CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My Brother Went Missing During Hide And Seek. I Think The Game Is Still Going" Creepypasta

Episode Date: March 18, 2026

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by frequent-cat:   / frequent-cat  Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

The house was small, one of those mid-century two beds with a low roof and lumpy lawn, but as kids, we never thought of it as cramped. It had just enough hallway to race through, just enough corners to hide behind. We knew which kitchen floorboard squeaked when you stepped on it. The hallway had this one sharp corner where backpacks always scraped the paint. Every September, my mom would repaint it like clockwork, and every year we wore it down again by Christmas. We had this ugly green and gold carpet in the living room.

My brother once swore he saw a face in it and then convinced me it changed expressions. That was the kind of kid he was, magnetic in the way that kids only are before the world starts sanding them down. He was two years younger than me and twice as brave. He could climb anything, say anything. befriend anyone.

Adults loved him because he was funny without trying to be. He made up rules for every game. Sometimes they were fun, like, you couldn't step on the third floorboard in the hallway because that was lava. But some didn't make sense.

Like, if you touched the wall after dinner, you were it until someone blinked twice. With him, hide and seek had its own law. Our parents leaned into the chaos in the best way. Dad was a big guy who would chase us around the house, growling like a bear, capturing us in an inescapable but gentle hug. Mom was the planner, clipboard type,

always humming some old song and slipping snacks into every bag we owned. Together they made the kind of house that felt... Inevitable, like it had always existed just for us. Friday nights were movie nights, pancakes on Saturday mornings, and after dinner, while dishes soaked and the kitchen steamed, we played hide-and-seek. Lights off, no peeking and no hiding in the garage, Mum's rule. But every round, someone would float toward the coat closet at the end of the hall. It wasn't because it was a great hiding spot, but because it was dangerous enough to feel

like cheating. Behind the coats and the old scarves was a small wooden door. The crawl space. Dad always told us not to mess with it, but never in a serious way. More like, don't go in there unless you want spider eggs in your ears, or that's where we keep the tax demons. We used to dare each other to knock on it. Once, my brother opened it a crack. just to prove he wasn't scared. I slammed his shop before he could crawl in. We both shrieked,

laughing. It wasn't ominous, just grown-up house stuff, off-limits in the same way the breaker box was or the shed with the rusted hedge trimmers. We didn't think of it as dangerous. We didn't think about it much at all.

My brother always counted fast, always made me count slow. And whenever he finished counting, he grinned ear to ear and shout it like a spell. Ready or not? I hear those words now and my stomach reacts like I'm still 12, like I'm still crouched behind the couch, holding my breath, waiting to be found. It was a rainy evening, one of those muggy summer nights where the windows fog up, even though the fans are on full blast and the smell of wet grass hangs in the house like steam.

We just finished dinner and the four of us were still sitting around the table. My brother had been antsy all evening, bouncing on his knees, making silly faces, trying to get a rise out of Dad. As soon as Mom started stacking the dishes, he piped up. One more round, come on, last one, promise. Dad groaned like he always said. did, but the corner of his mouth curled. Mom shot me a look that meant, watch him, don't let him climb anything.

I rolled my eyes and nodded. That was the unspoken deal. I was the older sibling, the seeker more often than not. So I stood in the corner of the dining room, hands over my eyes, and started counting. One, two, three. I could hear him scamper off, his shoes slapping against the wood floor, a door creaking somewhere, and muffled laugh. The same rhythm as always.

He was never good at being quiet, but he was good at making you second guess where he'd gone. He'd like to double back, leave distractions. Once, he set the hallway fan on a timer to start right as I passed just to spook me. 18, 19, 20. Ready or not? I turned, already grinning and walked slowly on purpose. I checked onto the couch, behind the curtains, in the linen cupboard where he crammed himself last time. Each spot was empty, but not suspiciously so.

Just part of the game. Ten minutes passed, maybe 15. Miles, I called out. Okay, you win, come out. Nothing. I started getting annoyed. Seriously, I'm not playing this all night. Still, nothing.

