30 Sep Last Night, I Played Twister with a Ghost

Part I

If you think playing Twister with a ghost is strange, you’re right. But that’s not even the strangest part of what happened. It’s what happened after that really made me question what I’d done.

I guess I should start by explaining how I ended up in this mess in the first place.

It was mid-October—right around my birthday. I had just turned sixteen. My parents didn’t do anything special, just the usual cake after dinner, a couple of presents, and awkward conversations where they kept asking why I wasn’t more involved in youth group or trying out for cheerleading. I never knew how to answer that stuff. I’ve never been the social type.

So, I just asked for one thing—one thing that might make me feel less… alone. I wanted a Ouija board. A simple, cheap one, like you could pick up at the corner store or order online for less than twenty bucks. I’d read about them on forums and thought it might be interesting to see if I could get a ghost to talk back, especially since I’d been diving into anything occult-related lately. Spells, rituals, stories about ghosts—I devoured them all.

My parents, though? They flipped out.

“Absolutely not!” my mom had shouted, as if I’d asked for a tattoo of the devil on my forehead instead of a silly game board. “We don’t bring that kind of evil into this house.”

Dad backed her up, crossing his arms and looking all stern and serious. “We raised you better than that, Helen. I don’t know where you got the idea, but that thing is nothing but a gateway for demons.”

I remember standing there in the middle of the living room, clutching my birthday card, wishing the floor would swallow me up. I tried to explain that it was just for fun, that I didn’t believe in any of it, but they wouldn’t hear it. By the end of the conversation, my request had somehow become a major family crisis. They dragged me to church for a special sermon that weekend and made me say a rosary with them every night for a week.

Happy birthday to me.

But they couldn’t stop me from thinking about it. Couldn’t stop me from wondering. What if I didn’t need a Ouija board? What if I could use something else?

I’d read about people using all kinds of weird items for spirit communication—mirrors, keys, even letters. And then, on this tiny, obscure forum I’d stumbled across, someone had posted about using a Twister mat for summoning. I don’t know if they were serious or joking, but the idea had wormed its way into my brain, and the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t let it go.

A Twister mat. Why not? It wasn’t like I had anything to lose.

So, one night, when my parents were asleep and the house was dark and quiet, I decided to give it a try.

* * * * * * *

Setting up was easy. I just grabbed the old Twister game from the closet, the one we’d had since I was little. The box was dusty, the mat crumpled and faded, but it would do. I spread it out on the floor of my bedroom and pulled out the spinner, feeling silly the whole time. If my parents knew what I was up to, they’d probably have a stroke.

But they didn’t know. And that’s what made it thrilling.

I sat cross-legged beside the mat, placed a single candle at each corner, and whispered a few lines I’d scribbled down from one of my research books—a basic invitation, something like “If there’s any spirit willing to play, I invite you to join me.” I tossed in a strand of my hair for good measure, just like I’d read. Then I waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened. The room was as silent and still as ever, just the flicker of the candles casting wavy shadows on the Twister mat. I sighed, leaning back against my bed. Maybe I had been stupid to think this would work.

“Guess you’re not into Twister,” I muttered.

But just as I was about to blow out the candles and crawl back into bed, the spinner twitched. Once. Twice.

Then, very slowly, it turned, the plastic arrow scraping softly against the cardboard as it settled on “Left hand, red.”

My heart nearly stopped.

I stared at the board, half-expecting it to just be a trick of the wind or my imagination. But the spinner stayed where it was, pointing resolutely at that red circle. I swallowed hard. This was crazy. But…

I leaned forward, hesitating for just a second, then placed my left hand on the red circle.

Nothing.

No eerie music, no cold gust of wind. The room didn’t turn upside-down. It was just me, my hand on a faded piece of plastic. I almost laughed at how silly I felt.

But before I could move, the spinner shifted again.

“Right hand, green.”

My eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me…” I whispered. But, sure enough, the spinner was pointing squarely at a green circle. For a second, I just stared at it, my heart racing, fingers trembling.

Someone—or something—wanted to play.

I moved my right hand to the green circle, half-expecting the spinner to stop or the candles to blow out or something to make sense again.

