No One Ever Sees Me
Halloween was the best family event of the year.
Every Halloween, The Cousins played Ninjas.
Our grandmother had ten children. Ten children all got married except Uncle Steve. He died in Vietnam, and my dad always poured a beer into the grass for Uncle Steve when all the siblings got together.
All these children having children is what led to The Cousins. We said The Cousins with reverence, with importance. With an age range spanning nearly thirty years, there were forty-three of us. Practically a battalion. Our numbers contributed to our sense of importance, of unity
Some families only get together on Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or maybe not at all. But there were simply too many of us for one Thanksgiving dinner, one gift-opening session around a dry evergreen. There was no house big enough for all of us to gather.
Until Aunt Lydia and Uncle Joel bought The Farm. The Farm was twenty acres of a child’s wildest dreams. Endless trees to climb, fields to explore, hills to roll down giggling, and even a creek to wade in during the summer months, to walk across at Christmas and pretend we were in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. It also sported a massive barn that, to our extreme delight, was rotting, unused, and full of places to hide.
While we invented and played many games as The Cousins, we all agreed (except Lainie, who pretended to be too old for games) that Ninjas was the most fun.
Ninjas started in the barn as hide and seek. The old farming equipment, rotting hay bales bleached white with age, and junk-stuffed hayloft provided a myriad of perfect hiding spots for us. The barn was nearly the size of the main farmhouse, huge and cavernous, full of treasures and adventure. None of us minded the smell of mildew and dust. I still believe those smells are the best in the world to inspire the imagination.
Jamie tries to take credit for the idea that turned hide and seek into something more “sophisticated,” the white flags and total darkness that made the game our own. I don’t remember who actually had the idea, but I know it wasn’t Jamie. He was the smoke blower of The Cousins. Last year he tried to convince me his girlfriend was a famous OnlyFans creator. You know the type.
Regardless of whose idea it really was, hide and seek in the barn turned into Ninjas by the third year at The Farm. It was our special game, and we only played on Halloween.
Some of the younger Cousins would try to convince us to play at other times of the year. I didn’t blame them. We never caved though, whether it was Christmas, Easter, or Fourth of July.
Ninjas was strictly a Halloween game, and we stuck to it.
It was perfect for the spooky season. All us Cousins looked forward to it. Halloween to some kids meant candy, dressing up, watching scary movies. To us Cousins, it meant playing Ninjas. All that other stuff was secondary.
The last time I ever played Ninjas, I was sixteen.
Most teenagers lose their interest in kid games around the time they gain interest in sex, but The Cousins had too tight of a bond to be broken by a false sense of maturity. Kelly, twenty-seven at the time, still played every year with enthusiasm.
That year was like any other, all of us showing up at The Farm with our black outfits and face chalk, excited and full of energy. We passed the time and watched the sun set anxiously as the nine siblings, spouses in tow, drank wine and discussed the latest scandals.
The energy among us was palpable by eight o’clock. The sun teased us. In a desperate attempt to keep our game ay bay, it threw out the very last light.
Our parents finally released us outside at nine thirty. Very late for the younger Cousins, but holidays were always exceptions. We congregated around the front of the barn in the new black night, all of us in our darkest clothing, black lines painted under our eyes like football players.
Kelly and I had been the Flashlight Holders for several years running. We were nominated again. If any Cousins got lost, scared, or otherwise needed to be escorted from the pitch-darkness of the barn, the Flashlight Holders guided them out into the fresh October night air. The four light bars that hung on rusty chains from the barn roof still worked, amazingly, but were flicked off for the game. We needed utter blackness.
That year, as we waited for the rest of The Cousins to gather, my eyes landed on Caleb, the youngest Cousin (at least until someone else had another kid). Caleb was six, still young enough to instinctively reach for my hand as he sidled up to me.
“Hey Caleb,” I said, taking his small hand. The gesture made me feel warm despite the late October chill.
“I’m scared,” Caleb whispered. “I don’t like the dark.”
This was Caleb’s first year playing Ninjas. Aunt Jen had forbidden it every year before. She ranted about rusty machinery and tetanus shots while the other adults tried to wear her down. The argument was a lost cause and they knew it, but Aunt Jen had been adamant. Until this year.
“Hey, you’ll be okay, buddy. It’s really, really fun,” I assured him, bending to my knees to talk face to face with him. “Plus, if you really get too scared, me and Kelly have magic flashlights.”
“Magic?”
“Yeah, see?” I shined mine at the dying grass beneath our feet. “It can guide us out of the barn, no matter how scared or lost we are.”
Caleb’s face melted into a crooked smile. His front teeth were missing.
“Oh. Okay. That’s good.”
I straightened and tousled his hair. We’d gathered at The Farm for his riotous first birthday celebration. The maternally inclined female cousins doted on him every chance they got. His cherubic face and sweet innocence melted us.
The last of the participating Cousins arrived, to teasing remarks from the brasher of us. Twenty in all that year. A good turnout. Despite the popularity of the game, it was very rare for every single Cousin to be present at a gathering. Families went on vacations, had busy work schedules, and got sick.
As Flashlight Holders, Kelly and I were the informal leaders of the game. I clapped my hands twice for silence, and all eyes were on me.
“This is Caleb’s first time playing, so I wanted to go over the rules,” I said loudly, projecting my voice over the small crowd. “There are ten white flags hidden throughout the barn. Your goal is to grab a flag and keep it, moving quietly and without being seen. If you are found by another player, they can take your flag and you’re out. Remember, if you can’t find your way out of the barn, shout for me or Kelly and we’ll guide you.” I brandished my flashlight for effect. “At the end of half an hour, we turn on the lights. Whoever has a flag when the lights come on is a winner. Any questions?”
