The Winding Porch

The package arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in brown paper and smelling faintly of dust and old wood. Iris had ordered the antique talking board from an online auction, drawn by the grainy photograph of its hand-painted letters and the promise of a ‘genuine Victorian artifact.’ Her cousin, Marla, had warned her against it, but Iris was a collector of oddities, and the board’s ornate, winding vine pattern along its edges fascinated her.

She cleared the cluttered kitchen table, pushing aside bills and a half-eaten takeout container, and placed the board down. It was heavier than she expected, the wood smooth and cool under her fingertips. The planchette, a teardrop shape with a small glass window, seemed to gleam with an inner light. Iris had read the forums: surround yourself with salt, ask simple questions, never ask about death. She drew a wide circle of coarse salt around the table, her hands trembling slightly with excitement.

She sat opposite the empty chair, her fingers resting lightly on the planchette. ‘Is anyone here among us?’ she asked, her voice a whisper. The planchette didn’t move. She tried again, ‘Please, we seek only knowledge. What is your name?’ Still nothing. A draft from the old wooden screen door made the salt shimmer, and Iris felt a chill. ‘Where are you from? The sun or the moon?’ The planchette lurched, skittering across the board to ‘M’ before stopping. Then ‘O,’ ‘O,’ ‘N.’ MOON. A soft laugh echoed from the porch outside, but when Iris turned, no one was there.

Suddenly, the board grew cold. The salt circle began to darken, as if absorbing a shadow. The planchette moved again, faster now, tracing letters that spelled a name: EZRA. Then, ‘YOUR HOUSE IS MINE.’ Iris yanked her hands back, but the planchette continued to move on its own, circling the board in a slow, deliberate pattern that wasn’t a word at all—it was a spiral, the same winding pattern as the board’s border. The screen door slammed open, and the wind that rushed through smelled of earth and rot.

Over the next hours, things went wrong. The framed photos on the mantel turned face down. The kitchen faucet began to drip a thick, black fluid. Shadows in the corners seemed to pulse and breathe. Iris tried to sweep the salt aside, but it had fused to the floor, blackened like scorched earth. The board’s painted letters began to fade, replaced by a single, repeating word: OUT. The porch, which she had always loved for its rickety appeal, now seemed to sag and creak with a weight that wasn’t there.

Her cousin Marla called, her voice crackling over the line. ‘Iris, I had a dream. The board—it’s not a toy. The one we had when we were kids, it made things fly because we broke the rules. You have to get rid of it. Bury it under running water.’ But Iris couldn’t leave. Every time she tried to cross the salt line, an invisible force pushed her back. The board’s letters now spelled a new message: ‘WE PLAY TOGETHER NOW.’ And from the porch, she heard a chorus of whispers—not just one voice, but many—all calling her name.

The last thing Iris saw was the planchette rising from the board, hovering in the air, its glass eye reflecting not the room, but a long, dark hallway that stretched into the porch’s shadow. The winding pattern on the board began to move, like a serpent uncoiling, and the porch’s wooden boards groaned as if they were breathing. Iris screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the sound of a thousand whispers, and the porch light flickered out, leaving only the faint, cold glow of the moon on a board that now spelled her name over and over in the dark.

It’s been three weeks since Iris vanished. Her house stands empty, but the porch is never still. Neighbors report seeing a figure sitting on the steps, its fingers resting on a wooden planchette, tracing patterns in the air. The salt circle remains, fused to the floor, and the board now rests on the porch railing, its letters polished by an unseen hand. If you listen close, you can hear the planchette scraping across wood, spelling out names—the names of those who might be foolish enough to buy a board from an online auction. And the moon watches, patient, waiting for the next player.