The Unfinished Chess Game

The guest room at Marcus’s house was a dim, dusty rectangle that smelled of old paper and mothballs. I had come to help him organize his late father’s library, a task that felt more like excavating a tomb than sorting books. The room across the hall was the bathroom, and between them lay the bedroom of Marcus’s daughter, Elara. At fifteen, Elara was a quiet girl with a pale face and eyes that seemed to see more than they should. She was unfailingly polite, always offering me tea and asking about my day, but there was a sadness in her that I couldn’t place. She had trouble at school, Marcus had mentioned, but never elaborated.

Elara always slept with her door open. She claimed it helped her breathe, but I suspected it was something else—a need to see who was passing, or perhaps to let something in. I was staying in that room for two weeks, and every night I heard her soft breathing from across the hall, a rhythmic comfort against the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs.

On the seventh night, I woke to a sound that wasn’t part of the house’s usual creaks and groans. It was the faint, tinny melody of a video game, coming from Elara’s room. I assumed she was up late, playing one of her fantasy RPGs, but the hour was wrong—3 AM, the witching time. Curious and mildly annoyed, I slipped out of bed and padded to her doorway.

The room was bathed in the glow of the computer screen, and there she was, or so I thought. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw that the figure sitting at the desk was not Elara. It was a woman, gaunt and grey, with hair that hung like cobwebs. She wore a tattered Victorian dress, and her fingers, long and bone-thin, hovered over the keyboard as if about to make a move. She was playing a chess game, the pieces rendered in stark black and white on the monitor. She did not turn at my presence, but I felt a cold dread seep into my bones.

I wanted to retreat, to go back to my bed and pretend I hadn’t seen, but something held me there. The woman’s hand reached up and clicked the mouse, and the chess board on the screen displayed a checkmate in her favor. A sound like a sigh escaped her lips, and slowly, she turned her head. Her face was a mask of sorrow, and her eyes were hollow pits of black. She looked at me, and I swear I heard a whisper in my mind: ‘It is his turn.’

I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet, and landed hard in the hallway. The door to Elara’s room slammed shut, and I lay there, panting, until the sun began to creep through the windows. I told no one, not even Marcus, for fear of being laughed at or worse, believed.

The next evening, I found Elara sitting at the kitchen table, her laptop open to a chess program. She looked up as I entered, and her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she hadn’t slept. ‘I’ve been playing against it,’ she said softly, ‘every night. My grandmother used to play, but she died last year. She said she’d always finish our game.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘Elara, who taught you to play?’ ‘My great-grandmother, I think,’ she said, ‘but I never met her. I just know the moves, like instinct.’ I glanced at the laptop screen. The board was set up for a game, and the AI was waiting. ‘She’s been playing as white, and she’s winning. But I think I can beat her now.’

I wanted to tell her to stop, to delete the program, to burn the laptop, but I couldn’t speak. The memory of that specter at the desk was too fresh. Instead, I watched as she made her move. The pieces clicked, and a small notation appeared: ‘Checkmate.’ She gasped. ‘I won.’

But as she said it, the screen flickered, and the game reset. A new message appeared: ‘A rematch.’ And behind us, from down the hall, I heard the faint clatter of chess pieces, as if someone were setting up a board. The air grew cold, and I knew, with a certainty that chilled my soul, that the game was far from over. Elara looked at me, a strange smile on her lips. ‘Let’s play,’ she whispered, and I realized she was no longer afraid. She was inviting me to join her in that unfinished game, one that might never end.

I backed out of the kitchen, shaking my head, and fled to my room. That night, I packed my bags, and in the early morning, I left without saying goodbye. But as I drove away, I saw in the rearview mirror a silhouette in Elara’s window—a woman in a tattered dress, holding a chess piece. And in my mind, I heard those words again: ‘It is his turn.’ I never looked back, but I know that somewhere, a chess board is waiting, and Elara is still playing.