Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Slumber Party Seance Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

SLUMBER PARTY SÉANCE

The planchette didn’t move, but the dancing orange glow from the three candles at the head of the board suggested maybe.

“Did it move?” Carol was twelve, she was pale as ivory, had straight black hair and deep blue eyes that upturned at a slight cat-like angle. “It moved, right?” Carol’s mother was dead, and she was desperate, though wouldn’t admit to anything of the sort.

The board was from the ‘eighties, made by Mattel.

Sandy lifted her fingers from the hunk of plastic fashioned to resemble aged wood. “Didn’t move at all.” She was reddish with a suntan that resembled a burn, thirteen that day, had beady green eyes, wore a sea of rusty freckles, and had hair the color of carrots.

“You sure?” Mindi squinted, the way the candlelight dashed over her eyes made the irises appear golden. Mindi was chubby, the oldest by four months, wore her hair in a ponytail, pale brown like a jersey cow’s flanks.

All three were in lounging clothes and dealing with different levels of letdown. Sandy’s mother brought out the board for them to play with while she went to visit friends for the night. The girls were old enough to hangout sans chaperone—the chances of getting in trouble at the old farmhouse were slim.

“Says here,” Carol held her phone before her, casting a blue swath over her face, making her look downright ghostly, “Ouija boards were sold as parlor games. What’s a parlor game?”

Mindi scrunched her lips toward her chin and bugged her eyes. Carol turned to Sandy. Sandy shrugged.

Eyes returned to the screen, Carol read on. “There are a bunch of ways we can… Do you have salt?”

Mindi spied her friend. Carol’s dad had a maid. Carol’s dad let her get away with everything. Carol’s dad wanted to make sure he kept that part of his family happy despite her not having a mother. “Why?”

“We can summon a witch if we pour salt—”

“My mom’ll kick my butt if I make a mess, double if she finds out I wasted salt. Find one that doesn’t make a mess.”

“We can clean.” Sandy had the planchette in her hands, flipping and catching it above her crossed legs. “Your mom won’t know.”

“Just see what else.” They didn’t get it; her mom figured out everything.

Carol back-searched and clicked the next heading: AUTOMATIC WRITING.

They began and they kept at it.

Tool hit paper for a twelfth time. The trio asked questions, switched pens, traded for a pencil, closed eyes, opened eyes, blew out the candles, lit more candles, went upstairs, and were finally in the basement. Unfinished walls of damp stone, whitewashed but flaking. The floor was smooth cement, a big green furnace and the off-white washer and dryer filled the space opposite the indoor/outdoor-carpeted stairs. Between them was a shelving unit loaded with junk. The girls sat in a wide patch of open floor next to a casket-sized deep freeze. The floor was cool through their yoga pants. They’d added bulky hoodies to their getups once deciding on the basement.

Carol had carted the Ouija board, just in case they wanted to try again. According to the internet, it helped to have personal things belonging to the deceased. Carol wore her mother’s wedding band on a necklace and would put the ring on her hand if they wanted to try the board again. Her mother would find her.

“This is stupid.” Sandy held a purple crayon to a blank sheet of paper.

“You know, we’re supposed to use something personal with the Ouija board. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t work.” Carol absently fiddled with the ring dangling beneath her shirt.

“Like instead of that stupid plastic thing?” Sandy tossed the crayon across the room, it rolled into the shadows—the basement was mostly shadows, even with the hanging bulb lit.

Carol was about to argue when Mindi spoke first. “Hey, yeah. Lose the plastic thing. I bet we get something from down here, maybe then we can talk to some old farm wife or something.”

Carol opened her mouth, then closed it. She unhooked the skinny gold chain from her neck and slipped the ring into her palm while her friends carried lit candles into the outer reaches of the room. With the ring in her hand, even if they attempted contact with local spirits, she’d still find her mom. Blind fingers worked the clasp and the necklace again dangled beneath her sweater. So much lighter without the ring. It slid on to the third finger of her left hand like home.

“Hey, was this all here when you moved in?” Mindi called from the far side of the furnace.

Sandy hurried over and looked at the boxes Mindi had located. Elbows deep one second, the next she turned around holding up enormous, dusty eyeglasses and a set of greyed dentures. Sandy laughed. “Those ain’t mine.”

