The Fourth Player

April 18, 2011

by Gretchen

My aunt, Helena, lived with her husband, Marcus, in a sprawling Victorian house in the countryside of upstate New York. I had visited once, for a summer barbecue, and the place had felt warm and welcoming, with sunlight streaming through the tall windows and the smell of fresh cut grass. Nothing eerie, nothing out of place. But that was before the change.

It started during a visit from my grandparents. Grandpa Robert and Grandma Edith had come to stay for the weekend. They were seated in the living room with Helena and Marcus, reminiscing about old times, when a clear, sweet voice rang out from the hallway: ‘Hello!’

They all froze. The voice was familiar to Helena—it sounded exactly like the voice of her friend’s daughter, Lily, who was twelve and often came over to play with the neighbor’s dog. But Lily was not there that day. Helena checked the hallway, the front door, even the backyard, but found no one. Grandma Edith laughed it off as a prank from the neighbor kids, but Grandpa Robert felt a chill run down his spine.

Later that afternoon, Grandpa Robert and Marcus decided to go down to the basement, a large, finished space with a pool table, a vintage bar, and a cozy seating area where they often played dominoes and talked. They settled into their game, the clink of tiles punctuating their conversation, when Grandpa Robert felt a presence. He looked up toward the stairs and saw a figure—a young girl, but only from the waist down. She was wearing a pale blue dress with white polka dots, and her feet were bare, slightly dusty, as if she had been walking through an attic. She stood perfectly still on the bottom step.

Grandpa Robert nudged Marcus, who turned and saw her too. They both stared, speechless. The girl did not move, did not speak, just stood there. After a long, tense minute, she slowly turned and walked back up the stairs, her footsteps soft and even. They heard the creak of the steps and then silence.

Marcus and Grandpa Robert exchanged a look and went after her. They searched the entire house—every room, every closet, even the attic—but found nothing. Helena and Grandma Edith, who had joined the search, were pale and shaken. Helena insisted that the girl sounded like Lily, but when they called Lily’s mother, Lily was home with a cold, had been all day.

That night, they decided to stay together in the living room, sitting close, trying to find a rational explanation. As the clock struck midnight, they heard the sound of dominoes clicking together from the basement. Slowly, deliberately, as if someone was playing a game alone. They crept to the basement door and peered down. In the dim light, they saw the girl sitting at the table, her back to them, moving the dominoes in a strange pattern. None of them dared to descend. They watched until she finished, rose, and walked up the stairs, passing through them like a cold breeze, never looking at them.

In the days that followed, they learned of the house’s history—an old orphanage had once stood on the land, and a child named Margaret had died there in 1912, playing alone in the basement. She had been buried in a dress with polka dots. Grandpa Robert hasn’t spoken of it since, except to say that if you ever hear a little girl say ‘Hello’ in that house, don’t answer. And if you see her feet on the stairs, count them. Because sometimes she’s not alone.

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