A Stain on the Hardcourt

Within the flickering fluorescent glow of a Winnipeg convenience store, strange whispers of a local basketball team's uncanny fortune and precipitous fall begin to coalesce into an ominous premonition.

The discarded Northwood Wolves basketball jersey, crumpled and forgotten, lay at the bottom of the wire bin labelled 'Lost & Found'. It was a deep maroon, almost claret, with the stark, angular silhouette of a howling wolf printed across the chest in stark white. Jessie, during his methodical evening tidying, pulled it out. A faint, almost sickly sweet aroma, like overripe fruit mixed with something metallic, emanated from the fabric.

He unfolded it, smoothing the synthetic material with an unconscious gesture. Near the collar, just above where the number '11' had begun to peel, was a faint, iridescent smudge. It shimmered, almost like oil on water, shifting between sickly greens and purples under the harsh overhead lights. It was not a stain he recognised, nor one that looked like it would come out with a simple wash. It felt… foreign.

Anabelle, perched on a reversed milk crate behind the counter, scrolling through her phone, glanced up. "What’s that, then? Another relic of the great Wolves debacle?" Her voice, usually light, carried a cynical edge tonight. The Wolves, Northwood High’s basketball team, had been a local legend, undefeated for two seasons, only to suddenly, inexplicably, fall apart in the provincial semi-finals last week. A catastrophic, bizarre collapse that had everyone talking.

Jessie held up the jersey, the strange smudge catching the light. "This. It’s… odd. Not blood. Not grease. Something else." His brow furrowed. He valued order, clear definitions. This defied both.

Anabelle leaned forward, her interest piqued. She’d always possessed a keen eye for the peculiar, a quiet hunger for the underlying strangeness of their mundane world. "Let me see." She took the jersey, her fingers brushing the cool fabric. "It almost glows, doesn’t it? Like something from those sci-fi shows Carson used to watch." Carson, her older brother, had been a star player for the Wolves last year, graduating just before this season’s strange events unfolded.

"The Wolves," Jessie articulated, his voice flat. "Their performance this season… it was beyond belief. Not just winning, but an almost predatory precision. And then… nothing. An utter void." He gestured vaguely towards the window, where the rain continued its insistent drumming against the glass.

Anabelle nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the shimmering patch. "It’s as if they were… touched. Blessed, perhaps, and then… unblessed." She ran a finger along the iridescent sheen. "Remember all the chatter? About how their new coach, Mrs. Petrov, never smiled? How she always wore that strange, polished obsidian pendant? People said she’d made a deal for them. To win. Anything to win."

Jessie scoffed, a short, sharp sound. "Superstition. The result of a good scouting programme and rigorous training. A team’s prowess is quantifiable. Not conjured." He had a meticulous mind, preferring logic over the wild theories that often circulated amongst the high school crowd.

"Yet, Jessie," Anabelle countered, her tone theatrical, drawing out his name, "their initial run defied all quantifiable metrics. They were a middling team, at best, the year prior. Then, this season, they moved with a singular, almost unnatural synchronicity. Every pass precise. Every shot, a calculated inevitability. It was, dare I say, almost chilling to witness."

The bell above the door jingled, announcing the arrival of a customer. Carson stood in the doorway, rain glistening on his dark hair and the shoulders of his denim jacket. His face, usually an open book of easygoing confidence, was now drawn, his eyes holding a distant, almost haunted quality. He paused, shaking his head slightly, as if dislodging invisible burdens, before making his way to the energy drink cooler.

"You’re still on about the Wolves?" Carson asked, his voice a low rumble, devoid of his usual cheerful cadence. He grabbed a brightly coloured can, its metallic sheen stark against the muted tones of the store.

"Your sister here believes in dark pacts, Carson," Jessie said, holding up the jersey. "And this… anomaly. We found it with your old number. Number eleven."

Carson approached the counter, his eyes falling on the jersey. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He reached out, his finger tracing the frayed edge of the wolf emblem. "Eleven was my number last year. Orson wears it now. Orson… the new star."

Anabelle watched her brother closely. "What is it, Carson? You’ve been quiet since the semi-finals. Ever since the… change."

Carson exhaled slowly, a sound like air leaking from a punctured tyre. "It wasn’t just a change, Anabelle. It was… a reversal. Like the current of a river suddenly turning back on itself. Last season, it was pure drive. We worked. We earned it. But this season?" He shook his head again. "It felt different. There was a current. Something that carried us. I felt it, even watching them play. It wasn’t just skill. It was… inevitability. And now…"

"And now," Jessie interjected, ever the pragmatist, "they cannot make a simple lay-up. They are scattered. Fragmented. As if the very notion of teamwork has been erased from their collective consciousness."

"Exactly," Carson affirmed, his gaze distant. "And it began with small things. Little rituals. Mrs. Petrov… she would make us touch her pendant before every game. A quick tap. A silent affirmation. Then, the jersey numbers. She insisted on them. Each player to wear the same number throughout the season, no exceptions. And she had a specific, strange phrase she’d whisper to Orson, especially. Always Orson."