I checked the bedrooms, the laundry room, even looked under the car in the garage. By the time I made it back inside, mum and dad had picked up on the silence. Dad took it in stride, grabbed a fire. flashlight and stepped out to check the garden. Mom headed upstairs, muttering something about checking the airing cupboard. I paced the hallway, hands on my hips, trying to think like him. Where would he go to really stump us? And then I noticed it.

The coat closet door opened just a crack, just enough for a sliver of dark. I opened it gently. The coats hung just as they always had, swaying slightly from the shift. The floor beneath was clear. But the little door at the back, the crawl space door, wasn't latched. It tilted inward half an inch, and I could smell that old, dry, sharp scent of insulation and wood dust, like untouched attics. Come on, Miles, I called out, still trying to sound light. Okay, you got us. Come out.

Nothing. Dad stepped back inside just then, wiping his shoes. I gestured to the closet. I think he's in the crawl space. Dad gave me a look, half disbelief, half resignation, and crouched down. He opened the door the rest of the way. The hinges squealed like they hadn't been used in years. He turned on the flashlight and aimed it into the dark.

I couldn't see his face clearly from where I stood, but I heard it in his voice. The first shift, like something pulled a thread tight in his throat. Come on, champ, he said. Game's over. Silence. Long enough that I took a step closer.

That's when he spoke again, low and firm. Get Mum. That was the first time I ever heard fear come out of my father. The police came that night. Dogs, flashlights, neighbourhood parents walking the fence lines with flashlights and tight expressions. People called his name. I remember someone brought over hot chocolate in a travel mug and set it on the porch.

They searched the crawl space first, then again, then with more people, different. tools, older floorboards cut into drywall, measure gaps between beams. Nothing. No drag marks, no signs of struggle, no trail. Eventually, the news crew showed up. They used words like disappearance and tragedy. A few weeks later, other words started creeping in. Neglect, lapse, accident. It became a humiliation. a shame you could feel between phone calls. Everyone had a theory. None of them helped.

My mom changed first. She stopped sleeping fully, kept a notepad by a bed to track door status, started locking things that weren't supposed to have locks, the fridge, the utility drawer. It wasn't paranoia exactly. It was control. Her world had slipped loose

and she was pulling on every string she could find. Dad went quieter. Still did the school run, still asked about homework, but he snapped more of the little things. Spilled milk, left shoes. Me? I became the one left behind. Everyone kept saying how lucky I was.

What they meant was, you're still here. Every time I coughed, someone. asked if I was okay. I couldn't close my bedroom door at night without my mom opening it again. Eventually, I stopped trying. There were moments that cut deeper than the rest. One morning, Mom set four plates on the table by reflex. She caught it midway through pouring orange juice and stared at the extra setting. A sad luck in her eyes. Dad drove past playgrounds and slowed down for no reason, eyes locked on the monkey bars. For two years they still bought birthday gifts just in case. Little ones, a new jumper, a book he would have liked. They kept them in a whole

drawer that no one opened. Family photos started vanishing. First, the ones with just him, then ones with all of us. Mom said she was reorganizing, but the frame. stayed empty. I grew up, left the house, refused to look back. Couldn't stand closets for years, couldn't fall asleep in silence. The absence of noise made me listen too hard. I kept a fan by the bed. Still do. They never got closure. No body, no confession, no footprints leading away. The crawl space was eventually resealed. Dad's screwed in a metal latch, then a second one. I watched him hammer a strip of wood across the frame, as if it were a coffin lid.

I built a life elsewhere. Flat, job, someone I love. I got good at pretending it was something that happened to other people, that I was just a witness, not a participant. But last week, Dad died. Heart problems, I think. Mom couldn't handle the house on her own. She's moving to a place with call buttons and staff that don't blink when she checks the locks twice.

So now, it's me. I have the key, the deed, the to-do list with bullet points, like pack mom's things, sort donations and schedule valuation. I stood outside the house, hand on the door. and when I pushed it open, it swung in, slow and smooth, like it had been waiting for me. The front door opened, like it remembered my hand. The first thing I noticed was the height chart on the hallway wall. The pencil lines were faded, smudged by time and careless elbows,

but they were still there. My name and his, stacked side by side like a slow motion race, I used to be proud of the way my marks climbed faster than his. Now they just look like a record of something unfinished. I touched the wall, expecting it to feel smaller somehow. It did. The whole house did. The ceiling felt lower, the hallway narrow,

like everything had shrunk slightly, or I'd grown too large for it to hold me anymore. Boxes were everywhere. Some half-packed by mom, others untouched. I passed the old coat rack with a single wobbling peg, ran a hand along the scratched banister, and paused in the living room doorway. For a moment, I forgot what I was doing.

