THE NIGHTMARE GAME

Martyn Dennis gazed out of the bedroom window of his cottage in Yorkshire. He felt he was dreaming; there was an ethereal air of distance about everything. However, he knew that what he saw was exactly as it should be; he’d been living in sight of the Pennine Hills for all of his 28 years. Born in nearby Greygarth in 1964, Martyn was the only member of his family not to have left the area – except for his Aunt Mary, who had left him her cottage when she died three years before.

Martyn’s most prized possession, apart from the house itself, was a magnificent chess set; a board of ebony and marble squares with pieces made from silver (for White) and burnished gold (as Black). Even in his dreams he’d always kept this set in perfect order.

There was a heavy ‘thump, thump’ from the old brass knocker on his front door. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he drifted almost zombie-like to the door thinking ‘here we go again.’ He drew back the bolts, dropped the heavy handle and pulled – to see a strangely familiar-looking man on his doorstep. ‘Mister Dennis?’ The stranger smiled almost knowingly. ‘Yes,’ Martyn replied slowly. ‘That’s me, but who are you if I may ask? And how do you know my name?’

The visitor smiled again. ‘My name is David Anthony Bellow, I give my time at the local hospice for the terminally ill, and I and my colleagues are presently raising a collection. Any donation you could make would be most gratefully received indeed.’ Perhaps that’s where Martyn recognised this man from; he often frequented the charity shops in Greygarth. ‘Fine’ he said, as he shrugged his shoulders. ‘And you know me from… where?’ ‘Your name is on the electoral register, sir.’ Distinctly unimpressed by this, Martyn still found himself inviting this chap who called himself ‘David’ into his home.

As David eyed the contents of the cottage living room rather suspiciously, Martyn somehow felt this had all happened before. He was beginning to get the impression he was watching himself in a re-run of some strange TV show; perhaps for the hundredth time.

‘I can’t offer you much,’ he heard himself saying. ‘There’s very little of value for me to give.’ David looked, quite pointedly, towards Martyn’s beloved chess set. ‘Oh no, no way. That stays here! Aunt Mary’s chess set’s worth about eleven thousand pounds. It’s been in this house longer than I have. It’s my equivalent of the family silver – in fact the white pieces are the family silver!’

Somewhat to Martyn’s surprise, the stranger agreed very quickly – and rather vociferously too, he thought. ‘Indeed so my dear chap! Such a work of art is like a sculpture of the soul; not to be surrendered trivially. Of course it must stay!’ That took the wind out of Martyn’s sails. There was something eerie about David, something which defied definition. He was too familiar to be simply a charity volunteer, and Martyn just had to find out more. ‘Do you play?’ Martyn was simply trying to start a conversation with his impromptu guest, but David took his question as an invitation. Taking a pawn of each colour from the board, placing his hands behind his back and the offering Martyn his closed fists, David replied ‘Why not?’ Martyn said nothing as he gently tapped David’s left hand. David turned his hand over and unfurled his long fingers to reveal a golden pawn. Martyn would play the game as black.

The game opened as a King’s Gambit game, one of Martyn’s favourite openings as Black. Accepting the gambit and already feeling confident, he announced ‘I was my school champion three times and the local area club champion four times. If you can win from here, you may select one thing from this room – anything except the chess set, that is – for your collection.’ He realised immediately just how foolish this arrogant act of bravado was, but he was a man of his word and would always stand by everything he said. Only now did he notice a scar on David’s right hand where he had held the silver form of the white pawn, and there was a slight smell of burning about those fingers as he moved the pieces.

Martyn reached for his ‘b’ pawn on his fourth move, not realising David had scratched its collar with his thick thumbnail. ‘Ow!’ he exclaimed, as he moved the man forward two spaces. ‘How in Hell’s name did that happen?’ ‘Indeed,’ said David, as he captured the blooded pawn with his bishop. A malicious smile crept across David’s face – and Martyn began to realise there was more to this man than just voluntary work. Something weird was happening here and it wasn’t good.

Martyn looked at playing his queen to h5 on his sixth move, but dropped it back on h6 instead. ‘Oh God,’ he moaned to himself – and his opponent frowned fiercely, muttering something religious-sounding under his breath. Martyn apologised profusely, praising God as he did so, but David simply frowned even more. Ten moves later, Martyn knew he should have played his queen to e6 but picked up his bishop instead – and put it down on c5. That was when he realised he was in real trouble. This game was a repeat of a classic, known as ‘The Immortal Game’, from 1851. A game which he was destined to lose. Just like he felt the day itself had also all happened before.

David pushed a bishop onto square d6 on his eighteenth move, and Martyn noticed his fingernails seemed to have grown; they now resembled razor-sharp claws. And he’d been playing like a man possessed… Was that the answer? Was he possessed? Martyn closed his eyes and prayed – and then opened them to see David’s evil, maniacal grin. So that was what was going on. David was making a collection – and he’d come to collect Martyn!

Martyn picked up his bishop to take David’s, but couldn’t stop himself from following Paul Kieseritsky’s 1851 example – and he took David’s rook. Trying to break the spell by refusing to resign on his twentieth move, Martyn was feeling sick with fear. Only now, when it was already way too late, did he finally recognise his opponent. His face was exactly like the one he’d seen on a wood-carving on a school trip to a cathedral thirteen years ago – the face of Lucifer as he was being cast out from Heaven.

David moved his queen to square c7 on his twenty-fifth move; checkmate. Martyn rose from his chair and stumbled – sending the pieces flying in all directions. But the game was already over, and – as he knew deep down – so was his life.

A sudden noise caused Martyn to look around in alarm. ‘What the…’ He was sitting in his chair, the clock ticking away as it told him the time; just after three in the afternoon. The room was empty and he was alone. It had all been nothing but a daytime nightmare, he told himself. The chess set stood on its table in the corner, immaculate as ever, ready for a game. Just a dream, which he was already beginning to forget. Then the sound came again; a knock at the door. ‘Oh well,’ he said to himself, ‘here we go again.’

Martyn Dennis has not been seen since that day in 1992, and the police have been unable to trace his whereabouts. Nobody has as yet been able to explain why the only sign of any disturbance at his home was the scattering of the pieces of a very expensive chess set.