It’s something that they say “solves any problem” if you complete it. That if you beat it, well, that’s all you need for a while. You’ll be happy for years to come unless something catastrophic happens.

Regardless, I’m sure most people find that thought appealing. Being able to solve all your problems, even ones you might not know you have.

I can’t remember where I first heard of it, to be honest. I think it was when I was a teenager. Back when my only problems were whether or not I was going to pass the calculus text next week, or if my cute lab partner thought I smelled bad. But I guess even back then, I had some foresight.

Of course someone would want to play this game, even if they weren’t horribly struggling. But I have a specific motivation.

My daughter is missing. My Stacy. She’s only eight. I wait for her at her bus stop when she gets out of school every day, since it’s a little bit of a walk. But she never got off that day.

It was two months ago. And it’s still the only thing I can think about. I can’t work. I can barely eat or sleep. It’s a miracle I’m even alive from all this grief. I’m her damn father and I’m still learning next to nothing about her case.

I already lost her mother - my wife - in childbirth years ago. I only got past that because I had an infant daughter to take care of, and I had my own mother helping me. But she’s old now, and I can’t expect her to come and take care of me like some manchild just because I’m incapable of moving on or just being patient.

I want my daughter back. I don’t know if Stacy is dead or alive right now, but I want her happy, healthy, and safe in my arms. It’s just not fair. Without her I have nothing left.

And that’s when I found it again.

Since my mother was getting too old, she wanted me to clean out the attic. So I was doing it every day, almost all day. It was strenuous enough to get my mind off of things for the most part.

I found an old hard drive one morning and decided to spend some time going through it. That quickly turned into the whole day. Just as it was getting late, around dinner time, I came across some old screenshots and other images I had saved in a folder. I figured it’d be the last thing I went through before I put it up for the night.

Then I found it. It was just one screenshot, detailing the parameters of this… game.

Maybe it was completely stupid to believe in it. I mean, it was a screenshot of a shady forum from the early 2000s, locked away in a half broken hard drive in my parents’ attic, and I’m a grown man.

But I was desperate.

I’ve never been more desperate about anything in my life.

Besides, the game seemed straightforward enough. Maybe not easy or by any means safe, judging by what I found when I managed to uncover a little more information about it online.

I was shocked enough that I had found anything. Sure enough, though, I found more than a few accounts of people’s experience in the game. Most of them said it was worse than expected, but worth it. At least, worth it enough. But not that they recommended it.

Maybe I should’ve heeded those warnings.

But that’s enough rambling about the why, and the how. I played the game. I still don’t know if it was the worst mistake of my life or if it was the best decision I’ve ever made. I guess that doesn’t matter, right?

I told my mother that I was taking a break from cleaning for a while to focus on getting back to work. She just took my word for it while I shut my phone completely off for the time being. The first and most important rule of the Hermit’s Game: No contact. No communication. You have to be completely alone.

I had been feeling guilty about it, but I guess it was a good thing I hadn’t yet given in to Stacy’s begging to get a cat. I don’t know if that would count as me “not being alone” if there was one in the house. Better safe than sorry.

I put my phone in my upstairs safe so that I wouldn’t be too tempted to turn it on and answer anyone. I had so many nagging feelings picking at my skin from every direction, but I continued on with the instructions I had printed out. The next step was weirder, and harder. Line an entire building with sea salt on the inside. The perimeter you lay out is your residence for the next four weeks.

One month. That’s how long the game lasts, right down to the second. As soon as you light a single candle in front of a door, the game begins. That candle represents an invitation. It is for the Hermit to come inside.

I got everything I needed to survive alone in my house for a month a few days in advance. Another rule is being unable to leave the premises you lined out, and I wasn’t about to find out what would happen if I left for a grocery run. I would definitely be down to junk food and scraps by the end, but at least I could be healthy for the first half or so. It would do.

Once everything was as I needed it to be, I took the wax candle and lit it, placing it behind my front door. I turned my back to it and walked back down the hall with my eyes shut tightly. I knew the candle was going to burn the whole month. That’s the point of having it. The Hermit can’t get through if the candle isn’t burning, so He keeps it alive, against the laws of nature.

The first several days were nothing but my own meaningless anxiety. I wandered around the house, dusting every single crevice that wasn’t filled with salt, ignoring the constantly swelling fear in my chest. Every heartbeat was a new fear.

By the end of that first week, I was starting to mellow out a little in that regard. Nothing had happened yet. Every once in a while, I caught myself looking over my shoulder, or checking under a door for shadows before I opened it. But I was getting better at convincing myself I was just worried that I was doing something wrong, and I knew I wasn’t.

That’s probably the most confusing thing about the game. As long as you’re alone, don’t contact anyone, and don’t leave the perimeter - that’s all you have to do. The rest of the game is just a matter of staying sane.

