I’ve always been drawn to board games. Not the kind your niece might unwrap on Christmas morning, all shiny and new. I’m talking about the faded, frayed-at-the-edges kind. The ones that reek of age.
You see, in this modern age of neon-lit screens and virtual realities, my love for these tangible relics might seem out of place. But to me, they’re treasures.
Rows upon rows of them covered the walls of my study. Some dated back to times most have forgotten. Each one, proof to my years of scouring yard sales and near-bankrupt shops. Their potential monetary value never concerned me; to me, they were priceless.
But my complacency, my belief that my passion was innocent, was shaken on that unremarkable Saturday. The weather doesn’t stand out in my memory, but what I found in that rundown antique shop sure does.
Among the usual trinkets and dust-covered memorabilia, a black wooden box caught my attention. “Ascension,” it read, in stark white letters. The craftsmanship was exquisite, clearly not a product of any mass-producing machine. It felt ancient, and that was exactly want I wanted.
The shop’s owner, was an elderly man that watched me closely. “I see you’ve taken a liking to that game,” he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. “Truth be told, I don’t even recall how it came into my possession.”
The way he looked at it, piqued my interest further. And when he named his price—a mere dollar—it felt like fate.
He chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. “It’s been here too long. Needs to find a new home.”
And so I left the store, clutching my new prize.
Naturally, the game had become an obsession of mine before I even had a chance to play it. The moment I stumbled upon it, I knew it was special. So I called some friends over. They were less enthralled by the idea, but in a town where every day was predictably the same, any novelty was welcome.
The night had settled in. And we were waiting on Josh. He worked late shifts at the local bakery. And while it wasn’t ideal to call him over after such a tiring day, he was the kind of person who’d show up no matter what, reassuring me with his calm voice that it was “all good.”
The four of us, under the dim light of my living room, began to open the board game. The design was archaic, with artwork that seemed hand-drawn, depicting otherworldly creatures and haunting landscapes. The game’s instructions were oddly simplistic. Players must navigate their tokens through a series of challenges, drawing cards that would either aid or hinder their path. Players couldn’t reuse cards until a round had come full circle. And finally, the objective was to reach the “Ascension” space in the center. But what unnerved us was the warning: “Once you begin, you must finish. Stopping midway has its consequences.”
“It’s probably just a selling point,” I mused.
The game allowed for six players, and each piece was a different color. They weren’t just ordinary pieces, though. They had a little weight to them. The yellow piece, in particular, seemed to beckon me. It was shaped like a small child, and I chose it without a second thought.
Two dice, both with 20 sides, an odd choice for a board game. I remember raising an eyebrow the first time I saw them, thinking it was a bit excessive. “Rolling a 40? Who needs to move that far in one turn?” But as the game unfolded, I understood. The board stretched out endlessly, with twists, turns, and traps that made every advance feel like a mirage.
About two hours in, the sense of excitement and challenge morphed into weariness. For every gain, there was a greater loss. Move ahead 10 spaces, then get slapped back by 20. It was maddening. Josh, had made a half-hearted joke about the game being a metaphor for life. But even his laughter was short-lived.
Remember, the small print warning at the beginning of the rulebook that hinted against stopping mid-game? And how at the time, I thought it was a marketing gimmick, a way to keep players locked in? By now, I really believed it. I figured the creator of the game realized just how boring his game, and with a warning like that maybe he could get players to actually finish.
Just when I was about to concede, suggesting to my friends that we’d been duped into wasting our time, Paul, who sat next to me, drew a card. Unlike the others we’d seen, this one carried a chilling instruction: Remain silent for 5 minutes.
Paul dropped the card, and a stillness filled the room. The stitched silence wasn’t just figurative. When we turned to him, his mouth was sewn shut, dark threads weaving in and out of his lips, a grotesque look of pain on his face. He clawed at the stitches, each tug releasing a tiny spurt of blood.
Josh, who’d been more tired than anyone else, let out the first scream.
Delson, our fourth, didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his phone, fingers trembling but determined, to call an ambulance. We were out of our depth, and the natural response to such absurdity was to call in professionals.
But as the familiar tone of the outgoing call filled the room, the lights overhead began a frantic dance. A flicker, then another, their pace quickening until the room was swallowed by darkness.
