I never should’ve bought that teddy bear.
I mean, I just wanted something cool for my room. Something old, something with character. Not… whatever Bartholomew was.
It all started when I wandered into this creepy old antique store. The kind of place that smelled like dust and mystery. The owner was this old lady with crinkly skin and beady eyes, watching me like I was about to steal something.
“Looking for something special, dearie?” she croaked.
“Just looking,” I muttered.
Then I saw him.
The bear. Not a cute teddy bear, no. Bartholomew was different. He was old, missing one eye, his fur all matted like something had chewed on him. But something about him… I don’t know. He felt real. Like he had a past.
“How much for the bear?” I asked.
The lady peered at him, then shrugged. “Five bucks. Been here forever.”
Five bucks? Easy. I handed over my money and took him home.
That night, weird stuff started happening.
First, the dreams. Dark, creepy dreams of whispers and shadows creeping across my walls. I’d wake up gasping, my heart pounding. But the worst part?
Every morning, Bartholomew had moved.
Just a little.
First, he was sitting on my desk. Then, he was closer to my bed. Then, one morning, I woke up and he was right next to my pillow.
Watching me.
I shoved him in my closet. Nope. Not dealing with that. But the whispers got louder. Scritch-scratch sounds came from behind my door at night. Like tiny claws scraping against the wood.
Then I saw the cat.
There was this black cat that lived in my building. Scrawny. Mean. It belonged to my weird neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, who nobody ever saw. One night, I was taking out the trash when I spotted it in her window.
And Bartholomew was sitting right next to it.
My stomach dropped. He was in my closet. I knew he was in my closet. But there he was, staring at me with his one button eye.
The cat hissed, its eyes glowing.
I ran back inside, slammed my door, and threw open my closet.
He was still there.
I barely slept that night. The whispers weren’t whispers anymore. They were voices. Harsh, scratchy voices speaking words I didn’t understand. My blankets felt too tight, like something was pressing down on me.
And then—I felt it.
A cold, clammy hand on my arm.
I screamed, thrashing, but I couldn’t move. Something heavy pressed on my chest. My breath came in short gasps. And then—I saw the cat. Perched on my bed, its claws digging into my skin. Its eyes glowed like twin moons.
“He brought you to us,” it hissed.
My body went ice cold.
The cat wasn’t just a cat.
Bartholomew wasn’t just a teddy bear.
I don’t know how, but I knew what was coming next. They were going to take me. Make me one of them.
I fought. I kicked, I struggled, and I knocked over my lamp. The crash sent the cat skittering back, its hiss echoing through the room.
I grabbed Bartholomew and ran. I didn’t stop to think. I threw open my window and chucked that bear into the alley below.
The cat yowled. Then, in a blur of black fur, it leapt after him.
Silence.
I slammed the window shut, heart hammering in my chest. The whispers were gone. The weight on my chest? Gone.
The next morning, I went outside. No sign of Bartholomew. No sign of the cat.
And Mrs. Henderson? She was gone too.
Nobody ever saw her again. Just an empty apartment. Just a locked door.
I never went back to that antique shop.
And I never, ever bought another teddy bear.
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