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| Free Story Friday: The Board That Answers Late |
A new original tale every week—twisted, terrifying, and inspired by the darkest legends you thought you knew.
The steam was so thick I could barely see my hand in front of my face when I reached for the towel. Aunt Denise's shower ran hot—too hot, really—and the small bathroom had turned into a sauna. I wrapped myself quickly, shivering despite the heat, and wiped a circle in the fogged mirror to check my face.
That's when I saw it.
One word, traced in the condensation just above where I'd cleared:
YES
My breath caught. Not because of the word itself, but because I recognized it instantly—the answer to a question I'd asked the night before. A question that had been met with silence and an unmoving planchette. A question I'd almost forgotten about.
I scrubbed at the mirror hard, watching the letters dissolve under my palm, but they lingered for a beat too long, as if reluctant to go.
That was when I realized it hadn't ignored us. It had just taken its time.
I'd been housesitting Aunt Denise's place for three weeks while she prepared to sell it. The house was older, settled in that way that makes every floorboard announce your presence. Most of the furniture sat draped in sheets, pictures had been taken down leaving pale rectangles on the walls, and the whole place had that hollow feeling of a home waiting to become someone else's.
Ellie had begged to come over the night before. My younger cousin was home from college on fall break, bored and restless in that way nineteen-year-olds get when they're stuck in their childhood bedrooms. Jonah tagged along to "keep an eye on her," though at twenty-four he was barely more responsible than she was.
"Look what I found," Ellie announced, pulling a Ouija board from her oversized bag with the theatrical flourish of a magician. The box was worn at the corners, the board inside showing signs of use.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked, already feeling uneasy.
"Thrift store. Isn't it perfect? This house is like, a hundred years old. There has to be something here."
Jonah rolled his eyes but grabbed a beer from the fridge. "You know the rules, right? Say goodbye, don't ask about death, don't use it alone." He recited them with the practiced air of someone who'd looked them up once online.
"You don't actually believe in this stuff," I said.
He shrugged. "Nah. But why take chances?"
I hesitated. Not because I believed—I didn't, not really—but because something about the covered furniture and empty walls made the house feel too quiet. Too attentive. But they were family, and it was just a game.
We set up at the dining room table under the single bare bulb. Ellie positioned her fingers on the planchette with exaggerated seriousness. Jonah and I followed suit, all three of us forming a triangle around the worn board.
"Is anyone here?" Ellie asked, her voice dropping to a stage whisper.
Nothing moved. We waited, our fingers barely touching the plastic pointer. The furnace kicked on somewhere in the basement, making us all jump slightly.
"Do you know our names?" Jonah tried.
Still nothing.
Minutes dragged by. Ellie shifted restlessly. The planchette remained stubbornly still.
"Are you fake?" Ellie demanded, impatient now.
I surprised myself by speaking. "Did we make a mistake coming here?" It was half-joke, half-genuine question directed at my cousins more than any spirit.
Silence. More waiting. The antique clock on the mantle ticked loudly.
"This is stupid," Ellie announced, pulling her hands away first. She stood, stretching. "Nothing ever happens with these things."
"Told you," Jonah said, already pushing his chair back. "Goodbye," he added casually, barely glancing at the board as he reached for his beer.
We packed it away and moved on to streaming a movie none of us paid attention to. I felt foolish for the brief flutter of nervousness I'd experienced. Just a piece of cardboard with letters on it.
But that was our first mistake. The session had never properly ended. And something had been listening.
The next morning, I stood in the bathroom brushing my teeth when the mirror fogged inexplicably, despite no shower running and no steam in the air. Letters formed slowly in the condensation:
YES
I stared at it, toothbrush frozen halfway to my mouth. My rational mind scrambled for explanations—heat from the vent, humidity, coincidence. I wiped it away quickly and tried to forget about it.
But the afternoon brought something worse.
I was dusting the living room when condensation formed on the front window, despite the cold day outside. Letters appeared one by one, as if traced by an invisible finger:
KATIE
My name. We hadn't said our names out loud during the session. I was sure of it.
I checked every lock in the house, walked the perimeter of the yard, found nothing. My hands shook as I texted Ellie and Jonah.
Ellie: lol jonah's def messing with u Jonah: Not me. You stressed? Not sleeping enough?
I minimized it in my reply, not wanting to sound unstable. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was just tired.
