The Spirit Board

by Jonathan Brònico

Papá says he’s glad for our house’s ghost stories because we wouldn’t have been able to afford our new home otherwise, but Mamá disagrees so loudly that I can hear it all from the living room.

"How could you keep a secret like this from me, Hector?" she says. “What good is a big house in the country if we have to share it with El Diablo?”

"The devil has nothing to do with this,” Papá says in that voice of his that’s usually paired with an eye roll. “People think they see someone standing in the window sometimes. It’s just a trick of the eyes.”

"You’ll think differently when he steals our children’s souls.”

A door slams upstairs followed by the kind of silence that I hate to be the first one to break. My little sister, however, isn’t old enough to have that kind of concern. She stops playing doctor, removing her toy stethoscope from her doll just long enough to ask a question.

“Carlos, what are Mamá and Papá talking about?” She’s only five, and she doesn’t understand how adults talk yet.

“I think our house is haunted, Evie,” I reply.

“What does ‘haunted’ mean?”

Footsteps march down the stairs. “It means we’re moving out as soon as we can,” Mamá says. She’s carrying our baby brother, Miguel. He’s crying his eyes out and clawing at Mamá’s wooden crucifix, its golden-brown oak all but disappearing against her neck.

Another set of footsteps follows her. “Lucía,” Papá says, “we’re staying here. This neighborhood is safer for the hijos, and the local middle school is better for Carlos. Besides, where would we get the money from?”

Mamá purses her lips and storms off into the kitchen. Papá, rather than pressing his luck any further, simply shrugs and returns upstairs.

Evelyn tugs on my shirt and lowers her voice to a whisper. “What are Mamá and Papá angry about?”

“I think it’s the ghost.”

***

Every day, Mamá continues her protest, but Papá dismisses her. Truth be told, Evie and I want to see the ghost, but nothing spooky ever happens.

Soon, it’s the start of a new school year, and I have the absolute pleasure of being the new kid. I keep mostly to myself until lunch, when another kid joins me at my otherwise empty table. His wild, copper-red hair juts out from his baseball cap, and determination covers his rosy pink face.

He takes the seat next to mine. “I hear you just moved into the old Beckett house. Have you seen him yet?”

I’m still in shock that someone dared to talk to the new kid. “What?”

“The ghost,” he says, his eyes burning with curiosity. “I’ve never seen him myself, but my cousin, Eddie, said one time he saw a guy dressed all in white walk by the window while the house was for sale. Said it had to be Beckett’s ghost.”

“Who are you talking about?”

I take a bite of my sandwich as my new friend shares his story.

“He was a scientist that did all kinds of experiments on people many, many years ago.”

My eyes grow wide. “Like what?”

The kid shifts in his chair. “Like… all kinds of stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “You don’t really know, do you?”

He sighs. “Okay, you got me.” He leans even closer, his eager eyes even brighter than before. “But I always wanted to find out, though. Any chance I can come over?”

I size the kid up. He’s basically a stranger, and he wants me to invite him over. On the other hand, he’s the only person who’s bothered to talk to me today.

After a long pause, I say, “I’ll ask. What’s your name?”

The friendly stranger beams a wide, goofy grin. “Steve.”

I smile. “Carlos.”

***

Weekends come and go, and Steve is a regular at my house by the time the fall air grows crisp and Halloween decorations dot the neighbors’ porches. But neither of us has seen anything close to a ghost. Everything changes the first time Steve sleeps over. Late at night, when my family thinks Steve and I are asleep, Steve turns on his flashlight and pulls a strange wooden board from his backpack.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes. “Steve, what is this?”

“It’s a spirit board.”

My eyes bug out; I’m completely awake now. “Steve, my mom will kill us if she finds that. She says those things are for contacting the devil.”

Steve props up his flashlight to illuminate the board. “Don’t worry, she’s asleep.” He digs into his backpack and pulls out the little slidy-pointer-thing that always comes with the board in the movies. Steve looks at me with a hopeful grin.

I stare at the board like I’m peering into the gates of hell itself. “I don’t know.”

“You want to see the ghost or not?”

I’m torn as I look from my friend to the board. Mamá would ground me if she found out… but if I let Steve down, I wouldn’t have any friends to hang out with anyway.

I sit on the floor. “How does it work?”

Steve launches into an explanation, but I’m too busy looking at the board to listen. Every letter of the alphabet and numbers zero through nine are etched into the wooden board. The only words carved onto the board are yes, no, and goodbye.

