It starts off as a shadow and ends in a nightmare.

One day, you were roped into going bowling. Like all the times you’ve ever gone bowling, you didn’t really want to go, but for some reason, you ended up there—beer in one hand, ball in the other. You sigh deeply, taking in the stale air of baked nacho chips and the faint scent of smoke where cigarettes once burned.

As you approach your lane, you take in the surroundings:

• One lady with a permed haircut, and a body spilling through her spandex.
• A man in a loose-fitting shirt and a goatee that screams wrestling fan.
• And six kids who’ve never known the concept of discipline. Free as the water that flows in this place.

You take another sip of your beer and settle into your lane. The chairs around the alley are plastic and curved, firm yet soft from years of being the butt end of bulging buttocks. You sigh once more as you navigate the control center, entering your name. When a crash causes you to look up.

Your friend rolls a strike before the game even starts.

 Great.

The pressure is already on.

Your friend floats back to his seat. Victory is already getting to his head, and the chance of it starting to leave yours. And you resign to your fate, knowing it’s going to be a long hour.

So you sigh, grab your ball, and make peace with the embarrassment that’s about to begin and approach the lane, eyeing down the smooth wood, that leads to the pins when you see it. A hand, thin, long, and sickly, appears behind the bowling pins as if it were on its own, not connected to anything. It flashes, wrapping its fingers around the pins ever so gently, steady and certain. Then, in an instant, it’s gone.

You blink, hardly believing what you saw, as your brow furrows, the weight of it all crushing you. Your face is mashed, pursed, and quizzical as you try to make sense of the senseless. You saunter a few steps back, your shoes scuffing the ground.

You glance back at your friend, who is making love to a hot dog, red ketchup highlighting his face.

“…Did you see that?”

No reaction from your friend.

“Did you see that?”

Your friend looks up from his hot dog.

“Jimmy, did you fuckin’ see that?”

Your friend tilts his head back and gently raises his eyebrows, ketchup still on his face.

“See what? You haven’t rolled yet.”

You shake your head. “No, there was like this hand. It looked like a Smeagol hand.”

Your friend grows a smile as wide and dumb as the people in the alley.

“Shut the fuck up!” he yells, slapping his thigh.

Just then, two eyes descend on you, like you’re dog shit, accenting a freshly vacuumed carpet.

“Excuse me. There’s children here.” Says the lady, who assumes you must be deaf, dumb, and blind. She says, “here,” so loud you can hear the period and its abrupt stop. You glance down.

“…sor…sorry, miss.”

“It’s Ma’am!” she erupts.

The lady raises her eyebrows, unsatisfied, and hesitantly returns to her chair, her face still flushed. You shake your head, and your friend tilts his head back at the lady as if to say, “Who the hell is she?”

But your mind is still on the ghoul. “No, man, I’m telling you, there was this weird-ass hand.” You say to your friend.

“Shut up and bowl,” your friend demands and returns to his hot dog, seemingly mollified.

You turn and face the pins—10 pins, now more mysterious than ever—eyes creasing, trying to see through the darkness. You shake it off and bring the ball up.

After a few steps forward, it appears again. The hand wiggles its fingers, not so much to wave but to grip the pins and your eyes nearly fall out of your head.

Instantly, you drop the bowling ball, and it thuds off the wood.

BAM

“Dude, did you see that?”

Your friend drops his hot dog and leaps to his feet. “The fuck was that?”

The lady one lane over folds her arms and turns towards you. You can see her nostrils flare, making her look like a hog with hell in her eyes.

“I thought I said—” says the lady.

You blush. “I’m… I’m sorry—look—there it is.” You point to the pins.

The lady’s eyes flare as she tilts her head towards the lane, only to see a pale white hand retreating. Its long, pointed nails disappear into the dark. She jumps.

“What was that?” she says loud enough for the entire alley to hear. You take a few steps towards her.

“I don’t know… it was a hand, but it didn’t look human.”

Your friend is visibly sweating. More from fear, less from the hot dog.

“Let me see something,” says your friend as he inches towards the lane.

Your exterminator friend has one hell of a simple idea, so he takes a few more steps forward, grabs a ball, and sends it flying. You only hear the roar of the roll and the distinctive strike as the pins splatter.

Your friend hesitantly takes a few steps back and wipes his hands back and forth in a satisfied way. “That’s how you handle it,” he assures.

All eyes are focused on the pins when the hand returns, sickly, feather-like, and restacks the pins.

Your friend stomps the ground in disgust, while your eyes shift side to side, hardly believing it, and the lady screams. The alley falls silent.

From your left comes a balding man wearing the sweatpants he bought in 2001. His name tag says “Manager,” but his outfit suggests otherwise. He’s walking—jogging nearly—his face turning red as his heart leaps in his chest. Finally, he approaches your lane and the lady.

“What’s going on here? Is everything alright?” he barks.

The lady is visibly shaking, her teeth chattering, and her face a cocktail of worry and wear. She doesn’t know what to say but feels she must say something.

“That…that thing.” She finally manages.

The manager’s brow furrows. It had been a long day, and the last thing he needed was another problem. He throws his hands on his hips.

“What thing?” he asks rather impatiently.

The lady points to the pins. “The hand. What’s that hand doing back there?”

You take a step closer to the situation. “Yeah, there’s this hand… no a thing hiding behind the pins.”

The manager blinks and blinks some more. His 5 o’clock shadow instantly changes to midnight as all the stress hits him at once, and he starts sweating.

“What thing?” says the manager as his hands find his cigarettes in front of the no-smoking sign. He lights one up.

You take a step forward. “There’s like a hand—something… something is stacking the pins.”

The manager wipes his brow. “I’m sorry, it’s just not possible. We have machines now.”

He instantly clamps his mouth, knowing he said too much, and takes a few steps back as he brings his shirt to his mouth and wipes away.

“Seriously, there’s something back there. It’s fuckin’ weird,” your friend interjects, ketchup still on his face.

The lady glares at your friend. The bowling alley manager pulls what’s left of his hair out.

“No…no…no…” He scratches his chin thoughtlessly. “Can’t be.”

Your face scrunches, not knowing what he means, and you lean forward. “What are you talking about?”

The manager shakes his head then straightens up in a jolt, looking as if a lightbulb had just turned on.

“Free passes.” Says the manager.

“What?”

“Free passes! I’m sorry, the bowling alley is closed. You’ll all get free passes.”

He stuffs his hand into his pocket and pulls out folded notecards, jotting down “free bowling.” It’s as unprofessional as his outfit.

You, your friend, and the lady all glance at each other, trying to make sense out of the senseless. The manager finishes up jotting down the free passes and hands them out like cigars at the birth of a baby.

He casts one last glance at the pins, and his eyes grow dark as he sees the hand. Instantly, he shoos everyone out of the alley.

“The alley is closed! I need you to leave.”

You turn to your friend—confused is an understatement.

“Out. Out. Out.” He repeats.

You open your hand and try to remove your shoes.

“Keep the shoes. Keep the shoes! Just. Get. OUT!”

The manager rather forcefully shows you the door and holds it open like an ungrateful butler, his hands grabbing and pulling the wind.

“Thank you for bowling. Thank you for bowling.” He says rather unconvincingly.

You’ve never been thanked for bowling before.

The lady is so mad, so confused, thankfully, she’s lost for words. When the door finally closes, and the closed sign hangs in the glass door, the manager scurries just out of sight.

A few moments later, you hear a single gunshot ring out and leap from your skin.

“Dude!” You duck, your heart racing.

Your friend shakes his head. “Figures.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, still trying to catch your breath.

“Bowling alley managers are creeps. They sit back, sniff shoes all day, every day. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had a pygmy fetish or something.”

You laugh nervously, but your mind is still on the hand. “…but what about the hand?”

“I’m telling you—Pygmies, man. That was a pygmy hand. He’s probably got one of those little bastards back there stacking pins, paying them in ketchup packets.”

You shake your head, bewildered. “You think that hand was a pygmy?”

“Shit, I know it.”

“How?”

“Bowling alley guys are creeps, and like they say in bowling… if the shoe fits.”

 

Please, like, comment, share, and tell me what you think! I went bowling and thought this idea would be funny.