The room still smelled like furniture polish and old carpet, still had that faint, sweet detergent smell. Mum's kind. It made my chest tighten. I started with the drawers. Junk first, old manuals, tangled cords, expired coupons. I opened one and found a box of crayons, still snapped and worn at the ends, still arranged by someone who didn't care about color order.

Mine. Then the brothers things. They hadn't been touched. There was a plastic bin labeled Miles in faded Sharpie. Inside, a pair of socks with cartoon sports. spiders, one bald, the other folded, a handheld game console that wouldn't turn on, a red matchbox car with chipped paint in one stiff wheel, the kind of things that only have value because of who they touched.

The house was quiet, save for the occasional groan of settling wood. It should have been comforting, but it wasn't. Something about the stillness felt too deliberate like the house was listening. like it had paused just slightly to watch me. I moved room to room, making notes on what to toss and what to keep. But every so often, I'd glance up and feel off. The living room felt too wide, the kitchen too shallow. The hallway didn't lead quite where my eyes expected.

One door didn't align right when I closed it. Another wouldn't latch without force. Small things, house things, nothing worth calling strange, but they added up in the back of my mind like static. The closet at the end of the hall was still there, the one we used to hide in, the one with the crawl space door. It had changed.

A thick new latch had been bolted across the wood, the metal dulled and slightly bent. Additional screws lined the edges, and a strip of plywood had been nailed to the frame. Someone, dad, probably, had taken it seriously. No more jokes, no more spider eggs in your ears. Just the door that wasn't meant to open again. I didn't touch it. Later, while clearing out the bookshelf in the guest room,

I found a slip of paper tucked behind a stack of yearbooks. It folded three times, and stained by a mystery clear liquid. Inside, in unmistakably childish handwriting, were names. Miles 7. Me, 5, mom, 3, dad, 9. It was a tally sheet, hide and seek.

My heart sank at this, knowing the number has never changed and never will. happiness frozen in place by grief. That night I lay down on the old twin mattress in my childhood room. I brought a fan out of habit. The soft hum masked the creeks and pops of the house, but it didn't help with a feeling that crept through me. Occasionally, things felt familiar, safe and assuring. But it had been so long that it had an alien feel

like I was lying in a memory, not a real, tangible space. Just as I was about to drift off, I had the sound of small feet padding across floorboards, and then a voice, soft, excited, just as I remembered it. Ready or not? The next morning I recalled the sounds, unsure if it was a dream or my resting mind playing tricks on me. Still, I left the fan running when I walked through the house.

Something about the silence had begun to feel reactive, like it was waiting for me to stop moving. I started in the kitchen, sorting through drawers stuffed with half-dead batteries, manuals for appliances we no longer owned, and on-open packs of birthday candles. I had a trash bag open, headphones in, a podcast playing too loud just to keep the back. background noise busy.

But even through the headphones, I heard a soft scuff down the hall behind me, like a sock sliding across wood. I pulled the butts out and held still. Nothing. I waited a few seconds longer, then moved toward the hall. The air felt heavier there. I turned and caught just a glimpse. The coat closet.

door was open, just a few inches, enough for the dark to show between the coats. And then I heard it. A child's laugh, soft, quick, almost affectionate. It came from just behind the door. Then, click. The door shut on its own. I didn't think. I lunged forward and yanked it open. Nothing, just coats and the sealed cross-based door still latched and heavily sealed sealed shut. My hands were shaking when I pulled out my phone. I texted my partner. Just weird being back. The house feels smaller than I remember. I didn't mention the door or the laugh. I wasn't ready to hear how it would sound coming from someone else's mouth. At night I tried to sleep, but my body didn't trust the bed.

