(Another writing prompt for you)
The room had turned dark quickly. I wasn’t sure what to expect when we all filed in and took a seat like a strange game of musical chairs.
The hosts had chosen a nice soundtrack for us, full of eerie music. It was just the right tone. Not soft and sweet to put you to sleep, but not too over-the-top cheesy scary movie either.
It was on low enough that it blended into the background. You almost didn’t pay attention to it, but it had a way of heightening the energy.
I let my friend talk me into this. It was supposed to be a big group of people, but so many of them ducked out at the last minute. It ended up just being four of us together.
I guess it didn’t seem to really matter at first. The hosts were doing all the talking, preparing us for the seance. I had never seen it done in this way, with the crowded room and the “medium” standing at the front with a small table in front of him. No crystal ball. Just candles and a radio of some sort. It looked very old. I am surprised it even worked. Not that it was tuned in to anything. Just static. My ears were having a hard time concentrating on all the noise. The big booming voice of the host was trying to set the mood and tell you what to expect, the music in the background seemed to help provide a melody for the voice, and now the static from the radio, but it was too much, especially since the static seemed to be shifting constantly. It wasn’t like white noise you could tune out.
I would hear things. Like names or words, but you couldn’t recognize them, and then suddenly one would pop out at you. Like the name of a relative of a person of interest to you. One such name popped into my head. It happened just before another guest pointed at me and said they had a message for me.
The message did not make sense at all. I had wondered if that guest was someone planted in the room. My mind always wants to be the skeptic. That message was just a lucky guess.
“Tell her the risk is worth it.”
That could apply to anything. The words were not that convincing it was for me, but just something random.
But then the radio played that song suddenly, about risk. It was just a tease of the song, and I almost thought I did not really hear it. Like it was a trick of the brain. You heard the word risk, so the song about risk comes on faintly. That song that just so happens to make you think about him and new beginnings. How it could have been.
And suddenly you think, am I at a new beginning again? I felt unsettled for the rest of the night. One of my friends was worried about me a little, I think. He kept putting his hand on my back to steady me. He insisted on walking me to my car and asked me to text when I got home.
I had almost forgotten walking through the door. I sent off something quick so I wouldn’t forget again.
Minutes later, feeling the ping of an incoming message, made me think it was his reply. I let it sit there unanswered as I changed into my PJs.
It still felt weird talking to everyone again. I was surprised by the invite, to be honest. With the way I flaked out at the end, I likely wouldn’t get another anyway.
Maybe it was just too soon to put myself out there again. I felt like there were answers and questions for me, though somewhere, but how do I get to them?
I pulled up the song. Listening to it again made me mourn for all that was lost this time around. Not just the hope of something new, but the place of isolation I put myself in. The way I pushed everyone else away. What did the message mean? Was the risk worth it?
I finally picked up my phone. It wasn’t my friend. It was a group text from one of the other attendees—a kind of morbid after-party invite. “Who wants to REALLY find out what’s up? Bring a board, we’ve got drinks.” I didn’t respond, but the idea lodged in my mind. I knew I wouldn’t leave the house, but my childhood Ouija board was still in the top of the closet. It was my grandmother’s board. I always found it interesting that she even had one. My sister loved to torment me with it.
I dragged it out, the cardboard worn, the planchette dusty. I set it on the floor, lit a single candle, and sat cross-legged. “Okay,” I whispered to the empty room. “If that message was real, show me. Tell me what the risk is.”
I placed my fingers on the planchette, waiting for the familiar, slightly silly friction. The air in the room didn’t drop; it just felt heavy. My hand was steady until, with a shudder that wasn’t my own, the planchette glided. Not to “Yes” or “No,” but straight to the letters.
P A U L.
My breath hitched. I pulled my fingers away, heart slamming against my ribs. “No, this is a trick,” I muttered. “I moved it myself.” I put my hand back down, determined to be still.
This time, it moved faster, decisively, spelling out the word, LOOK.
Finally, it trembled, paused, and spelled out the name, P A U L again.
Paul. My friend who had kept his hand on my back, who had walked me to my car, the same friend who had insisted on my texting him when I got home. He was the risk. But why?
