8 years.
Eight years ago, I asked the Ouija Board a question that will forever haunt me. (If you know anything about this “psychic” game, you know that it should not be messed around with by little Christian girls.) My cousin, Amanda, and I had been attempting to scare one another with our most frightening ghost stories when she decided it would be fun to take our spooky rendezvous to the next level.
Quietly, she crept to her closet and pulled out the controversial game from among the shelves. At first, being the scaredy-cat that I was, I refused to play. But eventually, curiosity got the best of me, and my fascination with the supernatural began to outweigh my fear. I agreed, under the condition that she went first. Amanda found this to be a reasonable request and carefully considered her first question. “Am I going to die within the next 10 years?” she whispered with a hint of trepidation in her voice. Amanda suffered from Cystic Fibrosis, a chronic lung disease with an average life expectancy of only 30 years old—so it’s no wonder that at 19, she was already thinking about death. Both of us breathed a sigh of relief as the wooden object beneath our fingertips slowly made its way to the area marked “No.”
Next was my turn. I specifically remember wanting to ask the Ouija if any spirits were in the room with us. The idea of having an actual ghost present at our midnight fright fest excited me, and I wanted to know more about it. But to my surprise, Amanda would not allow it; this was, in fact, the bedroom that she slept in every night, and she did not care to become acquainted with any invisible roommates that might have been lurking. Her refusal struck me as odd at the time, considering that playing the “game” relies on a supernatural guide. (If she was scared of potential spirts making themselves known, why exactly were we consulting the Ouija Board in the first place?)
For lack of a better question, I followed my cousin's lead by inquiring about my own death (a mistake, to say the least). “In how many years will I die?” was my bold inquiry. As the planchette began to move, I kept my eyes pinned to the board in anticipation of the response that I would receive. It seemed like several slow minutes had passed before the clear circle in the center fully encompassed the number eight—a good first digit, I thought, as I braced myself for the uncovering of the second.
But I quickly realized, to my utter horror, that the planchette was no longer in motion—it had arrived at its answer. “Amanda, that’s not funny,” I pleaded, half expecting (or at least hoping) she’d admit to the cruel joke. Her eyes wide, she swore to me again and again that she had nothing to do with its dark reply. The demonic forces of the Ouija had spoken, and no amount of mental backflips to try to understand what had just taken place in my cousin’s bedroom were going to change that. My whole body froze as the reality of this terrible discovery began to sink in. At only 11, I was almost too curious, more than a little naive, and scared of absolutely everything. And now, I was convinced that I was going to die at the young and lively age of 19.
You may be wondering if, after all these years, I still buy into the idea that my life will be cut short because of a ridiculous game. To be honest, the thought of such a silly prediction coming true amuses me to the point of laughter. But for whatever reason, this childhood memory has never completely left me; it lingers in my subconscious and is only brought to the forefront of my mind on the rarest occasions. Like tonight, for instance, on the eve of my 19th birthday. Let's just say, I'm determined to make it to the big two-oh.
Photo by James Fitzgerald.