Many years ago, when I was at university, my neighbours were three lads about my age. In time, we became good friends. One day, the sister of one of them decided to play with a ouija board alongside a few mates, and that’s how they summoned a boy—who, for this tale, we’ll call Oliver.
According to what the boy told them, he’d been on his way to heaven, but hearing their call, he fancied staying instead. After that, they tried more than once to convince him to go on his way, 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 found it hard to believe them.
Yet my mates had an odd habit. Whenever someone visited, they’d ask Oliver not to scare them, promising they’d play with him once the guest had left. It became a ritual, repeated every time.
One afternoon, the four of us were sitting in the parlour chatting—it must’ve been around four or five—when a ball began rolling slowly down the hallway until it stopped at one lad’s feet. I saw it but pretended not to notice. I told myself it might’ve been the draught, though I wasn’t convinced. My friend picked up the ball with a grin and gently rolled it back.
Fifteen or twenty minutes passed, and the ball came rolling once more—right back to his feet. This time, I’d kept my eyes on the hallway, wanting to know if there was no one the—