But the spinner just kept going.

“Left foot, yellow.”

My breath caught in my throat. Every hair on my neck stood on end. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. But there I was, left foot on yellow, hands spread awkwardly across the mat. And then, it happened.

A cold, icy touch brushed against my wrist.

I jerked, almost falling over. My head whipped around, eyes scanning the empty room. But there was no one there. Nothing there.

Nothing but that lingering chill, like the feeling you get when you stand too close to a freezer on a hot day.

It was playing with me.

The spinner turned again.

“Right foot, blue.”

Before I could even move, I felt it—a pressure on the mat, the faintest sense of something shifting beside me. It wasn’t solid, not really. More like… like a thick, chilled mist with a purpose. And when I stretched my foot over to the blue circle, it was right there. Inches away from me. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.

My whole body shook with a mix of fear and excitement.

We kept going. Me and this… ghost. This spirit. My invisible opponent.

* * * * * * *

It took ten minutes, maybe less. But somehow, I won.

The spinner stopped, landing nowhere in particular. The room warmed instantly, the candles flickering softly. And I was left kneeling on the Twister mat, staring at the empty space where that icy, ghostly presence had been.

“I… won?” I whispered to the darkness.

No answer. Of course. But I could’ve sworn I felt a soft, cool breeze brush against my cheek, almost like a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

I laughed—a short, breathless sound, the kind you make when you’re not sure if you’re going crazy or if the world just took a hard left turn into the weird.

“Guess we’re gonna be friends now, huh?” I murmured softly, glancing around the empty room.

I didn’t know what I’d just done. I didn’t know what kind of friend I’d made. But I wasn’t alone anymore.

And that, at least, felt like a win.

Part II

After that first night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened. I mean, wouldn’t you? I’m not crazy. It wasn’t some overactive imagination or a trick of the candlelight. I felt something there, something real. Something I couldn’t explain.

And so, the next night, when my parents went to bed, I did it again.

The setup was the same—Twister mat on the floor, candles at the corners, a single strand of hair tossed onto the board as a kind of personal seal. I sat there cross-legged, heart hammering in my chest, and whispered, “Do you want to play again?”

Nothing. For a second, I wondered if the whole thing had been a fluke. But then, the spinner twitched. Once. Twice. Slowly, it turned, and the plastic arrow landed on “Left hand, red.”

I grinned, unable to stop myself.

“I knew you’d come back,” I murmured. I moved my left hand to the red circle, feeling that familiar chill settle over my fingers.

The spirit was back.

This time, I wasn’t scared. If anything, I was excited. I started talking to it—whispering little things as we played, random thoughts I wouldn’t have shared with anyone else. Things like how school was boring, how my parents didn’t understand me, how I felt like I didn’t have anyone to talk to.

I don’t know why I opened up. Maybe because, in some strange way, I felt… heard. The spirit didn’t speak back, of course, but every now and then, I’d feel a soft brush of cold air against my cheek or the lightest touch on my shoulder, as if it was trying to say, “I’m listening.”

We played Twister for what felt like hours. The whole time, I felt the spirit’s presence next to me—its cold, weightless form brushing against my skin whenever we got close. And when the game finally ended, with me twisted awkwardly across the mat, it almost felt like a shared victory. A secret between just the two of us.

That was how it started.

Night after night, I’d sneak out of bed and set up the game. And each time, without fail, the spirit would appear. We’d play for a while—sometimes Twister, sometimes something else. I even tried cards once, spreading them out on my bedroom floor and inviting it to move one.

To my shock, the cards fluttered and shifted, and a cold presence nudged a single card toward me. The Ace of Spades. I remember laughing, staring at that card in disbelief. This wasn’t just some random haunting. The spirit could think. It understood what it was doing.

It wasn’t until about a week later that I realized I’d started thinking of the spirit as my friend.

I know how that sounds. But you have to understand, I didn’t have anyone else. I’d never really fit in at school. The girls in my class were always whispering and giggling about boys and fashion, while I preferred reading books or daydreaming in the library. And at home, I was either invisible or a disappointment, depending on what kind of mood my parents were in.

