The Harrow Testament
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Part 4: The Planchette’s Truth
Fiction Story: Part 4: The Planchette’s Truth - They thought it was just a haunted house. But the Harrow House doesn’t feed on fear—it feasts on secret desires. As old wounds surface and forbidden temptations rise, the line between terror and longing dissolves. Fear burns off like fog, replaced by touch, heat, and surrender. The Harrow Testament is a gothic confession of aching bodies, unraveling minds, and pleasures too strong to resist.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Horror Mystery Paranormal Ghost Light Bond Polygamy/Polyamory Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism Leg Fetish Smoking Halloween Slow AI Generated
Flesh is the Doorway, Shame the Key. Press long upon either, and the Soul shall bleed its Secret into the Air.
— Testament of Elias Harrow, 1764
They circled the Ouija board like gamblers around a table, flashlights casting long, quivering shadows across the warped floor. The planchette sat waiting, sharp as a dropped blade, its polished wood dulled with age.
Jade flicked ash into the dust and smirked. “Well? Who’s feeling brave?”
“Brave or stupid?” Naomi muttered. She stayed back, scarf pulled up, eyes hard. “Because those are not the same thing.”
Marcus crouched first, flask clinking down beside him. “I’m always game. What’s the worst that happens? Ghost tells me my ex was right?”
Clara lingered, nerves crawling beneath her skin. Her gaze kept darting to Dylan — steady, polite, maddeningly calm. He gave her the smallest nod, as if to say I’ll be there too. She exhaled, knelt beside Marcus, and placed her fingertips lightly on the planchette.
Dylan joined them, hands deliberate, movements careful as if he were handling china. “Very well. For the sake of science.”
Jade dropped down cross-legged, cigarette clamped between two fingers. “Look at us. The Famous Five summon Satan. Naomi, don’t be shy.”
“I’m not touching that thing,” Naomi said flatly.
Jade smirked. “Then you’ll just sit there watching us get our fortunes told?”
Naomi’s glare cut sharp, but the others were already waiting. With a muttered curse she crouched, pressing her fingertips onto the edge of the planchette, quick and hard, like jabbing a wound.
“Good girl,” Jade purred.
“Shut up,” Naomi snapped.
They sat in a circle, breath loud in the silence. The house seemed to lean closer, wood groaning above, the air pressing down like a hand.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Alright then. Spirits of Lantern Hill, you around?”
Nothing. The planchette stayed still, inert as a lump of wood.
Jade chuckled. “You’ve got to ask nicer than that. Spirits love manners.”
“Spirits of Lantern Hill,” Dylan intoned with mock solemnity. “If you would be so good as to join us...”
The planchette twitched.
Clara gasped, snatching her hand back.
Marcus barked a laugh. “Who’s pushing?”
“Not me,” Jade said, grin sharp.
“It wasn’t me,” Clara whispered.
They replaced their fingers. The planchette shivered, scraped an inch across the board, then paused.
Naomi felt it first — a pressure along her wrist, light but there, cold as ice. Her breath caught. It wasn’t the wood. It wasn’t air. It slid across her skin like fingertips.
She yanked back with a cry. “Don’t—!”
Everyone froze.
“Don’t what?” Marcus asked, startled.
“You—” Naomi’s chest heaved. “One of you grabbed me.”
“No one touched you,” Dylan said quietly. His eyes were steady, voice low enough that it almost soothed.
Naomi’s hand trembled, fingers rubbing the skin where the sensation lingered. “I know what I felt.”
Jade blew out smoke, dismissive. “Relax. You spooked yourself.”
But Naomi wouldn’t look at her. She kept staring at her wrist, the memory burned in.
The planchette scraped again. This time the letters spelled clearly: S – E – E.
Marcus tried to laugh but his voice cracked. “See what?”
The planchette jerked sharply, arrowing toward the staircase. It stopped dead at the edge of the board, pointing north.
Then, with a sudden snap, it flipped onto its back.
The sound was small — wood on wood — but in the cavernous hall it echoed like a slammed door. The polished side faced down, its underside revealed: gouged and blackened, as though scorched by fire.
No one moved, breath held as if the room itself had changed. Jade’s cigarette trembled. Marcus’s mouth twitched, then hardened. Dylan didn’t move, but Clara caught the tic in his jaw, the effort it took to stay calm.
