the wind in the pines, but it sounds like Eleanor’s voice, whispering, ‘Revenge is sweet.’ And I know that one day, she will find another host, and I will be the one buried under the floorboards.