Ouija: Let The Right One In

If you grew up in my generation, you may well have been warned about the dangers of the Ouija board when you were young. You may have been told that attempting to contact the spirit world through this Parker Brothers game was simply asking for trouble. Even inviting the possibility of demonic possession. If you were anything like me, all of this warning of foreboding meant that you would not--could not--rest until you had purchased one and tried it yourself. After all, what would liven up your dull teenage life more than suddenly being possessed by the devil?

As I've mentioned before, I know I have a lot of elementary school readers. Pre-K, even (which is why I use only the most basic of words. Yes it is too.). I'm here to tell any of my younger readers, and even some of my older ones, DO NOT MESS WITH THE POWER OF THE OUIJA! This is serious, my friends. Here is my story. After reading it, you too will know that the Ouija board is not a joke. It is not cool. It is an instrument of evil, and by using it, you are endangering your very soul.

My friend Brian and I were fourteen and sitting Indian-style (that's criss-cross-applesauce to my younger readers) on the floor. Before us on the carpet was the freshly purchased Ouija. I was looking forward to asking it a whole host of questions. When will I die? When will Brian die? What was the name of that guy who played on Greatest American Hero? Keep in mind this was before the age of the Internet. After I explained once again that it wasn't pronounced "Oy-juh", Brian and I gave each other a hesitant look and then placed our fingers on the planchette.

I took a deep breath and uttered, "Spirit world, we have urgent business with you. If you are there, please respond with 'yes'."

We waited, deep in concentration. After a moment, the planchette began to move slowly towards the big "YES" at the top of the board. I looked at Brian, immediately suspicious.

"You moved it," I said.

"No way, man," Brian said. "I think we should put it away."

I looked back at the board, the planchette resting quietly on the big YES at the top. "Hmm, maybe you're right."

I started to put the board back in the box, and that's when it leaped out of my hands. It spun itself three times on the carpet and then laid itself flat again. The planchette jumped into the air, righted itself, and then began to make words entirely independent of us. We both cowered in the corner, but unable to turn away from the horror. We watched as the words began to spell out on the board.

G-E-T ... O-F-F ... M-Y ... L-A-W-N

"Holy shit, dude, we need to get out of here," Brian said.

"Hold on," I muttered, slowly moving back towards the board. I stopped in my tracks as the planchette began to move again.

Y-O-U ... S-T-O-L-E ... M-Y ... L-A-W-N-M-O-W-E-R

"Oh for Christ's sake," I said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Mrs. Opplestein? Is that you?"

"No...way..." Brian said, finally coming away from the corner.

Mrs. Opplestein was an old hag from next door. She was always accusing us of being on her lawn and stealing her lawnmower, as well as a host of other minor infractions, none of which we were guilty of. It would be stretching it to say we threw a party when we found out she had died, but we didn't exactly mourn, either. Of all the interesting spirits we might have contacted, it figured that we would tune into her old ass frequency.

"How did you die, Mrs. Opplestein?" Brian asked, barely able to keep the tremor out of his voice.

The board came alive once again.

M-E-T-A-M-U-C-I-L
O-V-E-R-D-O-S-E

Brian nodded solemnly. "So ... are you in Hell?"

The pointer slowly moved to the YES.

"What's that like?" I asked.

L-I-K-E ... L-I-V-I-N-G ... N-E-X-T-D-O-O-R ... T-O ... Y-O-U

"Sick burn," Brian said.

"Well, this sucks," I said. "Let's go see what whiskey and grape soda tastes like."

Brian agreed and we put the Oujia board away, feeling both triumphant and deflated over our brief contact with the world beyond. If only we had known then what we came to know later.

Strange things started happening.

Prunes found their way into my parents' grocery bags without them having picked them out.

The television would go to static intermittently, only to suddenly change over to Murder, She Wrote.

The family car started to smell like a mixture of Chanel No. 5 and urine.

It was happening. I was being haunted by the ghost of Mrs. Opplestein.

Three exorcisms later, we finally got rid of the poltergeist, but not without some casualties. No, no one died (well, other than Mrs. Opplestein), but Brian was never the same again. I would catch him walking down the hall at school muttering something about "should have never taken that lawnmower".

Don't play with the Ouija board kids.

And don't mix whiskey with grape soda.