The White Crosswalk Game

I’ve called Kraków home for a little over two years now, ever since my company transferred me from Canada. I’ve grown to appreciate the city’s rhythm—the tram bells, the cobbled streets, the smell of kielbasa from corner kiosks. But this past October, on the evening of my best friend’s birthday, the city showed me something that has kept me from ever looking at crosswalks the same way.

My friend Magda lives in a district called Nowa Huta, which is a bit of a trek from my flat near the Old Town. I wasn’t keen on driving, so I opted for the bus, the new red-and-white ones that run often and are famously punctual. I boarded at Dworzec Główny, and the bus was half-full, so I slipped past a group of chattering students and planted myself at the very front, right behind the driver, where the wide windows give you a panoramic view. I love that spot—you can see everything, the streets unspooling ahead like a film, the stop signs, the waving pedestrians.

The bus groaned and wheezed its way through the dusk, stopping at each request. I was half-watching, half-lost in thought about the birthday party—Magda would probably have her famous herring salad, and her boyfriend would set up karaoke again, which I secretly enjoyed. My eyes drifted to a side street, where a new pedestrian crossing had been painted, still pristine white against the dark asphalt. It was then that I saw the boy.

He was small, maybe five or six, dressed as if it were midsummer—a thin t-shirt and short trousers, despite the chill of October. His skin was strange, not dark but somehow not entirely… solid. It was as if he were a shadow given form, a grey smudge against the grey pavement. He was leaping, one diagonal line to the next, meticulously avoiding the white stripes. He never touched the white paint. His arms were extended for balance, his face utterly blank, focused on the game. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck—not fear, but a sudden wrongness, like a foul note in a familiar song.

The bus pulled to a stop at the curb, and a heavy-set old woman in a headscarf climbed aboard, fumbling with her walker. The driver waited patiently as she settled into a seat near the door. I glanced back to the crosswalk, but the boy was gone. The space was empty, only the white lines gleaming under the streetlight. I blinked, thinking he must have run off, but there was no movement anywhere, no sign of a small figure retreating into the shadows. Odd, I told myself, and shrugged. Kids are quick. I returned my gaze to the road as the bus lurched forward.

But the unease didn’t leave. It sat in my gut like a cold stone, and I found myself scanning every crosswalk we passed from then on. Nothing. We made our way through the city, and I forced myself to smile when I finally spotted Magda’s block with its floodlit courtyard. The party was lovely—her cackling laugh, the warmth of her cramped kitchen, the clink of wine glasses. Yet I couldn’t shake the image of that boy. I mentioned it to Magda later, when we were both a bit tipsy, how I’d seen a kid playing on the lines, his clothes too thin, his body translucent.

Magda went quiet, her face losing its usual cheer. She lit a cigarette, taking a long drag, and told me she’d heard stories from her grandmother, who grew up in this area before it was built up. There was a legend about a boy who died at a crossing back in the 1980s, when this was all farmland. He was chasing a ball and was hit by a tractor. They say he doesn’t know he’s dead, and he comes back to play the same game—jumping the white lines—always on the edge of a busy road, waiting for someone to see him.

I laughed, a little too loudly. ‘That’s just a spooky story for kids,’ I said, but my hands were trembling. She didn’t smile. She just said, ‘Don’t look at him. If you see him again, don’t look.’

The weekend after, I had to take the same bus route to the office. It was a gray, drizzly morning, and I found myself looking for him as we approached that stop. I scanned the crossing, the sidewalks, the bus stop bench—nothing. I exhaled, relieved. But then, as the bus pulled away, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned, and there he was, standing right next to me, his grey face upturned, colorless eyes fixed on mine. He didn’t speak, but I heard his voice in my skull, thin and buzzing like a dying fluorescent bulb: ‘You cheated. You looked.’

I stumbled back, smashing into an old man carrying groceries. The boy was gone. No one else on the bus seemed to have seen him. I got off two stops early and walked the rest of the way in the cold rain, my heart hammering.

Now, I can’t take that bus. I walk everywhere, even if it takes an hour. I avoid crosswalks, crossing illegally when I have to, ignoring the honks of irritated drivers. Last week, I saw him again, from a window in my apartment, standing on a crosswalk below. He pointed up at me and smiled. His teeth were white, like tiny pieces of the lines he used to skip.

I’m moving back to Canada in a fortnight. I haven’t told Magda. But last night, I dreamt of a small boy jumping between white lines in the middle of a dark field, and I knew with a certainty that made me sweat through my sheets: it doesn’t matter where I live. He has my face now, and he won’t be left behind.