I kept thinking about those personal accounts I read. They all said it got worse as time progressed - that the paranoia crept up on them every day. Every waking moment became a struggle. It was already horrible. Reminding myself of those people’s experiences made me more and more anxious.

I told myself over and over that I would get through it for Stacy. I had to. It wouldn’t be worth living if I didn’t. I would probably die if I lost the game anyway. Ever since she went missing, my whole life was a matter of getting her back or dying.

It was the end of that first week that I really started to notice things. Doors were closed that I was sure I had left open. The whole house felt cold no matter what I tried to do to fix it. Sometimes it smelled like an old lantern was burning, but there was seemingly no source of it. I felt like I was being watched.

I spent most of the time in my bedroom and its connecting bathroom, only leaving to go downstairs for food or to get a different book. Reading was about the only thing I was doing now that the whole house was nigh spotless. At least it was productive enough.

I think It was the third day of the second week. So, about nine days in. I woke up around 10am. I didn’t feel good about going to bed early and then forcing myself to stay in bed so I could avoid my reality, but it made the isolated days feel a little shorter. Either way, I got up and stepped into the bathroom, flicking the light on.

Something moved.

I blinked, staring at my shower curtain. I probably just imagined it. To be safe, though, I pulled it aside to check. Nothing. But I could’ve sworn there were some ashes at the bottom of the tub.

I pushed the thought out of my mind and went on with my day. It was easy to ignore at first, when they were sparse. When it was only once or twice a day, as it was for a little while. I didn’t have to acknowledge the flecks of shadow out of the corner of my eye, or the door seeming to push itself a little further open for no reason. It was just my imagination - maybe a little cabin fever.

It got worse. By the time fourteen days had passed in total, I already felt like I might lose it. Everytime I looked up, or moved more than just to turn a page or take a bite, something else was moving. I wasn’t checking most of the time. But on the occasion that I did, there were ashes. Soot. Like the only thing I saw moving was the black dust settled sparsely on my floor. Maybe I was already losing my mind. It was only the halfway point. Things were only just starting.

I started keeping my curtains drawn all the time. I had been leaving them open because I needed natural light, but I thought maybe it would help. That whatever had its eyes on me wouldn’t be able to see my face anymore.

I was wrong. I didn’t notice it at the time, but keeping those curtains closed definitely made it worse.

He had nowhere else to look.

Sixteen days. I started cleaning my house again, expecting to find every room other than my own covered in that ash. But there was none. Maybe it had already been swept away by the draft of the heater. Or maybe I was delusional.

I sat there in my kitchen, waiting for something to move. If it did, and I checked on it, there would be ash.

I was sitting there for four hours in silence, in empty thought. Maybe I thought I would catch something, that I could make myself safer. Not that I ever told myself that. It would’ve been a lie. But I feel like that’s what I believed at the time.

Finally something ran behind a cabinet, making me jump up and push it aside to check. There were the ashes. Almost eagerly, I tried to sweep them up - only for them to disintegrate under the dust rag.

I blinked. I looked down at the floor, and the rag again. Nothing. No trace that there was ever anything there.

So I tried again. I sat there on the kitchen floor for a little longer, but this time I quickly got sick of waiting. It was playing with me. He was playing with me. I got up, going back upstairs and not bothering to check any movements. I think I learned my lesson.

Nineteen days. Five into the third week.

Just like I had expected, I was running low on decent food to eat. So, I ate less, and fewer times in a day. I didn’t feel much like it mattered anymore. Maybe nothing did. But I wouldn’t let myself grow fully nihilistic. Not that it didn’t plague my already horrible thoughts.

Of course, that was when my sleep started getting worse. It was like my body suddenly remembered that this wasn’t my normal schedule. I was falling asleep later, then so restless in the mornings I couldn’t stay in bed as long as I had been. I felt myself growing fidgety yet tired with each passing day.

I started hearing His footsteps. They kept me awake even later at night, and never let me focus during the day as He walked past my door. He did not pace. He would walk by once, and then disappear for a little while.

The Hermit moved like He was dragging something. His steps were slow and deliberate, and something pulled along the floor with each of His movements - like a cloak, or maybe something He was bringing with him. I wouldn’t know.

Twenty-one days.

Only a week left.

It often felt like something was breathing down my neck. I didn’t dare to look. That hot breath was the only warm thing I had felt in days.

The house had become so permanently cold. Even my very insides were frozen, like my heart was stuck in ice and could stop beating at any second. It felt shallow. Like I was running out of life left to live just by playing the game. I probably was.

Twenty-two days.

The footsteps are more frequent, as is the breathing. Things dart around right in front of me but I still can’t make out what they are. No matter what I do, no matter where I hide in the house or hole myself up in, there are eyes on me. I can’t get out of His endless, stone cold gaze.

Twenty-three days.

I saw Him.

I was washing my face. Something I started doing a lot now that I was alone all the time. It wasn’t doing much for my mediocre skin quality, but it killed some extra time in my routines.

