Mauldin's Game
By Alexzander Whigham
Watauga County nights hit different.
When the fog rolled down from the Blue Ridge Mountains, it covered everything — the pine trees, the fields, even the houses. You couldn’t see ten feet in front of you. The world went quiet.
Across from Alexzander’s house on 421 North Hampton Road sat the Mauldin Place — a once-white farmhouse, now gray and slumped, its windows dark and cracked like blind eyes. People said it’d been empty since the winter of 1978, when the Mauldin family disappeared.
Alexzander had grown up hearing stories about that house. But he didn’t believe in ghosts.
At fifteen, he didn’t really believe in much — except hard work, early weight training, and his position as an offensive left tackle for the Watauga Pioneers. He was the kind of kid coaches trusted — responsible, strong, the one who never missed practice if it wasn't necessary.
His friends — Connor and Cole (the twins), and Carter, who lived down the street — were different. They liked trouble. And that house? To them, it was a dare waiting to happen.
It was one of those early autumn nights, the kind that smelled like woodsmoke and wet leaves. The game had ended a few hours ago. The four of them sat on Alexzander’s porch, tired but restless.
Across the street, the Mauldin house stood silent, half-swallowed by fog.
Connor flicked his flashlight toward it. “Whigham, you ever go in there?”
Alexzander shook his head. “Nah. I’m not tryna fall through some rotten floorboard im to big for that .”
Cole grinned. “Man, where’s your Pioneer pride? You tackle dudes twice your size but scared of an old house?”
Carter rolled his eyes. “Y’all don’t remember the stories? My cousin said the lights come on at night in there. Like someone’s still home.”
Connor tossed the football into Alexzander’s lap. “Tell you what. You throw one pass through the front window, we’ll call you a legend.”
Alexzander sighed, but stood up anyway. “It's not like some ghost is gonna haunt me anyway if i do it ”
They crossed the street. The grass was waist-high and slick with dew. Up close, the place looked worse — wood warped, the roof caved in, the porch covered in what looked like claw marks.
“Yo, that’s… weird,” Carter muttered.
Alexzander stepped back, took aim, and threw. The football spun clean and fast — crash! straight through a second-story window.
The sound echoed through the woods.
Then, a light flicked on upstairs.
“Bro… who turned that on?” Cole whispered.
Then the front door creaked open by itself — slow and deliberate.
“Okay, that’s our cue to leave,” Carter said, already backing up.
But Connor grinned. “We came this far. Let’s see what’s inside.”
They stepped onto the porch. The air turned colder mountain-cold, sharp enough to bite through their jackets. Inside, the smell hit first: mold, rot, and something faintly metallic.
Alexzander’s flashlight cut through the dark. The living room was a mess — broken furniture, papers scattered everywhere, and family photos still hanging crooked on the walls.
One photo caught his eye: a tall man in a football uniform, helmet under his arm. The jersey said “WATAUGA PIONEERS — 1978.” The man looked almost like him. Same build. Same eyes.
Below it, someone had carved into the wood:
Connor laughed nervously. “Yo, that’s freaky. Bet it’s just some prank.”
From upstairs came a heavy thump. Then another. Footsteps.
Carter grabbed Alexzander’s arm. “Tell me you heard that.”
They did. Every step, slow and deliberate, coming closer to the stairs.
Alexzander called out, “Hello? Is somebody there?”
No answer. Just the creak of the stairs as something unseen began to descend.
The flashlight flickered. The air felt thick, hard to breathe.
A shape — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a cracked football helmet — standing halfway down the stairs. Its jersey was faded, torn, and stained dark. The number: 73.
They bolted for the door, but it slammed shut before they reached it. The windows shattered all at once, glass exploding inward. The thing on the stairs started moving faster — step, step, step — heavy, angry.
Alexzander and cole were ready to throw hands
“He may be big, but he dont got them hands tho” cole said
“Bro are you stupid get over here ” alexzander said
Alexzander and connor break down the front door, and they stumbled into the yard, sprinting across the street, gasping.
When they turned back, the house was dark again. Silent.
Except for one detail — the football Alexzander had thrown was sitting neatly on the front steps.
And written across it in black, dripping letters:
At Saturday practice , Alexzander couldn’t focus. Every sound — every hit, every whistle — echoed like the footsteps on those stairs.
Coach Carr yelled, “Alex! GET YOUR HEAD OUT YOUR BUTT AND LOCK IN.”
That night, when he got home, the fog was thick again. He glanced across the street.
The upstairs light was on.
And in the window, through the yellow glow, a figure stood — helmet on, number 73 shining faintly in the dark.
Part 2: The Haunting on the Field
By the next week, Alexzander tried to shake it off.
