It Watched Me Sleep

Chapter 1

I don’t usually post on forums like this, but after everything that’s happened, I need to get this off my chest. Maybe someone else has been through something similar. A few months ago, my grandmother passed away. My dad, along with his siblings, had to clean out her house, sorting through decades of memories and old possessions. The grandkids, myself included, didn’t inherit anything—not that I expected to. We were never particularly close. My family was the kind that only came together for funerals. But stepping back into her house brought a flood of childhood memories. I remembered a time when my dad and his brothers still got along, when my cousins and I ran through the yard, laughing, playing. There was one part of the house that always fascinated us: the back patio. It was like a time capsule, frozen in the past. Nothing ever changed there—not the old potted plants, not the rusting metal chairs, and certainly not the small, padlocked bathroom at the end of the yard. Inside that bathroom was a pile of old toys, long abandoned but strangely well-preserved. They weren’t the kind of toys kids today would play with—nothing like the bright, plastic figures or high-tech gadgets my nephews have now. These were old-school, almost antique: porcelain dolls, tin robots, stuffed animals with button eyes. But my favorite was a strange little toy—an anthropomorphic duck with a human-like body. It wasn’t a cartoon character I recognized, nothing from TV or comic strips. Just a peculiar little duck in faded overalls, with something special about it: its eyes glowed in the dark. It wasn’t eerie at the time. If anything, I found it comforting. The glow was faint, like an old-fashioned nightlight. As a kid, I thought it was magical. I’d dig through the pile of toys just to find it, holding it up to the dim light of the single bulb in the room, watching its eyes absorb the glow and slowly fade out. Of course, my childhood at Grandma’s house wasn’t all fun. That place had its fair share of scares. There was a room right next to the patio with a bunk bed where we sometimes slept when visiting. One night, my youngest cousin woke up screaming, crying that someone was pulling his hair. We turned on the light, and I swear I saw it—his hair lifting on its own, as if an invisible hand had grabbed a fistful of it. Another time, when I was alone in that bunk bed, I heard something moving under the mattress. A slow, dragging sound. Then, I saw something crawl into the wardrobe across the room. I was frozen with fear. I threw the blanket over my head, too terrified to move. And then, I heard it. A whisper. A voice calling my name, telling me to come closer. I wanted to scream, but my throat locked up. Just as I was about to lose it, my grandma called me from the kitchen, asking me to run to the store for her. I bolted out of that room, grateful for the errand, anything to get away. I never slept in that room again. Now, standing in that same house, years later, helping to pack up what remained of my grandmother’s life, I couldn’t shake the memories. The feeling that the past was still lingering in those walls. Eventually, we made our way to the patio and unlocked the old bathroom for the first time in decades. The pile of toys was still there, covered in dust, but untouched by time. As we hauled them out, I swear I heard something—like a whisper, right by my ear. I ignored it. Probably just my mind playing tricks on me. My dad and uncles told us to throw everything away. Most of my cousins didn’t argue, but a few took keepsakes. My cousin Sarah grabbed two porcelain dolls, another took a wind-up monkey. I wasn’t planning to take anything—I didn’t see the point. But as I was leaving, I spotted it. The duck. Its eyes still glowed faintly beneath the debris of the old wardrobe that had collapsed over the years. I hesitated, remembering how much I had loved that toy as a child. On impulse, I grabbed it. I didn’t take it home right away. In fact, I left it in the garage for over a week, completely forgetting about it. It was my dad who eventually handed it to me. That night, I decided to clean it up. I scrubbed the dust off, repainted the chipped spots, and polished the eyes. It looked almost new. I placed it on my desk, facing my bed, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia. Then, the nightmares started. That first night, I dreamed about my grandmother’s house, about being a kid again, about lying in that damn bunk bed. I could hear it—the whispering, the rustling from the wardrobe. The same paralyzing terror I felt as a child washed over me. Something unseen moved beneath the bed, then ran toward me. I tried to flee, but my body wouldn’t move. I was stuck in place, helpless, as something grabbed my legs and dragged me under. I woke up gasping. The first thing I saw was the duck. Its eyes glowed, but not like I remembered. The light wasn’t comforting—it was… wrong. I felt an overwhelming sense of unease. Without thinking, I grabbed the toy and stuffed it into a drawer before crawling back into bed. The nightmares continued. The next night, I dreamed that the drawer where I had hidden the duck started shaking violently, opening and slamming shut on its own. Inside, something scratched at the wood. I woke up to find the drawer slightly open. At first, I told myself I must have left it that way. But then it happened again. And again. Not just in my room—other drawers in the house were found open in the mornings, even ones we never used. Then, my mother had an experience of her own. She was cleaning the living room when she heard it—a baby crying. The sound was so real, so close, that she jumped. Frantic, she searched for the source, checking every corner of the room. Finally, she crouched down and peeked under the couch. Two glowing eyes stared back at her. It was the duck. She picked it up and placed it on my desk, telling me that it gave her a bad feeling. That I should get rid of it. I didn’t listen. I should have.

Chapter 2

I should have listened to my mother. I should have thrown that damn duck away the moment I found it. But I didn’t. Instead, I convinced myself that everything happening—the nightmares, the open drawers, the strange noises—had nothing to do with the toy. I told myself it was all in my head. That was a mistake. Things got worse. One night, while I was watching TV with my parents, we all heard it—laughter. Faint, childlike giggles, coming from behind us. We turned at the same time. Nothing was there. Then, the sound moved. It came from the hallway leading to my room. The giggles became louder, echoing through the house. My father went pale. My mother gripped my arm so tightly that her nails dug into my skin. “Stay here,” my father whispered. Screw that. There was no way I was staying behind. I followed them down the hall, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape my chest. And then we saw it. In my bedroom, standing in the dim light, was a figure. It looked like a child—small, fragile. But there was something wrong. Its skin was stretched too tightly over its skull, its limbs slightly too long. And its eyes… They glowed. Just like the duck. My mother screamed. My father started praying under his breath. And then—just as suddenly as it had appeared—it was gone. Vanished. The room fell into silence, except for the sound of my mother collapsing to the floor. My father rushed to her side, trying to wake her. I stood frozen, my eyes locked on the empty space where the figure had been. Then, as if something was guiding me, I slowly knelt down and looked under the bed. It was there. The duck. Its glowing eyes stared back at me, unblinking, as if it had been watching everything unfold. I grabbed it, my hands shaking, and ran. I didn’t stop to explain, didn’t try to reason with my parents. I just ran out the front door, down the dark, empty street, until I reached a random house. Without thinking, I placed the toy on their doorstep, turned around, and walked away. I didn’t care who found it. I just needed it gone. Aftermath The moment the toy left my house, the strange occurrences stopped. No more giggles in the dark. No more nightmares. No more drawers opening on their own. It was over. A few weeks later, I met up with one of my cousins—the one who had taken the wind-up monkey from my grandmother’s house. I casually asked if she still had it. Her face turned pale. “No,” she whispered. She told me that ever since she had brought it home, weird things had started happening—objects moving on their own, whispers in the night, shadows where there shouldn’t have been any. The worst part? She swore she had heard the monkey speak. In a small, childish voice, it had whispered her name. She had thrown it in the trash the next day. I didn’t tell her about the duck. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about it. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder. Who found it? Did they throw it away? Or is it still out there, waiting for someone else to take it home?