WHERE IS HE?

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Traces of warm plastic and metal wafted through Mikey’s bedroom, pleasant on his nose. Raised from soldered chipboards and a cartridge left on in his Nintendo for days, retro gaming was his forte. Mikey glanced at his rocket ship alarm clock cast in the harsh glow of glass TV light—already too late. Dad’s first foot landed on the bottom step of the staircase, the great man’s weight creaking the wood. They always played the game “Where is He,” but Mikey was supposed to be in bed five minutes ago.

     He paused the game and clicked off the television, knowing the console would need to stay on another night. Dad, however, was a stickler for saving electricity. Grabbing scissors and a roll of masking tape, Mikey snipped a tiny piece of the gray adhesive. Excited fingers pressed it over the red tattle-tale light on the front of the console. The Nintendo now appeared to be off but not suspiciously so, like draping a sock over it to look tossed. Dad saw through those tricks. Same with placing a cup or toy in front of it.

     Dad was over halfway up the stairs. Now the game entailed rushing silently to the bed, getting under the covers without making a sound. Excitement burst in his chest, fighting the urge to laugh in anticipation of being caught. He glided over the peach-colored carpet in a mix of running and skiing. Covers pulled aside, he leaped up and under as stealthily as the best ninjas.

     Through coarse threads of his blanket, like squinting through cotton eyelashes, he could see the fan blades spinning a translucent ring on the ceiling and his father standing in the doorway.

     “Where is he?” Dad teased. “Where’s my future astronaut?” He always clicked on the light but forgot this time. He had been distracted lately, working a lot of hours to cover a big repair on the car.

     The boy held his silence, the thrill building inside him. He needed to focus, calculating each inhale carrying laundry softener, and a freshly vacuumed floor. Sure, he was twelve now, and many at school stopped playing this game long ago, but he cherished every moment. Mikey watched through the woven blanket as his father neared the TV, his heartbeat quickening at the thought he might notice the tape. Thankfully, he did not, turning to the foot of the bed.

      “Is he under here?” Dad placed a hand on the wooden footpost, kneeling to check under the bed. “No, he isn’t under here.” He stood on his knees with the taped-up Nintendo safely behind him. “Where could Mikey be?”

     Anticipation built further as his dad liked to check different places each night. Predicting that part was impossible. But less than a week before Halloween, Dad always came up with creative new ways to discover his son. It looked like he was nearing the closet this time. Yes, the closet. The man pulled open the doors only to find a cache of shirts and no Mikey.

      “Is he in here?”

     Of course, he most certainly was not. He was under the covers, you idiot! Mikey nearly giggled. Dad kept pretending, a clatter of plastic hangers like he expected the next swipe of shirts to unveil his boy. His father remained silent for this part, peering into the closet.

     Dad fell backward. Straight backward. Like a tree falling, and Mikey covered his mouth to prevent a laugh.

     With a knock, a hard vibration spread through the bed, as if his father truly hurt himself on the footpost before a second thud against the floor.

      “Dad!” Mikey called out. “Don’t get hurt!”

     No response.

     Of course, there would not be an immediate response. And maybe this was the last year they would play this game. Mikey waited as the silence lingered. Through the blanket, he started looking for clues to the setup. His eyes directed to the closet, and it took a moment to make out a fixed prop: a human arm in all-black garb, held outward as if in a hammer strike.

     A mannequin must be standing behind the shirts. Mikey saw its draped arm extended, a large silver knife in hand. The moment Mikey thought it was Dad’s Halloween prop was the moment the arm swiftly pulled into the closet.

     There was an intruder in the house.

  A killer was there, standing behind the clothes...