I kept turning toward the walls like I expected something to lean close and breathe at me. Eventually, I drifted off. I woke up with a start, mouth dry, neck stiff, and the bedroom was colder than before. The fan was still on, humming steadily. But something had changed. A wooden sign hand-painted with the words Basement equals off-limits. It had been hung on my doorknob.

I hadn't seen it in years. We made those as kids, signs for every hiding spot. Mom made a stop after we taped one to the cat. This one hadn't been there last night. I stood still for a long time, long enough to hear it. A whisper, steady and precise, right next to my ear, even though nothing was near me. 18, 19, 20, a pause. Then softly, almost giddy, ready or not, I stood in my childhood hallway and understood with absolute clarity that whatever was in this house was playing my brother's game.

move at first. After the whisper, ready or not, my whole body locked up, like I was 12 again and hiding behind the couch, certain that if it even shifted my weight, I'd be found. I stood in the hallway for what felt like hours. The fan down the hall was still running. The closet door was shut. No sound came from the rest of the house, but it wasn't silence. It was waiting. Eventually, I backed. into the living room, forcing myself to keep my eyes forward. I sat on the edge of the couch like a guest and stared at the front door. Every instinct said, get out.

But I couldn't make myself cross the hall again, not past the closet, not when I knew it could be right behind the coats, listening. Instead, I did what I've always done when I don't know what to do. I reached for something I could control, something real. Dad's study was just off the living room. I stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind me. Even in the dim light, I could tell nothing had been moved in years. His old desk was still cluttered with receipts, tax folders and coffee-stained notepads.

I opened the lower drawer, the one I'd avoided the day before, and found the documents I remembered. Police statements, search maps, grief arranged by stables and paper clips. I flipped through it with a focus that only fear brings. I wasn't looking for answers, not yet, just something in black and white to tell me I wasn't insane. And then I found the evidence log. I didn't breathe as I read it. Item.

child shoe, right. Recovered, wall cavity, coat closet. Date, 17 days post-incident. My hand went numb around the paper. I remembered those shoes, little white trainers with Velcro straps. Miles wore them everywhere, even though one strap always came loose and flapped when he ran. Mom had nagged him about it that night. He'd ignored her, as usual.

They'd searched the whole house, the whole yard. They never told me anything had been found. But here it was, buried in a file no one meant for me to see. One shoe inside the wall. I pressed a paper flat against the desk, trying to focus, trying to make it fit into something that wasn't terrifying. But the longer I looked at it, the more the idea decayed. This wasn't a clue. It was a confirmation.

The rules of this house were wrong. They always had been, from the hallway. I heard movement. A single step, then another, perfectly spaced. I froze, heart-hammering. The steps were soft and deliberate, tracking across the floor outside the study, like someone matching my breath.

one sound at a time. I waited. The steps stopped. I opened a study door a crack. Nothing. The hallway was empty. The closet door still shut. But the air felt heavier.

I stepped out slowly, barefoot, avoiding the creaky floorboards like I used to when sneaking snacks past bedtime. I reached the floor. front door, locked. I was about to try open it when I heard it, three knuckles against wood, a knock from inside the house. I stood still. Another knock followed, slow, curious, like it was trying to understand why I hadn't responded yet. The knock came again, this time from just behind me, the other side of the front door.

But I hadn't heard it move, hadn't heard anything cross the living room. I held my breath and leaned in just enough to listen. A voice came through the wood like it wasn't muffled at all, like it didn't care about barriers. It sounded like someone standing right next to me, too close. The whisper came through the door like warm breath. I'm coming

For a second I stood perfectly still And still on the lock Forehead almost touching the wood As if my body couldn't decide Whether to flinch away Or press closer to hear it again The voice had my brother's shape to it

The same soft confidence The same pleased little lilt But he didn't belong in a grown man's house At nine in the morning I told myself Open the door walk outside, get in the car, drive until this place is a dot in the rearview mirror. I turned the handle. It didn't give. I tried again, harder, shifting my grip and pushing my

shoulder into the frame like a stubborn seal might be stuck from the humidity. The latch clicked faintly, as if mocking the effort, but the door held firm. It felt... anchored. I backed away from the door, breathing through my nose, so I wouldn't make any noise I'd regret. The living room looked the same as it had five minutes ago. Green and gold carpet, sofa cushions slightly sunken from where I'd sat, the old family photo on the mantle with a frame turned down.

