The Board Game Boy

Our house in Essex, Massachusetts, had stood since 1770, a crooked, salt-worn colonial that creaked like a ship at anchor. I was seven in 1982, and my world was small: the attic bedroom with its sloping ceiling, the window that overlooked the marsh, and the alcove where I kept my board games. That night, I called for my mother to bring water, and she did, leaving a glass on my nightstand. I lay back, listening to the wind rattle the panes, and then I turned my head. In the alcove, between the stacks of Candy Land and Sorry, stood a boy. He was small, like me, but his clothes were old—brown wool trousers, a patched vest, a cap that shadowed his face. And he had no face, just a smooth, pale blank where his features should have been. He spoke my name, ‘Ethan,’ so softly it felt like a secret. I screamed, a raw, throat-ripping sound, and dove under the covers. In my ears, a high, terrible ringing began, like a struck bell that would not fade. My mother rushed in, but I couldn’t speak, just pointed. She saw nothing, of course. The ringing lasted nearly an hour, turning my fear into a physical ache. After that, he came again. Sometimes in the alcove, sometimes at the foot of my bed. Always faceless, always in those old brown clothes, and always that ringing, like a warning or a call. I told my parents, but they said it was a dream, a shadow, a phase. We moved to New Mexico in 1984, and I thought I’d left him behind.

I was fourteen in 1988, camping with my family at an abandoned mining camp in Luna County. The desert stretched vast and silent, the ruins of a stamp mill and a crumbling bunkhouse half-buried in scrub. We sat around a campfire, roasting marshmallows, and my older cousin told a story about a miner who’d gone mad in the tunnels. Everyone laughed, but I felt a prickle. That’s when my dad, who rarely spoke about the old house, set down his coffee and said, ‘Ethan, you know about the boy you used to see?’ I froze. He told me that when he was a child, in the 1950s, he’d seen the same boy. And his father before him, and his mother, back to the beginning. The house had been in our family since 1770, and every child born there saw the boy at least once. He was always in an alcove, or a closet, or a dark corner. He always said their name, calm as you please. And the ringing always followed. My dad said his grandmother told him the boy was a child from the 1800s, a servant’s son who’d died in the house. He wasn’t evil, just lonely. He wanted to play, but he didn’t know how to reach across the divide. ‘He’s been waiting for you,’ my dad said, and his voice was hollow. ‘He never followed us here. But maybe he’s waiting for you to come back.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my tent, listening to the wind hiss through the arroyos. And then I heard it: a soft sound, like a game piece being tapped. I sat up. In the corner of the tent, where the lantern light cast a weak glow, stood the boy. Same faceless face, same brown clothes, but now he was closer, and his head tilted as if he were curious. He didn’t speak. Instead, he raised a hand and pointed toward the mouth of an old mine shaft that yawned black against the stars. The ringing began again, but softer this time, like a dull hum. I don’t know what came over me, but I got out of my sleeping bag and walked, barefoot over cold stones, to the shaft. The boy drifted ahead, a faint outline against the dark. Inside, it smelled of rust and centuries. The wooden supports were rotted, and the ground was littered with shattered lanterns. The boy stopped at a spot where the wall had crumbled, revealing a small hollow. He pointed again. I reached in, my fingers brushing against cloth. I pulled out a leather satchel, cracked and dry. Inside was a tin cup, a set of carved wooden soldiers, and a paper, yellowed but readable: a letter addressed to ‘Master Ethan, from the House by the Marsh.’ The name matched mine. The letter was dated 1867, and it said, ‘I am sorry I woke you. I only wanted to see if you would play. My name is Thomas. I am nine. I will wait for you in the alcove every night. Please come.’

I read it aloud, and the boy—Thomas—stepped closer. For the first time, I saw faint features ripple across his face: eyes, a tentative smile. The ringing in my ears faded, replaced by a sound like distant laughter. ‘Thomas,’ I said, and he nodded. He reached out a hand, and I took it. His fingers were cold but solid, like the wooden floorboards of the old house. He pulled me deeper into the mine, and I followed, not out of fear, but out of a strange, aching kinship. We walked until the light from outside vanished, and then he stopped. In the dark, he spoke, his voice now a whisper, not a shout: ‘You came back. I knew you would.’ I felt a surge of warmth, and then a cold that seeped into my bones. I looked down and saw that my legs were buried in the earth, and I was sinking. I tried to pull free, but Thomas held my hand tighter. ‘Stay,’ he said. ‘It’s my turn to be real.’ I woke in my tent, screaming. My father found me in the mine entrance, disoriented, with the satchel clutched to my chest. The boy was gone. The satchel held only dirt and rusted bits. I never saw Thomas again, but sometimes, in the desert night, I hear a faint ringing, and I know he’s still waiting. Not in the house, not in the mine, but in the space between games, between the living and the lost. And I’ve never stopped listening.