The Game That Wasn’t

I was seventeen that summer, scraping together cash for a beat-up guitar I’d been eyeing at the pawn shop. Babysitting was my main gig, and on that particular Tuesday, the weather had turned ugly. Not just rain, but a solid gray sheet that seemed to swallow the neighborhood, punctuated by cracks of thunder that rattled the windows. The house was a sprawling old Victorian on the edge of town, owned by the Lindquists, who were attending a charity gala downtown. Their daughter, Amelia, was eight, with a mop of red curls and a laugh that could fill a room. Her usual babysitter had come down with the flu, and I’d been recommended by a friend.

Amelia and I had been through a stack of board games and a marathon of cartoons when the doorbell rang, surprising us both. It was her friend, Daisy, a quiet girl with thick glasses and a nervous smile. Daisy’s mom had to run an emergency errand and asked if she could leave her here for a couple of hours. I agreed, and the two of them immediately wanted to play hide-and-seek. The house was perfect for it, with its nooks and crannies, and the storm outside made it feel cozier, more secretive.

I let them hide first. I pressed my back against the kitchen wall, counted to thirty, and listened. The giggles gave them away almost instantly. I heard a stifled laugh from behind the living room curtains, a quick patter of feet toward the study. Smiling, I called out, ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ I wandered through the downstairs, checking behind doors and under tables, playing along. After a few minutes, I hadn’t found them, which was odd. I was in the hallway, and that’s when I saw it.

The door at the end of the hall, the one that led to the basement, was slightly ajar. A sliver of darkness, like a crack, and it moved. No, not the door, but something behind it. I thought, ‘They’re trying to scare me.’ I smirked and walked toward it, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. As I got closer, I heard a faint thump, as if someone was shifting their weight behind the door. I reached for the knob, but hesitated. A strange, cold draft seeped from the gap, carrying a smell like old pennies and wet earth. I called out, ‘I know you’re in there! Come out!’ No response.

I pushed the door open, and it swung inward with a groan. The basement was pitch black, and I fumbled for the light switch. It didn’t work. I pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight, and the beam cut through the darkness, revealing boxes and old furniture, but no Amelia or Daisy. I descended a few steps, the wooden stairs creaking, and as I swept the light around, I felt a presence behind me. I spun around, and for a split second, I thought I saw two pale figures in the corner, but they vanished when I focused. A wave of unease washed over me. I quickly went back up and called out their names, but the house was silent.

I searched every room, my heart pounding. I checked the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, the study, the upstairs bedrooms, even the attic. Nothing. Panic set in. I thought they might have snuck outside, but the doors were locked. I was about to call the police when I heard a faint hum coming from the basement. It was a lullaby, a tune I recognized from my own childhood, but I didn’t remember teaching it to Amelia. I went back to the basement door, and the hum grew louder, clearer. It was coming from behind a stack of old crates. I moved them aside to reveal a small door I hadn’t noticed before, half-hidden by dust.

I tugged it open, and a staircase descended even deeper, into a sub-basement I never knew existed. The air was stale and heavy. I called down, ‘Amelia? Daisy?’ A tiny voice, almost a whisper, replied, ‘We’re down here. But you have to play the game.’ I descended, and at the bottom, a terrible scene met my eyes. The girls were huddled in the corner, but they looked different. Their eyes were wide, unblinking, and their smiles were too wide, stretching beyond their faces. ‘We’re playing with the other children,’ Amelia said, her voice too calm. That’s when I saw them: faint, shimmering shapes of children, a dozen or more, standing in a circle, their faces empty. They began to sing the lullaby, and the sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

The last thing I remember is the doorknob turning behind me, and the heavy click of a lock. I stood in the center of that circle, and the children closed in, their tiny hands reaching out. I screamed, but no sound came out. They began to whisper my name, over and over, ‘Emily, Emily, Emily…’ The world started to blur, and the whispers grew into a roar, and then silence.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the basement floor, Amelia and Daisy beside me, giggling as if nothing had happened. ‘You found us!’ Amelia said. I looked around; the circle of ghostly children was gone. I tried to stand, but my legs were weak. I helped the girls upstairs and called the Lindquists, telling them I wasn’t feeling well. They came home early, and Daisy’s mom picked her up. I never set foot in that house again. But sometimes, when it rains, I hear that lullaby drifting through the wind, and I wonder if those children are still there, waiting for someone else to take my place in their eternal game.