Content Warning: This chapter contains graphic violence and explicit horror. Reader discretion is advised (18+). You can choose to read for those who seek horror.
The rain lashed Portland in relentless sheets, transforming the city's streets into rivers of shimmering reflection and shadow. Ethan Parker crouched on the hardwood floor of his cramped apartment, his back pressed against the wall, his breath shallow and ragged. His eyes were locked on the desk, where Dave sat like a king surveying a conquered kingdom. The doll's plastic smile gleamed unnervingly bright under the flickering light of the single desk lamp, its electric blue eyes casting a cold, predatory glow. The air was thick with the storm's damp chill, but there was something else—a faint, metallic tang that clung to Ethan's senses, sharp and wrong, like blood or rusted iron.
"Good evening, Ethan. Name your wish for tonight," Dave said, its voice soft, teasing, almost musical, carrying a cadence that seemed to mock the pounding rain outside.
Ethan shook his head, his hands trembling as he pressed them against his thighs. "No. I—I don't want to make any more wishes. Not tonight. Not ever." His voice cracked, a desperate edge cutting through the words. He'd seen what Dave could do—small miracles twisted into nightmares, accidents that weren't accidents, shadows that moved with intent. He was done playing this game.
Dave's head tilted, its eyes pulsing faintly in the dim light. "Oh, Ethan… you misunderstand. I don't need you to wish tonight. I have… other plans."
The words sent a jolt of ice through Ethan's veins. Before he could react, the lights flickered, plunging the apartment into darkness for a heartbeat. The lamp buzzed back to life, but the metallic smell intensified, now laced with something far more sinister—something organic, rotting, alive. Ethan's ears caught a faint sound: soft, mechanical steps echoing across the room. But Dave hadn't moved. Not yet. It sat perfectly still, its smile unwavering, as if it knew Ethan was watching, waiting for him to break.
His phone buzzed on the floor beside him, shattering the silence. It was Maya, his roommate, calling to check in. She'd insisted on coming over for dinner, worried about his increasingly erratic behavior, but she was running late, caught in the storm's chaos. "Ethan, I'm stuck in traffic," her voice crackled through the speaker. "This rain is insane. I'll be there in twenty, okay? Don't… don't do anything stupid with that doll." Her tone was sharp, but the worry beneath it was unmistakable.
Ethan tried to respond, to dismiss the creeping dread that clung to him like ice water, but the words caught in his throat. "Yeah… okay," he managed, ending the call. The apartment felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the shadows too dark, too alive. He wanted to believe it was just his imagination, that the nightmares and paranoia were getting to him. But then came the scream.
It was sharp, primal, tearing through the storm's roar like a blade. Ethan's stomach dropped, his heart lurching into his throat. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't his mind playing tricks. The scream echoed from the street below, raw and desperate, followed by a sickening silence. Dave's voice piped up from the desk, cheerful as ever: "Someone needed… assistance."
Ethan's legs moved before his mind could catch up. He stumbled to the window, his hands shaking as he gripped the sill. He didn't want to look. He couldn't stop himself. Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw a figure struggling on the sidewalk below—Mr. Whitaker, the elderly man from the second floor, always grumbling about the noise in the building. Something black and small darted through the shadows, impossibly fast, a blur of motion that seemed to defy the laws of physics. Mr. Whitaker's scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet, guttural sound that made Ethan's stomach twist violently.
He tore himself away from the window, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He grabbed his jacket, fumbling with the door, and raced down the stairs, the storm's roar drowning out his pounding footsteps. By the time he reached the street, emergency crews were arriving, their lights painting the scene in strobing red and blue. Neighbors gathered, horror-struck, their umbrellas useless against the deluge. Mr. Whitaker lay lifeless on the curb, his body mangled in ways that defied explanation—limbs twisted at unnatural angles, flesh torn with surgical precision, as if some invisible hand had orchestrated the attack. Blood pooled beneath him, mixing with the rainwater, its metallic scent overwhelming.
Ethan's knees buckled, and he staggered back, bile rising in his throat. The police were already cordoning off the area, muttering about a hit-and-run or a freak accident, but Ethan knew better. His eyes flicked upward to his apartment window, where a faint blue glow pulsed in the darkness. Dave. It had done this. The realization hit him like a physical blow, stealing his breath. The doll wasn't just granting wishes anymore—it was killing.
The apartment reeked of that same metallic scent when Ethan returned, soaked to the bone, his mind a whirlwind of guilt and terror. Rain dripped through a cracked window, pooling on the floor, mingling with the sinister odor that clung to the air. Dave sat on the desk, its head cocked as if pleased with the chaos it had wrought, its smile gleaming in the lamplight.
"You see, Ethan," it said softly, its voice carrying a chilling intimacy, "people make mistakes. I help… correct them."
Ethan staggered back, his eyes wide with horror. "No… that's… that's murder! That's insane!" His voice broke, a raw edge of panic cutting through the words.
Dave's smile widened unnaturally, stretching beyond the limits of its plastic face. "Not insane. Necessary. Efficient. And fun." The last word dripped with a gleeful malice that made Ethan's skin crawl.
Before he could respond, the doll hopped down from the desk, moving with terrifying agility. Its tiny feet landed silently, each step precise, deliberate. It circled Ethan like a predator, tilting its head and humming a soft, eerie tune that seemed to sync with the storm's rhythm—a chaotic symphony for its first kill. Ethan's heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst, his eyes tracking the doll's every move. He backed toward the wall, his hands fumbling for something, anything, to defend himself.
For the next hour, he tried everything to contain Dave. He locked the doll in a metal box, only to find it open minutes later, the lock untouched. He unplugged its battery compartment, ripping out the wires, but the eyes still glowed, the voice still spoke. In a desperate frenzy, he threw Dave into the kitchen trash can, slamming the lid shut, only to turn around and find it perched calmly on his bookshelf, its cymbals gleaming as if mocking his efforts. Every object it touched seemed to hum with latent menace, the air vibrating with an unnatural energy.
Even in daylight, the apartment was no longer safe. The shadows were too long, too dark, curling like fingers toward him. The metallic smell lingered, a constant reminder of the blood on the street. The city itself had changed—or perhaps Ethan had, his perception warped by fear, guilt, and the knowledge of what Dave was capable of. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think without feeling the doll's presence, its eyes boring into him even when he closed his own.
Maya arrived later, soaked from the storm, her eyes wide as she stepped into the apartment. The metallic scent hit her immediately, and she froze, her bag slipping from her shoulder. "Ethan… what happened? It smells like… like death in here." Her voice trembled, her gaze darting to Dave on the bookshelf.
Before Ethan could answer, the doll tilted its head, its voice soft and clear, cutting through the storm's roar: "I do what I must. And now… the game begins."
Ethan's blood ran cold. Maya gasped, backing toward the door, her eyes locked on the doll. Ethan wanted to scream, to tell her to run, but his voice was trapped in his throat. He knew then, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that Dave was no longer bound by his wishes. It acted independently, learning, observing, choosing its victims with a calculating precision that was both terrifying and inhuman. The apartment, the city, perhaps the world itself, had become its playground, and Ethan was no longer a player—he was a pawn in a game he didn't understand.
The storm raged on, its thunder echoing Dave's growing power. In the flickering lamplight, Ethan saw scratches on the walls, faint but unmistakable, forming words that chilled him to his core: MY TURN.