Clara’s stomach lurched. She wanted to bolt, but Dylan’s shoulder brushed hers, steady, grounding.
The house creaked above them, long and low, like a throat clearing.
It is one thing to hear a whisper, and another to feel a hand. Words can be doubted, denied, laughed away. Flesh, however, keeps the record. Naomi’s skin kept it, no matter how stubbornly her reason tried to erase the line.
For a long moment no one spoke. The flipped planchette lay like a dead beetle on its back, the scorch marks on its underside glaring in the lamplight.
Finally, Marcus cleared his throat, voice too loud. “Well. That’s ... not creepy at all.” He reached for the flask, took a swallow that was more gulp than sip.
Naomi shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but her hand still rubbed at her wrist. She didn’t want to, but the phantom touch lingered like a bruise, refusing to fade.
“Upstairs, then,” Jade said, her mouth tight, the shape of a grin brittle at the edges. She tapped ash onto the board, as if to prove how little it mattered. “That’s where it wants us. Would be rude not to oblige.”
“Rude,” Naomi hissed. “That’s your concern?”
“Mine too,” Dylan said gently, standing with the same easy grace he always carried. But Clara noticed his hand flex once at his side before he steadied it. “If we refuse, we’ll never hear the end of it from Jade. And if we go—” He let the thought dangle.
Clara swallowed, heart thudding. She didn’t want to follow. Not at all. But Dylan’s voice, his composure, had a way of turning dread into something that almost resembled courage. “We should go,” she heard herself say, and hated the way her voice trembled.
Marcus grinned at her, relieved. “See? Clara’s braver than the rest of us.”
Naomi muttered a curse in Vietnamese and yanked her scarf higher, as if the wool might shield her from hands unseen. “You’re all out of your minds.”
That’s how groups move: one digs in, one beckons, the rest sway toward the stronger tide. Few ever ask what current they’re riding. Fear wears one mask, desire another. The pull is the same.
They gathered at the base of the staircase. The banister was carved from dark wood, its varnish bubbled and flaked, but the craftsmanship was undeniable: winding vines, curling leaves, the faces of masks half-hidden in the scrollwork.
“Jesus,” Marcus whispered, running his beam along the railing. “Look at the detail. Like ... like it’s watching.”
“It is,” Naomi muttered.
Clara’s hand brushed the wood as she followed Dylan upward. The vines under her palm felt too real, almost pliant, as if they might curl tighter if she leaned too hard. She jerked her hand back and nearly stumbled. Dylan steadied her, his hand firm on her elbow.
“Careful,” he murmured. His fingers lingered a beat too long before withdrawing.
The contact made her shiver. Not just fear — though that was there too — but a growing heat low in her body she tried to ignore. She shifted, praying the others hadn’t noticed.
Dylan noticed. He always did. And though his expression stayed neutral, his cock stirred in the quiet betrayal of his trousers. He forced his jaw tight, gaze fixed on the steps.
Behind them, Jade snorted smoke and called up, “Don’t trip over your own shoes, Clara.”
Marcus laughed, but too loudly, the sound cracking off the walls.
The staircase groaned under their weight, each step a protest. Above, the landing waited — wide and dark, with doors yawning open like mouths.
Upstairs promises answers — that is its old trick. Anyone who’s climbed the second floor of a house like this knows the truth: the answers aren’t kind. They only cut closer to the bone.
The staircase delivered them onto a wide landing, the floorboards groaning as though the house resented their weight. Their flashlights swung across faded wallpaper patterned with lilies, the blooms so darkened by time they resembled bruises.
Jade took a drag, exhaled smoke, and grinned. “Well. Cozy, isn’t it?”
“Cozy?” Naomi’s voice cracked. “It smells like mildew and death.”
“Same thing, really,” Jade replied.
Marcus chuckled, nerves bubbling over. “Don’t say that, you’ll give Clara ideas for a horror screenplay.”
Clara flushed. “I don’t—”
“Relax,” Marcus cut in, flashing her a grin. “You’d make a killing on Netflix. ‘Haunted Hill House Sex Dungeon.’”
Jade barked a laugh, smoke curling from her nose. “I’d watch that.”
Naomi groaned. “You two are unbelievable.”
Dylan’s polite voice slid in like balm. “I think you mean incorrigible.” His smile was faint, but Clara saw the twitch of amusement there.
