The Game of Hush

I was twelve when my mother packed our things and moved us to the dry, sun-beaten town of Marrow. She thought a fresh start would cure my loneliness, but the kids there had already formed their cliques by the time we arrived. I spent the first weeks of summer kicking rocks down the cracked sidewalk, counting the days until school started again.

One blistering afternoon, I decided to walk to the grocery store two blocks over—the one with the faded Pepsi sign and the old man who always gave me extra boiled peanuts. On the way, a girl my age emerged from behind a low hedge. She had pale hair, almost white, and wore a sundress that looked too clean for the dust that clung to everything else. She didn’t smile, but her eyes were bright, and she asked, ‘Do you want to play fifty questions?’ I was so starved for company that I nodded without hesitation.

Her name was Mary. She answered my questions with short, precise replies, and when I asked if she wanted to walk with me, she dashed into her house—a white clapboard with a sagging porch—to ask her mother. She returned with a wave from a silhouette at the window, and we walked to the store in silence. I bought my Dr. Pepper and peanuts, and as we walked back, she said, ‘Do you want to play a game?’ I shrugged. ‘Sure. What game?’ She smiled then, a thin, knowing smile. ‘It’s called Hush. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. And you have to promise to follow the rules.’

I called my mom to tell her I’d be at a friend’s house, and she was so surprised I had a friend that she didn’t ask questions. Mary led me into her house. It was cool inside, and dark, with furniture draped in white sheets like a place that had been closed for the season. The air smelled of dust and lavender. In the living room, there was a table with two chairs facing each other. On the table sat a wooden box with a brass latch, and next to it a silver bell.

Mary gestured for me to sit. She sat across from me and said, ‘The rules of Hush are simple. You ask a question, and I answer. Then I ask a question, and you answer. But you must never lie, and you must never break eye contact. And when the bell rings, the game is over, and you must leave without speaking to anyone you see. Do you understand?’ I nodded, feeling a thrill of excitement. ‘Let’s begin.’ She asked, ‘What is your deepest fear?’ I thought for a moment. ‘Being alone,’ I said. She tilted her head. ‘Interesting.’ Then she asked, ‘What is your secret wish?’ I hesitated. ‘To have a friend who never leaves.’

Then it was my turn. I asked, ‘Why do you want to play this game?’ She leaned forward. ‘Because I’m lonely too. And this is the only way I can have someone to play with.’ Her voice was flat, and for a moment I felt a chill. I asked, ‘Who else have you played with?’ She smiled wider. ‘Do you really want to know?’ I should have said no, but I nodded. She whispered, ‘The last one was a boy named Timothy. He broke the rules. He laughed during the game. The bell rang, and he tried to stay. But he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. So he stayed.’

The room grew colder. I tried to laugh, but it came out as a breath. I wanted to leave, but Mary’s eyes held mine. ‘Your turn,’ she said. I had to think of a question. ‘What happens if I break the rules?’ I asked. She pursed her lips. ‘You would join Timothy. In the cellar. We keep the ones who break the game there. They make good toys.’

I felt a rush of fear. My legs were numb. I wanted to run, but my body wouldn’t obey. Mary’s face began to change. Her skin seemed to stretch, her eyes grew darker, and her smile widened until it split her cheeks. ‘You should have kept walking, Mara,’ she said, and her voice was no longer a girl’s but a deep, hissing whisper. ‘But now we’re in the game, and you’ve already asked your last question. The bell is about to ring.’

I heard a soft ringing, as if from far away. The silver bell on the table vibrated, then clanged, and the sound echoed through the empty house. Mary stood up, her form wavering like heat off asphalt. ‘You must leave now. And you must not speak to anyone you see, or the game will never end.’

I stumbled to my feet and ran for the door. Behind me, I heard Mary’s voice, now the voice of many, calling, ‘Goodbye, friend. See you soon.’ I burst out into the blazing sun, and the door slammed shut. I ran all the way home without looking back. When I got inside, my mom asked why I was so pale. I opened my mouth to tell her, but no words came out. I couldn’t speak about it. I realized I had broken a rule—I had spoken to her. No, I hadn’t spoken; I had just opened my mouth. But the words were stuck.

That night, I heard a bell ringing outside my window. I pulled back the curtain and saw Mary standing in the street, her white dress glowing in the moonlight. She raised her hand and waved. I closed the curtain and hid under my covers. But I knew she would come back. And she did—every night that summer, she would stand there, waving, waiting for me to come out and play again.

I never told anyone the full story. I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form. And whenever I tried to write it down, my hand would cramp and the paper would tear. I still see her sometimes, at the edge of my vision. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear the faint sound of a bell, and I know the game isn’t over. I just hope that one day, I’ll get to ask my final question.