But this spirit—it didn’t judge me. It didn’t make me feel stupid or boring or weird. It was there. And that was enough.

At first, I didn’t tell my parents. What could I say? “Hey, Mom, Dad, guess what? I made friends with a ghost using the Twister mat from the closet!” Yeah, that would’ve gone over well. But it was more than that. I didn’t want to share my ghost. It was mine. My secret.

That all changed the day my mom caught me talking to it.

* * * * * * *

It was a Saturday afternoon, and I’d gotten cocky. I’d forgotten to lock my door, forgotten to be careful. I was on my bedroom floor, cards spread out around me, my invisible friend nudging one toward me. The King of Hearts.

“Nice try,” I teased, reaching out to pick up the card. “But I’m still gonna win.”

“Helen?”

The door creaked open, and my heart nearly exploded out of my chest. I scrambled to my feet, knocking cards everywhere, as my mom stepped into the room. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the mess of cards, the way I’d been crouched on the floor, and—worst of all—the empty spot across from me, where I’d been pretending someone else was playing.

“Who were you talking to?” she demanded.

“N-no one!” I stammered, my face burning. “I was just… playing by myself.”

“You’re too old for this, Helen. What’s wrong with you?” She sounded more bewildered than angry, like she was trying to figure out if this was some new phase of teenage rebellion or just another sign that I was a complete weirdo. “You’re sixteen, not six. Why are you acting like this?”

I bit my lip, heart hammering in my chest. “I’m not acting like anything. I’m fine.”

“Fine?” she repeated. “You’re fine? Helen, you were talking to yourself like a crazy person! And—what is this?” She stepped forward, snatching up one of the cards. “Is this another one of your occult things? Are you—are you trying to summon something?”

“No!” I lied, even as my pulse raced with panic. I couldn’t let her find out. If she knew what I’d been doing—if she knew I’d been playing games with a spirit—she’d lose her mind.

But she didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. She was scared. Scared of me. And that realization cut deeper than anything else she could’ve said.

That night, I didn’t play any games.

I just sat there in the dark, staring at the Twister mat rolled up in the corner, and whispered into the silence, “Are you there?”

At first, I didn’t think the spirit would answer. The room was still, my breath the only sound. Then, slowly, I felt it—a soft, icy breeze against my cheek, like the ghost was brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized I’d shed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, feeling stupid and childish. “I can’t… I can’t play tonight.”

The room stayed cold for a long time. And then, as gently as it had come, the presence faded away.

* * * * * * *

My parents started watching me more closely after that. They didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but they knew something was. And I, stupidly, let it get to me. Instead of waiting until they were asleep, I started sneaking little games during the day, whenever they were out running errands or at work.

The spirit didn’t seem to mind. It showed up whenever I called—just a chill in the air, a light touch on my shoulder. I even started bringing out board games I hadn’t touched in years, like Monopoly and Scrabble. I’d play for hours, talking to it, laughing with it, the way you would with any friend. And for the first time in forever, I felt happy.

Then one afternoon, I decided to play Scrabble with it. I set the board up, feeling that same thrill I always did when I called for my ghostly friend. The room grew cold almost immediately—my spirit was right there, waiting.

“Okay,” I murmured, placing the tiles on the board. “Let’s play a little differently this time. I want to know who you are.”

The tiles clicked as I arranged my first word: NAME.

The air shifted, that faint, icy breeze swirling around me. Slowly, the tiles on the board began to move. One by one, letters slid into place, the board shifting and rattling as the spirit spelled out its answer.

H-E-L-E-N.

I stared at the board, blinking in surprise. Then, I snorted. “Really?” I said, raising an eyebrow at the empty air around me. “That’s what you’re going with? You’re gonna call yourself Helen, like me?”

The room seemed to hum with a strange, whimsical energy. I could almost feel the spirit’s smugness, as if it were grinning at some private joke. I shook my head, unable to hold back a chuckle. “Wow, you really have a sense of humor, huh?”

The spirit didn’t respond, of course. But as I looked down at the board, at those simple letters, I couldn’t help but smile. It was silly. Silly and a little ridiculous. But it also made a strange kind of sense.

