The Matchbox Guest

I remember the night it happened, though I wish I didn’t. It was in my third year at the University of Medellín, and I was living in a tiny studio apartment near the campus, a place with a kitchenette, a cramped bathroom, and a single room that served as both living and sleeping quarters. My friends and I were always looking for something to break the monotony of studying, and when a friend named Leo mentioned this game called ‘No mires atrás’ (Don’t look back), my curiosity was piqued. He described it as a horror game that had gone viral, with people claiming it had given them the scariest experience of their lives. Being a skeptic, I dismissed it as a a hoax, but something about it nagged at me. So, one Saturday, when my roommates were away (which was rare, since I usually had two, but they were visiting family), I found myself alone with a notepad, a pen, and a box of matches from the local tienda.

I followed the instructions: I closed all the windows, drew the curtains (though I only had blinds, but I made sure they were shut tight), turned off every light, and waited until midnight. The apartment was pitch black, the only sound being my own breathing and the occasional hum of the refrigerator. I held the box of matches in my hand, feeling the rough edges, and then I began to count the rooms in my apartment. It was a simple task: one for the bathroom, one for the kitchenette (though it wasn’t really a separate room, but I counted it anyway), and one for the main living/sleeping area. That made three. I wrote down ‘3’ on the paper with a pen I had to feel for in the dark.

Then, the game instructed me to strike a match and, while it burned, to say the following: ‘Lights on, we welcome you. Count the rooms, three in number. Join our party, we await.’ I struck the match, the flame flaring up and casting eerie shadows on the walls. I spoke the words, feeling stupid but also a growing unease. As the flame died down, I was supposed to blow it out and then, without looking back, go to bed. That was the rule: after the invitation, you must not look back until morning. If you do, something will follow you. I snuffed the match, threw it into a ashtray that I somehow located in the dark, and walked to my bed, my heart pounding in my chest. I lay there, wide awake, listening for any sound. But there was only silence. After what felt like an eternity, I drifted into a restless sleep.

I woke up to the sound of soft footsteps. At first, I thought it was my roommates returning, but then I remembered they were gone for the weekend. I opened my eyes, and the room was still pitch black, but I could feel a presence. I turned on the lamp by my bed, and the light flooded the room, revealing nothing unusual. I shrugged it off, thinking it was just my imagination. But then I noticed something on the floor: a single matchstick, burned and blackened, lying in the middle of the room, far from the ashtray where I had tossed the one I used. That was odd, because I had closed the box and put it on the kitchen counter. I got up to inspect, but as I moved, I caught a glimpse of a figure in the mirror that hung on the wall opposite my bed. It was tall and thin, with long, spindly arms and a face that was just a blur, as if it were always in shadow. I spun around, but there was nothing there. I shook my head, convinced that I was just tired.

I tried to go about my day, but the feeling of being watched never left me. I chalked it up to the power of suggestion from the game. That night, as I was preparing for bed, I heard a whisper from the dark corner of the room. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded like a child’s voice, saying something over and over. I froze, my heart racing. I whispered back, ‘Hello?’ The whispering stopped, and then I heard a match strike. I looked towards the sound, and there, in the corner, a small flame flickered, illuminating a figure that was crouching. It was the same figure from the mirror, but now I could see more details: its skin was pale and mottled, its fingers were unnaturally long, and its eyes were just empty sockets. I was terrified, but I remembered the rule: do not look back. I forced myself to turn away, to keep my eyes on the wall. I backed towards the door, but the figure began to crawl towards me, its joints popping and cracking. It spoke in that childlike voice, ‘You invited us. We came.’ I bolted out of the apartment, not even pausing to grab my phone or keys.

I ran down the stairs, out into the street, and didn’t stop until I reached my school’s library, which was open 24-7. I spent the rest of the night there, huddled in a corner, unable to sleep. When the sun rose, I returned to my apartment, hoping it had all been a dream. But as I entered, I saw that there were matchsticks scattered all over the floor, arranged in a pattern that spelled out the words, ‘WE ARE HERE.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. I grabbed my things and went to stay with my friend Leo. He listened to my story with a skeptical look, but then he told me something that made my blood run cold. He said that the game had a rule that I must have missed: you have to count the rooms correctly, and the number you write down is the number of entities that will join you. I had counted three rooms, but my apartment actually had four, because I had forgotten to count the closet. I had invited one extra spirit. And I had broken the cardinal rule: I had looked back.

I’ve been living with Leo for three weeks now, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s still following me. Sometimes, I see it in reflections, or I hear the sound of a match striking when there’s no source. I know it’s only a matter of time before it gets me, because you can’t outrun a guest who knows where you live. And now, every time I see a matchbox, I think of it, sitting in my old apartment, waiting for me to come back.