Everything normal enough to be cruel. Then, the coats in the hall shifted. just a soft rustle, fabric against fabric. I didn't look toward the closet. I couldn't. I had the sudden irrational certainty that if I turn my head too quickly, I'd see my brother standing in the doorway

like nothing had ever happened, like it'd been playing hide-and-seek for 20 years, and it finally decided to end the round. I moved instead, slowly and careful. placing my feet as if I were crossing thin ice. I turned off the lights as I went. It wasn't a plan at first, just instinct. Some childish part of my brain believed darkness made you less visible,

as if the rules of hide and seek still applied, as if the house itself was a playground, and the seeker couldn't find what it couldn't see. I slipped into the kitchen and shut the door behind me, then locked it, even though the locks in my childhood home felt absurd. I stood there, back pressed to the wood, listening, nothing. The silence returned. It held my breath with it.

I waited, counted without meaning to. One, two, three. A soft knock came from the other side of the kitchen door. A kind of polite knock you give. if you weren't sure whether someone was busy. My skin went tight all over. I didn't answer. The doorknob turned once, slowly, feeling for resistance.

Then it stopped. A pause followed, long enough for a small, pathetic hope to flare. Maybe it can't open doors. Then something dragged along the wall outside, low and gentle. like a finger trailing across paint. It moved from left to right, stopping in places, as if tracing my outline through the plaster. I covered my mouth of my hand. The sound continued, patient, almost fond.

When it reached the edge of the doorframe, it paused again. And the voice came, close enough than my stomach folded inward. I can wait. I didn't know how long I stayed in that kitchen, listening to the house breathe around me. The fan in my bedroom hummed faintly somewhere in the distance, steady as a lie. I moved again, only when my legs began to cramp, and even then I did it carefully, shifting my weight the way you do when you're trying not to creak a floorboard.

I crept across the tile toward the pantry and ease the door open. The pantry was narrow, lined with shelves packed with mum's old habits, tin stacked in neat towers, jars of dried pasta, spice bottles with faded labels. It smelled like dust and oregano. I stepped inside and pulled the door almost shut, leaving a thin slit of light. My breathing sounded too loud in my ears. I tried to make it smaller, tried to make myself smaller. Outside in the kitchen, something moved again, not searching wildly, a measured pace, as if it already knew the hiding places and was simply choosing the order. A soft footstep, then another. It stopped right in front of the pantry door. I stared at the crack, eyes stinging, unable to blink. A faint sound came from the other side.

A small inhale, like someone smelling the air. Then, the pantry door began to open. I didn't pull it closed. I couldn't. My arms had locked to my sides, muscles refusing to obey. The door swung with a slow smoothness that made my throat tighten. Light spilled across the shelves and over my shoes. In the hallway stood a childlike silhouette.

framed by the kitchen light, head angled slightly, as if it were listening for the moment I slipped. It didn't step into the pantry. It simply waited. And I realized then what it was doing. It was allowing the rules to do the work, playing exactly the way my brother had played, the way kids play when they want you to feel seen. A seeker doesn't have to grab you. A seeker just has to make you move.

That was the rule. That was why it stood there and didn't cross the threshold, why it knocked instead of slamming, why it traced the wall with fingers instead of tearing it down. It wanted me to break first. My knees trembled, a tin and the top shelf wobbled slightly, as my shoulder brushed it.

The sound was barely a sound at all. A tiny metallic tick. Still, the silhouette's head tilted in immediate response, sharp as a bird catching motion. The breath and the other side of the doorway changed. The patience drained out of it. It moved to the sound, pretending that I wasn't there. And then, from somewhere deeper in the house,

I heard that laugh again as it pretended to search. It carried a kind of satisfaction that made my stomach turn, like a child who's pretending to play nice has finally gotten bored. It knew where I was, but had to give a grace period for me to move to a new spot. That was how we played. I bolted. I couldn't help it.