“Well, ‘Helen,’” I said softly, brushing my fingers over the tiles. “I guess that makes us namesakes.”

The air around me seemed to shimmer, the faintest hint of warmth brushing against my cheek, like a ghostly caress.

I chuckled again, shaking my head. “Yeah, okay. Nice to meet you, too.”

Part III

My parents noticed. They noticed everything.

One evening, I was sitting on the living room floor with the Twister mat spread out again. I’d been twisting myself into knots, laughing softly whenever I bumped into that cold, ghostly presence, when I heard the unmistakable sound of the front door creaking open.

“Helen!” my dad’s voice thundered from the hallway.

I froze, my breath hitching in my chest. The ghost froze too—the air around me suddenly cold, tense.

“What is this?” My father stormed into the room, his face red, his eyes wide with fury. He grabbed the Twister mat and yanked it up, sending me sprawling backward. “You’re doing this again? What kind of sick joke are you playing?”

I could barely breathe, my heart pounding in my chest. “Dad, stop! It’s not—”

“Not what?” he bellowed, shaking the mat in my face. “You’re inviting demons into our home? You want to damn yourself to Hell, is that it?”

“It’s not a demon!” I shouted, tears stinging my eyes. “It’s not what you think! I’m not—”

But he wouldn’t listen. He turned on me, his face twisted with fear and anger. “I don’t care what you think it is, Helen! This—this… thing you’re playing with isn’t some innocent game! You’re playing with fire, and you’re going to burn us all.”

“I’m not!” I screamed, fists clenched, shaking with rage. “It’s not dangerous! It’s not hurting anyone! It’s my friend!”

“Friend?” He spat the word like it was poison. “You think this is your friend? You’re delusional, Helen. This ends now.”

Before I could stop him, he stormed to the front door and threw the Twister mat outside, letting it fall into the mud and leaves. I let out a choked sob, scrambling to my feet.

“No! What are you doing?” I cried, reaching for the door. “Give it back! You can’t just—”

“Enough!” My dad’s voice cracked through the room like a whip. “You’re done with this, Helen. No more games. No more spirits. I’m calling Father Martin, and he’s going to put a stop to this, once and for all.”

* * * * * * *

That night, the house was thick with tension. My parents barely spoke to me as they made dinner, glancing at me with wary, anxious eyes. I sat at the kitchen table, arms wrapped around myself, trembling with a mixture of fury and fear.

I could feel it. The absence. The emptiness. Without the Twister mat, without my games, it was like a part of me had been ripped away. I knew the spirit—Helen—was still there, still watching, but it was distant now, its presence weak and strained. As if it didn’t know what to do without the familiar rituals.

Father Martin arrived just after sunset.

He was a short, round man in his fifties, with a gentle smile and kind eyes that made my skin crawl. He looked at me like I was some lost lamb that needed saving, and I hated him for it. But I kept my mouth shut as he settled into the living room, my parents hovering anxiously at the edges of the room.

“Helen,” he said softly, folding his hands in his lap. “Your parents have told me a bit about what’s been happening. They’re worried about you.”

“They don’t need to be,” I muttered, staring at the floor. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “They say you’ve been… playing games. With something you’ve invited into your home.”

“It’s not like that,” I shot back, clenching my fists. “I didn’t invite anything. I just… It came to me. And it’s not dangerous.”

He nodded slowly, watching me with that same infuriatingly calm expression. “I see. But, Helen, sometimes these things—these spirits—they’re not what they seem. They can deceive us, make us think they’re friendly, even when they have darker intentions.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I said sharply. “It’s not tricking me.”

Father Martin sighed softly, like he’d expected this. “Helen,” he said gently, “will you let me pray with you?”

“No,” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “I don’t want—”

“Helen,” my dad growled from behind me. “Let him help you.”

I turned on him, fists clenched, heart pounding in my chest. “You don’t understand!” I shouted. “It’s not evil! It’s not dangerous! You’re just scared because you don’t get it! You don’t get me!”

“Helen,” my mom whispered, tears in her eyes. “Please. Please just let him try.”

