The Latchkey Game

I was seven when I first saw him, peeking around the corner of our garage. It was a Tuesday, I think, the morning light all pale and watery. I was heading out to the bus stop, my backpack heavy with books I couldn’t read yet. He was just there, a shape cut from the space between our house and the neighbor’s fence. Not a shadow, exactly, but like a man-shaped hole in the air. He grinned, a wide black smile that seemed to stretch beyond the edges of his face, then vanished around the corner as if he wanted me to follow. I didn’t. I told my mother, and she said it was just a dream, but I knew better. I saw him again, sometimes, in the backyard by the old oak tree, or at the end of the hallway at night, but by the time I turned twelve, he’d stopped appearing. I convinced myself it was a trick of the light, the product of an overactive imagination. I pushed him out of my mind and got on with growing up.

Now I’m twenty-three, and I’ve moved back into that same house. My parents retired to Florida, and I inherited the place. It’s a fixer-upper, with creaky floorboards and a leaky roof, but it’s mine. For the first few weeks, it was fine. I’d come home from my job at the library, make dinner, read a book, and go to bed early. But then the little things started happening. I’d be turning off the lamps in the living room, and I’d hear my name whispered right behind my ear, a dry, papery sound that made my hair stand on end. I’d spin around, but there was nothing. I blamed the wind, the house settling, my own loneliness. But then my friend Ana came to visit, and she saw it too.

We were in the kitchen, drinking coffee at midnight, when Ana froze. Her cup stopped halfway to her lips, and her eyes went wide. ‘Did you see that?’ she whispered. I followed her gaze toward the window that overlooks the backyard. At first, I saw nothing but the reflection of the kitchen light. But then, just at the edge of the glass, I caught a flicker, a dark shape that seemed to lean in, like it was trying to get a better look at us. The shape lingered for a second, then pulled back, dissolving into the night. Ana left the next morning, and she hasn’t returned my calls since. She texted me two days later: ‘You’re not alone in that house. I don’t know what it wants, but it’s not friendly.’

After that, I started noticing patterns in the dust on the floor, like the faint impression of bare feet. They’d lead from the corner of a room to the center, then stop. I’d wake up in the middle of the night with the feeling that someone was standing over my bed, breathing just above my face. I’d turn on the light, and the room would be empty, but the air would feel thick, like it was holding its breath. One night, I had had enough. I lay in bed, my heart pounding, and I spoke to the empty room. ‘I know you’re here,’ I said, my voice trembling. ‘What do you want?’ At first, there was silence. Then, from the corner of the room, came a sound like a child’s giggle, but wrong, too high and too long. It was a sound that didn’t belong to any human child. I grabbed my phone and dialed my mother.

‘Mom, did you ever see anything weird in this house when I was little?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. There was a long pause on the other end. Then she sighed, a tired sound that carried decades of unspoken fear. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, because I thought you’d forget,’ she said. ‘But I saw him too. When you were just a baby, I’d see him standing at the foot of your crib. I thought it was your father, but then your father was at work. I never told anyone, because I was afraid they’d think I was crazy. But he went away when you started talking. I thought he was gone for good.’ I thanked her, but I couldn’t sleep anymore. I sat in the living room all night, with every light on, my back against a wall, watching the corners. And that’s when I noticed the latch on the side gate.

It’s an old latch, rusted and loose, but I’d never paid it any mind. But that night, I watched it from the window as the moon rose. Around three in the morning, the latch clicked. It was a small, metallic sound, but it cut through the silence like a knife. I held my breath. The gate creaked, slow and deliberate, like someone was pushing it open just a crack. Then I saw him. He was standing in the backyard, just beyond the reach of the porch light, his form darker than the night itself. He wasn’t moving, just watching the house. And in the moonlight, I could see his grin, that same wide, black smile from my childhood. But now it wasn’t playful. It was hungry. I realized then that he wasn’t a ghost or a memory. He was something older, something that had been waiting for me all these years, feeding on my fear when I was a child, and now that I was grown, he wanted more.

I knew I had to leave. I grabbed my keys, a bag with a few clothes, and my phone, and I ran for the front door. But when I reached for the handle, it was ice cold, and it wouldn’t move. I could hear him behind me, not footstep sounds, but a shift in the air, a pressure change, like a storm rolling in. I turned around, and he was in the hallway, blocking my path to the bedroom. He was taller now, his head brushing the ceiling, his body a tarry black mass, and his smile was a crack of white in the dark. I screamed, and I ran for the kitchen, but he was there too, in the corner, watching. Every room I entered, he was already there, waiting, grinning, like he was enjoying my panic. I finally collapsed in the center of the living room, my back to the wall, my legs too weak to run any further. He stood over me, and for the first time, he spoke. His voice was like gravel and dust, and it seemed to come from all directions. ‘I’ve been waiting,’ he said. ‘You’ve grown so much. It’s time to play again.’

I don’t remember what happened after that. I woke up the next morning in my bed, fully dressed, with a throbbing headache. The house was quiet, and the sunlight streamed through the windows, making everything look normal. But I knew it wasn’t. I went to the front door, and the lock was untouched. The side gate, though, was standing wide open, swinging gently in the breeze. And on the ground, right at the entrance, was a small, child-sized handprint pressed into the dirt, as if it had just been placed there, still fresh and dark. I haven’t left the house since. I’ve barricaded the doors and windows, and I keep every light on at all times. But I know he’s still out there, just beyond the gate. And I know that when night falls, I’ll hear the latch click again. And this time, I might not be able to stop him from coming in. I’ve started to see him in my reflections, just at the edge of my peripheral vision, always smiling. I’m writing this down so someone will know what to look for if they find me missing. But I fear I already know how the story ends. The latch moves. The gate opens. And the game begins anew.