You’re halfway through a bag of sour gummies when Dad clears his throat again, this time with that expectant “family bonding time” kind of energy.
“Well,” he says, “we’re all clean, fed, and no one’s actively fighting. I say we crack this thing open.”
You glance over. The wooden box is back on the table. Emma makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “You’re seriously making us play a game from a thrift store?”
“Technically, magic shop,” Dad replies, lifting the lid.
Inside, the contents are... underwhelming.
A faded board with slightly warped corners. Simple winding paths etched in cheap red ink. Four player figures—wooden, hand-painted. A frayed cloth pouch containing dice. The box smells faintly of cedar and dust, like it’s been tucked away in an attic for decades.
“This looks ancient,” Emma mutters. “Like it’s gonna fall apart the second we touch it.”
“Which means we should be careful,” Kayla says softly, her voice barely above the hum of the overhead light.
Mom raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She reaches for her mug.
“We each pick a figure,” Dad explains. “Place it on the start tile. Then we take turns rolling. First to the center wins, I assume.”
“That’s it?” you ask.
“Simple games are the best,” he says with a grin.
One by one, everyone selects a figure. You pick a silver knight. Emma takes the blue dancer. Kayla chooses a little fox. Dad grabs a red traveler, painted with a tiny walking stick. Mom, after a pause, sighs and selects a green flower.
You each place your figure on the worn “Start” space.
Then Dad reaches for the dice.
“Here goes nothing.”
He shakes the pouch and rolls.
The moment the dice clatter against the board, everything changes.
The lights flicker. The board pulses. That old faded print peels away like brittle skin, revealing something beneath—glowing tiles, shifting symbols, colors that shouldn’t exist. The path is no longer cardboard. It’s carved obsidian inlaid with gold. The figures shimmer, becoming more detailed—realer.
“What the hell?” you mutter.
Even the air feels different. Heavy. Like the rules of the room just changed.
The dice stop.
The red traveler figure stirs… and starts to move on its own.
Click. Click. Click.
One space at a time.
You count each step. One. Two. Three…
Then it stops.
The tile pulses with light—deep and low, like a heartbeat underground. A symbol rises slowly to the surface of the board, but the glow is too bright to make out.
Dad leans forward, squinting. “What did I—?”