The Untold

Chapter 9: Unveiled

I shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the Ouija board, feeling a bit foolish. "So... how exactly does this work?" I asked, glancing around at everyone's expectant faces.

Raven grinned, clearly in her element. "You have to call the spirit, Amira. Just say something like, 'Oh, spirit, spirit, come,'" she said with a mocking lilt.

Rolling my eyes, I played along, lowering my voice and wiggling my fingers for dramatic effect. "Oh, spirit, spirit, come!" I said, feigning seriousness, half-expecting everyone to laugh and indeed there was a giggle amongst the crowd that had gathered.

But one of the guys leaned in, shaking his head. "No, you're doing it wrong. You have to actually mean it. You have to really focus, like you're actually inviting something in."

I met Carolina's gaze for a second; her brow furrowed with a subtle warning.

But now, with everyone watching, I couldn't back out.

So I took a deep breath, closing my eyes and forcing myself to push aside the nervousness.

With a steady voice, I whispered, "Spirit, if you're here... come join us." The words felt strange, heavy on my tongue.

As I opened my eyes, I couldn't shake the feeling that something unseen had just entered the room.

The laughter around the Ouija board quickly died down as the planchette began to move—slowly, at first, like someone was pushing it as a joke.

But then it picked up speed, sliding sharply across the board, spelling out a random jumble of letters.

The room went silent, the kind of silence where you could hear each breath, each creak of the old floorboards beneath us.

The smoky light flickered, casting long shadows that twisted and crawled along the walls. No one was laughing now.

"Who's doing that?" I whispered, barely finding my voice. But nobody answered.

The air felt tight, pressing in on us, and I could feel my heart pounding faster, each beat echoing in my ears.

The planchette suddenly jerked, almost flying out from under our fingers, and spelled out: LEAVE.

A couple of people jumped back, their faces pale, and Bianca's hand shot out to cover her mouth.

Someone let out a nervous laugh, trying to break the tension, but it sounded hollow, almost desperate. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickling, and I forced myself to stay calm.

Then, a strange scraping noise came from the corner of the room. A low, hollow sound, like fingernails dragging across wood.

It echoed around us, impossible to locate, as if it was coming from inside the walls themselves.

"Is...is this for real?" someone whispered.

Just then, the lights flickered and went out entirely, plunging the room into darkness.

My breath caught.

In the pitch black, I felt a hand brush against my shoulder, cold and unexpected.

I whipped around, but there was no one there.

And then—a laugh. Low, raspy, and close. Too close. A figure in the darkness—a guy's voice, chuckling as the lights snapped back on.

The planchette flew off the board, and we all shrieked, backing away as the guy we hadn't noticed before stepped forward, laughing hard.

"Oh, you guys should have seen your faces! Relax, relax. It's just an old board from my grandma's attic," he said, holding up the board and revealing the fake, worn-out symbols scratched on the back.
"Total junk."

A wave of nervous laughter and relief swept through the group, but I couldn't shake the cold sinking feeling.

As everyone else laughed it off, I slipped out of the room. I needed air, needed to shake off the sense that something was watching.

I moved through the club, finding a quieter corner away from the crowd in a separate private lounge area and threw myself onto the velvet sofa.

I hadn't felt that strange, creeping fear since...well, since I was a kid.
Flashes of memory hit me. I was young, I'd seen things, shadows that moved, whispers just beyond hearing.

But they all told me the same thing...

*Flashback*
sat stiffly on the edge of the coach, my parents across from me, their faces a strange mix of disappointment and something I couldn't quite place.

Fear, maybe?

The heavy silence between us made my skin crawl.

"This has gone too far, Amira," my mom said finally, her voice firm but quivering slightly. "We've tried to be patient, but this... this isn't normal."

I stared at the plush rug beneath my feet, trying to block out her words. It wasn't fair. They didn't understand. They couldn't.

"It's not like I'm doing anything wrong," I mumbled, though even I didn't sound convinced. My throat was tight. "I'm just... trying to figure stuff out."

"Figure stuff out?" My dad's voice was sharp, cutting through my weak protest. "You've been sitting in your room at night talking to thin air, Amira. Do you hear yourself?"

I flinched but didn't respond. They wouldn't believe me if I told them the truth. That I wasn't just "talking to thin air." That something—or someone—was answering me.

"It's in your head," my mom said, her tone softening now. "Sweetheart, we've spoken to the best experts.

They all agree—this isn't real. And you need to stop before you lose yourself completely."

I wanted to scream.

They didn't know anything about what I'd seen, what I'd felt. About how, sometimes, the voice in the quiet wasn't just mine but something ancient, something that understood me in ways they never had.

I clenched my fists, trying to keep my composure.
*End of flashback*

That night, they packed me off to boarding school. It wasn't framed as punishment—they called it "a fresh start."

But we all knew the truth. They were done dealing with me.

At boarding school, it was different. They paid for the best therapist, who sat with me in a sleek office that smelled like fresh leather and coffee.

She didn't scold or judge; she listened, but her words always came back to the same thing.
"It's not real, Amira," she'd say, her tone patient, as if she were explaining something simple to a child. "It's your mind, creating something to cope with loneliness or stress. You're not broken, but you have to let go of this... fantasy."

At first, I resisted. But over time—session after session, assignment after assignment—I stopped fighting.

I convinced myself that she was right. That the whispers in the dark weren't real, just my imagination running wild.

It was easier that way.

A sudden chill swept over me, pulling me out of my thoughts. I looked up, and in the low light, I saw Carolina standing nearby, draped in her ghostly costume, her veil covering her face.

I took a breath, trying to laugh it off.

"Carolina," I said, forcing a smile. "Why are you wearing that veil? Thought you would've preferred the masks we all bought."

But she didn't respond. She just stood there, silent, her head tilted slightly as though studying me.

My stomach dropped. Something was wrong—this didn't feel like Carolina.

The shape, the presence...too still, too quiet.

"Carolina...?"

No answer. My hand moved toward her hesitantly, brushing the edge of the fabric.

The air felt colder somehow, pressing against my skin. Just as I was about to lift the veil, a faint whisper of a dark voice brushed against my ear:
"Amira~..."