That night, I found flour scattered on the kitchen counter—fine white powder I could swear hadn't been there an hour before. Traced through it, one word:
MISTAKE
My stomach dropped as the pattern clicked into place. I grabbed a pen and paper, writing down every question from memory:
"Is anyone here?"
"Do you know our names?"
"Are you fake?"
"Did we make a mistake coming here?"
The answers were coming in order. YES. KATIE. The third question went unanswered—perhaps because it was directed at the board itself. And now: MISTAKE.
Something was finishing our conversation. Slowly. Deliberately.
The house felt different after that. Not haunted exactly, but occupied. Attentive. I became afraid of silence because it felt like anticipation, like the pause before someone speaks.
"You have to come back," I told Ellie and Jonah when they arrived the next evening. "We need to end this properly."
Ellie was excited now, thrilled it might actually be real. Jonah was uneasy but determined. "We'll say goodbye the right way this time," he said with false confidence.
We set the board back on the dining room table. The moment our fingers touched the planchette, it moved.
Not frantically. Not violently. With controlled, deliberate purpose, it glided across the letters:
H-E-L-L-O
"Jesus," Jonah breathed.
"We need to say goodbye," I said firmly. "Right now."
Jonah cleared his throat. "Goodbye. We're—"
The planchette jerked away from GOODBYE before he could finish, sliding smoothly to spell:
N-O-T
Y-E-T
Ellie's fingers trembled on the pointer. Jonah had gone pale.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
F-I-N-I-S-H
I understood then. We'd left before it could answer. Walked away mid-conversation. Now it was completing what we'd started.
The planchette moved again, unprompted:
W-H-O
L-E-F-T
F-I-R-S-T
"Me," Ellie whispered, her voice breaking. "I pulled away first."
T-H-A-N-K
Y-O-U
Then:
A-L-O-N-E
The temperature plummeted. Our breath showed in small clouds. Every window in the house fogged simultaneously, condensation blooming across the glass. Words appeared on each one:
GOODBYE
But even as we watched, the letters smeared and reformed:
T-O-O
L-A-T-E
Jonah grabbed the board, trying to break it in half, but the planchette skittered free and clattered to the floor. We ran.
The front door finally opened—I hadn't realized it was locked—and we spilled out into the cold November night. Jonah took the board with him, Ellie wouldn't stop shaking, and I locked the house behind us with hands I couldn't quite control.
"It's over," Jonah kept saying. "We got out. It's over."
Later that night, alone again because I had nowhere else to go and a contract to fulfill, I stood in the shower letting hot water beat against my shoulders. I was too tired to be afraid anymore. Too numb.
Steam filled the bathroom. I turned off the water, grabbed my towel, and wiped the mirror without thinking.
One word appeared in the condensation, traced in a handwriting that was becoming familiar:
A-G-A-I-N
I understood then what the board had learned from us. Not how to answer questions. Not how to spell words in fog and dust.
It had learned to wait.
To take its time.
To know that eventually, we'd always come back to check the mirror. To wipe away the steam. To look.
And it would be there, patient and inevitable, ready to continue a conversation that would never truly end.
Outside, through the fogged bathroom window, I could just make out new words forming in the condensation:
W-H-E-N
Y-O-U
R-E-A-D-Y
The planchette, I realized with cold certainty, was still moving. Had never stopped moving.
We'd just taught it how to spell without being asked.
© 2025 Karen Cody. All rights reserved. This original story was written exclusively for the Urban Legends, Mystery, and Myth blog. Do not copy, repost, or reproduce without permission. This tale may appear in a future special collection.
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Further Reading and Other Stories You Might Enjoy
• Free Story Friday: The Voice That Learned Our Names
A quiet, invasive horror about something that listens first—and answers later.
• Free Story Friday: The Man Who Sold Yesterday
A slow-burning tale about consequences that don’t arrive when you expect them to.
• One-Man Hide and Seek (Hitori Kakurenbo): The Ritual Game That Goes Wrong
A ritual meant to end cleanly… and what happens when it doesn’t.
• Bloody Mary: The Legend, the Ritual, and the Truth Behind the Mirror
Another mirror. Another game. Another reminder that reflections remember.
• The Woman in the Window: The Reflection That Watches Back
Because sometimes the glass isn’t just glass—and sometimes it’s already watching.
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