My chest ached. I looked around the room—the Twister mat gone, my books and notes thrown away, the candles they’d tossed out with the trash. Everything that had made me feel like I was finally something was gone. And they were looking at me like I was the problem.

I turned back to Father Martin, swallowing hard. “Fine,” I muttered, hating how weak I sounded. “Do whatever you want. But it won’t work.”

* * * * * * *

Father Martin knelt in the middle of the living room, clutching his rosary, and began to pray.

At first, it was just words—a soft murmur of Latin, the sound filling the room like a quiet chant. My parents bowed their heads, their lips moving silently in unison. I just stood there, glaring at them, arms crossed, resisting the urge to bolt.

But then, the air began to change.

It started as a faint chill, creeping in around the edges of the room. My breath hitched, heart stuttering. I knew that feeling. I’d felt it a hundred times before.

The spirit was here.

Father Martin didn’t stop. His voice grew louder, more insistent, the words blending together into a rhythmic chant. And the air grew colder, thicker, a pressure building in my chest that made it hard to breathe. I stumbled back a step, panic rising in my throat.

“Stop it!” I gasped, clutching at my chest. “You’re hurting it!”

Father Martin didn’t even look up. He just kept praying, louder and louder, the rosary beads clinking softly in his hands. My mom was crying softly, my dad’s face pale and drawn, both of them watching in horrified silence.

And then, the room exploded.

The air tore open with a sound like breaking glass, a gust of icy wind whipping through the living room, knocking over furniture and sending papers flying. My mom screamed, clutching her rosary, and my dad staggered back, his eyes wide.

And there it was.

The spirit—Helen—stood in the center of the room, a swirling, distorted figure of shadow and frost, writhing and twisting as if caught in a violent storm. I could barely make out its shape—vaguely human, but stretched, warped, like something trapped between two worlds.

“No!” I screamed, lurching forward. “Stop! You’re hurting her!”

But Father Martin didn’t stop. He raised his voice, his prayer turning into a shout, his words sharp and biting. The spirit convulsed, its form flickering and shaking, and let out a sound—a high, keening wail that sent shivers down my spine.

“Helen!” I cried, tears streaming down my face. I reached out, my fingers brushing against that icy, incorporeal form—and then jerked back as pain shot through me, like grabbing a live wire.

The spirit twisted, shrieking, and then lunged.

There was a blur of motion, a flash of white, and Father Martin was thrown backward, crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. His head snapped back, eyes wide with shock—and then he went limp, his body crumpling to the floor in a heap.

Silence.

The room was deathly still, the air heavy with the scent of ozone and something bitter, metallic. My parents were frozen, staring at the body of the priest, their faces white with horror.

And then, slowly, the spirit turned toward me.

I couldn’t move. I could only stare as it hovered there, its form shifting and trembling, its eyes—black, hollow—fixed on mine. For a heartbeat, it seemed almost… sad. Like it hadn’t meant to do this. Like it was sorry.

And then, in a blink, it was gone.

The room was empty.

Part IV

For what felt like an eternity, no one moved. My mom stood rooted in place, one hand clasped to her mouth, staring at the lifeless form of Father Martin slumped against the wall. My dad was frozen beside her, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.

“Dad?” I whispered, my voice small and broken.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me.

“Mom?” I tried again, my gaze shifting to her. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Get away from him,” my dad growled, his voice a raw, animalistic snarl. He lunged forward, shoving me back with such force that I stumbled, hitting the coffee table and nearly falling over.

“Dad, stop!” I cried, holding up my hands in surrender. “It wasn’t—it didn’t want to hurt him! I swear! It’s not like that!”

“Not like that?” he shouted, his face contorted in rage. “Not like that? He’s dead, Helen! Dead because of whatever you brought into this house!”

My throat tightened, and I felt the sting of tears burning my eyes. “No, I—it was trying to defend itself! You were hurting it, and—”

“Enough!” my dad roared, cutting me off. He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me violently. “Do you hear yourself? You sound insane! This—this is what happens when you mess around with things you don’t understand! You killed a man, Helen! You killed him!”