My body made the decision before my mind could veto it. I shoved past the pantry door, sprinted into the hallway, feet hammering hardwood, shoulder, clipping the wall. The house answered. Lights flickered as I ran, just the ones ahead of me, blinking as if they were warning the seeker which way had gone. The air in the hall felt denser, tighter, like the walls had drawn in by a few inches. The familiar corridor suddenly seemed too long, stretched like Taffy. Each step took more effort than it should have. Behind me, the laughter followed.

I felt it, the sense of being followed by something that didn't need to hurry because the board was already set. It didn't rush, yet it was still catching up. I threw myself into the closet door, the coat closet, and slammed it shut so hard the hangars rattled like bones. My hands fumbled for the latch, the reinforced metal scraped under my grip. I forced it down and leaned my weight against the door, chest heaving, coat sleeves brushing my face. I saw it. The crawler space latch, the extra one dad had installed, was trembling, tapping.

Small rhythmic pressure from the other side of the wood, as if something was pressing knuckles against it, testing it. it, repeating it in the exact tempo of a familiar game. And from right beside my ear, so close I could feel the words in my skin. There you are. The second I heard it whisper, I ran again. I didn't stop to think, didn't look behind me. I just moved, full sprint down the hall, shoulder clip in the corner as I tore back into the foyer. My heart was in my throat, thudding against bone,

louder than my footsteps. I turned to the windows, tried one in the living room, then another. I unlatched them, shoved upward, hard. The glass didn't move, not even a groan, like the frames had been painted shut from the inside of a dream. Panic burned through my ribs. I yanked up my phone and dialed 911. It rang twice, and clicked.

Just a dead screen. I backed away from the window and into the hallway again. That's when I heard the footsteps, just off to the side, as though it wanted me to see it only when it was ready, like it was tracing a circle around me, shrinking. I turned toward the kitchen, but laughter trickled out from the entryway. My brother's laugh, twisted by distance. I tried the stairs again, but a light bulb burst above them,

sharing the landing in glass. I ended up back in the main hall, breath raw, handshaking. Every exit was met with something, guarded. It wasn't chasing me. It was hurting me. And there it was again. The coat closet, the only place that didn't have sounds of danger. I shoved myself in and looked at the crawl space

because something in me understood the rules now. It wasn't trying to kill me or scare me for fun. It was playing a game I already knew, one with structure, with boundaries, with old sacred rules. And the crawl space had always been off limits. It was the one place we never hid, the one place left in touch by the seeker. That's why I might not be found there now.

Dust wafted out like breath held too long. The smell hit first. Old wood, mold, rusted nails, the dry mineral stink of insulation, insect bodies, and whatever else time forgets. I crouched, slid the bolt aside, and pulled open the hatch. The silence changed the moment I dropped inside.

It was like crossing a threshold between worlds. The house above dulled to a distant hum, the sound of my own breath felt loud against the plaster, and the groan of floor joists under pressure I couldn't trace. For the first time since the game began, I wasn't being hunted. I crawled forward. The floor was uneven, packed with dirt and broken insulation, old beams full of splinters and rusted nails. A child's jacket lay half decayed and wood. one corner, as if it had slipped through the cracks above and been left to rot.

My phone flashlight beam jittered with every breath. Further in, the space widened. The air got cooler. My shoulders stopped brushing the joists. It felt, in some horrible way, like descending into a church. Quiet, wrong, but reverent, and then I saw it. At the far end of the crawl space, huddled between two support beams, was a shape. Child-sized, still, folded into itself, knees drawn to chest.

The back curved in an unnatural arc, one shoulder slumped lower than the other. The feet were bare, skin darkened with mould and dirt. The toes curled inward like they've been clenched for years. I whispered. Miles? It didn't move. I crawled closer, one elbow at a time. My phone light trembled in my hand.

The shirt was his, red and grey stripes frayed at the edges, pants, one leg torn open from ankle to knee. Hair, long and matted, fused to the floor in black webbing. I aimed the light at its face. and the head turned. It rotated smoothly, like there were no muscles resisting the motion, like there was no bones underneath the get in the way. The face that looked back at me was soft in the wrong places, sagging where it shouldn't. The nose collapsed, the jaw sunken, one eye lower than the other. Yet the eyes moved.

