Have you ever played kick the can as a child? In my village, it wasn't a game. It was something older something remembered. A ritual disguised as play.
The rules were simple: a can, an open patch of ground, at least three players. But timing… timing was everything. Always at dusk, when the sun sags beneath the horizon and shadows stretch across the earth, swallowing all that is light.
We'd form a circle around the can, hands clasped, hearts hammering. Then the chant would begin, soft at first, growing until our voices merged into one:
"With the dying sun, the shadows grow,
We call to those who rest below.
Into the can, your soul we bind,
A restless spirit, cursed and blind.
Come forth from the dark, from the deep,
Into this can, your soul will sleep."
Eyes closed, the air thickened, chilled, pressing against our skin. A shiver crawled along our spines. Then the leader's voice would cut through the silence like a knife:
"We summon you, spirit of the night, to a game of kick the can."
The can would roll. Ordinary at first. But soon it moved with purpose. It twitched, quivered, as if listening, gauging our fear hunting us.
We dared each other, taunting it, ducking and weaving just out of reach. Laughter spilled into the twilight—but it sounded hollow, fragile. Because when the can struck someone… everything stopped. They collapsed as if life had been drawn from them, and the can lay still, unmoving.
When the fallen awoke, they were not the same. Their eyes were darker. Movements sharper. Smiles carried a subtle cruelty that had not been there before. We never asked why. We never wanted to know.
I still don't know who began the game, or why we kept playing. Perhaps part of us longed to see the darkness awake. Or perhaps… the darkness had been calling to us all along.
If you've ever wondered whether it's just a story… try this. Gather at least three people, an empty tin can, and wait for dusk. Perform the ritual and see what happens.