The Unboxed Game

In the autumn of 2016, I was at my friend Mira’s Halloween party. I was 22, she was 24, and her little niece, Elara, who was eight, was staying with her for the weekend.

We weren’t into the costume contest or the horror movie marathon the adults had planned. So, the three of us retreated to the quiet corner of the living room, bored. Elara, with a mischievous grin, said, ‘I’ll go get a game from Mira’s room! Something we can all play!’ Mira and I exchanged weary looks. Board games weren’t our thing, but we couldn’t say no to her.

She skipped off down the hall, and we waited. Minutes ticked by, and unease crept in. Just as I rose to check on her, a piercing scream echoed from the hallway. ‘Elara! What’s wrong?!’ Mira shouted. ‘There’s a… a black thing in your room!’ Elara cried, stumbling back to us, her face pale. She grabbed our hands and dragged us down the dim corridor to Mira’s bedroom.

I pushed the door open and flicked the switch. The game board lay scattered across the floor, its pieces thrown as if in a tantrum. Mira looked at me, confused. ‘I didn’t leave it like this,’ she said. Then she noticed the closet door was slightly ajar. My heart hammered. ‘Maybe it’s just the cat,’ I offered, but we both knew Mira had no cat.

We stepped inside, and the air grew cold. My breath misted. The scattered pieces formed a pattern on the carpet—an arrow pointing to the closet. A low, wet sound came from within, like something being dragged. Mira clutched my arm. ‘We should leave,’ she whispered. But before we could move, the closet door creaked open an inch more, revealing a darkness so absolute it seemed to swallow the light.

From that darkness, a voice, not human, whispered: ‘You found my game. Now we play.’ The game board began to shake, pieces rattling. The room dimmed. Elara screamed again, hiding behind us. I grabbed Mira’s hand and we bolted, slamming the door behind us. But as we ran down the hall, I heard the door open behind us, and the heavy, dragging sound followed.

We made it to the living room, where the party was in full swing. But when we turned back, the hallway was empty. The door to Mira’s room was closed. Everyone looked at us, concerned. We tried to laugh it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed us. That night, I couldn’t sleep. And in the morning, Mira called me, her voice trembling. ‘The game is in my living room,’ she said. ‘It’s sitting on the coffee table, unopened, as if it was new.’ I rushed over. The board game we had never opened was there, wrapped in plastic, pristine. We hadn’t touched it since the incident. But inside the box, we found a single, handwritten note: ‘You left before we finished. Let’s play again, soon.’ No one knew who wrote it. And to this day, every time I see a board game, I feel a chill, wondering if it’s the same one, waiting for me to open it.