Mindi blew off the glasses and dentures. The glasses magnified her eyes comically, the dentures bulged her lips an inch. “How I look?” The dentures clacked.

“Eww,” Carol and Sandy said in unison. Carol had joined the search, though wasn’t looking. “What else is in there?” Sandy asked.

Mindi turned back to the eye-level box, glasses slipping to the end of her nose. The candle glinted shine off a partially rusted blade. She spun around again, this time with a dagger in hand, and spat the dentures onto the floor. “This’ll point to stuff on the board, for sure.”

Sandy snatched the knife. She looked to Carol, grinning. “It say anything about blood sacrifice?”

Carol gulped and pulled her phone from the front pocket of her hoodie, not understanding that Sandy’s words were a demand rather than a question.

The bulb lamp switched off, and the candles flickered at the head of the board. Sandy went first—tetanus far from mind—and forced the blade into her palm with a gasp. She yanked it free and blood dribbled onto the board.

The knife fell and Mindi grabbed it, hungry to get it over with. The knife’s blade was dull, but the pointed tip was fine. A red bubble bloomed for a half-second before running. “Shit.” Mindi shook her hand above the board, sprinkling droplets.

“You go,” Sandy said.

Carol gazed into the reflective droplets and the dirty, wet blade. She didn’t want to, but picked up the knife, surprised by its sturdiness. She closed her eyes and pricked her palm. The blood hardly dribbled. Mindi grabbed her hand and tried to squeeze out extra.

“There. Put the knife in the middle, same as the planchette.” Mindi let go of Carol.

The knife fell and Carol opened her eyes. The dampness of the basement suddenly seemed so full that she’d drown in it. And still, her hands reached and her fingers touched the hilt.

“Spirits of this night, talk to us!” Mindi’s eyes beamed, flames reflected. “Are you here?”

They waited.

Nothing.

Sandy tried. “Spirits, come to us, we will do whatever you say. Are you here?”

The knife did not move.

They waited.

“You try,” Mindi said to Carol.

“Spirits? Come to us. Are you here?”

Still nothing.

“This is stu—”

Mindi shushed Sandy. “Just wait a second, maybe they’re like in some other place.”

They waited. And waited.

The quiet of the basement opened ears to the world beyond the thick stone foundation. The patter of rain, the cry of the cows in the field beyond the fence, and the whisper of a summer breeze finding cracks in the ancient stonework.

“Hey, did it move?” Carol whispered.

The trio stared, hard.

Flame glow shimmered over the blood on the board, bounced on the clean areas of the knife. They watched and waited. Nothing. Their fingers shined and each felt the gentle burn from their cuts.

Sandy was the first to lift her hands, bored and annoyed. Carol followed, she’d scared herself into believing there was no way this would fail and she’d see her mother one more time.

Mindi growled, “Put ‘em back on!”

Fingers made contact again.

“Talk to us! Are you here?”

The rain, the whistling breeze, the occasional cry of the cows, all outdoors; the basement was silent aside from gentle breaths. The girls watched the knife. The board beneath had soaked much of the blood, staining splotches over the gothic lettering.

They waited. And waited.

Still nothing.

Carol lifted her eyes from the board. The unfinished ceiling was a woody shadow space. The grey spider webs seemed to groove on a barely perceptible rhythm. Carol felt herself swaying along.

“Are you here?” she whispered.

A tear forced its way to the corner of her eye.

The rain and the breeze stopped, as if sucked away.

They waited.

“Are you here?” Carol whispered again, fingers pressed hard against the knife.

Nothing.

Mindi lifted her hands and straightened the goofy glasses. “What a stupid waste.”

Sandy didn’t argue it. Her hands came away too.

“Are you here?” Carol said, louder.

“Come on.” Mindi pushed to her feet, brushing at her floor-chilled butt. 

Sandy stood, arms stretched for balance.

“Are you here?” Carol whined this.

Still nothing.

“Come on, let’s go wat—”

Cows wailed outside. The rain sounded as if a monsoon deluge fell from a cold start. The breeze was a wind, whistling like a child’s scream. The candle flames disappeared. Void dark, the basement seemed to shrink tight on the girls.

