He's Close

DON’T WAKE DADDY

Daddy is already asleep when you open the box.

The plastic board smells faintly of dust and something older, like a closed room that hasn’t been aired out in years. The cardboard stairs are chewed at the edges, softened by hands that once trembled as they moved tiny plastic children upward.

Someone laughs. Someone says, “I loved this game when I was little.”

You set Daddy in the bed.

You twist the alarm clock to a random time.

The rules are simple.

Be quiet.

Climb the stairs.

Don’t wake Daddy.

The first roll is a four.

The pawn moves forward with a soft click. No one notices at first that the house around you seems to lean in, listening.

Daddy snores.

It’s louder than you remember.

You joke about it, about how dramatic the game was, how Daddy used to “jump” out of bed if the clock rang. Someone rolls a two. The pawn moves again.

The alarm clicks.

Not yet.

But Daddy shifts in his bed.

A few players exchange looks.

“Did the game always do that?”

On the third turn, someone drops the die.

It hits the table too hard.

Daddy’s snore stops.

The silence afterwards is wrong. Thick. Expectant.

The house clock on the wall, not the game clock, ticks once. Twice.

You laugh again, but it comes out thin.

You roll.

The alarm clock twitches.

Memories start to surface without invitation.

Not yours.

Or maybe they are.

A slammed door.

Footsteps in a hallway.

The sound of someone holding their breath on the other side of a bedroom door.

You don’t mention it. Neither does anyone else.

Daddy exhales. Slowly.

Halfway up the stairs, the pawn stops feeling like a toy.

It feels heavy in your fingers, like it doesn’t want to move.

Someone whispers, “Go slower.”

You didn’t know that was an option.

The rules never said you couldn’t.

The alarm jumps.

Daddy sits up.

Not all the way. Just enough.

His eyes stay closed.

The bed creaks; it's not plastic, but wood. Real wood. From somewhere deeper than the game.

You realize then that no one is laughing anymore.

“Just finish the game,” someone says.

Their voice shakes.

Another roll.

Another step.

The stairs on the board look longer now. The artwork stretched, distorted with the shadows pooling where they didn’t before.

Daddy’s breathing turns shallow.

The alarm goes off.

Not the toy.

Every phone on the table lights up at once.

No sound. Just vibration.

Daddy opens his eyes.

They aren’t cartoon eyes. They’re too wet. Too aware.

He doesn’t yell.

He just looks at you.

At all of you.

Like he finally knows you’re there.

You scramble to reset the clock, to shove him back into the bed, to laugh it off, but the board won’t respond. The pieces won’t move. The rules have run out.

Daddy stands.

He is taller than the box ever allowed.

“Why couldn’t you be quiet?” he asks.

And suddenly, you remember exactly why this game was terrifying as a child.

When the lights come back on, the board is gone.

No Daddy.

No stairs.

Just a table.

Just friends.

No one suggests playing another game.

Later that night, as you’re drifting to sleep, you swear you hear it.

A familiar snore.

From somewhere down the hall.

And you know, deep in your bones:

The game isn’t over.

You just lost your turn.