The Red Door Game

I was eight when I first saw the boy in the attic. My grandmother had passed, and my parents were clearing out her old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The attic was a dusty, cobwebbed place, smelling of mothballs and old paper. I was supposed to be sorting boxes, but I found a small, red door set into the wall behind a stack of furniture. It was about three feet tall, with a brass knob that turned easily. I opened it and saw a narrow staircase leading down into darkness.

A voice came from below, high and thin. ‘Hello? Are you coming to play?’ It was a boy’s voice, but it made my skin crawl. I should have closed the door and walked away, but curiosity got the better of me. I called back, ‘Who’s there?’ A figure emerged from the shadows, a boy about my age, with sandy hair and a blue and yellow striped shirt. He smiled, but his eyes were flat. ‘I’m Eli. I’ve been waiting for someone. Come down, I have a game.’

I hesitated, but he was so eager, and I was lonely. I followed him down the narrow steps into a small, low-ceilinged room lit by a single bare bulb. The walls were lined with shelves of old toys, but they were arranged in neat rows, almost like a display in a shop. Eli picked up a wooden block and tossed it to me. ‘Catch!’ I fumbled and missed, and he laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. ‘You’re not very good. Let’s play something else.’

He pointed to a dusty board game on the floor, a maze with a spinner. ‘You go first,’ he said. I spun, and my piece moved. He spun, and his piece moved. We played for a while, but I noticed every time I landed on a red square, he would get excited, leaning forward. After a few rounds, he said, ‘If you land on red three times, you have to give me a prize.’ I asked what prize, and he just smiled. ‘You’ll see.’

I landed on red again, and he clapped. ‘That’s two! One more!’ I looked around the room, feeling uneasy. The air was cold, and I saw my breath. ‘I should go back,’ I said. ‘My parents will worry.’ His face twisted into a scowl. ‘No! You can’t leave yet. We’re just getting to the good part.’ He grabbed my wrist, and his grip was like ice. ‘Land on red one more time, and you’ll see something amazing.’

I pulled away, but he held tight. ‘Please, I really have to go.’ He squeezed harder, and I cried out. Then I heard a woman’s voice from above, calling my name. Eli’s eyes widened, and he let go. He stepped back, and the lights flickered. ‘Fine. Go. But you’ll come back. They always come back.’ I scrambled up the stairs, but when I reached the top, the door was closed. I pushed, and it opened easily. I ran out of the attic and down to the kitchen, where my mother was unpacking a box of dishes. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘You look pale.’ I told her about the boy, and she frowned. ‘There’s no one else here, sweetie. You were probably dreaming.’ But I knew I wasn’t dreaming.

Weeks later, I couldn’t shake the memory. I told my father, and he dismissed it as childhood imagination. But I started having nightmares, always the same: I was in that room, and Eli was grinning, his face inches from mine, whispering, ‘You owe me a prize.’ I tried to avoid the attic, but one afternoon, I found myself standing in front of the red door again. It was slightly ajar. I heard Eli’s voice, but this time it was pleading. ‘Please, I just want a friend. I’m so lonely.’

I pushed the door open and saw him sitting at the bottom of the stairs, looking up with big, sad eyes. ‘You came back,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I thought you left forever.’ I felt a pang of pity. ‘I had to go, but I’m here now.’ He smiled, and it was almost genuine. ‘Can we play again? I promise I won’t be mean.’ I nodded, and we went down. We played the same game, but this time, when I landed on red, he didn’t get excited. He just said, ‘You’re supposed to give me something.’ I asked what, and he pointed to a small glass jar on a shelf. ‘Put a piece of your hair in there. It’s a token of friendship.’ I hesitated, but he looked so vulnerable. I pulled out a few strands and placed them in the jar. He nodded, and then he said, ‘Now we’re friends forever.’

From that day on, Eli was always in my thoughts. He would appear in my bedroom at night, sitting on the edge of my bed, asking me to come play. I would say no, but he would plead, and eventually I would sneak to the attic after my parents were asleep. Each time, he asked for another token: a toenail, a drop of blood, a lock of hair. I always gave, because he promised it would make our bond stronger. But I was growing weaker, pale, and exhausted. My parents took me to doctors, but they found nothing wrong.

One night, I saw Eli’s true face. He was standing in the corner of my room, but his features were shifting, melting, revealing a hollow skull with black eyes. I screamed, and he vanished. I ran to the attic, determined to end this. I found the red door, but now it was locked. I pounded on it, crying, ‘Eli, what are you?’ A voice came from behind me. ‘I’m what you made me.’ I turned, and he was there, holding a pair of scissors. ‘You’ve given me enough of you. Now I can take the rest.’ He lunged, and I felt a cold sting at my throat.

I woke up in the hospital, my parents crying. They told me I had been found unconscious in the attic, clutching a jar filled with hair and fingernails. I asked about the red door, but they said there was no door, only a wall. I tried to explain, but they thought I had a feverish hallucination. I was discharged a week later, but I never went back to that house. I’m sixteen now, and I still think about Eli. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear a soft knock on my window, and a voice whispers, ‘Let me in. We’re friends.’ I never open the curtains. I’ve learned to ignore it. But I know he’s waiting, and one day, he won’t take no for an answer.