They saw me, focus. and it smiled, pleased like a friend reunited at the end of a very long game. Then it spoke, and a voice so familiar, it knocked the breath from my lungs. Found you. I kicked backwards, my heels struck wood, my shoulder clipped a beam. Every breath scraped against the damp air as I scrambled in reverse, trying to put distance between me and the thing. wearing my brother's voice.

I twisted sideways, caught my elbow on a nail, and hissed through my teeth. When I looked up again, it was closer. But it wasn't crawling, not moving in any normal way. It just was. A glitch in the dark, skipping across space without crossing it, puppeteered by unknown forces in an unknown scenario. Its arms were still wrapped around its knees, its face half buried in its own limbs, but now it was nearer than before. The light trembled in my grip.

I tried not to blink. Then it lifted its head again, slow, unhurried, and the voice came, quieter this time, like we were sharing a secret. He was good at the game. I froze, its jaw barely moved as it spoke. The words came from deep in the throat, unbothered by breath or structure. He lasted a long time, so long I thought he might win, but I learned his rules. I liked them a lot more. The way it said the rules made my skin crawl, like it didn't mean limits, like it meant ritual.

It inched forward, the distance between us shortened, as if the world behind it folded inward. He didn't want to stay, it murmured, almost sadly. But he was mine. He taught me the game. I couldn't breathe. The realization hit me hard. He didn't die, not like we thought. He was kept, claimed, turned into a blueprint for whatever this thing.

thing had become. His laugh, his voice, his habits, worn like a coat stretched too tight across alien's shoulders. The thing in front of me didn't understand him. It just repeated him, memorized this shape, and stitch it together with rotten insulation. I shifted again, trying to retreat. My leg brushed something cold. I angled the light. A set of old keys.

Beyond them, a child's shoe, a cracked plastic ring, a coin blackened with age. Bone, maybe a tooth, none of which looked familiar. Dozens of them, half buried in the dirt, tucked into the corners. Trophies from other players. How many had come here, how many had tried to hide. I stared at the beam beside them. Dozens of small scratches ran across the wood, evenly spaced, gouged deep. Talley marks.

It had kept count of the rounds. Or maybe the days? Maybe both. The thing tilted its head, as if watching me understand was more satisfying than catching me. It gets boring, it said softly. No one hides right. No one remembers the rules. I swallowed hard. My mouth felt full of copper. Why me? I whispered.

It smiled again. You played with him. You know the rules. You will make this a fun game. I should have run or screamed or swung my arm out in defense. But none of that would have mattered. I knew it. This wasn't something that could be outrun. It lived in the walls. It was the house. There were no doors left a slam. Only choices. I looked at the tunnel behind me, already narrowing, already folding inward, like it had no intention of letting me crawl back the way I came. I could feel the house closing in. And the thing wearing my brother, whatever. it truly was, leaned in, eyes gleaming in the dim beam of my flickering light.

I hid so long, it said, now, it's your turn. And then, the phone light died. I was left in perfect black, no glow from the house above, no trace of light bleeding through the boards. Just silence. except it wasn't empty. It was expectant. I didn't move, couldn't. My breath rasped softly in my ears. Miles?

I whispered, hoping there was some semblance of my brother left, a glimmer of mercy. Nothing. I tried again, quieter. Still, no answer. And I knew. That voice, the one that laughed, the one that counted. It had my brother's shape, but not his soul. It had never been him.

It had never needed to be. It just wanted to sound like him. I turned and started crawling back the way I came or tried to. The path was narrow now, beams that hadn't touched my back before. pressed against my shoulders. The air felt thicker. Fiberglass dragged in my sleeves and scraped my cheek. My knee sank deeper into the insulation

that hadn't been there on the way in. The house wasn't holding me. It was closing around me. I crawled forward, breathing hard, pushed with elbows and toes. My hand scraped something sharp, buried in the dirt. I flinched, thought it was glass.

but it clinked against my knuckle and stayed warm in my palm. I held it up and flicked it open. A zippo. The weak flame flared to life, and I recognized it instantly. My dad used to keep it in his sock drawer. I'd taken it once as a kid, tried to light pine cones and fire behind the shed. He grounded me for a week.

I hadn't thought about it in years. So what was it doing down here? Was it another trophy? Was this how my dad truly died? I looked around, the way the floorboards had been gnawed at from below, at the empty space beneath the hallway, beneath the place he always paused when we played, the place he was seen last.

