Narrator: Alice M. | Derbyshire, England
I was the person faking the knocking.
There were five of us around my friend’s kitchen table, pretending to contact something with a glass and a homemade board. I had my shoe against a loose bit of wood underneath. One knock for yes. Everyone was delighted with how well it was going.
Then a knock came from beside my foot.
I moved my legs back. Two more knocks. I told them what I’d been doing and expected somebody to confess to joining in. Nobody did.
My friend lifted the tablecloth. A hand was curled around one of the crosspieces beneath the tabletop. It was yellowish and smooth, with a ragged thumbnail. The wrist went directly into the wood.
We didn’t scream. We all stood up at once, upsetting glasses, which was a much uglier noise. The hand released its grip and sank back until the grain looked normal.
I haven’t become religious. I haven’t joined a paranormal group. I would simply like the record to show that when we started, I was cheating, and by the end I was not.
