Their Favorite Toy

5

Adliswil was nothing like I’d pictured. It wasn’t the postcard-perfect Swiss village I’d imagined. No fairytale charm, no cozy little bakeries lining cobblestone streets. Just a stretch of mist-cloaked buildings and endless woods, the kind of place where people minded their own business and looked the other way. Which was exactly what I needed.

I had no illusions that running off to the middle of nowhere would magically fix my life, but I’d take silence over the steady roar of the city and its twisted fascination with my wreckage. This place was as good as any to disappear.

The bus pulled into the lone, nearly abandoned station, and I stepped off into the sharp mountain air. The chill hit like a shock, and I pulled my coat tighter, breathing in the raw scent of pine and rain. No skyscrapers here, just the brooding mountains and rows of dark trees, pressing in close. Perfect. Adliswil felt like it could swallow me whole—and right now, that was the most comforting thought I’d had in weeks.

I checked my phone, opening the only app I hadn’t deleted: Messages. There was just one conversation left, buried under Clara’s last unanswered call—my manager, Eddie. Eddie, who’d known me longer than anyone, who had stood by me when everyone else bailed. Eddie, who had saved my career so many times I’d lost count.

“Evelyn. Still breathing?”

Typical Eddie. Not a word wasted. I smirked at the screen, tapping back a reply.

“Barely. But yeah, landed. Need you to help me get a place.”

His response was instant, the tiny bubbles popping up before I’d even put my phone away.

“Finally. Thought you’d be sleeping on park benches by now. Find anything?”

I looked up at the foggy, empty street in front of me, at the few houses that seemed to peek out from the trees like secrets. “Yeah. I’ll send you a location. Just… something secluded. And no one needs to know where I am. Not even Clara.”

There was a long pause, then Eddie texted back.

“No one will find you, Ev. But you know this isn’t going to be the fix, right?”

I rolled my eyes. Eddie had always been the cautious one, the type who had an eye on every exit even in a crowded restaurant. It was why he’d survived as my manager for so long, I guess.

“You really want to play therapist right now, Eddie? Just find the house, okay?”

Another pause, then a message.

“Done. Check your email in an hour.”

It took longer than an hour, but Eddie came through. Two hours and three cigarettes later, I had an email with an address, a local agent’s contact, and the promise that Eddie would wire the down payment. I didn’t ask where he got the money. He’d find a way, he always did. This was why he’d stuck around through the mess, and why I kept him around—unflinching loyalty and an ability to get things done, no matter how.

I looked at the address on my phone, committing it to memory before deleting the email entirely. It was like shedding a layer of myself, each little step a chance to peel away from the wreckage I’d left behind.

---

The cottage stood alone at the end of a winding road, bordered by thick trees that made it nearly invisible from the main path. It was just shy of being rundown, a modest two-story with chipped paint and weathered shutters. Somehow, that made it more appealing. This place had a story, an age, a weight to it, as though it had withstood its own battles long before I arrived.

The inside was sparse but functional—an old sofa that looked like it had been there since the 70s, a creaky wooden table, a fireplace that seemed to promise warmth if I could get it going. It was everything the city wasn’t. Quiet, a little broken, but sturdy.

A place I could learn to disappear in.

I called Eddie from the kitchen, sinking into one of the kitchen chairs and watching the rain dribble down the windowpane.

He picked up after two rings. “So, does it fit your high standards, Your Majesty?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s perfect, actually. I might even keep it.”

“Until you get bored,” he said dryly. “Or until the tabloids find you and turn Adliswil into another circus.”

“They won’t find me, Eddie,” I said, almost believing it myself. “This place… it’s off the map. And I’m off theirs.”

There was a pause. I could almost hear Eddie’s skepticism over the line, his habit of weighing every risk in his head. “And you’re sure you’re okay? You don’t sound—”

“I’m fine,” I said, a little too sharply. “I just need space. Quiet. You know… a chance to figure things out.”

“Whatever you say,” he replied, voice softening. “Look, Ev… I know things have been—”

I cut him off, unwilling to let him finish that sentence. “I’ll be fine. Just make sure no one else knows where I am, okay?”

He sighed, but didn’t argue. “You got it. Just… take care of yourself.”

The line went dead, leaving me alone in the silence.

---

The first night passed in a kind of numb haze. I spent most of it unpacking my sparse belongings, setting up my laptop, trying to settle into the quiet. But the stillness was almost too loud. The rain drummed against the roof, the wind shook the trees outside, and somewhere in the woods, an animal cried out—a sound both familiar and foreign, raw and unsettling.

I drifted into an uneasy sleep on the old sofa, wrapped in a musty blanket I found in the closet. My dreams were filled with faces, blurry and fragmented, voices I couldn’t make out but somehow knew. Liam’s face was there, too, hovering on the edge of my vision, twisted in a way that felt wrong, like he was something from a nightmare I couldn’t quite escape.

Morning came reluctantly, gray and cold, the kind of day that felt like it was daring me to stay in bed. But I dragged myself up, threw on a sweater, and started pacing the small cottage, trying to shake the dreams off.

That’s when I saw it—an old leather-bound journal, tucked away on the highest shelf in the living room, half-hidden by dust and cobwebs. It was the kind of book that looked like it belonged in a different time, its edges frayed, its cover worn smooth from years of handling.

Curiosity got the better of me. I reached up, pulling the journal down and flipping it open to the first page.

The handwriting was thin and spidery, almost too small to read. But the words jumped out at me, sharp and strange.

“To whoever finds this: You don’t know what you’ve walked into. This place holds secrets that would best be left undisturbed. Beware the darkness that lingers here, for it is patient, waiting to devour those who dare to look too closely.”

My skin prickled, a chill running down my spine. I turned the page, my eyes skimming over more entries, each one more unsettling than the last.

“The forest knows. The shadows watch. I hear them at night, whispering, scratching at the windows. They want in.”

The words twisted something inside me, a strange, almost thrilling kind of fear. I closed the journal, the weight of it heavy in my hands.

Part of me wanted to toss it back on the shelf, pretend I hadn’t seen it. But another part of me, the part that had chosen this place, drawn to its isolation and mystery, wanted to know more.