The Unfinished Game

I’m Milo, and I’ve been seeing the dead since I was six. Over the years, their cold whispers and hollow eyes became as familiar as the creak of my grandmother’s stairs. They didn’t frighten me anymore, not really. But this new presence, this sleeplessness that clung to me like a wet shroud, was different. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t sleep; it was that something didn’t want me to. I’d close my eyes, and a jolt would rip through me, as if I’d been dropped from a great height, and I’d find myself gasping in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I live in an old, converted lighthouse on the coast of Nova Scotia, a place where the fog rolls in thick and the waves mutter secrets against the rocks. The lighthouse itself was decommissioned decades ago, and the keeper’s cottage attached to it is now my sanctuary. I’ve always found peace in its isolation, but now the isolation felt like a trap. The nights were the worst. I’d lie in my bed, listening to the wind howl through the gaps in the window frames, and I’d feel the air grow cold, as if someone had opened a door to a deep freeze. And then, I’d see them—the dead—gathered in the corners, their faces gaunt and pleading, but I couldn’t hear their words. They were just there, watching, waiting.

The first time I saw the figure, I was on the old, lumpy couch in the living room, a book on maritime folklore open in my lap. I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up with a start, my body thrashing. And there, perched on the back of the couch like a gargoyle, was a man in a dripping yellow raincoat. His face was obscured by the brim of a sou’wester hat, but I could see the outline of a hook nose and a mouth twisted into a frown. I squealed—there’s no other word for it—and yanked the wool blanket over my head. When I dared to peek out, he was gone, but the spot where he’d been was damp, as if he’d left a wet imprint on the fabric.

Two nights later, I was in my bedroom, trying to read myself to sleep, when I felt that familiar jolt. I opened my eyes to see a woman in a tattered Victorian dress walking through my bed, her body dissolving into a mist as she passed through the posts. She didn’t look at me, just kept walking, and I could hear the faint rustle of her skirts as she vanished through the far wall. This was different from the usual ghosts. They were just static, like old photographs. This was interactive, purposeful.

I started to think about my friend, Danny. He had died a few weeks ago, not in a car crash, but in a fishing accident off the rocks near the lighthouse. He was a local kid, seventeen like me, and the only person who ever believed me about the ghosts. We used to sit on the beach, skipping stones and talking about what came after death. Danny was always fascinated by my gift, and he made me promise that if he ever died, I would. I would what? He never finished.

The figure in the raincoat, the woman in the dress—they weren’t Danny. He wouldn’t wear a raincoat; he always wore a bright orange hoodie. And he wouldn’t have been so menacing. This felt more like a warning, a precursor. But then I remembered something: Danny had a sister, a younger girl named Ellie. She was a quiet kid, always tagging along with us. She had a pale face and big, dark eyes that seemed to look right through you. After Danny died, she stopped talking. I hadn’t seen her in days, and I wondered if she was okay.

Last night, I couldn’t take it anymore. The specter of the raincoat man had visited me three times that week, each time leaving me drenched in a cold sweat. I decided to confront it. I sat in the dark living room, a candle flickering on the table, and I called out, ‘Show yourself. I’m not afraid.’ The air grew thick with the smell of salt and brine, and then I heard a dripping sound, like water hitting the floor. From the hallway, a figure emerged slowly. It was the raincoat man, and this time, he had a face. It was gaunt, with skin stretched tight over bone, and his eyes were like oysters, slick and gray. He opened his mouth, and a voice like grinding stones came out: ‘She waits beneath the tide, but the game is not finished.’ Then he pointed a long, pale finger toward the door that led to the lighthouse tower.

The next morning, I did something I should have done long ago. I climbed the spiral stairs of the lighthouse, the metal steps cold against my feet. At the top, in the old lamp room, I found a dusty box. Inside was a chess set, carved from whalebone, with pieces missing. There was a note, yellowed with age, that read: ‘If you find this, you must complete the game. Move for me.’ It was signed with a strange symbol—a spiral inside a fish. I pocketed the set and went to find Ellie. I found her sitting on the beach alone, staring at the water. She looked up at me, her eyes full of tears. ‘He says you have to finish the game so he can leave,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been trying to get your attention for weeks.’

I looked at the chess set in my hands. I had never played chess before, but I knew the pieces. And I knew that Danny, the only friend who ever believed me, was trapped in a never-ending match with something ancient and malevolent. The ghosts I had seen all my life were just echoes, but this was different. This was real. And I was the only one who could end it. I took a deep breath and sat down in the sand, across from Ellie, and set up the board. ‘Let’s play,’ I said, and as I moved my first pawn, I heard a distant, triumphant whisper from the ocean. The game had just begun.