Their Favorite Toy

6

There’s something about writing in an empty house. Especially this house, with its worn-in, snug kind of charm. It’s not fancy, but it’s enough. The walls hold a certain warmth, the kind you can feel in old places that have been lived in. The floors creak just right under my feet, and there’s this constant smell of wood smoke and lavender, probably soaked in from decades of fireplaces and maybe an eccentric owner or two who believed in burning herbs to “cleanse the aura.”

The couch is old but soft, practically swallowing me whole whenever I sink into it. In the mornings, sunlight spills through the dust-covered windows, casting little golden squares across the floor. But by afternoon, shadows start creeping in from the forest outside, slinking into corners like they own the place.

It’s… comfortable. The kind of place you could let your guard down, if you didn’t know better.

I’ve managed to clear a corner of the small dining table, just enough space for my laptop, a mug of tea, and the stack of notes I pretend to organize each morning. In theory, I’m here to finish the last book. The one I promised Eddie. The one that’s supposed to tie everything together and give my readers that twisted little happily-ever-after they’ve been clamoring for.

But the writing’s different this time. Darker, like it’s being dragged out of me. I keep finding myself diving into themes I normally wouldn’t touch, tangling up characters in shadows that even I don’t fully understand. And somehow, the deeper I go, the more my own head feels like it’s slipping, unmoored, into those shadows.

Today, I’ve been at it for hours. The words spilling out like blood on the page, raw and messy, until I don’t even recognize my own writing. Scenes blur together, fragments of memories I don’t remember having. My protagonist, struggling against things that make even my skin crawl. It’s unsettling, like I’m not the one guiding the pen anymore.

I shake myself and glance around the room, as if I could break the spell. But the house just stares back, quiet and knowing. I feel the walls watching, the soft groan of the old wood settling as if it’s sighing, almost in approval.

I mutter to myself, mostly to remind myself I’m here, in my skin, not lost in whatever it is I’ve been writing.

"Maybe this was a mistake," I say, loud enough to hear my own voice echo against the walls.

The house stays silent, as if it’s choosing to let that thought hang there, unanswered.

---

Night comes too fast here. One minute I’m squinting at the screen, blinking against the gray light, and the next, the whole room is swallowed up in shadows. I reach over and switch on the old lamp by my laptop, casting a warm, faintly yellow glow across the room.

I don’t want to keep writing, but I also don’t want to sit in silence. It’s the silence that’s most unnerving—the way it wraps around you, heavy and thick, like it’s trying to settle into your bones.

I close my laptop, deciding that’s enough for one night. I reach for the journal I found, flipping through the pages again, each entry filled with more of that unsettling scrawl.

“The shadows are getting closer.”

“I feel them watching me as I sleep.”

I shake my head, a dry laugh escaping my lips. Dark humor—if this was all some elaborate prank, someone sure had a wicked sense of irony.

“Maybe we’d get along,” I mutter, picturing the previous owner, some recluse holed up here scribbling paranoid notes to themselves. “Or maybe you’d hate me. Hard to say.”

I toss the journal onto the couch, trying to shake off the lingering unease, but it sticks, like a shadow you can’t quite shrug off. The silence settles around me as I stand there, and suddenly, a strange thought drifts up, unbidden: It doesn’t feel like I’m alone.

It’s absurd, of course. But the thought is there, like a whisper just out of earshot, lingering at the edges of my mind. I force a laugh, telling myself it’s just the house getting to me. Old houses have a way of holding onto their histories, of weaving themselves into your head if you let them.

I tell myself it’s just a house. Just a place to hide.

I switch off the light, heading upstairs. The bedroom is small but cozy, with thick blankets that practically envelop me, pulling me under into a sleep that comes too fast.

---

The nightmares start almost immediately.

I’m in the house, but it’s different. The walls seem taller, darker, the shadows thicker and alive. I’m walking through it, but every step feels like it’s pulling me deeper into some twisted maze. The floor creaks, the walls seem to breathe, and somewhere behind me, footsteps echo, slow and deliberate, like they’re waiting for me to make a mistake.

I try to turn around, but I can’t see who’s there. Just darkness, stretching out in every direction, swallowing everything. I can feel something brushing against my skin, something cold and sharp, a voice whispering things I can’t understand.

“Stay,” it says, low and mocking. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

I bolt awake, heart pounding, breath ragged. The room is pitch black, the silence too thick, too oppressive. I lie there, staring into the dark, trying to shake off the feeling of something pressing down on me, the faint echo of that voice still whispering in my head.

I tell myself it was just a dream. Just my mind playing tricks.

But as I sit up, reaching for my phone to check the time, I freeze.

My things aren’t where I left them.

The journal is open on the floor, pages splayed, as though someone had been reading it. My laptop, which I’d left closed, is open, its screen casting a faint glow across the room.

I scramble out of bed, heart racing, glancing around the room. My coat, which I’d hung by the door, is draped over the back of a chair. The chair itself is turned, angled as though someone had been sitting there, watching.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the scene in front of me, too stunned to move. It feels like I’ve been ripped out of my own skin, the sense of violation raw and nauseating. Someone’s been here. In my space. Touching my things.

I feel the prickle of anger rise, mixing with fear, the sensation sharp and bitter. My first instinct is to call Eddie, to tell him everything, but I push it down. He’d tell me to get out, to come back to the city, to “be rational.”

But rational went out the window the moment I found that journal, the moment I started writing things I couldn’t explain.

My eyes fall back on the journal, lying open, its pages filled with those frantic, desperate words.

“It’s watching. It’s waiting.”

I clench my fists, feeling a surge of defiance rise up, my own whispered response catching in my throat.

“Fine. Let it wait.”