I can't quite bring myself to believe in Ouija boards. They're fun and interesting, and the results are mostly nonsense. Despite it I've still tried a few, barely even touching the glass or planchette because at least then I can be sure I'm not contributing to the effect. Over the years I've had some pure jackasses supposedly possess the board, from (don't quote me), a seven-year-old girl who told us she murdered somebody and then got killed herself; a bunch of dead relatives who'll lead you around the Wrekin before telling you who they are even bloody related to; 'spirits' that obviously have no grasp on any language known to man (and I'm willing to bet I'm not channelling any Sumarians in my neck of the woods); and finally a black guy who hates cats, pianos, laughter, and whose name is reportedly PS5 Howarth.
Pretty sure that sounds like some kind of fighter jet to me.
So no, I'm yet to have any experience with Ouija boards that convinces me I'm contacting the dead in another plane. But, not surprisingly, J has. Even he finds it hard to believe, but you have to admit the following story is a little spooky.
My other close childhood friend, we'll call him T, was present when it happened. J's mother was also participating, who we will call L, unbeknownst to her now-paranormal-avoidant husband. He does not know this incident took place, as he expressly and severely forbids the use of Ouija boards in his house.
So J, T and L did it anyway. And what happened isn't akin to flashing lights, table tipping or vexed demons reaching out of the walls. It's far more psychic than that, and I can't explain using logic or coincidence how it happened.
It began a little slow, as far as I can recall. T isn't particularly fond of Ouija and quite often opts out whenever we recreate the experiments. Three people tell the same story, however. It goes that they had reportedly contacted L's grandfather, who in many tales is said to reside in the house they live in. They asked the usual kinds of questions, of which L knew the answers, J knew some and T knew very little.
It didn't make the greatest of experiments, based on a collective, conscious knowledge of how best to answer each question. The answers were largely predictable and there was no evidence to suggest they truly were in contact with the man they knew as George.
Knowing this, L decides to remove herself from the game and observe her son and T playing. It carried on mostly the same as before, since J knew enough about George to give satisfactory answers even if unintentionally. So L decided upon a question that J nor T could ever have known the answer to, because she had never shared the story or its details with anyone, for the sake of it being somewhat mundane.
"Okay, Grandad George," she began. "What did I break on holiday?"
When I first heard this story, I thought it was a very good question. Open ended with a lot of obscure possibilities that would be impossible to guess. What could it have been? A plate? A window? A delicate trinket?
Equally as perplexed, the planchette moved beneath J and T's hands, spelling out a single word.
F - I - N - G - E - R
L's skin turned cold at the answer, because she had in fact broken her finger on holiday with Grandad George, and she'd never bothered to tell anyone present in the room about it.
The Spoons
When J was young (I'm spotting a trend here), there was also another particular incident with (Great) Grandad George that strikes me as most unusual. Grandad George is a stable feature in many of their paranormal experiences, but the odd thing about the presence they called George is he is subtle.
The most subtle influence of all is perhaps the most eerie, and it took place when J was at his natural grandparents' house. There had been some manner of family get together, and J was never usually the kind of child who interacted much with anybody (the same can still be said). J was quite happy at the event left to his own devices, and in this particular case, he'd picked up a pair of spoons from the party.
He sat on the floor tapping them between his knee and his hand and his parents noted it was a bit unusual, since their son had never shown much interest in... simpler toys. "What are you doing, J?" his mother asked, to which the boy replied, "Playing the spoons."
"Oh," replied his mother. "Who taught you to do that?"
"Grandad," he told her.
L looked her her father, who shook his head. "Don't be silly. Grandad doesn't know how to play the spoons!"
"Not that grandad," said J, "other grandad. The one you never speak to."
Sure enough, her face fell. Her Grandad George had known how to play the spoons, and there sat her son, doing the exact same thing.
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