I return my attention to Steve as he finishes his explanation.

“—and we put our fingers on the pointer and the ghost moves it around to answer our questions.” He pauses. “Want to give it a try?”

I don’t, but if not trying means losing my only friend, then I guess I have no choice. I place my fingers on the pointer. “But Mamá can’t find out.”

Steve places his fingers on the other side of the pointer. “She won’t.” He takes a deep breath. “Mr. Beckett, are you here?”

Then the pointer begins to move. It slides across the board. It lands on the word yes, and we look at one another. Steve’s eyes brim with excitement, but I can’t imagine mine are filled with anything but fear.

Steve whispers his next question. “Were you really a mad scientist?”

The pointer slides onto no.

A disappointed look crosses Steve’s face. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Maybe you were told the wrong thing,” I say. With curiosity displacing some of my fear, I lean closer to the board. “What did you used to do?”

The pointer moves again, slowly highlighting several letters: D-O-C-T-O-R.

Steve’s face lights up again. “Did you ever operate on people?

The pointer slides back to yes.

“I knew it,” Steve says. “Did you ever kill anyone after cutting them open?”

The pointer slides with incredible speed to the word goodbye.

***

Next week, Halloween arrives. All the other kids on the street march up and down, trick-or-treating, but of course, Mamá won’t let me go. At least she agreed to let Steve come over for another sleepover. As I watch the street for Steve’s parents’ car, my sister’s voice calls from the upstairs nursery.

“Mamá, Miguel is crying!”

I don’t think anything of it at first. Miguel cries every day. But when I overhear snippets of my parents’ conversation, I start becoming as concerned as they sound.

“He doesn’t want his bottle,” Papá says, confused, “and his diaper is clean. What’s wrong?”

“Evie said that he cried when she touched his stomach,” Mamá replies. “Normally he likes that. I think he’s sick. Do you think we should take him to the hospital?”

As I climb the stairs, their voices become more clear.

Papá sighs. “It’ll take a day or two for me to scrape together enough money to pay the insurance bill. We’re behind on our payments.”

“What should we do?” Mamá asks.

“Wait a day or two and see if it passes. It’s probably just gas.”

I poke my head in the nursery. Mamá and Papá are standing over Miguel’s crib in the cramped room. The floor creaks under Papá’s feet as he bounces Miguel back and forth to cheer him up.

"Is everything okay?” I ask.

"Your little brother isn’t feeling well,” Papá says. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

I bite my lip. “Can Steve still stay over tonight? Mamá promised.”

Papá shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

***

A light shines in my face, and I slowly pry my eyes open.

“Wake up,” Steve whispers. “It’s almost midnight on the spookiest night of the year. We won’t get a better chance to talk to the ghost.”

He pulls the board from his backpack and sets it up on the floor. The floor creaks as he walks.

“Quiet, we’ll wake up my parents.”

“They’ve been asleep for hours. Now, do you want to talk to the ghost or not?”

I drag myself out of bed and join him on the floor. We place our fingers on the pointer, and Steve begins.

“Hello, Dr. Beckett. Are you there?”

The pointer creeps from the center of the board onto yes.

I lean closer to the board. “How did you die?”

The pointer shifts around the board, spelling out N-O-T-I-M-E.

My little brother’s cries suddenly pierce the silence of the night.

My hand flies off the pointer. “Steve, we’ve got to stop.”

The glow of the flashlight catches his mischievous smile. “What’s the matter? Scared?”

I switch off the light. “My parents are coming.”

As the words leave my mouth, my parents’ footsteps pound up the stairs. They pass my door, and thump into the nursery in the next room.

Steve grabs the flashlight from me and flicks it back on. “Sounds to me like they have other things to deal with.” He places his fingers on the pointer. “Now, are you with me or not?”

“You don’t get it, Steve. If my Mamá catches us with this board, I’ll be grounded until Christmas… the one next year.”

Steve shrugs. “Just do what I do: say you didn’t know any better and pretend you’re really sorry. Works every time.” He nods to the board. “Are you going to let me do this by myself? I thought you were my friend.”

I listen carefully to my parents’ voices in the nursery. They do sound concerned. They probably won’t think of checking in on us for a while.

I place my fingers on the pointer. “Let’s be quick.”

Steve clears his throat. “Dr. Beckett, are you still here?”

