There Were Six of Us

Lee Ellis

18 hours ago

6 min read

By Lee Ellis

The first rule of a Halloween sleepover was that you had to tell ghost stories after midnight. The second was that you weren't allowed to chicken out when things got scary. And the third, which Nancy made up that evening, was that whoever screamed first had to eat an entire bowl of candy corn.

"I hate candy corn," Misha announced, flopping onto Nancy's bed.

"That's the point," Nancy replied.

I sat cross-legged on the carpet, sorting through our Halloween candy. Christie and Amanda were arguing over which horror movie to watch, while Sarah sat at Nancy's vanity, removing her makeup. Kacey stood by the window, peering through the curtains at the darkened street.

"Come on, Kace," I called. "You're missing the candy."

She turned. "Sorry. I thought I saw someone outside."

Nancy immediately sat up. "Someone?"

"Probably just a neighbor."

"Or a ghost," Misha suggested.

We laughed, and Kacey joined us on the floor.

It was October 31st, 1998, and we were thirteen years old. Nancy's parents were away for the weekend, leaving us the entire house to ourselves. We'd been friends since elementary school, and as far as I was concerned, there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

At eleven o'clock, we'd eaten most of our candy, abandoned our movie halfway through, and started looking for something else to do. That's when Kacey found the box beneath Nancy's bed.

It was small, wooden, and covered in dust. Strange numbers and crescent moons had been carved into its lid.

"What's that?" I asked.

"I've never seen it before," Nancy said.

Inside were several yellowed photographs, a folded newspaper clipping, and a handwritten booklet bound with faded red string.

Nancy opened the booklet.

THE HALLOWEEN GAME.

"Oh, absolutely not," Sarah said.

"Oh, absolutely yes," Misha replied.

Nancy read the instructions aloud. "The game may only be played on October thirty-first, after midnight. Six players must be present. No more, no less."

She turned the page.

"Before beginning, each player must leave the room. One player remains behind to extinguish the lights. All players must return together. Once inside, count the players present."

"That's it?" Amanda asked.

Nancy continued reading.

"If the number is incorrect, do not count again."

We stared at the page.

Misha burst out laughing. "That's the stupidest game I've ever heard of."

"Maybe it's supposed to summon a demon," Christie said.

"Or maybe it's a prank," I suggested.

Then Nancy turned to the final page.

Written in smaller letters was a sentence none of us had noticed before.

IF YOU COUNT SIX, ONE OF THEM IS NOT YOURS.

We should have stopped there.

Instead, because we were thirteen and it was Halloween, we decided to play.

We followed the instructions exactly. Nancy left first, followed by Christie, Amanda, Sarah, and me. Misha stayed behind to switch off the lights before joining us in the hallway.

Then we all returned together.

Nancy counted us.

"One, two, three, four, five, six."

We laughed.

"Congratulations," Christie announced. "We can count."

But Nancy didn't laugh. She was staring at the booklet.

"What?" I asked.

She pointed to another sentence, written beneath the instructions.

SHE MUST BE COUNTED TO STAY.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

We all turned toward the door.

A girl stood there.

She looked about our age, with dark hair falling around her shoulders and a white dress tied with a black ribbon at the waist. Her face was pale, but she smiled as though she'd known us for years.

"Hi," she said.

Nobody moved.

Nancy swallowed. "Who are you?"

The girl's smile faltered.

"I'm your friend."

"I don't know you," Nancy replied.

The girl looked confused.

"But you invited me."

"We didn't," I said.

She turned toward me, and suddenly her expression softened.

"Oh," she whispered. "You remember me."

I felt a chill crawl up my arms.

"Remember you from where?"

The girl opened her mouth, then stopped.

"I don't know."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"I don't remember my name."

For a moment, I forgot to be frightened. She looked so lost, sitting on the edge of Nancy's bed with her hands folded in her lap.

I sat beside her.

"It's okay," I said. "We'll figure it out."

She looked at me for a long time.

"You used to sit next to me at lunch," she whispered. "You always gave me the red sweets from your lunchbox."

I hated red sweets. I'd never liked them.

But before I could ask what she meant, Nancy picked up the Polaroid we'd taken earlier.

