The Green Girl at the Round Table

When I was nine, my best friend Davey’s older brother, Marcus, would watch us when our parents went out on Friday nights. This was back in the late ’80s, when the VCR was a prized possession and we’d rent the same three horror movies from the corner store until they were worn out. The Terminator, Aliens, and sometimes The Thing. I always fell asleep on the lumpy couch in Marcus’s basement, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket that smelled faintly of dog. The basement was a finished rec room with paneled walls, a foosball table, and a big projection TV that took up half the wall. The stairs creaked, and there was a small window near the ceiling that let in the orange glow of the streetlight.

One particular night, I woke up with a start. The TV was off, and the room was dark except for that streetlight glow. I didn’t know what time it was. I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, and looked over the back of the couch into the dining room, which was a little nook just past the basement stairs. Marcus had set up a folding table there for us to eat pizza. On the far end of that table, facing the wall, sat a little girl. She looked about seven, with long, dark hair that fell over her shoulders. She wore an old-fashioned dress, maybe floral print, but I couldn’t tell for sure because the light around her was a sickly green. It was like someone had placed a green gel over a lamp, but there was no lamp on. She just sat there, perfectly still, staring at the wall.

I thought maybe it was Marcus’s little sister, but I knew she was at a sleepover. My heart thumped in my ears. I tried to call out, but my voice wouldn’t come. I just watched her for what felt like forever, hoping she’d turn around or move. But she didn’t. So I laid back down, pulling the blanket over my head, thinking, Maybe I’m still dreaming. But I couldn’t sleep. After what felt like an hour, I peeked again. Now she was in a different chair, the one closest to me, facing my direction. But her head was down, like she was looking at something on the table. I could see her hands clasped in her lap. I watched, barely breathing, as her head slowly lifted. Her face was pale, almost grey, and her eyes were black, no whites. She looked directly at me. I didn’t even blink.

I should have run. I should have screamed for Marcus. But I was frozen. She raised one finger to her lips, as if to say, ‘Shh.’ Then she pointed at the table in front of her. There was nothing there. I shook my head, trying to understand. She pointed again, more insistently, and then she mouthed something. I couldn’t read her lips. Then she started to fade, like a TV losing signal, and she was gone.

The next morning, I told Davey and Marcus about what I’d seen. Marcus went pale. He told me that the girl had died in that house twenty years ago. She’d been playing hide-and-seek, and she hid in the old coal chute that was sealed up. She suffocated. He said he’d seen her once too, when he was a kid. He told me never to talk to her, because if you do, she’ll take you with her. I never forgot that. I never stayed in that basement again. But sometimes, even now, when I sit in a room with a folding table, I catch a glimpse of green in the corner of my eye, and I hear a soft whisper, ‘You didn’t say sorry.’ And I know she’s still waiting.