The floorboards creak outside my door, and the doorknob turns with a muted rattle. Our hands fly off the board, and Steve points the flashlight at my door. It creaks open, and Evie walks in.

“Is everything okay with Miguel?” she asks. As she approaches, she spots the board between Steve and me. “What’s that?”

My moment of relief turns into an opportunity for a new terror. I race to the door and close it again. “You can’t say anything about it, Evie. Okay?”

She cocks her head. “Is that a ghost board?”

How does she…? She’s not old enough to see the kinds of movies that these things are in, but everyone’s old enough to watch the commercials for them, I guess. “Evie, why don’t you go back to sleep?”

But Evie is nothing if not persistent. “Have you talked to the ghost yet?”

I’m stunned into silence, but Steve sees an opportunity. “Yeah, would you like to talk to him too?”

Evie taps her chin. “Is he friendly?”

Before I can answer, Steve jumps in. “’Course he’s friendly.” He slides over to make room for my sister. “Just put your fingers on the pointer, and ask a question.”

“Wait,” I say. “I can’t let Evie do this.”

Steve gives me a look out of the corner of his eye. “Should I call my parents and ask them to pick me up?”

I march over to the board and put my fingers next to my sister’s. “Let’s get this over with.”

Steve begins again. “Are you still there, Dr. Beckett?”

The pointer slides to yes. It’s moving faster this time.

My turn. “Do you always stay inside this house?”

The slider circles around yes before coming to a stop.

Evie speaks up. “Carlos, give the ghost a chance to speak. He’s a person too.” She looks up at the ceiling. “Mr. Ghost, is there anything you’d like to say?”

The slider circles around yes once more. Steve and I exchange glances.

“What is it?” Evie says.

The pointer begins spelling.

The wooden piece crosses the M before looping around to the I followed by the G. When it finishes spelling, Evie calls out with excitement.

“Miguel!” she says.

Cold sweat erupts over my forehead. I don’t like where this is going.

“Do you have a message for my brother?” Evie says. She sounds like she’s talking to the next-door neighbor instead of a creepy, dead doctor. She’s too young to understand that none of this is normal.

The pointer begins its trek over the board: H-E-N-E-E-D-S-H-E-L-P.

I jump in. “But Mamá and Papá are already helping him.”

The pointer crawls over the board again: H-E-L-P-H-I-M-N-O-W.

Evie leans closer. “What’s wrong with him?”

The pointer moves even faster: A-P-P-E-N-D-I-X.

“Oh, man,” Steve says. “My cousin Eddie had his appendix taken out last year. He said the doctors needed to get it out before it burst. Otherwise, he could’ve died.”

The pointer jolts over to the word yes, dragging our arms along for the ride.

I remove my hand. “Maybe we should stop.”

Evie looks at me with her puppy-dog eyes. “Carlos, is Miguel going to be alright?”

“Of course he is,” I say. “I’m just going to tell Mamá and Papá that they should take him to the hospital. You stay here.” I turn to Steve. “And you put that thing away. I’ll be right back.”

I inch open the door and slip into the hall. I’m not sure if the ghost is telling the truth, but either way, it’s probably a good idea to get Miguel out of the house. I peek into the nursery in the next room. Mamá and Papá are comforting my brother as best as they can, but he’s still crying so loud that I’m surprised we’re not getting calls from the neighbors. It’s either now or never.

I summon the courage to knock. “Mamá?”

My father turns instead, leaving Mamá to hold my brother. “Carlos, you should be asleep.”

“Is Miguel going to have to go to the hospital?”

Papá kneels to look me straight in the eyes. “Your brother will be fine. Now go back to your room, and get some sleep.”

“But Papá, what if he needs to go to the hospital right now, but he can’t tell you?”

Mamá places Miguel in his crib. “We’ll take care of him, Carlos. Good night.” She kisses Papá on the head. “You too. You have a long day tomorrow.”

Papá drags himself downstairs, and I return to my room. But instead of finding my sister gone and Steve asleep, they’re both still using the board. I shut the door and run over to them just as the pointer guides their hands to the letter P.

“What did I tell you two?” I hiss, trying to yell and whisper at the same time. “Put that thing away.”

“But the ghost says he can help,” Evie says. “He used to be a doctor.”

I look at Steve. “We need to talk.”