It was a late evening that time. I splashed water on my face, rubbing it in a little before looking up at myself in the mirror. But it wasn’t just me. Something was behind me.

I didn’t get a good look at it that time. I whirled around too fast, my frantic gaze being met with nothing. No one stood behind me. No one was in the mirror anymore but my own terrified face.

I dried my face, stepping out of the bathroom and getting into bed. I just wasn’t getting enough sleep. It was fine.

Twenty-four days.

But I started seeing Him more.

He was never there for long. Behind me in the mirror like that first day, so toweringly tall that all I could see was His deep green cloak and lantern in one skeletal hand.

I didn’t see more than that. He was only in the mirror. I haven’t seen His face, even His shoulders or his head. He remains nothing.

Twenty-five days.

I covered the mirrors. The one in my bathroom was the only one I looked at most days, but I covered all of them in old blankets from the closet. I didn’t need to see myself. It wouldn’t matter as long as I couldn’t see Him.

I only had three days left.

I kept reminding myself of that, over and over again. Even when the smell of a burning lantern was overwhelming me. When all I could hear were those footsteps and breathing - and my own heartbeat, my own blood vessels pumping oxygen through me. When I was so painfully aware of my entire cold body that it felt like torture.

I had to keep going.

Twenty-six days.

I didn’t do anything anymore. I just sat there at the foot of my bed staring at the wall, my knees pulled up to my chest to give myself any semblance of warmth. I didn’t even want to blink. It felt as if my eyes were closed for too long, He would come get me.

Turned out that staying awake had nothing to do with His whims.

A hand reached for my back, those grotesque fingers touching my spine and sending a chill shooting through my every bone. It made me almost gag, scrambling to get away from the touch and falling off my bed in the process. That chill was replaced with pain as I landed horribly. I don’t know if that was any better.

I left my room and just started pacing up and down the hallways, staring down at the salt and sometimes catching glimpses of whatever was moving in the shadows. It was too small to be Him. Maybe it was an extension of His will. Or that was just a stupid thing I was making up.

What was real?

Twenty-seven days.

Tomorrow at 7am, it’ll be over.

I repeated that to myself every minute. For every cruel contact to my skin. For every glimpse I caught of that cloak gliding across the floor just outside the room. For every sniff of the burning lantern. For every movement in the corner of my eye. For every vanishing ash. For every footstep. For every breath down my neck. For every heartbeat. For every stray thought. For every mere half a second that I felt those horrible eyes bearing into me.

I hadn’t been sleeping as it was, but I was particularly awake that night. It was the worst I’d ever felt. Not even just in that month - maybe in my whole life. Every single problem and fear was weighing onto me, slowly building up onto my shoulders with each passing minute.

The clock ticked.

Night continued on.

It was quiet, making every footstep or breath so deafeningly loud. I was unsafe.

It was almost seven in the morning. I hadn’t moved all night. But it was almost over.

I took a deep breath and stood up, trying my damn hardest to push off all the fears as I went downstairs. I hadn’t looked at the candle since I lit it. There were no rules for that, I just hadn’t wanted to.

I rounded the corner to the foyer and stopped.

There was no candle.

But there was the Hermit.

He was facing the door. Ever so slowly, He began to turn around. His whole form was covered in that deep green cloak, one extended hand holding His lantern. My candle had been placed inside of it.

Maybe that was the moment it hit me, before He had even fully faced me. This wasn’t a game I was playing. It was His life, and all I could ever be was expendable. What I did didn’t matter at all.

The Hermit looked down at me. The hood covered His entire head, shadows seeming to creep out from underneath as He took a long, deep breath. I just stared at Him. Entirely unable to move.

His free hand lifted, raising itself to the hood and beginning to lower it as the clock ticked by. I wasn’t looking at the time, but I knew only seconds remained before 7am set in.

Those thin fingers slipped the hood down from His head. It was still dark. But He leaned down ever so slightly, allowing His face to be lit by the lantern in His other hand.

I don’t know what it was I expected. But it was my own face.

Emaciated, pale, bony. This version of me looked like he had been dead for a long time, and someone was just rousing him awake. His mouth cracked open, shadows crawling out of my own lips, making me shiver.

No words were spoken. Maybe He ran out of time. Or maybe He just decided to be kind.

7am came. The candle in the lantern glowed bright, and He backed out through the front door - disappearing entirely. I slowly unlocked it and opened it up, expecting to see… ashes, maybe.

But instead, there were three officers. And my daughter Stacy - alive, and safe.

It’s been another few days now. I think the officers want me to be psychologically evaluated, but I don’t really care. My daughter is safe. My only reason to live is okay. I feel so much better already.

It’s not what I wanted, though. I say I don’t know whether or not I should’ve played that game because something is gone.

I don’t feel warm anymore.

I’m happy. I couldn’t be happier. Maybe it was worth it, because now my daughter will grow up with me and be safe.

But I’m cold on the inside.

Don’t play the Hermit’s Game.