When I was a kid, my family used to live in some apartments called The Hideaway Villas. It was a small complex composed of only twelve units and all were downstairs. They sat directly behind a park and were surrounded by trees on either side.
They weren’t much to look at, but they came with brand new furniture and appliances. Each unit had its own laundry, gym, and office. Utilities were included in the rent. All for the low price of $350 a month. Seeing how my parents were strapped for cash, they immediately jumped on it.
It wasn’t a bad place to live. All but two of our neighbors were nuclear families and we got along well. We regularly borrowed from each other, had communal parties, kept an eye on each other’s children, and were generally very amiable. It was actually quite idyllic.
Except for the fact that we had to play the game.
You see, every third Friday of the month was game night. Not “grab a board game and call some friends over” game night. No, this was a special game that the owner made up and everyone was required to participate. The rules were simple. At eight o’clock everyone was instructed to go inside their home, close and lock all windows and doors, shut the blinds, and turn off all lights and electronics. Families were to gather in the living room and wait. The manager would then call out an apartment number over a megaphone. If it was yours, you were told to step outside. If it wasn’t, you were instructed to turn on your porch light then go straight to bed.
No one knew exactly what happened if your number was called. Some families were gone the next day and we were not allowed to speak of them. Others stayed but there was something different about them. They became withdrawn and paranoid. They would move within a week. Afterwards, a new family would take their place.
The year I turned fourteen, our number was called.
My birthday was the week before. I had a party at the park. The whole complex was there along with the manager. He had given me a card with a black background and the words “Happy Birthday” scribbled in red letters on the front. Inside was one of those paper doll chains. There were only three people in the chain and my family’s names were written on the back. Well, me, my mom, and my sister’s names anyway. My dad was curiously missing. I asked the manager about it and he told me the card was from the owner who happened to be a bit forgetful. That answer was satisfying enough, so I tossed it in a pile with the rest of the cards and went about my day.
Then Friday came. Mom was telling us a story as we sat in the dark of the living room. It was the only thing we could do to pass the time during the game. Usually, the owner took about twenty minutes to come to his decision. Although I suspect he always knew from the start who he was going to pick. Just as mom was about to finish the story, we heard the manager call out.
“Apartment 12, you’re up!”
Twelve. Our number. We froze.
My mom looked towards my dad for guidance. He simply shrugged and directed us to the door. When he opened it, the manager was standing there.
“Close your eyes!” he demanded.
We closed them and walked to the middle of the complex, holding onto each other, so we wouldn’t trip over anything.
“Do you know why you’re here?” the manager asked.
“No,” replied my dad.
“Because you guys haven’t been good tenants,” said the manager.
“But we pay rent on time, we don’t start trouble, we get along with the neighbors, we-“
“I know,” said the manager, interrupting my father. “You’ve done everything right, but Mr. Tillis is very particular about what makes a good tenant.”
“Mr. Tillis?” inquired my father.
“The owner,” the manager replied sharply.
Until then, none of us knew the owner’s name. In fact, no one had even met him. He seemed to only exist on game night.
“Can he explain to us why he doesn’t consider us good tenants?” my dad asked.
The manager began to talk to Mr. Tillis in a very low voice. Like a whisper but not quite. Yet, no matter how hard I strained my ears, I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“Let’s just say Mr. Tillis is a very caring man. He loves his tenants and gives a lot to them. He built these apartments with his own hands and wishes for his tenants to be as caring and selfless as him. But sometimes all they do is take and never give back,” explained the manager.
“I see,” replied my father.
“So he has to dole out punishments, but believe me, it pains him greatly,” said the manager.
“What’s going to happen?!” my mom yelled in a panic.
“You’ll be taken somewhere. Just for a short time. Don’t worry, you’ll be back home for breakfast,” he said with a laugh.
“Mr. Bennet,” he said, referring to my father. “Please come with me.”
What happened after that is a blur. I remember walking for a long time, likely through the woods. I heard my sister whimpering behind me. We were led into a building and down some steps. It was very cold and the floor was wet. My feet were soaking. I felt something whip my legs. It was less like a belt and more like a tongue. My sister felt it too and she cried out. A moment later, the tongue touched my ear and I felt the most excruciating pain in my life. It was like someone took a big needle and plunged it into my eardrum.
I blacked out and woke up in my bed. It was the same for my mom and sister, but we didn’t see my dad for three days. When he did come back, he was different. He had become withdrawn and paranoid. Every little sound made him jump and he was quick to anger. We moved a week later. He had gotten $10,000 as a parting gift from Mr. Tillis. My dad called it hush money.
We tried to get our lives back on track after that, but what happened that night prove too much for my dad to bear and he committed suicide.
That was fifteen years ago and I have since made peace with my father’s death. Though yesterday, I had a panic attack. Why? Because it was the third Friday of the month and I was searching for a new place to live. Guess what popped up? An ad for The Hideaway Villas.