Four years ago, when I was 11, my mother told me a story

of a family that had died in a fire near my house. The

truth is that at that age, I didn't give it any importance,
but as I grew older, my curiosity about entering that
house increased. Until one day, my friends and I
suggested going into the house to see what it was like
inside. But once we entered, we felt a weight dragging us
down and an uncontrollable cold, but we did not retreat;
we were determined to move forward. After exploring
the house for a while, one of my friends took out a board
with letters, explained to us that it was a quija, and
suggested we play. Some of them didn't know what that
was for, so we all agreed because we thought it was a
simple game. And when we had barely started the game,
strange things started happening. Shadows flickered in
the corners, and the air thickened with an eerie silence.
Suddenly, the planchette moved on its own, spelling out
messages that chilled us to the bone. When fear took
hold, we hastily ended the session and fled the house.
Since then, every time I pass by that house, I feel a
lingering sense of dread and often wonder what really
happened to the family.