The Eighth Square

I turned eight on a Tuesday, the same day my family moved to the coastal town of Saltmarsh, a place that smelled of brine and rotting wood. The house we rented was a crumbling Victorian relic perched on a cliff, its windows like vacant eyes staring at the churning sea. My parents, ever absorbed in their own world, had arranged for me to stay with a schoolmate, Elias, whose family lived near the old lighthouse, a stone tower that had been decommissioned decades ago. The lighthouse was my first hint of unease; it stood like a broken finger pointing at the sky, and the locals whispered that it was haunted by the ghost of a keeper who had vanished one stormy night. But I was eight, and ghosts were more thrilling than terrifying. I had just won the annual Cornish ‘Grid Game’ at school—a complex strategy game played on a numbered board—and I felt invincible. Elias was my best friend, and the invitation to his house for two nights felt like the start of a grand adventure.

My parents were off to a concert in London, some band I didn’t care about, and they left me with a cheerful wave and a bag of crisps. Elias’s father, Mr. Penrose, was a gruff man who worked as a groundskeeper at the nearby asylum, a sprawling gothic building called Warder’s Hill. The asylum loomed on the edge of town, its walls high and topped with barbed wire, and I remember asking him, ‘Can the patients ever escape?’ He laughed, a dry sound like gravel, and said, ‘They lock the doors at night, boy. And those that do get out, they don’t get far.’ I wanted to ask more, but his eyes had a flatness that silenced me.

The first night at the Penrose house was everything I hoped for: we ate buttered crumpets, played board games, and talked about video games until our eyes burned. The house itself was cozy, filled with the smell of wood smoke and lavender, and I almost forgot about the asylum on the hill. Elias and I shared a room with a window that faced the sea, and as I drifted off, I watched the lighthouse beam sweep across the waves, like a lonely heartbeat. I felt safe, wrapped in the warmth of friendship and the promise of two more days of freedom.

But that night, I dreamed of the grid from the Cornish Grid Game. In the dream, I was standing on a giant board, the squares stretching to the horizon. All the numbers were there, except one: the number eight was missing. Instead, there was an empty square, black as ink, and from it came a sound—not a voice, not a scream, but a low hum that vibrated in my bones. I woke to the sound of Elias’s breathing, but the hum persisted, faint, like a distant engine. I shook it off and fell back asleep.

The next morning, I asked Elias if he ever heard strange noises at night. He said, ‘Only the wind. And sometimes the foghorn from the lighthouse.’ But his eyes flickered, and I knew he was lying. I decided to explore the town, and on my way back, I took a shortcut that led me past Warder’s Hill. The walls were foreboding, and I saw a figure standing at a window—a pale face pressed against the glass, staring at me. I froze, but then the figure vanished. I told Elias’s mother, and she said, ‘Oh, that’s just old Mrs. Kettle, she likes to watch the birds. You’ll get used to her.’ But I didn’t.

The second night, I couldn’t sleep. The hum was louder, and I felt a presence in the room. I got up and looked out the window, and I saw a light flickering in the asylum’s tower. It wasn’t the regular lights; it was a single bulb, swinging as if someone had just turned it off. Then I saw a shadow moving along the wall, and I knew—I just knew—that something was wrong. I woke Elias, but he was irritated. ‘It’s just the old place,’ he said, ‘it’s always creaking. Go back to sleep.’ But I couldn’t.

The next morning, I noticed a pattern. In the grid game, every square has a number, and the winner is the one who lands on the highest numbers without falling into the trap squares. The trap squares are marked with a skull. In our game, the trap was the number 8. I had won by avoiding it, and I had felt a chill when I saw it. Now, I realized that the hum I heard was like the sound of a spinning wheel, and the asylum had eight floors. I asked Elias if anyone had ever escaped from Warder’s Hill. He said, ‘One man, a generation ago. He was never found.’ His face paled as he said it, and I knew this was not a joke.

That afternoon, we were playing in the attic when I found an old photograph. It showed a man in a white coat, standing in front of the asylum, with a strange symbol on his chest—the number 8 inside a circle. The back of the photo had a date: September 8th, 1923. I felt a knot in my stomach. I turned to Elias, but he had disappeared. Then I heard the hum again, louder, and it seemed to come from the walls. I ran downstairs, and I saw Elias’s parents standing in the kitchen, their backs to me. They were speaking in hushed tones. ‘He’s the one,’ his mother said. ‘The eighth. The square is open.’

I didn’t wait to hear more. I ran out the back door, into the overgrown garden, and towards the cliff. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to get away. The hum was now a roar, and the sky had turned a bruised purple. I looked back at the asylum, and I saw the figure again—this time closer, at the gate, and it was my own face. The hum reached a crescendo, and then silence.

I woke up in my own bed, in my parents’ house, as if nothing had happened. But my head ached, and on my arm was a small mark, like a number 8. I asked my parents about Saltmarsh, and they said I had never been there—I had spent the nights at my aunt’s house. I showed them the mark, but they said it was a birthmark. I tried to remember Elias, but his face was hazy, like a dream. And yet, sometimes, at night, when the wind blows, I hear that hum, and I see the lighthouse beam, and I know that somewhere, in a place I cannot reach, a square is missing its piece—and that piece is me.