This was the third time his family had moved in the past two years, and each time his parents had given him the same promise—that this place would be permanent, that they could finally settle down and stop uprooting their lives. This time, however, their tone was different. They spoke with a certainty that seemed unshakable, assuring him this was the town they would grow old in. The promise carried a weight that made him believe them, and for the first time in a long while, he felt the fragile bloom of hope.
The neighborhood was quieter than the last two they’d lived in, with rows of weathered houses leaning slightly as though the wind had pushed them over the years. There were no streetlights on the smaller roads, only the occasional porch bulb, casting dim islands of yellow in the thickening dusk. The air smelled faintly of damp soil, as if it had rained long before they’d arrived.
He was naturally outgoing and eager to make new connections. It didn’t take him long to notice the kids who lived next door, their heads occasionally appearing over the leaning fence that separated their yards. At first, they only stared, curious but cautious. Then, with a little persistence, he managed to get them to smile, to wave, and soon enough, to talk. By the end of the first week, they had included him in their group.
It was during one of these casual backyard gatherings that they told him about their tradition. They explained it in a matter-of-fact way, with the kind of seriousness that made it feel more ritual than game. Before anyone could be fully accepted into the group, they had to participate in a nighttime round of hide-and-seek. It was always played at the same place—the abandoned farmer’s warehouse on the edge of town.
He wanted their acceptance badly, maybe more than he wanted to ask questions about why this was the tradition or what made it special. So he agreed without hesitation, feeling only the faintest ripple of unease when they told him the game was always held after dark.
The night came quickly, the way it often does when one is waiting for something with nervous anticipation. The day had been overcast, and by the time the sun fell, the air felt heavier, the darkness settling over the streets like a thick blanket. He arrived at the warehouse ahead of time, making sure he wouldn’t be late and risk losing his chance to belong.
It was 6:30 p.m. when he reached the clearing where the warehouse sat. The structure was massive but sagged under the weight of time, its wooden planks warped and bleached to a dull gray. Gaps in the siding revealed shadows within, and the roofline dipped in the middle as though the bones of the building had grown weary. A rusted weather vane turned lazily in the wind, squealing faintly with each shift.
Most of the kids were already there, lingering near the entrance and kicking at the weeds that had overgrown the gravel lot. They greeted him with quick nods before returning to their quiet conversations, their eyes occasionally flicking toward the dark doorway of the warehouse.
The rules were explained in a straightforward way. Everyone would hide somewhere inside the warehouse. The leader—chosen at random—would close their eyes and count silently to ten before searching. No one was to make a sound during the game. No running, no shouting, only silence. The last person found would be the winner.
When the silent count began, the group scattered into the yawning darkness. The new boy hesitated for only a second before slipping inside. The air inside was colder, with the smell of old grain and mildew hanging heavy. Dust floated in the faint shafts of moonlight that pierced through the gaps in the siding. The floorboards groaned under his weight, each step an unsteady whisper.
Not knowing the layout, he moved quickly toward the far end, hoping distance alone would give him an advantage. The back of the warehouse was darker still, the moonlight unable to reach it. He found a space between two leaning support beams, crouched low, and held his breath.
Minutes passed. The stillness was absolute. No footsteps, no searching. He strained to hear even the faintest creak of movement but heard nothing beyond the distant sigh of wind through the gaps in the wood. The longer he waited, the more his initial excitement began to dissolve into unease.
Then, without warning, there was a light tap on his shoulder. It was so sudden he nearly jumped. Turning, he saw a faint silhouette, featureless in the darkness, motioning for him to follow. Relieved that the game had finally begun and assuming he’d been found, he rose quietly and trailed after them.
The warehouse seemed different now, the shadows shifting unnaturally as if they leaned forward to watch him pass. His guide moved without sound, slipping effortlessly between stacks of forgotten crates and rusted farming equipment. Gradually, other shapes emerged from the darkness ahead—taller, thinner silhouettes, grouped together near what appeared to be the main doors.
The air felt heavier with each step, the scent of wet earth seeping into his lungs. He quickened his pace, eager to reach the others. Then, without warning, someone shoved him from behind. He stumbled forward, nearly falling, and by the time he caught himself and turned, the shapes ahead were already slipping out into the moonlight.
Outside, the kids stood in a loose circle, laughing. Their voices carried in the still air, light and careless. He approached them slowly, the cold from inside still clinging to his skin. They teased him for taking so long to realize the trick—they hadn’t gone inside at all. They’d wanted to see how long it would take him to figure it out.
Their laughter rolled over him, but his attention was pulled back to the yawning doorway of the warehouse. Something was wrong. His stomach tightened as he saw it.
The silhouettes—the same ones that had guided him out—were still inside. They stood just beyond the threshold, where the moonlight faded into shadow. They were motionless, their limbs oddly long and thin, their heads tilted in unison. Slowly, deliberately, they began to wave.
The gesture was strange, too synchronized to feel human. He couldn’t see faces, only the pale hint of movement where hands should be. A chill crawled up his spine. He forced himself to glance back at the group, their laughter still unbroken. When he turned again, the figures had not moved closer, but something about them felt… expectant.
His throat tightened, but he forced a small, unsteady smile, willing his legs not to tremble. He muttered something about it being late and started to walk away with the others. Yet, even as they left, he felt the weight of those unseen eyes pressing between his shoulder blades.
The warehouse grew smaller behind them, swallowed by the night. But in his mind, the image of those long, waving silhouettes remained—waiting in the dark for the next game to begin.