The words hung heavy in the air, weighted with unspoken implication. Anabelle shivered, despite the stuffy warmth of the store. "A phrase? What kind of phrase?"

Carson hesitated, his eyes flicking to the darkened windows. "I… I never quite heard it clearly. But it sounded guttural. Not like any language I knew. And Orson… he’d just nod. Always nod. Like he understood a secret covenant."

---

The door chimed again, this time with a frantic, almost desperate urgency. Orson, the current number eleven, stood there, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead, his Wolves practice jersey clinging to his lean frame. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and unfocused. He looked as if he had run a marathon, not merely walked in from the street.

"Orson!" Anabelle exclaimed, startled by his appearance. "What in the world? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Orson stumbled forward, his hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the nearest shelf, sending a cascade of chocolate bars clattering to the floor. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes, fixed on some unseen point beyond them, held a raw, unadulterated terror.

"It’s… it’s the court," Orson stammered, his voice raw, barely a whisper. "The old gym. Mrs. Petrov… she left us there. After practice. Said we needed to… absorb the silence. The ‘essence’ of the court. And… and I saw it."

Jessie, despite his aversion to irrationality, felt a prickle of unease. Orson’s distress was too profound to be feigned. "Saw what, Orson? Clearly. Articulate precisely what occurred."

Orson finally focused on Jessie, his eyes pleading. "The lines. The painted lines of the court. The three-point line. The free-throw line. They started to… pulse. With that same… colour. That iridescent shimmer. Like on the jersey." He gestured wildly towards Jessie, his hand shaking so violently he almost struck the fluorescent light fixture.

Jessie looked down at the jersey still clutched in Anabelle’s hand, then back at Orson. The boy was not fabricating this. The fear in his eyes was genuine, visceral.

"The court… it was alive," Orson continued, his voice rising in a desperate crescendo. "The colour… it moved. Pulsed. And it smelled like… like this." He pressed a hand to his temple, as if to contain the memories, the scent, the terror.

Anabelle, her face pale, held up the jersey. The iridescent smudge seemed to throb, almost imperceptibly, mirroring the frantic beat of Orson’s words. "You mean this? This precise… anomaly?"

Orson nodded, a single, convulsive jerk of his head. "Yes. Exactly that. And it was moving. Creeping towards the centre circle. Like… like it was trying to devour the court itself. And then… the hoops. The nets… they began to fray. Dissolve. Right before my eyes."

Carson, who had been listening in grim silence, stepped forward. His usual calm had evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard anger. "Petrov. She always had her hands on something she shouldn’t. This… this is what you get for trusting a ghost with a whistle."

"It wasn’t a ghost, Carson!" Orson cried, tears now streaming down his face, mixing with the rain on his cheeks. "It was… a hunger. A draining. As if the court itself was being consumed. And I felt it. A coldness. Like something was taking… taking something vital from the very spirit of the game."

Jessie remained silent, his mind racing. His logical world was crumbling around him. The quantifiable was becoming terrifyingly unquantifiable. The fact that the stain on the jersey now seemed to possess a deeper, more unsettling significance, mirroring Orson's description, was too much to dismiss as mere coincidence.

Anabelle, however, had moved beyond logical debate. Her gaze was fixed on the cash register, specifically the small, cheap plastic basketball that served as a paperweight beside the till. A souvenir from some forgotten school fundraiser. A miniature, orange sphere. As she watched, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer began to bloom on its surface, a fleeting, iridescent sheen, shifting between sickly greens and purples, just like the stain on the jersey, just like Orson had described on the court. It was a silent, slow creep, an undeniable presence.

"It’s here," Anabelle whispered, her voice barely audible over the drumming rain. "It followed him. It’s… here."

Orson stumbled back, bumping into a rack of chewing gum. His eyes, wide with fresh horror, darted from the basketball to the jersey, then back to the basketball. The small, spherical object, meant to represent playful competition, now seemed to hold a profound, terrible secret. The shimmer grew, slowly, steadily, consuming more of its plastic surface, reflecting the flickering neon of the store in an unsettling, otherworldly glow.

The temperature in the small store seemed to drop, the hum of the freezer unit growing louder, more insistent, vibrating through the very soles of their shoes. The scent of stale coffee and microwave popcorn was suddenly overlaid by that sickly sweet, metallic aroma, stronger now, inescapable. It permeated everything. The air itself felt thin, brittle. Jessie found himself unable to move, his eyes fixed on the small, shimmering basketball, the silent proof that the bizarre tales were not just tales, but a living, creeping dread.

What had begun with a championship season, fostered by an inscrutable coach, had culminated in a horrifying, insidious presence, seemingly capable of draining the very essence of competitive spirit, of joy, from the game. And now, it had perhaps found a new court to haunt, a new arena to consume. A mundane convenience store, a receptacle for forgotten things, now seemed poised to become the unwitting stage for something truly unsettling.

The rain outside intensified, a violent drum against the windows, a sound that seemed to drown out all other noise, leaving only the frantic beat of their own hearts and the growing, vibrant shimmer on the small plastic ball. Its colour deepened, pulsed, as if breathing. Its presence was undeniable, silent, and utterly ominous.