The Board’s Mimicry

When the seasons balanced between humid and chill, I’d slip down to the basement after everyone else had gone to bed. It was a concrete cave, unfinished, with a washer and dryer against one wall, a sagging shelf of forgotten jars, and a corner stacked with my children’s outgrown toys. The dogs, two aging labs, slept on a frayed rug by the furnace. I’d set up my laptop on a rickety table, plug in earbuds, and join my friends for late-night voice chats. The signal was better down there, away from the house’s wifi dead zones, and the quiet hum of the dryer was a kind of white noise that kept my head clear.

One evening, as I was mid-sentence about a work project, a sound cut through: a high-pitched, cartoonish `Eeek!` followed by a mechanical clatter. It came from the toy corner. I froze, heart hammering, and yanked out an earbud. Silence. Then it repeated: `Eeek!` My friends in the chat laughed. `What’s that, you got a haunted mouse?` I scanned the shadows and spotted the culprit: an old Operation board game, the box torn, lying on its side. The buzzer had gone off randomly. I laughed, explained to my friends, and we moved on.

But it became a habit. Every few weeks, the game would emit a sound—a wheeze, a groan, a buzz—each time different, each time an absurdly precise mimicry of the body part you were supposed to remove. Sometimes it was the `Ahh!` of the funny bone, other times a low `Hmm` from the wrenched ankle. It was always while I was downstairs at night, always while I was alive with the group chat. We’d joke about it—’The ghost of Dr. Operation’—and I’d half-heartedly slap the box until it stopped. My family heard it too, from upstairs, and we’d shrug, blaming the aging battery contacts.

Then the scratching began. At first, I dismissed it as the dogs’ nails on concrete, but they’d be asleep at my feet. It was a skittering, like claws on cardboard, coming from the storage shelves. I saw it once, a blur of gray, darting behind the jars. I figured it was a squirrel—they’d gotten in before. I set a trap: a small cage with peanut butter. The next morning, the trap was empty, but the peanut butter was gone, licked clean. The scratching continued, always just out of sight, always at the edge of my vision.

One night, as I was closing the chat at 2 a.m., the Operation game went off again. This time, the sound was different. It wasn’t a laugh or a yelp. It was a high-pitched, nasal voice that said, in perfect German, `Guten Abend.` I froze. The dogs stirred, ears pricked. I laughed nervously and typed in the chat: ‘The game just greeted me in German.’ My friends pinged back laugh emojis. I unplugged the board, carried it to the trash bin outside, and went to bed.

But the next night, the scratching was louder. It moved from the shelves to the walls. I heard it behind the drywall, following me as I crossed the basement. I saw the squirrel again, but it was bigger, with eyes that reflected my flashlight like mirrors. It scurried up the wall and into a vent. I sealed the vent with duct tape.

Two weeks later, I was down there during a thunderstorm, checking the sump pump. The lights flickered. From the storage shelf, where the Operation game used to be, came a new sound: a slow, rhythmic beeping, like a heart monitor. I turned, and there it was: the game box, back on the shelf, lid slightly askew. I hadn’t put it there. I opened it. The plastic organs were arranged in a neat line, and the game’s metallic tweezers were bent into a shape that looked like a claw. Then the buzzer went off, and a voice said, in English, but muffled, as if from a throat full of cotton: `Help me.`

The dogs started barking, hackles raised. I slammed the box shut, ran upstairs, and told my wife we were getting an exterminator. But when I came back with a flashlight and a hammer, the box was gone. In its place was a small, gray squirrel, dead, its body twisted, its head bent at an unnatural angle. Around its neck was a thin wire, tied in a noose.

That was three weeks ago. I haven’t been back down there alone since. I moved the washer and dryer upstairs, but the basement is still there, a hole in the house. Last night, my daughter asked me to get her toy from the basement. I refused. She cried. I held her and told her it was too dirty. But the truth is, I heard the scratching again, and then a sound I couldn’t place: a low, humming laugh, like the game imitating a human voice. And I swear, it said my name. Not my username. My real name. And it knew the middle name I’ve never told anyone.

I’m writing this from the kitchen table, with every light on. The dogs are whining at the basement door. And I can hear the board game, even from here. It’s playing a tune—a music box lullaby—but the notes are wrong, off, like a toy that’s been dropped too many times. I don’t know how long I can ignore it. But I know one thing: whatever is down there isn’t a squirrel. And it’s not a board game. It’s been learning us, my voice, my family’s habits. And it’s getting better at mimicking. Tonight, when I finally go to sleep, I’ll dream of a basement that’s never unoccupied. And in that dream, the board is waiting, its plastic parts gleaming, and it beckons me to play. But the patient isn’t on the table. I am.