I flinched at the word, the accusation slicing through me like a knife. “I didn’t—”

“Stop it!” my mom screamed suddenly, her voice shrill and hysterical. She staggered forward, clutching at my dad’s arm. “Stop yelling at her! She’s—she’s our daughter!”

“Our daughter just murdered a priest, Claire!” my dad shot back, jerking away from her. “How are you not seeing that?”

My mom’s eyes darted between us, wild and terrified. “We—we need to call someone. We need—”

“No.” My dad’s voice was ice-cold, each word like a death sentence. “No one can know about this. If the church finds out—if the police find out—” He turned to me, his eyes burning with hatred. “You’re not saying anything, do you understand?”

I stared at him, numb and shaking. “But—”

“Do. You. Understand?” he snarled, his grip tightening on my shoulders until it hurt.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Yes, I—I understand.”

* * * * * * *

The next few hours passed in a blur. My parents moved like ghosts through the house, whispering frantically to each other, casting fearful glances in my direction. I watched in horrified silence as my dad dragged Father Martin’s body into the back room, his face set in a grim mask. I didn’t dare ask what they were planning to do with it.

I just stood there, trembling, my eyes fixed on the empty space in the living room where Helen had appeared. The air still felt cold, heavy with the lingering presence of something that shouldn’t have been there. Something I had invited in.

It was my fault. I’d brought her here. I’d made this happen.

I killed him.

The thought echoed through my mind, relentless and unyielding, twisting in my chest until I thought I might be sick. I squeezed my eyes shut, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to shut it out. But it was no use.

The truth was there, staring me in the face.

I was a murderer.

* * * * * * *

When I finally stumbled up to my room, hours later, I was exhausted. My parents had locked themselves in their bedroom, leaving me alone to grapple with what had happened. I felt hollow, numb, my mind a swirling storm of guilt and confusion and fear.

I sank onto the edge of my bed, burying my face in my hands. “Helen?” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Are you there?”

Silence.

“Please,” I begged, choking on a sob. “I—I need to talk to you. Just—please come back.”

The room stayed quiet and still, the only sound my ragged breathing. For a moment, I thought she was gone. That she’d left for good. And then, slowly, the air around me grew colder.

I looked up, tears blurring my vision, and there she was—a faint shimmer in the corner of my room, barely visible. She didn’t move, didn’t reach out. Just hovered there, her form trembling, as if she were struggling to hold herself together.

“Helen,” I breathed, my heart aching. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t know—”

The spirit shifted, her outline flickering, and I felt it—a soft, almost imperceptible brush of cold against my cheek. Like a tear made of ice.

“It’s not your fault,” I whispered, my throat tight. “They—they hurt you. I didn’t want them to hurt you.”

She seemed to shimmer, her form pulsing gently, and I got the sense that she was… listening. Understanding. But there was something else there, too. Something darker. An undercurrent of anger, of rage simmering just beneath the surface.

“I—I wish I could make them stop,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “But they won’t listen. They—”

A loud crash echoed through the house, making me jump. My head whipped around, heart pounding, and I heard my parents’ voices—muffled, frantic—coming from downstairs. Another crash, followed by a string of curses.

“Helen, help!” my mom’s voice shrieked, high-pitched and panicked. “Stop it—please, just make it stop!”

The blood drained from my face. I turned back to the spirit, my pulse racing. “What are you doing?” I whispered. “Helen, what—”

But she was already gone.

I bolted out of my room, my feet pounding against the hardwood floors as I tore down the hallway. I could hear the chaos in the living room—furniture toppling, glass shattering, my parents’ shouts mingling with a low, guttural growl that made my blood run cold.

“Helen, stop!” I screamed, skidding to a halt at the top of the stairs.

The living room was a whirlwind of destruction. The coffee table lay shattered on the floor, shards of glass and porcelain scattered everywhere. The couch was flipped over, one leg broken clean off. My parents were huddled in the corner, my dad clutching my mom’s shoulders, his face twisted in a mixture of terror and fury.

And in the center of it all, hovering in the air like a storm made of shadow and ice, was Helen.

