When I was twelve years old, me and my best friend at the time were swapping ghost stories, trying to scare each other. I was a pretty good storyteller, and his were pretty lame, and after a while I could tell he was getting frustrated. Reluctantly, he said, "I've got a ghost story that will blow you away, but I'm not allowed to tell it. I promised the person who told it to me that I wouldn't." I could see that he almost immediately regretted even bringing it up. But of course, I pressured him. And pressured him. Finally, he said he'd tell me the story, but only if I never, EVER told it to anyone else, even after fifty years. So far, it's been thirteen.
The story was supposedly true, about something that happened to my friend's older sister, a story she had told him never to repeat. She went into a cemetery one night, with a flashlight and a ouija board. It was an experiment to see if the thing worked. So she went and sat by a grave, and she asked, "Who is buried here?" and without shining the light on the headstone to see the name, she tried to spell the name on the board, and then checked with the flashlight to see if she was right. Surprisingly, the first letter was correct. She moved through the cemetery, daring at each grave to take the experiment a little farther, and as much as it terrified her, she was soon nearly completing names. Then, in the oldest corner of the cemetery, she came across a very old headstone with no name. She knelt, asked, "Who's buried here?" My hair stood up, and my skin turned ice-cold when my friend told me what the board's reply had been. But I'll never repeat it. Promise to an old friend.