Dad had come down here, he'd known, the reinforced door, the extra latch, the way he'd gotten so quiet after Miles disappeared. Had he seen it? Had he bargained with it? Did he leave this for me? I didn't have time to ask. Behind me, something moved.

The sound of skin dragging across wood, slow and uneven, like something big folding itself through two small spaces. Then the voice came again, stretched now but bright, as if smiling. Do you remember the part where you freeze? I turned and saw it,

let only by the thin, flickering flame cupped in my hand. The figure shifted out from behind a beam. It wasn't pretending anymore. From the way it moved, it now looked wrongly arranged, like someone had thrown a brittle corpse down an air duct. The limbs sagged and shook with each movement, joints rotating past natural limits, his fingers dragged behind it, twitching in the dust.

The face. It had pieces. Patches of hair clumped into a shape, a wide grin split across too much teeth. Teeth blackened and small, clattered faintly when it breathed. It looked like something that had eaten him and tried to remember the taste. And somewhere in the same, the center of that melted face.

I saw the eyes, focused, bright, hungry, and patient, waiting for me to move. I swallowed, my throat roar from smoke and dust and forced the words out. Is he still in there? The thing tilted its head. The way a dog tilts its head when it already knows the trick is done. Its smile didn't widen, didn't soften. There was no flicker of recognition underneath a rot. Just ownership.

He was, it said easily. That was it. No hint that anything human remained behind those eyes. Whatever my brother had been, whatever had laughed and invented the rules and begged for one more round, had been used up a long time ago. The realisation settled into me with a cold, terrible calm. There was no ending with the game resolved cleanly.

It didn't want closure. It wanted repetition, rounds, new players. It wanted to play cat and mouse with me, savoring my investment in its familiar form until I joined its collection. to me, the only way out wasn't to win. It was to end the board. My fingers tightened around the zippo, the flame wavered as my hands shook. Then steadily, I leaned down and pressed it into the shredded insulation packed against the beam. At first, nothing happened. The fibres blackened, curled inward, giving off a bitter chemical stink.

Then, the fire found purchase. It caught fast. Orange raced along the dry dust and fibreglass, licking outward with a hungry sound. Heat bloomed against my face, smoke poured up, thick and choking, stealing the air from my lungs. Behind me, the thing screamed in fury.

The sound wasn't human. It was the noise of rules being torn apart of a game interrupted mid-round. The crawl space shook as it lunged, the laughter collapsing into something jagged and shrill. I crawled. Hands burned, knee-scraped, smoke clawed down my throat as I drag myself forward through splinters and falling debris. The house groaned overhead, beams flexed. nail shrieked as they pulled loose. I heard footsteps hammering above me, frantic and fast,

like the house itself was searching, trying to get ahead of me. The hatch came into view. I slammed my shoulder into it once, twice. The wood cracked. I kicked, screamed, and shoved with everything I had left, and the panel gave way. I spilled into the hallway, coughing hard in a room. of the wretch, ice steaming, smoke rolling out after me, black and alive.

Somewhere inside the walls, laughter fractured and overlapped, voices mucked and stretched until it meant nothing. I staggered to my feet and ran. The front door loomed ahead of me, closed tight like it had been before. I didn't slow down. I hit its shoulder first, once, twice. On a third impact, it flew open so suddenly that I nearly fell through it. The force of it was like a breath finally expelled.

I tumbled onto the lawn, gasping, tearing at my throat as cool air rushed back in. I rolled onto my back and stared up at the house. The fire spread at an unreal rate. Smoke was already curling from the eaves, flickers of orange dance behind the windows. lighting up familiar rooms in broken pulses. No alarms sounded and no neighbours came running. The street stayed quiet, as if it had agreed not to notice. I lay there, shaking, watching my childhood burn down.

A pain settled in my heart, seeing it all go. But a relief settled in the back, knowing that it was hopefully over. never know what it was that took my brother in order to create it sick, twisted game, set up in such a way that it could have kept it up indefinitely. But if there was one last thing my brother taught me from years of play, no one can win or lose a game. If someone flips the table.