The Cadence of the Unfinished Game

My name is Julio, and I was born and raised in the dusty, superstitious heart of Batangas. When my job transferred me to the bustling, humid city of Davao in 2003, I carried those beliefs with me like a worn rosary. The city was a cacophony of jeepney horns and tricycle engines, but I found a small, quiet subdivision on the outskirts, where the houses sat in neat rows and the nights were heavy with the sound of crickets.

My new housemate, Rico, was the opposite of me—a boisterous salesman who thrived on midnight drinking sessions with clients. He’d stumble in at all hours, reeking of alcohol and laughter. I, on the other hand, was the cautious one. The house was single-story, with a living room that opened to the kitchen, and two bedrooms at the back. My bedroom had a large window that faced a vacant lot and a makeshift basketball court, where the neighborhood kids played during the day. At night, the court stood empty, lit by a single sodium lamp that cast long, sickly shadows.

One night, around 1 AM, Rico pounded on the door. He was so drunk he could barely stand. I let him in, muttering about his reckless habits, and he collapsed onto his sofa bed, leaving the cassette player on. The tinny notes of a slow, melancholic ballad filled the room. As I headed to my bedroom, I glanced out the window. The lamp on the basketball court flickered, and I saw a figure standing at the free-throw line—a lanky boy in a sleeveless jersey, bouncing a ball that didn’t make any sound. I blinked, and he was gone. I rubbed my eyes, blaming the glare, and went to bed.

But sleep didn’t come easily. The music from the living room seeped into my room, and I found myself listening to the rhythm of the ball bouncing—a rhythm that wasn’t coming from the stereo. It was coming from outside. Thump… thump… thump… I got up and peered through the window. The court was empty, but the air shimmered with heat, even though it was a cool night. I told myself it was the residual heat from the lamp, and I forced myself to lie down, but the thumping continued, irregular, like a heartbeat with a stutter.

Over the next few weeks, the occurrences grew bolder. I’d find chalk outlines on the court in the morning, as if someone had drawn the key spots for a game. Once, I saw the same boy from my window, standing under the basket, staring up at my window with a face that was smooth and featureless, like a mannequin’s. I screamed, but when I blinked, he was gone. Rico mocked me, calling me a superstitious fool. ‘It’s the neighbor’s kid playing a prank,’ he’d say, but his laughter was hollow. He started coming home even later, as if the house disturbed him too, though he wouldn’t admit it.

One evening, I was doing dishes at the kitchen sink, which also faced the court. At the far end, near the fence, I saw a boy shooting free throws. He stood at the foul line, but his movements were jittery, like a film playing at the wrong speed. He held the ball, but it didn’t drop from his hands; it just hovered, and then he’d throw it, only for it to pass through the rim without touching the net. He made shot after shot, but the ball never made a sound. I dropped a plate, and the shattering noise made him look up—if he had eyes. He stared at me for a long moment, and then he slowly raised his arm and pointed at my window. At me.

I slammed the window shut and rushed to the living room, where Rico was passed out. I shook him awake, my voice trembling. ‘Rico, you have to see this. There’s a… there’s something out there.’ He groaned, but I dragged him to the kitchen. When we looked out, the boy was gone. Rico cursed me, calling me a madman. ‘You and your superstitions,’ he said, staggering back to his sofa. But as he passed the window, he froze. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed at the basketball court. I looked, and there, in the center, was a single basketball, sitting in a patch of lamplight. It was old, scuffed, and wet, as if covered in dew. We both stared at it, and then the ball began to bounce. Thump. Thump. Thump. It bounced by itself, kicking up dust, moving closer to the house. It stopped right beneath our window, and we could see that on its surface, fingerprints were pressed into the leather, as if someone were gripping it from inside.

The next day, I asked the neighborhood kids about the boy. They told me about a kid named Marco who used to live here, a gifted basketball player who died in a car accident right in front of the court, on his way to a championship game. He was supposed to take the winning shot, but he never made it. They said his spirit still lingers, practicing for the game he never got to finish. I felt a chill run down my spine, but I tried to brush it off. However, that night, the thumping was louder, and I saw Marco standing at the foul line again, but this time, he was holding the ball—and he was tossing it through the window. The ball went through the glass like mist, and landed at my feet. I looked down, and it was solid, cold, and wet. I picked it up, and the surface was smooth, but when I turned it over, there was a message scrawled in chalk: ‘PLAY WITH ME.’

I dropped the ball and ran to Rico’s room, but he wasn’t there. He had come home early that night, but now he was gone. The stereo was playing that same melancholic ballad, and I realized the music was the same song from the first night. I rushed outside, and there, on the court, Rico was standing at the free-throw line, arms raised as if about to shoot. But his head was tilted back, and his mouth was open, silent. Above him, the spotlight flickered, and I saw a shadow moving around him—the shadow of a boy holding a ball. Marco was behind Rico, guiding his arms, forcing him to mimic his moves. ‘Let him go!’ I shouted, but my voice was swallowed by the thumping. The ball in Marco’s hands began to glow, and I saw that in the center of the ball, there was a face—Rico’s face, stretched and screaming.

I don’t remember what I did next. I woke up in my bed, the morning sun streaming through the window. I was covered in sweat, and my hands were scraped. The house was silent. I went to the living room, and Rico was there, curled on the sofa, clutching his ribs. He wouldn’t look at me. I asked him what happened, but he just shook his head, whispering, ‘It wanted me to miss. It wanted me to miss.’ He quit his job, moved back to Manila, and never spoke of it again. I stayed, but I boarded up the window that faced the court. I never go out at night. I still hear it sometimes, especially when the moon is full and the lamp flickers. Thump. Thump. Thump. And sometimes, if I look through a crack in the boards, I see him—Marco, still playing his unfinished game, waiting for someone to join him. But I won’t. I will never touch that ball again.