Nothing happened for the first four minutes, but at the 5:27 mark a high-pitched distorted noise like a record being played in reverse screeched out of the monitor’s speakers. Space Crashers’ screen flipped on and within the screeching and laser blasts I swore I could hear a kid’s voice twisting and turning. Thirty seconds later I showed up and pulled the plug.
Right after I walked away the monitor blacked out.
When it came back a few seconds later the game was going again.
Maybe I just needed some sleep. I shut everything else down and went home.
The next night at 1:07 a.m. it all started again. I went through the same process. Check the game, see no one there, unplug it, game goes back on as soon as I walk away, weird noises on the monitor. The same routine also went down on Wednesday, but on Thursday when I went to the monitor, I slowed the audio down.
“It’s your turrrrn. It’s your turrrrn,” scratched out of the speakers in a voice that sounded like it belonged to a little kid trapped inside some dimension made of static.
Goose bumps popped up on my arms and my back broke out in a cold sweat.
I closed up the arcade and got the hell out of there.
But the next day all I could think about was what I’d heard on monitor.
That night when the game went on, instead of just unplugging it and walking off, I walked right up to it and looked at the screen. It was set on two-player mode and the second player light was blinking. I swallowed hard, pressed the “fire” button, and started playing. For the next five minutes I swerved and spun my ship as I blasted alien attackers and asteroids before a missile blew me up.
The score at the top of the screen showed “Player 1 - 68,314, Player 2 - 62,005.”
I stepped back and waited for the game to go to sleep. When it did a few minutes later, I ran to the booth and checked the monitor. I watched myself play and as soon as my game ended I swore I heard a little chuckle come out of the speakers.
Hurrying out of the booth, I closed up the arcade and went home. I had the rest of the weekend off and Sunday night my Uncle Sammy called.
“Hey, Shawn. Haven’t had a chance to talk to you this week, but I wanted to know how everything’s going at the arcade?”
My mind swam with the image of me playing a video game against an invisible kid from a static dimension. “Everything’s good,” I said.
“OK, great. So have you met Bobby yet?” Sam asked.
“Um, I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, he’s the ghost kid who comes in after we close. He used to come in all the time and play Space Crashers but he died in a bad car accident about three years ago and his ghost has been coming in around closing time ever since. He’s a nice kid; just play a game with him and then he’ll go away for the night.”
I rubbed my forehead. “OK, yeah, sure, Bobby. No problem,” I said.
“All right, great!” Sam said. “Well, keep up the good work and always remember to take the trash out at night. I’ll talk to you next week, OK?”
I shook my head and half-smiled. “Sure thing, Sam.”
“OK, kid. Be good. Bye.”
There was a click and Sam was gone.
The next night Bobby showed up at 1:11 a.m. and we played our game. After we were done the game machine stayed quiet, and I finished cleaning up and left. We then played every night for the rest of the week and then the rest of the month after that.
And I still haven’t won a game.
My time with my grandfather was special, all the more so if it was time spent in the mountains where we would go for walks and he would tell me tales. He taught me how to read poetry, how to tell stories, how to read signs in the wilderness, and just generally filled up my time with him with magic tales of a time far different than my own. I think he enjoyed telling me about his life through his stories and it always felt great when he put his arm around my shoulders as we walked. I learned a thing or two about nature in this vast world of life lessons he made our own.
It was very difficult for me when I heard my grandfather was ill; I’d just thought he was sick and would get better, but I found out that he was dying. I didn’t know how to come to terms with that, but when I was told he wanted to see me in the hospital, it finally sunk in and hit me hard. I didn’t want to see him that way and have that be my last memory of him. I wanted to remember him as the kind man who took time with me and made part of my life a very precious one. This was the man who taught me a lot of things about life.
I hated hospitals and when I got past all my feelings of what I dreaded in a hospital, I found myself at his door. I didn’t want to go in and stood there for a few minutes not wanting to go into his room. When I did finally go in, he was asleep. I was shocked at just how old and frail he looked.
It’s been many years since that visit to the hospital—one I’ll never forget, nor will I ever forget what happened afterword. He wanted to see me to give me an old pocket watch that he’d had handed
