It started as a way to make rent. After my husband died, I needed to keep the girls fed, the lights on. So I took up spiritualism—fake candles, cold whispers, the works. We performed séances for grieving widows who wanted one last word from their loved ones.

Then I brought the Ouija board home.

That’s when Doris first heard him. ‘It’s Dad,’ she said, eyes wide. The planchette spelled out things only he would know—our anniversary, the dog’s name, the way he used to hum in the shower.

I told myself it was coincidence. A child’s imagination. But last night, I saw her floating above her bed, suspended in the dark, whispering in a voice that wasn’t hers.

Now the board won’t stay put. It appears on the kitchen table. On my pillow. On the floor of the attic, spelling one word over and over:

‘STAY.’

I don’t know what’s real anymore. But I know this: something is inside my house.

And it’s not my husband.