This didn’t seem right. This is all just thoughts in my head coming out in strange ways. It is no secret that I have had a crush on Paul forever. I hadn’t spoken to him in months before tonight, but my feelings hadn’t gone away completely. I don’t think they ever will. But he doesn’t have any feelings for me, I am sure of it. He hasn’t even tried to contact me these last few months.
But why did I subconsciously spell out look. There was no message from him. I couldn’t even tell if he was going tothe after party. He didn’t respond there.
I got up and started pacing. I needed a drink. Maybe half a glass of wine would settle my nerves.
LOOK
Chills ran down my spine as I got to the last step. I could see out the front window. There was Paul’s car, and there he was leaning against the side, staring at my front door.
My breath caught. It was him. Not a ghost, not a warning of death, but him. He hadn’t just walked me to my car; he’d followed me home and waited. And the board had spelled out L O O K.
I pressed myself against the wall, peering through the gap in the blinds. He wasn’t on his phone. He wasn’t smoking. He was just… watching. His body language was oddly tense, coiled.
He was the risk. But why now? Why after months of silence, and hours after a cryptic message that played on all my deepest regrets?
I tiptoed back to the floor where the Ouija board lay. The planchette was still resting on the faded ‘GOODBYE’. I didn’t touch it. Instead, my eyes pulled back to him.
I moved back to the window. Paul was no longer leaning. He was standing by the porch, his hand raised to knock. The look on his face wasn’t worried or kind; it was determined. It was a look that confirmed that the biggest risk of the night wasn’t the seance, or the message, or the old board. The risk was Paul, standing right there, waiting.
My hand was shaking as I reached for the lock. The quiet static of the old radio from the seance, which I thought I had forgotten, echoed in my ears—but it wasn’t static. It was the faint, eerie melody of the song I’d listened to, the one about risks worth taking. The ultimate choice was mine: leave the door locked and retreat into the isolation I knew, or open it and take the risk of finally facing Paul and the terrifying answers he held.
I took a deep breath, braced myself against the door, and flipped the deadbolt. The click was impossibly loud.
I pulled the door open just enough to see his face. His eyes, usually so lighthearted, were deep and serious.
“Paul,” I whispered, the name catching in my throat. “What are you doing here? I texted you I was home.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t smile. “That text wasn’t for me,” he said, his voice low and ragged. “It was for the ghost.”
My heart hammered. “What?”
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell him. “I didn’t just walk you to your car. I sat in it with you for ten minutes while you cried after that message hit you. You told me everything—about the song, the message, how you pushed everyone away, and how you were terrified of getting hurt again. I only left when you promised you’d text.”
I couldn’t recall any of that. The intensity of the night and the shock of the message had completely blurred that moment.
“I didn’t follow you home to watch you,” he continued, taking my hand in his. His skin was warm and solid. “I followed you home because I saw you go back inside, and I realized I had to be the one to tell you the truth. The message wasn’t for you, it was for me. It was my subconscious screaming to me to take a risk.”
He took my hand in his; he couldn’t not touch me in this moment. My own hand was trembling just as my mouth was when it gets nervous and too many emotions mix together.
“I’ve had a crush on you for the past few years, and I’ve never said anything because I was too scared to lose the friendship,” he admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “But when you looked at me tonight, lost, and you heard that message about risk, I knew I had to be honest. The risk is that I’m falling for you. The risk is worth it because the thought of you spending one more night alone, pushing people away… I can’t live with that.”
He stepped fully onto the porch, his shadow falling over me. “I don’t know about new beginnings,” he whispered, his eyes searching mine. “But I know I want a chance at our beginning. Is that what you were looking for when you pulled up that board?”
“You are right. I was. I didn’t want to go back to that space by myself. I need something more. I need you with me again.”
It didn’t take long for him to move once I finished that sentence. I was picked up and dragged inside, door slamming behind us.
He was a need I never knew I had until he was right there, hands moving over me in more than just a hug.
I needed the serious conversation to end, and I needed desire and laughter to begin.
Lisa Gray 