The Deadly Game
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It was the dead of winter, and as I stepped from my car a biting wind hit me in the face like a slap. It had snowed during the night and now lay heavy on the ground, but it made little difference to me, for once outside its confines the temperature felt much more pleasant, so warm that if I had not been wearing several layers of clothing it would have almost been too hot.
This is how it always is with snow: it doesn’t really make any difference, you just don’t notice it until your body has adjusted to its presence; after a while, it feels perfectly normal, like having the air conditioner cranked up in your car when you get out and realize your jacket is still zipped.
The sky was clear blue and looked impossibly far away even at the height of summer, but this morning it appeared to be an entire world above me—as though it were some kind of dome that surrounded all things within, including my own existence.
I approached the front door of the house cautiously, as though expecting someone to jump from behind a bush and try to grab my ankles. It had been two months since I’d visited the premises and the house hadn’t changed, but I had come prepared with a new set of questions to ask about what had happened to Richard because nothing I’d learned before seemed sufficient or adequate.
I’d also brought with me a small flashlight, which I’d purchased specifically for this purpose; its beam wasn’t very strong, but at least I could see where I put my feet without having to stumble around blindly.
In this case, however, there was no need for light, as both doors stood open and the lights were on inside the main part of the house, so I stepped forward into the darkness, making my way through the snowy yard to reach the side gate leading onto the porch.
A few strands of Christmas garlands hung from the railings along the porch, but most of the decorations had been removed, leaving only the wreaths and tinsel which had adorned them. These, like the rest of the exterior decoration, had been torn down and discarded somewhere out of sight.
The door opened easily enough under my hand and I stepped across the threshold and onto the porch; then I took a deep breath to calm myself and entered the front hall, where Richard had died. I turned on my flashlight, which immediately sent shafts of white light shooting upward from its edges in the gloom.
For a moment they dazzled my eyes, then faded gradually to reveal a hallway that led off in either direction. There were two doors here—one at the end closest to me and one to my right—but the first of these had been left wide open and the room beyond revealed clearly.
This was the sitting room in which I had witnessed the tragedy, a space that was now completely bare apart from two chairs positioned opposite each other in a row by the fireplace. It looked exactly as it had that night—a large room with walls painted pale yellow and decorated with paintings that included landscapes, still lifes, and portraits.
One of these pictures occupied the wall directly opposite me: the painting depicted a man whose features were hard to distinguish beneath his mustache, and who wore an old-fashioned three-piece suit.
This, obviously, was the same gentleman I had seen standing over Richard’s body, but he was unrecognizable in this image, as though his face had been hidden behind a veil. But something about him was familiar to me…
“Hello,” said a voice from the doorway, startling me. “You’re back.”
The man in the picture smiled at me as though it were only natural for us to meet, although the smile never reached his eyes. I knew who this was—it was Richard himself, and I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten what this must look like. He had been transformed.
“What happened to your face?” I asked. “Why does everyone look like someone else? Who are you supposed to be anyway?”
Richard shrugged. “Who do you think I am, if not myself?” His eyes remained focused on mine and he held my gaze without blinking.
“Well…” I hesitated for a moment, searching his face for signs of recognition. But there was none; I didn’t know why I bothered asking. It had already been established that Richard wasn’t really aware of anything that went on around him anymore. “I guess I don’t understand what’s going on.” I turned to leave. “I’m not sure we can help each other.”
But Richard didn’t follow me as I walked past the chair on his right and through the open door toward the stairs. Instead, he came alongside me and followed closely, his footsteps echoing mine in the silence of the house. When I got upstairs and turned to take the steps slowly, he continued up after me.
Then he stopped in front of the closed bathroom door on the landing and waited for me to approach him. His smile widened. “How’s everything downstairs?” he asked.
He spoke with such assurance, so matter-of-factly, as though I should have known what was happening and how best to deal with it. I felt compelled to answer, so I replied as casually as I could, “Pretty much the same as when you were last here…except I’ve taken the paintings down.” I paused for a moment. “I wanted to show you something.”
“Oh?”
The bathroom door swung open and Richard entered, his hands crossed over his stomach as though he might vomit. He moved toward the shower stall and began to remove the rubber matting which covered it.
“Is this what you want?” he called out, holding the matting over the edge of the tub. The spray of water hit his fingers, which were trembling slightly. “You know I’ve tried to keep clean for you. Isn’t this enough?”
When I arrived in the kitchen area, which faced onto the front lawn, Richard had finished cleaning himself and had begun eating again. He ate quietly for a few moments, then set aside the sandwich and drank some water straight from the glass bottle before setting it next to his plate and turning to look at me. “It is,” he said simply, “if that’s all you can do.”
I stood looking at him, then sat down beside him and placed my elbows on the table. The air was warm but dry outside, so the frosted windowpanes didn’t fog up too quickly, despite the heat inside.
The light filtering through the windows cast a blue glow across our faces, and I thought briefly that the sky would darken soon enough to obscure it entirely. “Do you ever remember being alive?” I asked him.
Richard nodded and took another bite. “Not very well.” He glanced at me. “We both seem to forget things these days.”
“I think there’s a difference between forgetting and not remembering.” I looked around the room, at the empty shelves where once books had filled them. “You remember more than me.” I paused and watched his reaction. Nothing. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.” He swallowed his food and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “If only I remembered better.” He shook his head slowly and sighed, then looked away from me. “I don’t know if you should be around me any longer.”
“Why?” My mind raced ahead of me; I could almost feel my heart pounding harder. “What are you afraid of?”
His response was quick: “You know what I’m afraid of.” His words sounded rehearsed and artificial. “This isn’t right. There shouldn’t be anyone alive except us.” He stared at me intently, then stood and walked toward me. He was taller than I remembered him being in life. “And now there are people everywhere, all around me.”
He stopped before me, close enough to see the worry lines etched into his forehead. “They frighten me. They make me want to scream and cry until they go away.” Richard’s eyes were focused on the floor by my feet. “Please, please get rid of them.” His voice was soft and weak with fear. “I’m sorry.”
The door slammed loudly behind me and I spun around. I was alone, so it must have been Richard who had left. I turned back to the table, picked up one of the chairs, and carried it over to the sink, where it rested against the counter.
Then I took another chair and positioned it in front of Richard’s so that their legs touched. I sat in the second chair and put my elbows on the table and my chin in my palms.
When Richard returned, carrying two bottles of beer from the fridge, we were silent as we sat in front of the television in silence, watching the news broadcast together. As soon as the newscaster’s face appeared on the screen, Richard stood abruptly, turned off the TV, and went upstairs to his bedroom.
I heard his footsteps as he climbed the stairs; then I saw them disappear beyond the bathroom door, and the creaking of the hinges as he opened it and entered the shower stall. The spray of water made small clumps of dust drift lazily through the room, making an occasional sparkle as they landed on the ceiling or the floor.
The scent of shampoo, soap, and sweat floated through the space to join the odors of wood polish and disinfectant. When Richard emerged, wet and smelling faintly of detergent, I rose silently to my feet and followed him into the main living room. He was sitting on the sofa watching TV, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. I sat beside him, careful not to touch him.
After a while he spoke, his voice flat and monotone: “How long do you plan to stay with me?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t like it when you’re around me anymore.” His eyes seemed tired and distant. “Please leave me alone.”
He turned away from me, but I could still see the tears in his eyes. After a moment I felt foolish, so I turned my gaze away from him and stared out at the street below. The street lights glowed yellow in the darkness, and the wind blew hard, causing the trees along the edge of the yard to sway.
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the sound of Richard’s crying, which had stopped but not completely receded.
The End