She looked different now—darker, more solid. Her form rippled and churned, a writhing mass of shadow that pulsed with a strange, unnatural energy. The air around her crackled, distorting like heatwaves in the dead of summer.

“Stop it!” I screamed, stumbling down the stairs. “Helen, please, stop!”

But she didn’t stop. If anything, the storm only grew stronger, the air filling with a high, keening wail that set my teeth on edge. My dad shouted something, but his words were lost in the din. I could only watch, helpless, as the spirit turned toward them—her eyes, black and empty, locking onto my mom’s terrified face.

“Don’t hurt them!” I cried, throwing myself between them. “Helen, please! Don’t—”

The wailing stopped.

For a moment, the world seemed to hang in suspended silence. Helen hovered there, her dark form trembling, as if torn between two forces—one that wanted to lash out, to destroy, and one that… listened.

And then, with a shuddering, almost painful jerk, she vanished.

The silence that followed was deafening.

I stood there, chest heaving, my whole body trembling. My parents were staring at me, wide-eyed and shaking, my mom’s hands pressed to her mouth.

“What—what was that?” my dad croaked, his voice barely audible.

I swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “I—I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t… I don’t know what she is.”

My mom let out a choked sob, her shoulders shaking. My dad just stared at me, his expression unreadable.

“Helen,” he whispered, and for the first time, I saw it—the fear in his eyes, raw and desperate. “What have you done?”

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know how.

All I knew was that I’d unleashed something—something I didn’t understand. Something I couldn’t control.

Part V

We didn’t speak about what happened that night. Not really.

My parents didn’t call the police. They didn’t even tell Father Martin’s congregation he’d been to our house. They cleaned up the mess, buried his body somewhere deep in the woods, and swore to each other—and to me—that no one would ever know. We’d pretend like it never happened. Like Helen never existed.

But I knew they were scared of me.

I could see it in the way my dad’s gaze flitted away whenever I tried to talk to him, in the way he flinched if I came too close. My mom wouldn’t look at me at all. She’d shuffle around the house, eyes downcast, whispering prayers under her breath like they were the only thing holding her together.

Sometimes, I’d catch her watching me from the doorway when she thought I wasn’t looking—her face pale, eyes wide and glassy, as if she were looking at a stranger. As if she were afraid I might snap at any moment.

And maybe she was right.

Because, deep down, I was afraid, too.

I stayed in my room most days, curled up on the bed, staring blankly at the wall. I couldn’t feel her anymore—not like I used to. The room was cold and empty, a hollow echo of what it had been when we played together, night after night.

I called out to her sometimes, desperate, pleading, but she never answered. It was like she’d disappeared—like she’d faded away into whatever dark place spirits go when they’re… done.

But I knew she was still there.

I could feel it, lingering at the edges of my mind—a faint, whispering presence, watching. Waiting.

And then, one night, everything changed.

* * * * * * *

I’d been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when I felt it—a soft, featherlight brush against my cheek. My heart stuttered, my breath catching in my throat.

“Helen?” I whispered, sitting up slowly. “Is that you?”

No response. But the air shifted, a chill creeping through the room, raising goosebumps on my arms. I swallowed hard, staring into the darkness.

“I—” I hesitated, fear and hope warring in my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t… I didn’t want to hurt you.”

The silence was thick, suffocating. For a moment, I thought she might not respond. That I was just talking to myself again.

And then, slowly, the letters began to appear.

They scrawled themselves across the mirror on my dresser, one by one, in jagged, frost-covered lines:

WHY DID YOU LET HIM HURT ME?

My breath caught. I scrambled out of bed, stumbling to the mirror, my eyes wide. “I didn’t—I tried to stop him, Helen! I tried, but I couldn’t—”

The letters shifted, the frost shimmering, twisting, reforming.

YOU DIDN’T STOP HIM.

Tears welled in my eyes. “I—I know,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I—”

WHY?

The question hung in the air, icy and unforgiving. I stared at the words, my chest tight, my heart aching.

“I was scared,” I choked out. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t—”

The mirror cracked.

