Chapter 9 Where the Shadows Wait
Ican’t sleep.
The scratching has gotten so loud that I swear the walls are going to crack open.
I can trace it now, following the sound as it moves through the house. Along the baseboards, up through the walls, across the ceiling above my bed. Sometimes it stops right above me, like whatever’s making it is listening. Waiting.
My fur is spreading faster now. What started as a few patches has become a coat that covers most of my torso and arms. I’ve stopped trying to shave it because every time I do, it grows back thicker and coarser within hours.
The bathroom trash is full of razors I’ve dulled trying to fight the inevitable.
My face is changing too. My features are sharper, more angular. My nose seems smaller, more pointed. And my ears, God. My ears are getting bigger, more prominent.
When I pull my hair back, I look like some kind of nightmare from a horror movie.
But it’s the teeth that scare me most. They’re definitely sharper now, more pointed. When I smile in the mirror, I look like something that wants to bite. Bite. Bite.
The scratching gets louder, more urgent, and I can’t take it anymore. I have to know what’s making that sound. I have to find it.
I toss off my blanket, grabbing a flashlight from my drawer and following the noise. It leads me down the hall, past my parents’ bedroom where I can hear Dad’s gentle snoring, past the guest room that nobody ever uses, to the end of the hallway where there’s a small closet we use for storage.
The scratching is coming from inside.
I open the door slowly, shining the flashlight into the cramped space. Boxes of Christmas decorations, old photo albums, Dad’s college textbooks. Nothing that should be making noise.
But the sound is definitely coming from in here. From below.
I move boxes aside, my enhanced hearing picking up every small sound, the whisper of cardboard against cardboard, the soft thud of items being displaced. And underneath it all, that persistent scratching.
Then I see it; a loose floorboard in the corner, slightly raised like something underneath is pushing it up.
My hands are shaking as I pry it loose. The wood comes away easily, like it’s been disturbed many, many times before. The beam of my flashlight illuminates a narrow crawlspace beneath the floor.
And that’s when I see them.
Dozens of them. Small, desiccated bodies lined up like some kind of grotesque museum display. Mummified rodents in various stages of decay. Some so old they’re nothing but bones and scraps of fur, others more recent with skin like leather and empty eye sockets.
Mice. All of them are mice.
Some are tiny, barely more than babies. Others are fully grown, their bodies contorted in what looks like agony. They’re arranged almost ceremonially, like offerings to something dark and hungry.
And they’re all wearing little scraps of fabric. Doll clothes.
My stomach lurches as I recognize the pattern on one of the tiny dresses. Pink gingham with white lace trim.
They’re dressed exactly like the same doll that’s been calling to me, drawing me in, making me hold it without remembering how it got in my hands.
The scratching sound suddenly makes terrible sense. It’s not coming from the walls. It’s coming from below, from this hidden graveyard beneath our house. From all the creatures that came before me, their tiny claws scraping against wood and bone as they tried desperately to escape their fate.
I shine the flashlight deeper into the crawlspace, and my breath catches in my throat. There are more of them back there, other hiding spots. How many are there? How long has this been happening?
The scratching gets louder, more frantic, and I realize it’s not coming from the corpses. It’s coming from something alive, something that’s still moving around in the dark spaces beneath the house. Something that knows I’m here.
Something that’s been waiting for me.
I scramble backward, dropping the flashlight. It rolls across the floor, casting wild shadows as my heart pounds so hard I’m sure it’s going to burst. The loose floorboard falls back into place with a soft thump, but I can still hear them down there. Scratching, scrabbling, calling.
My family has lived in this house for eighteen years. Since before I was born, since the doll appeared on our doorstep.
I run back to my room and slam the door behind me, but it doesn’t matter. I can hear the scratching everywhere now; in the walls, under the floor, inside my own head. The sound of tiny claws and desperate movements, of creatures that were once alive and trying to escape.
The mouse doll is sitting on my dresser, exactly where I left it, but its position has changed slightly. Now it’s facing my bed, its black button eyes staring directly at me.
As I watch, frozen in horror, its tiny mouth seems to curve into a smile.
I understand now. The doll isn’t just a toy. It’s a blueprint. A template for what I’m becoming.
The scratching grows louder, more insistent, and I realize it’s not just coming from below anymore. It’s coming from inside me. From the creature that’s been growing beneath my skin, clawing its way to the surface.
I walk to the mirror and stare at my reflection. The girl looking back at me is barely recognizable. Her face is elongated, more snout-like. Her ears are large and pointed, covered in fine fur. Her teeth are needle-sharp and gleaming.
She looks exactly like the mouse doll. I pick it up with trembling hands, and its fabric feels warm against my skin. Alive. As I hold it close, the scratching finally stops, replaced by something that sounds almost like purring.
The scratching reaches a crescendo, and suddenly, I understand what it’s been trying to tell me. It’s not the sound of creatures trying to escape.
It’s the sound of creatures welcoming me home.