Gitchy plays with his food

Maya locked the front door with shaky hands, calling out into the stillness of the house.

“Anthony?” she said, voice small but hopeful.

Only silence answered. She cursed under her breath, remembering her brother was on the night shift tonight. He won’t be back until dawn. She was alone.

She triple-checked the padlock on the door before heading to her bedroom, setting down her bag on the dresser with a heavy thud. Her heart was still racing from the walk home—that stupid circus. She couldn’t shake the image of that hideous clown on the poster. His grin was seared into her mind, stretching far too wide, as though he could consume her whole.

She shivered, goosebumps rippling over her skin. God, I hate clowns. Gitchy’s name alone made her skin crawl, but it was the comment about tickling that had really stuck. A nervous chuckle escaped her lips—of all the ways to torment someone. And yet… she shivered again. Why did it have to be tickling? My feet are bad enough, but that…

Gitchy, who had been watching her ever since she crossed the threshold, licked his painted lips in anticipation. Her fear was sweet, subtle, like an appetizer. He watched from the dark corners of the house, from within the mirrors she passed by, reveling in the way her skin prickled. He was patient, oh so patient.

Maya sighed, trying to shake off the feeling of unease as she headed for the bathroom. A long, hot shower should do the trick, something to wash away the tension from the day. She cranked up the water, steam filling the room, and let the hot droplets pound against her skin. She stayed in there longer than usual, trying to clear her mind of the clown’s leering face.

Once out, she wrapped herself in a soft robe and made her way back to her room. After changing into an oversized T-shirt, she climbed into bed, a worn paperback in hand. The comfort of routine started to settle her nerves. It’s just a stupid poster, she told herself, nothing to worry about.

Time passed. The quiet of the house settled around her like a blanket as the night deepened, and the words on the page blurred together.

Then—thump.

Something hit her window with a hollow, rubbery squeak. She gasped, the book slipping from her hands. She glanced toward the window, heart in her throat. For a split second, she thought she saw something… yellow. Shiny. But whatever it was disappeared before she could fully make it out.

Her pulse quickened. Had it been a balloon?

Shaking her head, she rubbed her eyes. “Stop being ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. But just as she began to settle back into the covers, the floorboards in the hallway creaked, the sound loud in the dead of night.

Her eyes snapped to the door, slightly ajar. Old house. It’s just the house. But she didn’t believe herself.

The silence that followed was deafening, the kind that presses against your ears. Her breath felt louder than it should. She hesitated for a moment, then **** herself out of bed, her bare feet moving silently across the hardwood as she padded toward the door. The hallway loomed before her, thick with shadows. Her pulse hammered in her chest as she nudged the door open a little wider.

Nothing. Just the dark corridor stretching out ahead of her.

She crept into the hallway, flicking on the light. The soft, familiar tick of the antique grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs reached her ears, and for a moment, it was comforting. Everything looked just as it should. Nothing out of place.

She let out a shaky breath and scurried back into her room. I’m just on edge, that’s all. But when she turned back to her bed, her heart nearly stopped.

A single pink feather was floating down from the ceiling, twisting lazily in the air before landing on her pillow without a sound.

Her stomach dropped. She stared at it, unable to move.

Where the hell did that come from?

Without thinking, she slammed her door shut and locked it, her breath ragged. She brushed the feather aside, sending it fluttering to the floor, her mind racing. Maybe it got stuck in the vents, or it was here all along… right?

But deep down, she knew better.

Gitchy grinned from the shadows, watching with gleeful hunger. Her terror was delicious. He could feel her panic rising, her mind trying to make sense of the impossible. She was so close to breaking, so close to giving in to the fear that she would soon be his plaything.

Maya huddled on her bed, pulling her knees to her chest, her eyes darting around the room, scanning for any other sign of something… wrong.

The feather, the squeak at the window… it doesn’t make sense.

Her eyes kept flicking back to the clock on her bedside table. The minute hand inched closer to midnight, the silence stretching, suffocating.

It’s nothing. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me.

But Gitchy knew better. His foreplay was almost complete. He just needed to wait a little longer, let her slip into a restless sleep. That’s when he would strike.

Soon, he thought, his painted lips stretching into a grotesque grin.

He could already hear the sound of her laughter, sharp and ****, echoing in the night. Soon…