Chapter 1: The Box in the Attic

Chapter 1: The Box in the Attic

The air in Nadia’s basement held the familiar, comforting scent of old paper and laundry detergent. It was our sanctuary, a time capsule from a simpler era of all-night study sessions and shared pizzas. For nearly a decade, this had been the weekly ritual: the four of us, a bottle of cheap wine, and a stack of board games that served as an excuse to simply be together, away from the grinding pressures of our late twenties.

“I’m just saying,” Rupert drawled, swirling the cabernet in his glass with a practiced flick of his wrist, “that Settlers of Catan has lost its Catan-ic appeal.” He smirked, pleased with his own wit. He was the only one of us who wore a suit to game night, a silent testament to the world of high-stakes finance he occupied and the one he clearly felt we didn't.

Nadia, ever the peacemaker, offered a gentle smile. "We could play Scythe, Ru. You always like the strategic ones." She curled up on the worn floral-print sofa, the one we’d all nearly set on fire during a high-school experiment involving a can of hairspray and a lighter.

"Been there, conquered that," Rupert dismissed.

That’s when Tod, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since arriving, heaved a heavy, dust-covered box onto the coffee table with a theatrical thud. Dust motes danced in the dim light. "Then I present to you," he announced, his voice booming with the practiced enthusiasm of a top-tier salesman, "the cure for the common game night."

We all stared at the box. It looked ancient, like something unearthed from a time capsule buried in the 1970s. The cardboard was faded, the corners soft and frayed. The title was printed in a cheerful, looping font: Messy Hands.

But it was the illustration that held our gaze. It depicted four stylized children, two boys and two girls, smiling with unsettlingly wide eyes around a game board. They looked happy, except for one detail. Their hands, held up for the viewer to see, were coated in a thick, glistening red substance that dripped onto the table. It was rendered in the playful style of the era, but the implication was unmistakable. It looked exactly like blood.

“Tod, what the hell is this?” Nadia asked, her brow furrowed. She instinctively pulled her knees to her chest.

“Found it in the attic of that estate sale I worked last weekend,” Tod said, grinning. “The owners just left everything. Said it was their grandparents’. Isn’t it a trip? Probably some weird, forgotten relic. Come on, live a little!”

His energy was infectious, as always. It was Tod who had convinced us to go skydiving, Tod who had instigated a disastrous road trip to Mexico, and now, Tod who was pushing this creepy-looking game. He thrived on novelty, on breaking the routine he secretly feared more than anything.

I picked up the box. It felt strangely heavy. “Messy Hands,” I read aloud. “Doesn’t exactly sound like a fun time.” As an architect, I appreciated structure, rules, and predictable outcomes. This box felt like none of those things.

“It’s probably just finger painting or something,” Rupert scoffed, though he didn’t look away from the disturbing cover art. “Some hippie-era nonsense about expressing your inner child.”

“Only one way to find out,” Tod said, prying the lid open. A musty smell, like dried leaves and forgotten secrets, wafted out. Inside was a simple board, four plain wooden tokens, a die, and a deck of pale, yellowed cards.

Against our better judgment, and mostly to shut Tod up, we agreed. We were adults, after all. What harm could a dusty old board game do?

The first few rounds were exactly as Rupert had predicted: ridiculous. The rules were simple. Roll, move, draw a card, and do what it says. My first card read: ‘Sing the national anthem in an opera voice.’ My pathetic attempt earned a round of genuine, tension-breaking laughter. Nadia had to balance a die on her nose for sixty seconds. Even Rupert cracked a smile when Tod’s card demanded he do his best impression of a chicken laying an egg, which he performed with a gusto that nearly knocked over the wine bottle.

We were relaxing, falling back into our familiar rhythm. The game was silly, a welcome distraction. The creepy box was just a gimmick, a product of a weirder time.

Then the shift came. It was subtle at first. Nadia drew a new card. She read it, and the easy smile on her face faltered.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s… weird,” she said, reading aloud in a small voice. “‘What is the one secret you’ve kept from everyone in this room since childhood?’”

The air in the basement grew still. The laughter died. Tod shifted uncomfortably. “Whoa, okay. Getting a little personal.”