I flinched, stumbling back, my pulse racing. The frost spread like a spider’s web, creeping outward from the center of the glass. I watched, trembling, as the lines twisted and curled, spelling out one final word:

LIAR.

I let out a choked sob, dropping to my knees. “Please,” I begged. “Please, Helen, I’m—”

But she was already gone.

The room fell silent again, the cold dissipating, leaving me alone in the dark.

* * * * * * *

After that night, the hauntings changed.

They weren’t… friendly anymore. They weren’t playful, like the games we used to play. There were no more touches, no more gentle breezes. Instead, there were whispers—faint, hissing voices that echoed through the house at night, filling the silence with a low, menacing hum.

Doors would slam shut behind me when I walked through the hallways. Lights would flicker, then snap off, plunging me into darkness. Objects would go missing—books, clothes, even pieces of furniture—and reappear in strange places, stacked precariously in the middle of rooms, arranged in bizarre, spiraling patterns.

And then there were the scratches.

They started small—tiny, shallow marks carved into the walls, the floors, the furniture. At first, I thought it was just my imagination. But they got worse. They got deeper. Longer.

Soon, they were everywhere—dozens, hundreds of jagged lines, gouged into the wood and plaster, crisscrossing every surface of the house.

One morning, I woke up to find them on my arms.

Long, angry gashes, crisscrossing my skin, bleeding sluggishly. I stared at them, numb with shock, and then at the message carved into the wall above my bed:

TRAITOR.

I didn’t tell my parents. I couldn’t. They’d already started avoiding me—moving around the house like I was some ghost haunting them. I didn’t want to give them another reason to be afraid.

So I just bandaged the cuts, put on a long-sleeved shirt, and tried to pretend everything was fine.

But it wasn’t. It would never be fine again.

* * * * * * *

The weeks dragged by, slow and torturous. The hauntings grew worse. My parents finally decided to leave, whispering in hushed voices about moving away, getting a fresh start somewhere far, far from the house and whatever nightmare I’d brought into our lives.

They thought leaving would save them.

They were wrong.

Because the night before we were supposed to go, Helen came back.

I woke up to the sound of glass shattering. I sat bolt upright, heart pounding, and stumbled out of bed, my legs trembling. The air was freezing, the room so cold I could see my breath misting in front of me.

“Helen?” I whispered, fear twisting in my gut. “What—what’s going on?”

A high, keening wail echoed through the house, making my skin crawl. I staggered into the hallway, my pulse racing. “Mom? Dad?”

No answer.

I turned the corner, my heart in my throat, and froze.

My parents were standing in the living room, their eyes wide and glassy, their faces pale and bloodless. The air around them shimmered, thick with frost. I took a step forward, then another, my heart hammering against my ribs.

And then I saw it.

The shadow.

It loomed behind them, a hulking, twisted shape of darkness and ice, its eyes black pits of rage and malice. I sucked in a breath, stumbling back.

“Helen, no!” I screamed. “Don’t—please, don’t hurt them!”

The spirit didn’t move. It just hovered there, its gaze fixed on me, unblinking. Unforgiving.

“Please,” I begged, tears streaming down my face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just—just let them go. Let them go.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. And then, slowly, the spirit shifted.

My parents’ eyes rolled back in their heads. They crumpled to the floor, limp and lifeless.

“No!” I screamed, rushing forward. I dropped to my knees, shaking them frantically. “Mom? Dad? Please—”

But it was too late. They were gone.

And as I knelt there, sobbing over their bodies, the shadow slowly faded away, leaving me alone.

Alone with the darkness I’d created.

* * * * * * *

I moved in with my grandparents shortly afterward. I never heard from the ghost again and never dabbled in the occult again. But what happened… it shook me. I don’t believe in any of it now—the prayers, the rituals, the promises of salvation. And I’ll never set foot in a church again. Not for as long as I live.

My parents’ deaths were ruled the result of a break-in and an attempted robbery. That’s what the police decided, anyway. It was easy to blame it on that, considering the state the house was in. I kept tight-lipped, always claiming I’d been asleep in my room during the worst of it, hiding myself away from the violence. To this day, it’s a cold case.

And it’ll stay that way forever.

Colder than anyone knows.