I pull him over to the other side of my bedroom, away from my sister. “I don’t think that this is a good idea. Didn’t you hear that this guy used to do experiments on people?”

“We just wanted to know how we could help your brother,” Steve says, gesturing wildly. “That’s all. I promise.”

“What did he say? What did he say exactly?”

“He said that he could do the operation.”

“What?” I slap my hand over my own mouth, in a weak attempt to control my volume. I lower my voice. “The ghost is not going to operate on my brother. You told him that, right?”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Don’t worry. He said that he needed a few things to do the surgery. As long as we don’t give him what he needs, he can’t do the operation, right?”

I take a deep breath. “We still need to convince my Mamá to take Miguel to the hospital now.” I pause. “What kind of things would a ghost need to operate with anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Steve replies. “He said he’d tell us in just a…” He looks around the room as his voice trails off. “Hey, Carlos, where’d your sister go?”

My heart quickens, and I spin around. Evie is nowhere to be seen. My eyes dart to the board, sitting in the puddle of light cast by my flashlight. My heart sinks when I notice that the pointer has been shifted onto E.

“Steve,” I say, trying to remain calm, “did you ever say goodbye to the ghost before I came in?”

“No.”

The lump that forms in my throat is so large, I’m convinced that I’ll never swallow again. “I think that Evie’s helping the ghost. We have to find her.” I turn to Steve. “What did Beckett need?”

Steve shrugs. “You pulled me away from the board before he said.”

I roll my eyes. “Evie plays doctor downstairs. Let’s check there first.”

Steve and I creep out of the room, picking up our pace with each step down the stairs.

“Evie,” I call out, barely louder than a whisper. “Evie, where are you?” I meet Steve’s eyes. “We have to find her before my parents do. I’ll see if she’s hiding in the living room; you check the kitchen.”

Steve and I split up right as my brother’s wails blare like an annoying car alarm. How does he have the energy to keep this up? As I poke around the living room, I summon the courage to raise my voice.

“Evie, where are you? I need to talk with you.”

After checking the narrow space behind the couch, Steve calls from the kitchen.

“Hey, Carlos?”

I rush in, and my eyes follow the direction of his index finger. The silverware drawer has been pulled almost all the way out, and it’s tilting toward the ground.

“Where’s Evie?” I ask.

“Isn’t she the only one short enough to need to tilt a drawer down to see into it?”

“Okay…” I reply, marching over to the drawer, “but where’s she now?”

Steve shrugs. “She wasn’t in the living room?”

I try shoving the drawer back into place, but it’s stuck, wedged in at a weird angle. “I barely had time to check because you called me in here.”

I shove the drawer again, but it wobbles when I push, dipping down instead of up. The drawer slams onto the floor, and the silverware crashes like a thousand clanging cymbals as it scatters across the wood.

I look at Steve. He looks at me. We’re both frozen in our spots as footsteps descend the stairs, away from my brother’s cries in the nursery. Mamá hustles into the kitchen, and Papá sleepwalks in from his bedroom. They look at the floor, then at each other, and Papá returns to the bedroom, still not fully awake.

Mamá folds her arms over her crucifix. “What happened here?”

I look at Steve. “We were… looking for Evie. We thought she was in the kitchen.”

Mamá stares at me, confused. “Why were you looking for Evie?”

I turn to Steve, who looks like he’s counting the number of boards on the floor. Looks like I have to speak for both of us.

“She was scared with all of Miguel’s crying,” I say, “and she came into my room.” As I look up, Evie emerges from the living room. “Evie!” I rush over to my sister. “Are you okay?”

She smiles. “I was helping Miguel.”

My heart sinks.

Mamá kneels to her eye level. “What do you mean, Evie?”

“I was playing doctor for real.”

Mamá takes Evie by the shoulders. “What do you mean, hija? Did you take his temperature?”

Evie shakes her head. “I was getting things for the doctor.”

Mamá tilts her head. “What doctor?”

My stomach starts to turn, and I rush into the living room and up the stairs. I don’t bother with my room—I’m probably grounded already. I blitz straight to the nursery, finding the door closed. I try the knob: locked. Miguel’s crying inside, but he’s gotten even louder, if that’s possible.

“Carlos!” The next thing I know, Mamá is at the top of the stairs, looking into my bedroom. Her face contorts in disgust, and she crosses her heart as she storms inside. A second later, she emerges with the spirit board.