A rumbling wave of negative responses flowed from the crowd of Cousins.
“Alright. Let’s play Ninjas!”
The Cousins poured into the barn, spreading out and muttering excitedly amongst themselves. By the time everyone was inside and in position, barely two minutes had passed. We took Ninjas seriously.
Caleb was still hovering near me as I gave Kelly a nod. “Remember,” I muttered down to him, “I’m here if you need me.”
Caleb smiled at me and nodded.
“Ready!” I called out across the barn. My voice sounded flat against the rotting boards. I cranked the kitchen timer borrowed from Aunt Lydia and set it to 30. “Lights out!”
Kelly flipped the master switch. We were pitched into sudden complete blackness, the only hint of light from a few stars visible where boards had fallen off the walls. We were good at Ninjas. We knew how to walk quietly, how to use the darkest shadows to our advantage. Barely a rustle was heard, a tiny creak of wood.
I backed up and sat beside a wheelbarrow filled with twigs and rainwater from the leaking roof. The hay poked into my black sweatpants. I didn’t notice it. I was listening. Watching.
The tick of the kitchen timer was loud like a marching band in the dead silence of the barn. I didn’t even hear Caleb blundering around. I had assumed he would be unskilled at the art of moving quietly. I was impressed.
A few minutes later, I heard a surprised grunt and an irritated grumble from the northwest section of the barn, up in the hayloft. Our first Ninja had been eliminated.
I listened for my name, ready in case my flashlight and guidance were needed. No such call came. The heavy barn doors opened briefly for a moment, then thudded closed.
My legs grew numb as I sat waiting by the wheelbarrow. Eventually I had to adjust my position. I made no noise against the hay as I uncrossed and refolded my tingling legs.
Someone passed almost right in front of me. It was impossible to say who, but I heard the gentle, slow but steady footfalls of someone in the hay. They had likely just acquired a flag and were anxious to tuck into a good hiding spot, not wanting to get caught in the open with their new prize. I smiled and shook my head as the footfalls landed, silently chiding the Cousin for stepping toes first instead of heel-to-toe, the silent way of walking explained to us by Rob, who claimed to have read several books on the art of ninpō two summers before.
I had to clap a hand over my mouth as the tiny, barely perceptible sound of a second set of feet passed where the loud Cousin had been only moments before. They were caught, I knew it. Giggles bubbled up in my chest, barely restrained.
As expected, a grunt of surprise and a murmured tease sounded some twenty feet ahead as the Cousin was caught. There was some back and forth, a hushed argument over the fairness of the tag, which was like shouting in the silence of the blackened barn.
I stood, knees cracking even at my young age, and prepared to break up the argument for the sake of our sacred silence. But before I could click on my flashlight, someone plodded loudly through the hay past me and threw open the barn door, not caring about making noise any longer. Poor sport.
There was little incident after that. My internal clock was imprecise but close, and I began to suspect the timer was almost out. The barn doors had opened and closed eight times.
In the black silence of the barn, the rotting smell was long since filtered out by my nose. To me, the barn smelled of Halloween, of family, of the love of a great game. My mother told me often that holidays lose their shine when you become an adult, and that they only become special again once you’ve got kids.
The idea of Halloween losing its shine was suddenly terrifying to me. In the dark, my heart sped up. How do you know when it’s the last time you feel that childlike wonder of imagination? My father said once that, at some point in my life, he picked me up and set me down for the very last time, and he never knew it.
Was this Halloween, this game of Ninjas, my last time being picked up? I wanted to cry at the thought.
A hand slid into mine.
I narrowly avoided screaming in the black silence.
The hand was small and sweaty . Caleb. Yes, that was Caleb. I could hear him breathing softly next to me. He had gotten scared, so late in the game it was almost tragic. I tightened my hand around his tiny one.
I thought of his approaching adolescence, of the wonders it would hold, of the way he might remember this first game of Ninjas for the rest of his life, going over it again and again like he was handling an old, worn photograph. At this thought, I did cry. A single tear escaped my right eye, seen by no one in the dark.
Caleb was right next to me, his mouth level with my ear as I sat in the hay. I could feel the moisture from his breath on my neck. I shivered.
When I whispered to Caleb, my voice was thick.
“You’re a great Ninja, I didn’t even see you coming,” I praised, hoping to instill him with confidence.
Caleb spoke in a voice that was strangely glum, mournful.
“No one ever sees me.”
My brow wrinkled. I opened my mouth to ask what he meant by that and just then, the kitchen timer buzzed in my lap, causing me to jump. It was like a fire alarm in the silent barn.
Kelly immediately flipped on the master switch and I heard cries of pain across the barn as our eyes burned in the sudden brightness of the ancient lights.
It only took me a second to recover, but when I looked back down at Caleb, he wasn’t there. I didn’t hear him slip away, didn’t feel his hand leaving mine. My palm was still sticky with his sweat.
But he was gone, as if he’d vanished as soon as he’d spoken.
“What?” I whispered to myself, looking all around me for any sign of him.
Then the kids with white flags were hoisting them victoriously in the air, cheering and already talking animatedly about the game, describing close calls, near blunders.
My eyes flicked up as I saw a small figure emerge from the depths of the hay loft, on the opposite side of the barn from me.
It was Caleb.
He was hoisting a white flag, a look of rabid pride and victory on his cherubic face.
“I got one, Nathan! See!” He was calling to me, and I could only stare as I realized there was no way he could’ve gotten so far so fast.
No one ever sees me.
Who had been breathing near me, holding my hand?
For Dustin Alexander
About the Author
Ava Christina is a writer of fantasy and horror stories, often blurring the lines between the two. She lives in Washington state with her husband, four cats, and four fish tanks. When she isn’t writing or reading, she’s masquerading as an office drone.