“What the fu—?” Mindi started, the glasses fell from her face and clanked on the floor as she jerked her head backwards.

The single hanging bulb had lit.

It grew bright.

Then brighter.

Sandy and Mindi came together in a scared embrace. Carol looked at the board, waiting for the knife to move.

The hanging light burned like the sun. Mindi screamed. Sandy screamed. Carol brought her eyes up from the Ouija board, craning naturally, her gaze falling onto the fully illuminated, whitewashed wall. In big, purple, crayon script: I AM HERE.

The knife moved on the board, spinning to face Carol. It tapped gently, vibrating, the light blared in a way that made them all squint. The knife took flight, brushing Carol’s loose-hanging hair on the way to the lightbulb. Hot glass and electrified steel rained to the floor like firework afterbirth.

The sound of thumping feet stole Carol from the sensation of awe. Mindi and Sandra were on the stairs and peeling away. Carol flipped over, the cut on her palm stinging against the floor. She ran on fours until her head hit the banister. She felt for the steps and began climbing. The light at the top of the stairs was subtly brighter; bright enough to make out shapes, an exit, but not bright enough to suggest a bulb lit anywhere else in the home.

She worked her way topside and heard her phone fall from her pocket and clunk to the cement floor. The sound stopped her on the top riser—she was one of six in class who had her own cellphone, the only one of the close friends, that device enhanced her cool in a way that seemed almost worth the risk. Almost. She considered charging back down and snatching it up.

“Come on!” Mindi was in the doorway, shouting into the shadows.

Carol let it go. Reaching the doorway, she nearly fell back, stumbling with her arms on the lack of a step. Up and running, she trailed behind Mindi.

In the kitchen, ignoring the door, beyond the windows the cows gathered; on the wrong side of the fence. In the living room, void dark again, the rain and winds pounded the glass, rattling in frenzy. To the stairs, past another door, past more windows, more circling cows. Midnight purple streaked with green, the sky was alive. Up the stairs, light from outside glinted off the picture frames.

“We need help!” Sandy was at the top; her eyes looked like pinholes, her mouth like a fissure. “The phones don’t work, use your cell!”

Carol’s throat closed on a plea. No phone put the pressure elsewhere. Her feet thumped on the carpeted stairs until reaching the hallway carpet that matched, though was far less worn. The hall seemed endless and Carol closed her eyes behind Mindi, behind Sandy.

Light flickered on a match head. “Take a candle. Take a candle.” Mindi’s words were hurried and hardened, as if light was the answer, as if light drove away anything but the perception of dark.

Sandy kicked the door closed and the trio stood in her room, candles before their faces. Carol had to ask, “What if it’s my mom?”

The others looked at her. It was a nice thought, but it felt off.

Sandy said, “That’s stupid.”

“No, but I…”

Mindi shook her head, held out a hand. “Give me your phone.”

Gaze lowered, Carol said, “I dropped it in the basement.”

“You stupid, rich bi—”

The candlelight shrank away with Sandy’s words. The rain seemed to have stalled again, the wind let the shaking panes rest, the cows were silent too. Mindi whimpered and worked a match. It lit to reveal only two of them standing at the center of the room. “Sandy?” Mindi whispered.

Carol mimicked.

Again.

Carol held her candlewick to flame. She turned right. Mindi lit her own candle, turned left. The room was as it was: messy; a desk, a bed, a closet, a Taylor Swift poster, and a Hunger Games: Catching Fire poster they’d stolen from the drive-in the summer before. And then Sandy.

“Sandy?” Carol stepped toward her friend. She stood at the closed door, almost touching it, back to the others. Carol reached. Sandy’s hood was up like a monk, hands somewhere out of view. “Sandy?” Carol whispered. She could feel Mindi behind her. She grabbed Sandy’s shoulder. Sandy leaned away. Carol took a step closer, grabbed Sandy’s hood, pulled to turn her.

The hood flopped down, revealing a smooth head, so pale it looked like Styrofoam. She continued turning even as Carol had retracted her arm.

Carol screamed and Mindi screamed.

Sandy’s eyes and mouth sprouted patches of thin orange hair. Sandy patted at her cheeks and throat as if unwilling to touch. Then panic strengthened and she began trying to pull at the hair as it grew thicker.

