The Game

Somewhere in the vast halls of the crumbling old house, a door slammed shut. The sound echoed, shattering the silence. Moments later a waft of icy air swept into the room which in turn caused a solitary candle to almost extinguish before its yellow flame steadied once more. A figure of a man sat alone at the end of a long wooden table, much like its occupant it showed its age and scars. He idly shuffled a pack of Tarot cards as he awaited his guest.

The door swung open. A much younger man stood and surveyed the scene. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness before making a move. His footsteps made barely a sound, the heavy tapestries hanging on the walls absorbed any noise from inside this inner sanctum.

The seated man looked up from his cards, taking a sip of wine from a brass goblet before choosing to acknowledge the man. “Ah, you couldn’t resist the challenge.”
His visitor gave a shrug before removing his long, black coat, which he dropped carelessly on to the stone floor. He was yet to speak.

An observer might have guessed these two characters had a past, uneasy relationship. And yet they were true strangers to each other, but the old man had seen many young men such as the one standing before him, as each year a new challenger vied to play for the power. One of them had yet to succeed.

The atmosphere was thick with unreleased tension, as if they were participants in a sporting event and poised for the starter’s gun. The old man’s gravelly voice spoke softly. ‘The stakes are higher than you might think.’ He gestured toward the chair opposite him, inviting his visitor to sit. As his hand moved, the simple, silver ring on his finger caught the stranger’s eye, who knew although the ring appeared simple, the power it held was not.

The challenger took a seat at the table. It was as if, in the action of sitting, he was agreeing to an invisible contract. ‘I’ve heard the stories,’ he said, his eyes on the playing cards fanned out on the table. ‘I’m not afraid. But perhaps you should be. Your reign is about to come to an end.’

‘That’s what they all say.’ The master nodded and smiled, showing his long, yellowed teeth.

‘You see yourself as invincible, more powerful than God himself. Yes, the power is immense, but you have abused it for too long.’

‘Each year it’s the same. Some upstart imagines he can wrest the ring from my finger. It’s so tedious. Let us see what the cards have to say, shall we?’

‘Don’t the screams of the millions of souls you’ve unjustly trapped in Limbo for eternity, haunt you?’

‘No. It is Devine judgement. Now, no more talk. Let us get this done.’

Without another word from either man, they prepared for the start of the game. Both were aware of the rules. The older player was under no illusion that the ring, along with its powers, was only on loan to him. Each year he needed to prove his worth while facing a challenge, the timing of which was crucial. The game must begin on the stroke of midnight on All Hallows Eve.

A Grandfather clock chimed midnight, a signal to begin the game in those first seconds and minutes of the Day of Lost Souls. The old man began to deal.

Honoured to be among the privileged few to lay eyes on the deck, the opponent couldn't help but notice the cards’ generous size, their worn red backs, faded from time, adorned with intricate, black symbols. The soft, thick texture of the deck revealed its age, as though it had passed through countless hands across the ages. His fingers twitched with anticipation, itching to pick up the first card, while his hands rested on the edge of the wooden table, impatient for the game to begin. The young man had anticipated this moment for years. He knew in his heart it was his time. His chance to claim the power of Devine Intervention. over life and death, heaven and hell, which had eluded so many.

‘You have held the power for too long. It’s time to relinquish it to a younger, stronger more ethical man.’

The old man declined to answer, he had defeated so many challengers over the years and had no reason not to be confident this would continue. What he wasn’t yet aware of was the ring itself desired a new owner, it had grown tired of his old master.

The first card dealt was The Hanged Man. The younger man’s confidence faded a little; he knew the meaning of the card. He stayed silent but the dealer smiled, ‘You see? Sacrifice and surrender. The cards are against you already.’

‘Just deal the cards, Master.’

The dealer’s fingers caressed the cards as he would a lover. They’d never failed him for so long and confidently dealt the next one. But The Wheel of Fortune card put fear and doubt into him. The ring tingled and warmed on his finger as if giving him a warning. He thought about what this might mean: change, cycles, fear and destiny. He felt the first stirrings of doubt.

Next came The Fool. It meant new beginnings, spontaneity, innocence, and taking a leap of faith. The young man’s heart skipped a beat, the meaning was clear, there was still hope of success if he held his nerve. Yet, he knew what was at stake, his life, the ring, and the power.

The game continued, each card in turn giving both players concern but hope. It seemed as if the Tarots were playing a game of their own. Taunting, teasing, giving and taking, testing nerves.

The following card, The Star, was dealt to the opponent, it seemed to him the game was favouring him at last. The Star’s meaning was clear to both players; hope, renewal, inspiration and faith in the future. His turn to give the dealer a smile. He didn’t speak but the raise of his eyebrows as he looked into the old man’s face was enough.

The Magician – Manifestation, resourcefulness, power, gave the dealer cause to smile once more, although there was no humour behind that curling of his cruel lips.

Justice, the card of fairness, balance, karma and truth held in the young man’s hands gave him the winning edge. He couldn’t help but taunt the Master. ‘Karma? Do you believe in karma? Do you believe in retribution for all the misery you’ve caused? For all those souls you’ve placed in Limbo? Give it up old man. It’s time, you know it. Time to let go.’ It is to you the cards are sending a message. It’s time for your long hold over the power to come to an end.’

‘The game isn’t over yet,’ the Master of the ring, growled, before turning over one of the final cards. However the next card, intended for him was The Tower. The card of ruin and collapse. The picture on the Tarot depicted naked people who had been trapped for eternity in limbo. They are falling, spiralling from a tall tower as it is struck by lightning, released at last from the state of purgatory.

The old man clamped his trembling hands over his ears, but it did little to muffle the deafening wails that suddenly tore through the room—inhuman, shrill screams. Gnarled, skeletal hands erupted from the walls and floor, clawing at his flesh, digging into his skin as they ripped him from his seat. He kicked and thrashed, but the hands multiplied, dragging him mercilessly toward the centre of the swirling mist. He felt his limbs being torn from his torso, his eyes gouged from their sockets. The mist coiled around him, thick and choking. Although blinded, he was aware of his successor hidden in the fog, watching. The room pulsed with a malevolent energy, the screams now shifting to manic laughter.

But moments later, the screams had faded into nothingness, the fog lifted, and the room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the steady, rhythmic ticking of the pendulum on the old clock.

On the table lay the ring. The young man slipped it on his finger and silently left the room.

Words 1395
Written for October’s Horror Writing Contest