From the Sidelines

I wasn’t supposed to be there that night. That’s what keeps running through my head, like a broken record. If I had gone straight home, if I hadn’t listened to those stupid whispers at work, I never would’ve climbed those rusted bleachers. But I did. And now, no matter where I go, no matter what I do, they’ve found me.

The old high school stadium had been shut down for decades. Too many accidents on the field, too many broken bones, too many parents suing the district. Eventually, they built a new school across town, and the old one rotted where it stood. I’d driven past that stadium a hundred times before—always caught the same sight: chain-link fence sagging, weeds thick enough to swallow the track, and the scoreboard tilting like it wanted to fall.

At work, the guys in the break room used to tell stories about it. “If you stand in the bleachers at midnight,” one said, “you’ll hear the game. The crowd, the announcer, everything. But the players… well, you don’t want to see them.”

I laughed, like everyone else. But I’m not going to lie—something in me wanted to know if there was even a shred of truth to it.

So that night, I went.

The air was thick and wet, the kind that clings to your clothes and makes your skin crawl. The gate was half hanging off its hinges, so slipping in was easy. The track crunched under my boots as I crossed to the bleachers, every step echoing louder than it should have. I kept telling myself: It’s just a story. It’s just a stupid story.

But when I sat down, high up on the cracked metal seats, I felt like I was being watched already.

At first, nothing happened. Just the sound of crickets and my own breathing. I checked my watch. 12:01. I almost left, embarrassed at myself for even trying. But then, at 12:04, it started.

The sound rolled over the stadium like thunder. A roar of thousands, layered and guttural, crashing into my ears. I froze. The bleachers vibrated under me. No one was there, but the cheers rattled my bones.

Then came the voice.

It wasn’t clear, not at first. Warped, like an old cassette tape chewed up by the player. But words started to form, sharp and deliberate:

“…from the sidelines… from the sidelines…”

The field flickered, like someone had turned on an old projector, film stuttering against a warped screen. For a split second, I thought I was seeing ghosts of a game long gone—helmets, jerseys, players in formation. But it was wrong.

They weren’t human.

Their bodies stretched too far, torsos bending at sickening angles. Their arms pumped like broken pistons, legs jerking in staccato bursts. Helmets were fused to their heads, no gap for a face, no sign of skin. Their uniforms bore numbers, but the colours bled into each other like oil on water.

They weren’t playing football. They weren’t even playing anything. They slammed into each other with bone-cracking force, over and over, like the point was only to destroy.

The crowd roared approval.

And then—one of them stopped.

It didn’t move like the others. It straightened slowly, stiffly, its helmet locking into place. And then, impossibly, it turned. Not toward the field. Toward me.

Everything stopped.

The roar of the crowd cut off mid-cheer. The scraping, smashing players froze in grotesque poses. The silence that followed was worse than the noise—thick, suffocating, pressing against my eardrums.

The thing raised one long, jagged arm and pointed straight at me.

The announcer’s voice came again, not from the field, not from the speakers, but from inside my skull:

“We see you. From the sidelines.”

My heart nearly tore out of my chest. I stumbled to my feet, half tripping down the bleachers, the metal groaning under me. My boots slipped on rust and moss. I nearly broke my ankle but didn’t stop running until I burst through the gate and back onto the street.

Only when I reached my car did I dare look back.

The field was dark again. Silent. Empty.

I told myself I’d imagined it. Stress, maybe. Some trick of sound bouncing off the old metal. I tried to laugh it off on the drive home, though my hands shook the whole way.

When I got inside, I tossed my jacket onto the couch. As I walked past the mirror in the hall, something caught my eye.

There, smeared across the front of my shirt, was mud. Dark, wet, fresh mud. I hadn’t stepped in mud. The track had been bone-dry. But what froze me wasn’t the mud—it was the number carved into it, streaked across my chest like it had been branded there.

13.

The same number I’d seen on the jersey of the thing that pointed at me.

I didn’t sleep that night. Couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the announcer’s voice again, whispering like radio static at the base of my skull: “…from the sidelines… from the sidelines…”

I thought maybe it would fade if I ignored it. Maybe it was just a one-time thing. But the next night, at 12:04, the roar of the crowd came again. Not from the stadium this time. From outside my window.

I didn’t look. I didn’t dare.

The third night, I left the lights on, TV blaring, music in my headphones, anything to drown it out. But at exactly 12:04, everything went dead. Lights, TV, phone—gone. And then, through the silence, the voice again, clearer this time, so close it felt like it was breathing in my ear:

“Your turn.”

I don’t know what they want from me. I don’t know what happens if I stop running. But every night, they’re louder. Closer.

And I know one thing for certain.

I’m not on the sidelines anymore.