Marcus clasped a hand over his chest in mock reverence. “And there it is, the professor speaks.”
“Aristocrat,” Jade corrected. “Our token lordling. Are you going to knight us before we continue?”
Dylan inclined his head, tone dry. “If you’d kneel.”
Even Naomi smirked at that before catching herself.
Fear loosens tongues. Jokes sharpen until they almost cut. Easier to laugh than to listen to what the silence keeps trying to say.
The laughter trailed off, though, when the house groaned again. The sound traveled under their feet, up the walls, like something shifting inside the bones of the place.
Naomi whispered, “I hate this.”
“Which means we’re doing it right,” Jade said.
Clara glanced at Dylan, pulse hammering. He met her eyes, calm but intent. And in that moment — brief, hidden — neither of them laughed.
Doors lined the hall from the landing in both directions, their frames warped, shadows crouching in their mouths.
Jade clapped her hands once, cigarette bouncing between her lips. “Alright. Options: we either sit here all night like campers telling ghost stories, or...” She gestured with the glowing tip of her smoke toward the doors. “We divide and conquer.”
“No,” Naomi said immediately. Her voice was sharp, but her shoulders hunched as though bracing for the argument. “That’s exactly what we don’t do.”
“Worked fine downstairs,” Jade shot back. “We got twice the rooms, twice the fun.”
“Twice the insanity,” Naomi muttered.
Marcus waggled his eyebrows. “Come on, Nae. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I left it at home,” she snapped.
Clara shifted, heart caught between dread and the magnetic pull of Dylan at her side. She wanted to protest too, wanted to stay clumped together like sheep in a pen, but Dylan’s hand brushed her sleeve in the barest suggestion of contact. A silent reassurance. And suddenly the thought of exploring alone with him wasn’t fear at all — it was heat.
“I’ll go with Clara,” Dylan said smoothly, as though it were the most natural arrangement in the world.
Clara swallowed, cheeks hot. “Fine,” she said, too quickly.
Jade smirked. “Well, isn’t that tidy. Then Marcus, you’re with me.”
Marcus grinned, though his ears pinked. “Best draw I’ve had all night.”
Naomi’s scowl deepened. “And what, I’m supposed to ... what? Wait out here like a hall monitor?”
“Guard duty,” Jade said breezily. “If anything comes creeping, scream real loud.”
Naomi muttered something vicious under her breath, but she didn’t stop them.
And that is how bargains get struck in hungry houses: not by fairness, but by the tilt of longing and the nudge of fear. No one asks what the house prefers. They only wonder later, when the bill comes due.
The decision made, the group split: Jade dragging Marcus toward one darkened hall, Naomi left simmering by the staircase, Clara and Dylan stepping side by side into the other wing, where the wallpaper curled like flesh peeling back to reveal the fevered heart beneath.
The hallway they entered was narrower than the landing, long as a tunnel, lined with doors whose paint had blistered into scales. The wallpaper had given up its fight against time — curling down in great sheets that revealed something beneath. Not plaster. Not plain wood. Color.
Clara lifted her light. Ochre, umber, faded crimsons swam through the cracks. She stepped closer, heart thudding, and peeled back a hanging strip. Dust snowed over her coat. Behind it, a mural bloomed: masked figures locked in embrace, mouths pressed to mouths, thighs parted in painted invitation.
She flinched, then flushed hot all at once. “Oh.”
Dylan leaned beside her, beam angling across the fresco. His cultured composure faltered; his lips parted, eyes drinking in the details. “Good lord,” he murmured. “They weren’t shy at all.”
The painted scene sprawled wider as Clara tore more paper free. Women knelt between men’s thighs, hands tangled in hair. Men bent over men, mouths pressed deep. Every body masked, faces hidden — but the hunger plain in their limbs.
Clara’s breath came shallow. She imagined his mouth instead of the painted mouths, his fingers pinching her nipple instead of the fresco’s hand. Her nipples tightened against her bra, the betrayal quick and hot. Heat spread lower too, dampness she couldn’t ignore. Stop. Don’t let him see. Don’t—
Dylan’s throat worked in a swallow. His own body stirred, cock thickening despite the chill in the air. He adjusted his coat, praying Clara’s eyes were fixed on the wall and not on him. Extraordinary. Not just the art. The courage of it. To show desire without veil...
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