“It’s just a game,” Rupert said, his voice clipped. But his eyes were fixed on Nadia, a new, calculating intensity in his gaze.

Nadia hesitated, her gaze flickering between us. “I… when I was ten,” she began, her voice barely a whisper, “I broke my mom’s favorite vase, the ugly porcelain one with the painted swans. I blamed it on our dog, Buster. She believed me. Buster had to sleep outside for a week. I’ve felt guilty about it my whole life.”

It was a small, silly confession, but the act of sharing it changed the room’s chemistry. The game was no longer a stage for performance, but a confessional.

My turn. I drew a card. ‘What is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done for your own benefit?’ I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. I thought of the promotion I’d gotten two years ago, the one I’d secured by subtly letting my boss know about a mistake a colleague—a friend—had made on another project. I’d never told anyone. I mumbled a vague, watered-down version of the story, my face burning with a shame I hadn’t felt in years.

The game seemed to hum with a low, satisfied energy. The silly dares were gone. Every card now dug into us, demanding truths we kept buried. Tod had to admit he was on the verge of bankruptcy, a shocking confession from the man who projected nothing but success.

The game felt less like an object and more like an intelligence, a malevolent therapist that knew exactly where to press to cause the most pain. Then, it was Rupert’s turn. He snatched a card from the deck with an air of impatient defiance. He read it, and his face, normally a mask of cool control, became a canvas of pure fury.

“No,” he said, his voice dangerously low. He threw the card onto the board. “Absolutely not. This is stupid. I’m done.”

I leaned over and read the card. My blood ran cold.

‘Tell your wife’s best friend, Nadia, why you’ve been meeting her at the Fairmont Hotel every Tuesday for the past three months.’

The silence was a physical thing, pressing in on us. Nadia stared at Rupert, her face ashen, her eyes wide with a dawning, horrified understanding. Tod looked like he’d been punched in the gut. All the little inconsistencies, the late-night work calls, the sudden business trips—they all clicked into place with a sickening finality.

“Rupert…” Nadia whispered, her voice trembling.

“This is a fucking game,” he snarled, standing up so abruptly his chair scraped loudly against the concrete floor. “A box of cheap cardboard isn’t going to… I’m leaving.”

He didn’t look at any of us. He stormed toward the steep wooden stairs that led up to the kitchen, his expensive shoes slapping against each step. “This was a mistake.”

We heard him reach the top. We heard the familiar squeak of the old doorknob turning.

Then, nothing.

A moment later, a heavy, frustrated thud. And another. A solid, meaty sound, like a shoulder hitting something immovable.

“What the hell?” Rupert’s voice echoed down into the basement, stripped of its arrogance and laced with the first threads of panic. “Nadia, what’s wrong with your door? It won’t open.”

“What are you talking about?” Nadia asked, her voice still weak from the shock. “It’s… it’s just a door.”

I stood up, a deep, primal unease crawling up my spine. “Rupert?”

His footsteps thundered back down the stairs. His face was pale, his composure shattered. “It’s stuck. It won’t budge. It feels… solid.” Without another word, he strode over to the small, high basement window—the one that looked out onto the lawn. It was an old, single-pane window, flimsy and drafty. He grabbed the latch and pulled. It didn’t move. He pulled harder, his knuckles white. He slammed his fist against the glass.

The sound wasn’t the tinkle of shattering glass. It was a dull, flat thud, like hitting a concrete wall.

My heart began to pound against my ribs. I walked over to the stairs and looked up. The door at the top of the landing looked normal, but a sliver of impossible dread made me take the steps two at a time. I reached out and pushed.

My hand met a surface that was cold, hard, and utterly seamless. There was no grain of wood, no outline of a doorframe, no gap between the door and the wall. It was as if the door had never been there at all, as if the wall of the house had been poured from a single, solid piece of concrete.

I pushed again, my breath catching in my throat. It didn’t give. It didn’t rattle. It was just… wall.

I turned slowly, looking back down at my friends. Their faces were mirrors of my own disbelief and burgeoning terror. On the coffee table, nestled between the half-empty wine glasses, the smiling children on the game box seemed to mock us. The game wasn’t over. It had only just begun.