The darkness wasn’t absolute for long. A soft, orange hue emerged, revealing six candles set in a circle around us. The flickering flames threw deformed shadows on the walls, that moved around constantly.
So many questions swirled in my head. The stitching of Paul’s mouth, the sudden appearance of the candles, the shadows on the wall. But they were all pushed aside by the most pressing and terrifying question of all: “Who—or what—is that behind Delson?”
It wasn’t quite a figure. More of a presence with a set of piercingly white eyes. Eyes that didn’t seem rooted in itself. Their pupils jittered, unstable and erratic, as if trying to find a frequency on which to settle.
Those eyes fixed on Delson, unblinking. And in his mounting terror, Delson silenced his phone. And with the muted click, the eyes simply… disappeared.
The room was saturated with silence, each of us held hostage by our own fears. The circle of candles seemed to represent a fragile boundary between us and an unknown terror. There was no spoken agreement, but each of us sensed the same thing: step beyond the circle’s perimeter, and there’d be dire consequences.
Minutes that felt like hours ticked by. The game, once a source of curiosity, now sat at the center of our unease, and something in the shadows was delighting by it.
Soon, a sound. Soft at first, almost unnoticeable, but growing steadily louder. The unmistakable tune of a Jack in the box, winding up in agonizing slow motion. Every turn of the crank tightened the knot of dread in my stomach. We all knew what came at the end of that tune, but the question was: did we want to find out?
Acting on impulse, I snatched up the dice and rolled, desperate for any kind of reprieve. They landed, showing a baffling 47. Impossible, I thought. But then, what part of this was possible? Ignoring the illogicality, I quickly moved my yellow game piece 47 spaces forward, where it landed on a trapdoor icon. Three turns skipped. In any other scenario, I might’ve groaned in frustration. But here? It was a stay of execution.
A silent consensus had formed among us: the game had to continue if we wanted any chance of escape. The goal was clear – “Ascension.” Whatever it meant, it was our best shot.
The order was set: after me, it’s Josh, Delson, and lastly, Paul. By the time it circled back to him, the stitches had vanished, leaving behind a trail of hastily formed scabs. He didn’t speak. None of them did. Yet, their accusatory glances said it all – this was my mess, and they were dragged into it.
The game lulled us into a false sense of security, letting us complete one round without any card-pulling interruptions. But by the second round, our luck ended. Josh, with a glare that sent chills down my spine, picked a card. His voice trembled as he read out the instruction: “Blow out a candle.”
It felt like a cruel joke. Our sanctuary, reduced by our own hands.
I could see the calculation in Josh’s eyes. No one would risk their own protection, and given the circumstances, I was the group’s sacrificial lamb. Without a word, he crawled over and extinguished the candle beside me. For a brief moment, I glimpsed a shadowy form trying to inch its way into the gap, but the surrounding light kept it at bay—for now.
I didn’t hate Josh. In his place, I might’ve done the same. But his choice had drawn a line in the sand. And I wasn’t going to be sacrificed.
Paul had gotten the next card, he read it and placed it down, “The card user has to roll behind his back on the following turn.”
What a weird card.
By the third round, Delson drew a card, his anxiety palpable. But fate, it seemed, was momentarily on his side as well. “Move forward another 20 steps,” it read. With a surge of relief, he advanced his piece. But as luck would have it, he landed on a trapdoor.
Paul had his turn, a simple progression, and then the dice were in my hands. The roll was fortunate: 17 steps forward and nothing else. The simplicity of the move, devoid of the game’s dark tricks, seemed to irritate the others, but their moods were none of my concern.
Our group momentarily fell into a rhythm. There was a brief lull. Until the dice betrayed me. A card pull. Hesitantly, I drew one from the deck: “Nullify a card’s effect on you once.” But there was a caveat, scribbled in almost mocking fine print, “You can’t share the info of this card until use, failure to do so will result in a consequence.”
“Blow out two candles,” I found myself saying, not entirely sure why those words escaped my lips. I quickly extinguished one by Josh, then one near Delson. Now, our protective circle was comprised of just three candles, barely holding at bay the menacing voids around us.
