The Prize Counter Kid

I’m 16, and I work evenings at Chuck E. Cheese. Mostly prize counter shifts, because I’m fast at counting tickets and I don’t freak out when kids scream.

You start to recognize the regulars pretty quickly. Same birthday kids. Same exhausted parents. Same toddlers melting down because they’re three tickets short of something plastic and useless.

That’s how I noticed the kid who didn’t belong.

He stood at the prize counter every night around closing. Maybe seven years old. No parents. No tickets in his hands. Just standing there, pointing. At first, I thought he was shy.

“Hey buddy,” I said the first time. “You gotta bring tickets up if you want something.” He didn’t look at me. He just kept pointing at the bottom shelf, behind the counter. There was nothing there except an old toy I’d never seen anyone redeem.

It was dusty. Yellowed plastic. A small mouse figurine wearing a party hat. No price tag. No barcode. No ticket value sticker. It wasn’t even on the inventory list taped to the register.

I checked the security feed. No kid. Just me. The counter. Empty arcade behind me. When I turned back around, he was gone.

After that, it kept happening, with the same kid at the same time. Same spot. He never spoke. Never blinked. Just pointed at that stupid toy.

Every time I checked the cameras, the footage showed nothing. No kid walking up. No kid standing there. Just me staring at an empty space like an idiot.

I told my shift lead. She laughed and said, “Kids sneak around all the time.” Then she added, quieter, “Don’t give out anything that’s not on the list.” The toy wasn’t on any list.

One night, I got curious. I wiped the dust off the shelf.

The toy felt warm. Not arcade-machine warm. Not from lights. Hand-warm.

The next night, the kid was closer. Right up against the counter. His finger was almost touching the glass.

I didn’t bother checking the cameras anymore.

“Why that one?” I asked. His mouth opened. No sound came out.

I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted him gone. I grabbed the toy, slid it under the counter, and handed it to him. “There,” I said. “Okay? Take it and go.” He took it carefully, like it was fragile. Then he smiled.

His mouth stretched too wide. Past what a kid’s face should do. His eyes didn’t move. “Now I can stay,” he said.

The lights flickered.

The arcade went silent—no machines, no music, nothing. I blinked. He was gone. So was the toy.

The next morning, the prize counter inventory was updated.

There was a new item on the list.

Mouse Figurine – DO NOT DISTRIBUTE

Status: REDEEMED

I quit two days later.

Sometimes, when I pass by Chuck E. Cheese at night, I see a small figure standing behind the prize counter through the window.

Wearing a party hat. Smiling. Waiting for someone else to point.

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