The Final Game

My cousin Clara has always had a gift for sensing the unseen.

Though she could see spirits clearly when they chose to reveal themselves, she could never communicate with them. Eventually, the constant exposure to the dead wore her down, and she willed herself to shut off the visual, though she could still feel their presence. One Tuesday night, just before Halloween, she and her boyfriend dropped by for a visit. I told her about the strange occurrences in my new apartment: the faint sound of a bouncing ball in the hallway at 3 AM, a child’s laughter echoing from the bathroom, and the unsettling feeling of being watched. Clara listened quietly, then said, ‘You know, a few years back, I was house-sitting for my aunt in this very same building, different unit, but the same building. My boyfriend and his friend went out for supplies one evening, leaving me alone with my baby son. I had set up his playpen in the living room, and I saw him staring at a corner, giggling. I felt a cold chill, but I couldn’t see anything. He would sometimes reach out as if to touch something, and his laughter would fill the room. I was terrified, but I couldn’t see what he was laughing at. He was the only one who could see it, and I had no way to ask him.’

She paused, her face pale. ‘I never found out what it was, but I moved out shortly after. The thought of not knowing what was in the room with us, watching him, still haunts me.’

After they left, I couldn’t shake her words. That night, I lay in bed, listening to the usual creaks and groans of the old building. But at 3 AM, the ball I often heard bounced down the hallway, stopping directly outside my door. I held my breath. Then, a child’s laughter, soft and playful, echoed through the walls. I got up, my heart pounding, and peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty. As I turned back, I saw a faint outline of a small figure standing at the foot of my bed, a shadow with no source, its head tilted as if watching me. In a whisper, I asked, ‘Who are you?’ The figure raised a hand and pointed to the closet, where I kept a box of my childhood toys. I hadn’t opened it in years. With trembling hands, I opened the closet and pulled out the box. Inside, beneath a layer of dust, I found an old photograph: a boy my age, from the 1970s, laughing at a birthday party. On the back, written in faded ink, were the words ‘My final game.’ I realized then that the apartment had seen many children over the decades, but only one had never left. The giggling came from the hallway again, and the shadow at my feet started to fade, but not before I heard a whisper, ‘Play with me.’

From that night on, I never felt alone. I began leaving toys out for my unseen friend, and the sounds of play would fill the apartment, but I still could not see him. I started to fear that my cousin’s gift, which she had shut off, was now finding a way into me. I would sit in the dark, listening to the ball bounce, and wonder if I had become the one who could not communicate, but only sense. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that the final game was just beginning.