“Carlos, what have you done? This is the work of El Diablo. You and your friend have invited him into this house.” She turns as Steve makes his way upstairs. “You. You take this thing”—she tosses the board down the stairs—“and wait outside until I call for your parents.”

“Yes, Mrs. Gonzalez.” Steve takes the board, and the front door slams a few seconds later.

Mamá brushes me aside and tries the door to the nursery. The knob rattles in her hand, but the door doesn’t budge. In between bouts of my brother’s wailing, footsteps march upstairs. I turn to find Evie leading Papá to the nursery.

“What’s going on?” Papá asks, bleary-eyed and ready for more sleep.

“I was helping Miguel,” Evie announces proudly.

Mamá grabs her by the shoulders. “Evie, tell me what you did, honey.” She turns to Papá. “I need the nursery door open now.”

Papá sighs. “Lucía…”

She slams her hand against the wall and points at the nursery door. “I told you El Diablo would steal our children’s souls, and this is the proof. Open it.”

Papá tries the doorknob—unsuccessfully—while Mamá looks Evie in the eye.

Evie’s voice is almost a squeak. “Am I in trouble, Mamá?”

“No, hija,” she says. She turns to flash me a fiery stare. “But your brother is.” She returns her attention to Evie. “Tell me what you did for the doctor.”

Evie twists her pajamas in her hands as she tells the story. “I asked the doctor what he needed, and he said a needle and thread, so I put them on a tray and gave it to him because the doctor said Miguel was sick.”

Papá still can’t open the door. “Hija, if your brother is sick, what’s needle and thread going to do?”

My heart beats so hard that I can feel my pulse in my neck. “Evie, if you were looking for a needle and thread, why did you go into the silverware drawer?”

Evie smiles. “The doctor needed a knife.”

Mamá’s brown face goes as ashen as I’ve ever seen it. Papá’s eyes grow large. And we all gasp as the screech of metal grinding on metal squeals from within the nursery.

Papá throws his weight against the door, ramming his shoulder repeatedly into the wood, but the old oak door is solid and unyielding. Miguel’s cries grow louder and contorted into garbled, guttural sounds that twist my stomach into knots. Mamá grabs her crucifix, crosses herself, and prays every prayer she was ever taught. Evie and I look at each other, wondering what the two of us had done.

“Miguel!” Papá cries. He slams against the door, but it doesn’t budge. He storms off down the stairs. “I need an ax.”

And then Miguel stops crying. Dead silence… until the nursery door creaks open with the soft moan of unoiled hinges.

We exchange horrified glances. The silence grows more painful with each noiseless moment that we stare at the door. But since I’m the closest—and because I’m responsible—I’m the first to make a move.

“Hijo,” Mamá barks, “get back here.”

But I don’t listen. I push open the door, and rush into the nursery. The crib sits in the corner, and inside it, my baby brother’s little chest rises and falls. He’s sound asleep, sucking his thumb.

As I move closer, a thin line of purple stands out against his brown stomach. I look at the tray that Evie had left behind for the ghost. On it, I spot purple thread, a needle, a bloody knife, and my brother’s appendix.

***

After my parents return from the hospital, they reduce my punishment to being grounded for only one week, and Mamá apologizes for losing her temper. The doctors—the living ones—said that Miguel’s appendix could’ve burst anytime that night. He’s lucky it was removed when it was.

And the next time I talk to Steve, he tells me that his uncle knew Doctor Beckett back in the day. Beckett never experimented on people—he was simply a doctor who died after losing a patient—a baby—in an operation. Funny how only the bad parts of a story are the ones that get repeated.

We never heard from Doctor Beckett after the incident. Maybe saving a life put his spirit to rest. But as the weeks carry us closer to Thanksgiving, every once in a while I hear Mamá whisper a prayer thanking God for the guardian angel that He sent to watch over her family.

(This haunting tale along with others are found in Kinsman Quarterly's anthology, "The Presence.")

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Jonathan Brònico is a neurodivergent writer, poet, and game designer. His fiction has been recognized by L. Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future and the New England Science Fiction Association. His work appears in the best-selling horror anthology Secret Stairs: A Tribute to Urban Legend and in Gothic Tales: Agents & Spies.

Blending narrative and play, Jonathan designs story-driven games—many of which are available for free at lionsheadpress.itch.io. Fans of Dungeons & Dragons 5e can also join one of his mini-campaigns through startplaying.games/gm/jd_bronico.