Several years ago, when I was at university, my neighbours were three lads my own age. Over time, we became good mates. One day, the sister of one of them decided to play with a Ouija board alongside some friends, and that’s how they summoned a boy—who, for this story, we’ll call Oliver.
According to what he told them, Oliver had been on his way to heaven but, hearing their call, decided it was more interesting to stay. From then on, they tried again and again to convince him to move on, but he always refused. At first, we only heard stories from those three girls and their supposed encounters with Oliver.
No one else had seen or heard a thing, so we struggled to believe them. Still, my friends had a strange habit. Every time someone visited, they’d ask Oliver not to scare them. They’d promise that once the guest left, they’d play with him. It became a ritual, repeated with every visit.
One afternoon, the four of us were sitting in the lounge chatting—must’ve been around four or five—when a football slowly rolled down the hallway, stopping right at one lad’s feet. I saw it, but I played dumb. Maybe it was the draught, I told myself, or at least I hoped it was. My mate picked it up with a grin and gently rolled it back down the hall.
About fifteen or twenty minutes later, the ball returned… rolling straight to him again. This time, my eyes had been fixed on the hallway, watching, waiting to see if—
