Many years ago, during my time at university, I lived next door to three lads about my age. Over time, we became close friends. One day, the sister of one of them decided to play with a Ouija board alongside a few of her mates, and that’s how they summoned a young boy—whom, for this tale, we’ll call Alfie.
According to what Alfie told them, he’d been on his way to heaven, but hearing their call, he found it far more intriguing to stay. From then on, they tried more than once to persuade him to continue his journey, but he always refused. At first, we only heard the girls’ stories about their supposed encounters with Alfie.
No one else had seen or heard a thing, so it was hard to believe them. Still, my friends had an odd habit. Every time someone visited, they’d ask Alfie not to frighten them, promising they’d play with him once the guest left. It became a sort of ritual, repeated with every visit.
One evening, the four of us were sat in the parlour chatting—it must’ve been around four or five o’clock—when a ball began rolling slowly down the hallway, coming to rest at one lad’s feet. I saw it but pretended not to notice, telling myself it could’ve been the draught, or so I dearly hoped. My friend picked up the ball with a faint smile and gently rolled it back down the hall.
About fifteen or twenty minutes passed, and the ball returned, rolling once more to his feet. This time, I’d been watching the hallway closely, determined to see if there hadn’t been—