"Guys," she whispered. "Look at this."

The photograph showed six girls standing together in front of the bed.

Except there were seven figures.

The girl in the white dress stood behind us, her face blurred.

We turned toward the doorway.

She was gone.

On the back of the photograph, someone had written a name.

EMILY.

And beneath it, in handwriting that looked decades old:

SHE WAS THE SIXTH GIRL.

We searched the house, but Emily had vanished. Then Sarah noticed something in the wooden box we'd found beneath Nancy's bed: an old newspaper clipping.

The headline read:

LOCAL GIRL DIES IN HALLOWEEN ACCIDENT.

The article described the death of Emily Rosen, aged thirteen, who had disappeared during a Halloween sleepover in 1985. Her body had been found the following morning in the woods behind her home.

At the bottom of the clipping, someone had written:

THEY SAID THERE WERE ONLY FIVE OF THEM.

Sarah went pale.

"I think I know her," she whispered.

She explained that her mother had once told her about a childhood friend named Emily. They'd been inseparable, but after Emily died, Sarah's mother had stopped talking about her.

"She couldn't even remember what Emily looked like," Sarah said. "It was like she'd never existed."

We found another photograph in the box. It showed six girls standing together in front of a house. One was a younger version of Sarah's mother.

Five names had been written on the back.

The sixth had been scratched out so violently that the paper had torn.

Suddenly, the lights went out.

A soft knock came at the bedroom door.

"Please," Emily whispered from the other side. "Please remember me."

Sarah began to cry.

I looked down at the booklet. Beneath the final instruction, another sentence had appeared.

SHE MUST BE REMEMBERED TO LEAVE.

I understood then. Emily wasn't trying to hurt us. She had returned because the people who once loved her had forgotten her. Her name had disappeared from photographs and memories, and she had been left alone.

"We have to find out what happened," I said.

Nobody argued.

We opened the door.

Emily was standing in the hallway, her expression frightened.

"Emily," I said softly. "What happened to you?"

She shook her head.

"I don't remember."

Then Sarah's mother arrived.

Sarah had called her earlier, and this time she'd answered. She came into the house wearing her dressing gown, her face pale when she saw the photograph.

"I thought I'd forgotten," she whispered.

She told us what had happened in 1985. She and four other girls had attended a Halloween sleepover at Emily's house. They'd found the same booklet and played the same game.

During the game, Emily had become frightened and wanted to stop. The others teased her. When the lights went out, Emily disappeared.

The girls searched the house, then assumed she'd gone home.

The next morning, Emily's parents reported her missing. She was found in the woods later that day.

"After the funeral, I tried to remember that night," Sarah's mother told us, tears streaming down her face. "But the memories kept slipping away. Eventually, I couldn't even remember what she'd looked like."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Sarah asked.

"We thought it would make things easier if we stopped talking about her."

She looked at the photograph.

"We forgot her because it was easier than remembering."

The room fell silent.

Then Sarah stepped forward.

"Emily Rosen," she said.

The girl in the white dress looked up.

"Will you remember me?" Emily whispered.

"Yes."

"Will you tell people about me?"

"Yes."

"Will you say my name?"

Sarah took her mother's hand.

"Emily Rosen. Our friend."

The lights flickered. A soft breeze moved through the room, though every window was closed.

Emily smiled.

For the first time, she looked peaceful.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Then she disappeared.

We never played the Halloween game again.

Sarah's mother found Emily's photograph in an old school yearbook and placed it in a frame on the mantelpiece. She began telling stories about their friendship: the games they'd played, the songs they'd sung, and how Emily always insisted on carving the first pumpkin every Halloween.

For the first time in thirteen years, Emily was remembered.

The following October, Sarah invited us to her mother's house. The photograph still stood on the mantelpiece, showing six girls smiling together.

I looked at their faces, then turned the frame over.

Six names had been written on the back.

Nancy. Misha. Christie. Amanda. Sarah.

And Emily.

I smiled.

Then I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"You're still here."

I turned.

Emily stood in the doorway, wearing her white dress and black ribbon. She looked thirteen years old, just as she had the night we met her.

She smiled at me.