The Cellar Door and the Counting Game

My name is Jake, and I’m twelve. I know how that sounds, like I’m just another kid trying to scare kids at a sleepover. But this is the truth, and I’d rather it wasn’t.

My family moved to the old Morton place last summer. It’s a big, creaky farmhouse with a cellar that nobody likes. Dad said it was just old, but the way he avoided going down there told me more. I shared a room with my younger brother, Timmy, and we had a game we played when the lights went out: we’d count to a hundred in our heads, then see who could last the longest without screaming. It was stupid, but it kept the fear at bay.

One night, I lost track of the count. I was at ninety-nine, then I blinked, and the room was wrong. The moonlight coming through the window was a sickly yellow, and the posters on my wall were gone. Instead, there were peeling, damp wallpaper and a single bare bulb swinging above a wooden stair. I was standing at the top of the cellar stairs in my underwear, shivering.

I called out for Timmy. My voice echoed down the stairs, but it didn’t sound like my voice. It was higher, thinner, like a girl’s. Then a giggle came from below, a soft, teasing giggle that I recognized. It was the sound Timmy made when he was hiding from me, but he was supposed to be upstairs.

I took a step down. The wood creaked, and I felt a cold draft wrap around my ankles. A voice, not mine, not Timmy’s, but a woman’s, whispered from the dark, ‘Come and play, Jake. We’re counting.’

I wanted to run, but my legs carried me down, step by step. As I descended, I saw toys scattered on the earthen floor – a broken doll, a rusty truck, a jump rope. And in the center, a circle drawn in chalk, with numbers inside. Standing in the circle was a girl no older than me, but her hair was matted and gray, and her dress was stained. She was counting down from ten, but she was looking right at me.

‘…four, three, two, one. Ready or not, here I come!’ She sprinted at me, and I turned to run, but the stairs were gone. There was only a solid wall of dirt. Behind me, she grabbed my arm. Her grip was cold and tight.

‘You’re it now,’ she giggled, and the darkness swelled like a tide, swallowing her, and then me.

I woke up in my bed, drenched in sweat, with Timmy shaking me. ‘You were screaming,’ he said. I tried to tell him about the cellar, but he just looked confused. ‘The cellar door is locked from the outside, and Dad is the only one with the key. You’ve never even been down there.’

I showed him the scratches on my arm, but they were faint, like old marks. He didn’t believe me. But that night, as I lay in the dark, I heard it again: a soft giggle from under my bed. And a voice, the girl’s voice, saying, ‘Your turn to count, Jake. I’ll hide good this time.’ I pulled the covers over my head, but I knew I’d be playing again. The cellar door isn’t locked for my family – it’s locked for me. And I’m always it.

Now, whenever I’m alone with the lights out, I hear the countdown start again. And no matter how fast I count to a hundred, when I open my eyes, I’m back on those stairs, and she’s waiting. I don’t know how to tell anyone that I’m not the one counting myself to sleep anymore. I’m the one being counted.