The Mauldin Place had to be some trick of light, a prank, maybe an animal or a squatter. That’s what he told himself. Over and over.
But no matter what he said, something deep inside him knew better.
The football from that night — the one with the words “NEXT GAME’S MINE” — wasn’t on the porch anymore. He’d seen it there that morning before school, then it was just… gone. His mom said she hadn’t touched it. None of the guys admitted to taking it either.
Still, Friday night came, like it always did. The Pioneers were playing the Ashe County Huskies — a home game under the bright lights of Jack Groce Stadium. The stands were packed, the air crisp with mountain wind, and the marching band’s drums echoed off the ridges.
Alexzander tried to focus. Helmet on. Pads tight. Game face ready.
Until he ran onto the field.
From the moment kickoff happened, something felt off.
Every time Alexzander lined up on the offensive line, he caught movement at the edge of his vision — just beyond the away side bleachers, near the tree line that backed the field.
At first, he thought it was shadows.
A tall figure — helmet glinting under the stadium lights, jersey torn, number 73 — standing perfectly still between the trees.
Alexzander froze at the line of scrimmage.
“WHIGHAM!” Coach Tucker bellowed from the sideline. “Eyes up, son!”
He blinked. The figure was gone.
He tried to shake it off, but something else felt wrong. The field lights flickered — just once — and the air grew colder, like a sudden storm had rolled in. The crowd quieted, murmuring.
When the lights steadied again, the opposing defensive tackle was staring at him, wide-eyed.
“What’s wrong?” Alexzander asked.
The guy swallowed hard. “Bro, you see that behind you?”
But his stomach twisted all the same.
The End Of The First Half
By halftime, the Pioneers were up by forty-eight . The boys were hyped , and sweating steam in the chilly night air.
But Alexzander couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him.
Carter pulled him aside near the water cooler. “You good, man? You’ve been acting weird all night.”
Alexzander hesitated. “Carter… it’s him. From the house.”
Carter’s face went pale. “Don’t mess with me.”
He pointed toward the far end zone. The fog that had started to creep down from the woods was thick now — almost unnaturally so.
And in that haze stood a silhouette. Helmet. Pads. Number 73 glowing faintly.
Connor and Cole joined them, following his gaze.
Connor muttered, “No way. No way that’s real.”
Cole swallowed. “Then why’s he looking right at us?”
A whistle blew, snapping them back to reality. Third quarter was starting.
The Pioneers kicked off, and Alexzander took his spot on the line again. But something strange happened with the first play — every sound around him dropped out.
No crowd noise. No whistles. No crunch of cleats.
Just the thump-thump-thump of heavy footsteps behind him.
He turned around mid-play — and froze.
The figure from the woods now stood on the sideline. Closer. Its helmet cracked, facemask bent. The dark, dripping stain on its jersey looked almost fresh under the lights.
Alexzander blinked. The figure moved. Not walking — gliding.
He ripped his helmet off. “Coach! Timeout!”
But nobody seemed to hear him. His teammates were moving in slow motion, like the world itself was stuck between seconds.
The figure stopped five yards away.
And this time, Alexzander could see the eyes inside the helmet — hollow, black pits.
Then spoke, voice rough and broken, like wind through metal.
“You took my number!!.” as the figure lunges through alexzander and dissapears
The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on the field, coaches kneeling over him. The crowd was silent.
“Whigham! You alright?” Coach Tucker yelled.
Alexzander gasped, blinking hard. “Where’d he go?”
Just his friends, staring down at him with pale faces. Connor whispered, “We all saw it, man. You weren’t imagining it.”
Carter added, “He was right there. Then… gone.”
The Pioneers won by a landslide , but none of the three celebrated . The fog had thickened so badly the crowd cleared out early.
After everyone left, the three walked to the far end zone — the same spot he’d seen the ghost. The turf was wet , the lights buzzing softly
.“Bro you're in some deep crap” Connor said
There, at the 40-yard line, lay the football he’d thrown through the Mauldin house window a week ago.
And written across the leather, in that same dripping black paint:
At the next Friday night game, Alexzander didn’t suit up. Coach Thomas said he needed to rest after his “episode.”
He sat in the bleachers with his hoodie up, trying to convince himself it had all been stress.
But when the Pioneers took the field, he saw it again — a tall figure standing in the fog behind the goalpost, helmet low, number 73 glinting faintly under the lights.
This time, it wasn’t looking at him.
It was lining up behind the Pioneers’ new tackle — the one wearing Alexzander’s number.
And as the play began, the figure stepped onto the field.
Part 3: The Forgotten Game
A week after Alexzander saw the figure on the field, things started getting worse — not just for him, but for the whole Watauga Pioneers team.
Equipment went missing. Helmets turned up in odd places.