“Sandy?” Something must’ve clicked at hearing Mindi say her name, behind the terror, beyond the uncanny hair growth.

Sandy’s arms reached out and she charged blindly, helplessly. Carol jumped sideways. Mindi spun off a glancing touch. Sandy continued running until she hit the bed, toppling, her face smashing into the windowsill and pane. The wind gusted through the broken barrier; it was almost as if it rained inside as well.

Mindi tore away, toward the door. Carol followed, her candle flame dancing, swaying, dying. Mindi started down the stairs and the meager light from her candle departed as she tripped and began rolling and thumping.

“Mindi?” Carol whisper yelled. “Mindi!”

Outside, lightning flashed and the bovine harmony was high and pained. Carol saw nothing of her friend and stopped four steps from the second floor, nine from the main. Behind her, doors began slamming. She spun, taking a step down while looking up.

“Mindi?”

Lightning flashed again. Carol saw her reflection in the glass of the pictures lining the staircase wall. It made her scream anew, she started down the steps in a hurry, but stopped before reaching the bottom. Her instincts were influx, confused, terrified, immobilized.

“Mindi?”

Carol’s hand gripped the banister so tightly it stung her fingers.

“Help.” The voice was distant and weak, coming from above.

Carol looked up, into the shadows. Lightning bolts struck one after another and lit the home in a strobe. Mindi’s back was flat against the ceiling. Her arms and legs shook and pedaled, as if she could swim against an impending fall, like gravity was water.

“Mindi, how—?”

Mindi whined, “No!” falling hard over the newel post at the foot of the banister. Her body wrapped floppily. Scents filled the air: excrement and urine.

“Mindi? Mindi?” Carol yanked on the girl’s limp arm. Her body slipped and slid to the floor. At the top of the stairs, footfalls pounded heavy and dull, slow steps chasing her like a horror film revenant.

Carol let go of Mindi’s hand and broke for the door. She swung it open. Wind and rain blasted her back. The steps continued behind her. She forced through the pressure, instantly soaked. A high-pitched hum left her throat.

In the purple-green gloom, dozens of huge cows paraded pained circles over the yard. They shined beneath the effervescent cloud cover, bumpy and trailing huge, mysterious swatches, like blankets or parachutes. The lightning pounded all around her and she saw the pale pink muscle and sinewy white tendons of the skinned beasts. The trailing swatches were inside out hides, hanging on to their back ends.

Carol couldn’t do it and turned around to re-enter the home, maybe get to the basement, collect her phone, call her father.

She didn’t make it a single step and almost bumped into a tall figure in a red dress, hair long, down past her breasts, thick, black.

Carol’s hope bloomed. “Mommy!”

The girl’s mother lifted her head, eyes blazing gold. She opened her mouth, toothless gums stretched with shadowy divots, her tongue wiggled like a greyed snake. The breath was of campfire smoke and rotten fruit.

The sight and smell had Carol back-stepping.

The mouth closed and the woman’s smooth skin began drying, great valleys stretched shadows, structure clarified beneath until the papery skin tore and revealed bones.

“Mom,” Carol whined. Her left foot sunk into the soggy lawn. She swung her arms for balance.

Head gooey, but stiff, a cow wailed the moment before it connected with Carol’s shoulder, launching her sideways. Her hip cracked like a gunshot, her head connecting with her ankle. The lights in the house lit and the din of the parading beasts lessened. They no longer ran, though continued pained mooing. Carol blinked. Once. Twice. Up to the sky that no longer seemed strange. The third blink was the longest.

She opened her eyes and looked at four boys and two girls. They were in Sandy’s unfinished basement. They had a bloodied Ouija board before them. Candles lit their faces in an eerily familiar glow.

“Are you here?” one boy asked, eyes closed tight, chin upturned, hands on Carol’s broken cellphone, as if it was a planchette. It was dull and dusty, appeared to have aged years. “Are you here?”

Carol shook, turned away.

“Are you here?”

The purple crayon lay beneath a layer of grime, stuck in a crack between wall and floor. Carol fingered and picked. The crayon came free.

“Are you here?”

The crayon was heavy in hand, but she managed. On the wall, she wrote I AM HERE.

XX