A couple of turns later, Delson, eyes wide with fear, drew a card. “Stand outside the candles for three seconds.” He was livid, hurling curses my way as if the words could change his fate. I held the power to nullify, but now wasn’t the time. Not for this.
He sat in the circle long enough for the Jack in the box sound to return. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel bad.
With a scream, he stood up and faced the darkness before stepping in.
1… 2… 3…
Relief washed over him as he began to retreat. But that comfort was short-lived. On the fourth count, as if the shadows had been lying in wait, Delson was snatched away. There was no scream, no cry for help. He just vanished, consumed by the void.
Sweat clung to our brows, our breaths ragged. Every roll of the dice was now a plea, a silent prayer for salvation. Sometimes, they heeded our calls, but often, they betrayed us.
When Josh drew the next card, his face turned ashen. He read out, voice quivering, “All other players have to step outside the candles for 5 seconds.”
Paul, his voice filled with defiance, declared, “I nullify that.” He brandished a card similar to mine, confident it would save us.
Yet, nothing happened.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement. The same pair of haunting white eyes from before, now accompanied by a wide, elongated grin, lurked in the darkness. Before we could react, shadowy tendrils lunged forward, dragging Paul screaming into the abyss. The only trace of him left was a severed arm.
The realization hit me, hard: revealing the ‘Nullify’ card before its use had deadly consequences. My gaze locked onto Josh, whose face seemed shrouded in deeper shadows than before.
“You lied,” I whispered.
He met my eyes but offered no words in return.
The game dwindled down to just the two of us, a suffocating motion of progress and regress. The room, once filled with the raucous chatter of friends, was now a claustrophobic battleground, every turn a potential pitfall. Hours bled into what felt like days, and we became more desperate.
Finally, a winner. Though, it wasn’t me.
My heart sank as I realized Josh had bested me, landing on the elusive center a mere handful of spaces ahead. His laughter echoed hollowly.
The board, as if sensing the game’s conclusion, conjured one final card at its heart. Josh retrieved it, fingers trembling, and read aloud: “To ascend, one must stay.”
Our eyes locked in a tense standoff. I could almost hear the gears in his mind grinding, processing the cruel irony. Had he succeeded in eliminating Paul and me earlier, he’d be trapped in this place forever.
Raising a shaky finger towards me, the last card still clutched in his hand, he rasped, “It’s you. You’re staying.”
In that heartbeat of a moment, I played my final move, “I nullify.”
In this treacherous game, in this climactic moment, I felt the scales had tipped in my favor… But
“I Nullify.” Josh replied, holding the same card.
Dread settled in my chest. In my desperation, I had forgotten: Josh never revealed his card after his cruel ruse against Paul. He had played the room, played me, and now had an ace up his sleeve.
However, the familiar shadow began to form behind him. And confusion swept over me. Why was it there? What had gone wrong? I hastily fumbled for the rulebook, pages rustling loudly in the stifling silence. I scanned for clarity, the words quickly swimming into focus.
A critical rule, one that had slipped all of our minds: Players couldn’t reuse cards until a round had come full circle. A rush of realization dawned.
Lifting my gaze, Josh was already gone. Everything was, the shadows, the candles, even Paul’s severed arm, all had disappeared. The room was as it had been, bathed in the soft glow of my overhead lights.
Except for one thing: the game box, sitting innocently on the floor.
The morning sun crept through the window, casting a gentle warmth over the room. I found myself staring at the cursed box for what felt like hours. With trembling hands, I gathered it up, determined to prevent anyone else from experiencing it.
Walking to the backyard, I dug a deep hole, throwing the box in. As the first clump of dirt hit it, an unsettling chill breezed past me, as though the game was giving one last protest. Undeterred, I continued until the box was buried deep underground.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The horrific events of that night became a distant memory, albeit one that occasionally haunted my dreams. I avoided board games, and even mentioning that night was taboo for me.
However, one day, as I returned home from work, a familiar sight greeted me. On the doorstep lay a package, wrapped neatly with no return address. Naturally, I tore it open. And there it was: the very same game box, looking as pristine as the day I first laid eyes on it.
Attached was a simple note: “To ascend, one must stay.”