One night, the field lights flicked on by themselves at 3 a.m. — the same time the Mauldin Place’s upstairs light always came on.
During practice, he went for a block and collapsed screaming, clutching his leg. The doctors said it was a clean break — but when the athletic trainer pulled off his cleat, the inside of his sock was wet with mud, not blood. Thick, black mud that smelled like swamp water.
Cole swore he saw footprints leading away from where Connor fell — heavy cleat marks that went straight toward the woods and stopped.
Two days later, Carter stopped coming to practice altogether.
When Alexzander showed up at his house, Carter’s mom said he wasn’t feeling well — that he hadn’t slept in days.
Alexzander found him sitting in the dark of his room, staring at a helmet on his desk.
It was old, cracked, and covered in dust.
“Where’d you get that?” Alexzander asked.
Carter’s voice was flat. “It was in my locker. This morning.”
Then he looked up, eyes red. “Whigham… whatever we woke up at that house — it’s not done with us.”
That night, Alexzander couldn’t rest.
He went to the county library after school — the only place still open late in Boone. The librarian, a thin older man with trembling hands, helped him dig through the archives.
They found it — an old Watauga Democrat article from December 21, 1978.
“Local Coach and Family Missing After Big Game Night.”
“Coach Bill Mauldin, head of the Watauga Pioneers, vanished along with his wife and teenage son was the only one left, Eli, after a state championship.”
“Neighbors reported strange lights at their home the following week. The case was never solved.”
Alexzander’s stomach dropped.
In the grainy photo, Coach Mauldin stood with his team — and right beside him, grinning under his helmet, was a player wearing jersey #73.
The name on the plaque under the picture read:
“Eli Mauldin — left Tackle — Team Captain.”
Alexzander whispered to himself, “That’s him. The ghost. The guy in the house.”
The librarian frowned. “You know, they said that boy was supposed to play in college. Big kid. Responsible. Respected. But then his parents disappeared and then he snapped."
Alexzander’s throat went dry. “Snapped how?”
The librarian’s eyes went distant.
“He blamed his team. Said they didn’t play hard enough. Then… he took them to that house. Only he came back.”
Fog rolled down from the mountains thick and low, swallowing the stadium lights.
The Pioneers were up against Avery County, but the bleachers were half-empty — parents said they had a bad feeling.
As the players huddled before kickoff, Cole whispered, “We shouldn’t be here.”
Alexzander nodded slowly. “You’re right.”
Behind the bleachers, through the mist, a line of figures stood.
Each wearing an old, mud-stained Watauga Pioneers jersey. Numbers faded. Helmets cracked.
One stepped forward — number 73
He raised his hand and pointed directly at Alexzander.
The field lights dimmed, buzzing like dying insects. The crowd’s murmurs turned to static. The scoreboard flickered and reset itself to 0–0, and on the screen flashed words that no one entered:
“FINAL GAME — December 21, 1978.”
The world tilted. The stands, the players, everything melted into gray fog. Alexzander blinked — and suddenly, he wasn’t standing on turf anymore.
He was back at the Mauldin Place.
The yard was overgrown. The porch light was on.
And across from him stood the ghostly Pioneers of 1978, helmets gleaming dull in the moonlight.
Eli Mauldin dropped the old football at Alexzander’s feet.
“You took my number. You took my field. Now finish what we started.”
Alexzander shook his head. “We didn’t mean to—”
But the air split with a deafening whistle.
The ghosts charged, silent and furious, their eyes burning with faint mountain blue light.
He ran. Through the fog, through the house, through rooms that weren’t supposed to exist anymore. Behind him, the floorboards thundered with phantom footsteps.
At the top of the stairs, a door glowed with warm light. He burst through it—
—and found himself in the Mauldin family living room.
Three figures sat frozen at the table: a man, a woman, and a teenage boy in uniform. Their faces pale, their eyes black pits.
Eli — the ghost — stepped in beside him.
“We waited twenty-five years for the next season.”
He held out the football. “Take it.”
Alexzander backed away. “No.”
When Alexzander refused, the walls began to shudder. The house groaned, lights flickering. The sound of a thousand voices rose — the missing players, the lost family, the trapped souls still replaying that last game forever.
— Alexzander took the football
And the ghost disappeared
And he ended up back on the field
The field lights turned off
With the ball in his hand
And written across the leather
The Mauldin Place burned down that night. Fire crews said it was lightning, though the sky had been clear.
No one ever found the football.
Alexzander still plays for the Pioneers. His friends still think about it. Coach never talks about that season.
But sometimes, during late-night practices, when the fog settles low over the Blue Ridge, Alexzander swears he hears cheering from the woods — faint, distant, and wrong.
And every year on Dec 21, someone leaves a football at the 50-yard line.
And on it, written in fading black letters: