The Game of Peek

It started on a Tuesday, the kind of Tuesday that feels like it’s been dragged through a swamp and left to dry. I was at my mother’s place, a rambling old farmhouse my great-grandfather built, with its crooked porch and windows that rattled in the wind. Since my daughter, Lily, was born, my mother and I had been spending more time there, seeking the comfort of its thick walls and creaking floors.

I was in the parlor, a room we rarely used, trying to soothe Lily, who was teething and fussy. The room was filled with heavy furniture, bookshelves with dusty tomes, and a large fireplace that hadn’t been lit in years. As I rocked her, I caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye—near the hallway entrance, a shape that didn’t belong. It was the shape of a small, hunched figure, peering around the doorframe, then pulling back. I thought it was my imagination, a trick of the dim light, but something felt off.

Later, when my mother came in with a cup of tea, I mentioned it. I expected her to laugh it off, but she put down the tea and sat across from me, her face serious. ‘I’ve seen it too,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything because I wanted to see if you’d notice it on your own. It’s been watching us for weeks.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. We decided to keep an eye out, but not to acknowledge it directly, to see what it would do.

A few days later, I was alone with Lily in the parlor again. She was in her bouncy chair, giggling at the ceiling fan, when I saw the figure again—this time more clearly. It was a wispy, grey thing, almost like smoke with a human shape, and it seemed to be looking at Lily. I froze, my heart pounding. The figure ducked back, and then after a moment, it peeked again, this time bobbing its head up and down. Lily let out a loud, gleeful laugh. She was only nine months old, but she was laughing as if she’d just seen the best joke. The figure peeked again, and Lily laughed harder. It did this over and over, playing a silent game of peek-a-boo with my daughter.

I was terrified, but Lily was delighted. She kept reaching out her chubby hands toward the doorway, her face lit with joy. I didn’t know what to do. My mother came in from the kitchen, and the moment her voice cut through the air, saying, ‘Time for lunch,’ the figure vanished. Lily stopped laughing and looked around, confused, as if her playmate had disappeared.

That evening, I told my mother about the full episode. She listened, her lips pressed into a thin line. ‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ she said. ‘It’s not just watching anymore.’ She then told me about the house’s history—how my great-grandfather had built it on land that was once an old burial ground, and that there were stories of a child who had died there in a fire long before I was born. ‘Maybe it’s that child, wanting to play with Lily,’ she whispered. But that didn’t make me feel better.

The next time it happened, I was prepared. I set up my phone to record the doorway, hoping to capture something. I sat with Lily, and true to form, the figure appeared. It peeked, and this time I saw more details—a flutter of a dress, a hint of a face that was too blurry to make out. Lily laughed, and the figure seemed to become more solid, as if it was feeding on her joy. It did something new: it raised a hand, as if waving, and slowly dissolved into the wall. I checked the recording, but there was nothing there. The video showed only the empty doorway, and Lily laughing at nothing.

I decided to confront it. The next time it appeared, I didn’t look away. I stood up and spoke out loud, my voice trembling: ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ The figure hesitated, then slowly emerged from the wall. It was the shape of a young girl, maybe five years old, wearing an old-fashioned dress, but her face was indistinct, shifting like fog. She pointed at Lily, then made a gesture as if covering her eyes and playing peek-a-boo. I felt a surge of fear and compassion. ‘She can’t understand you,’ I said. ‘She’s just a baby.’

The figure tilted its head, then slowly faded away. After that, it appeared less frequently, but when it did, it would just watch Lily from a distance. I told my mother we should leave, that this was too much. She agreed, and we packed up to go back to my apartment in the city. As we were loading the car, Lily suddenly burst into loud sobs, inconsolable. She kept pointing at the house, at a window on the second floor. I looked up and saw the vague outline of the figure in the glass, its hand pressed against the window, as if waving goodbye.

We drove away, and for a while, it was quiet. But then one night, I woke up at 3:00 AM to the sound of Lily’s laughter coming from the nursery. I tiptoed in and found her sitting in her crib, laughing and reaching toward the empty corner of the room. The laughter was too high-pitched, too carefree for a baby. In the dim light, I saw a faint shimmer of grey, and a low voice, like a child’s from a deep can, whispered, ‘Peek-a-boo.’ I ran to turn on the light, and it was gone. But I knew: the game wasn’t over. It had followed us home.

Now, every night, I hear Lily laughing in the dark, and the soft rustle of an unseen presence. I close my eyes and count myself to sleep, but I can’t shake the feeling that one day, I’ll turn around, and the figure won’t just be playing peek-a-boo anymore. It will be waiting, ready to reveal itself fully, and I’m afraid that when it does, I won’t be able to turn away.