HOUSE OF TOYS 2

It was nothing. Just... nothing.

There was absolutely no one behind me—only a wall of pitch-black silence pressing in from all sides. I wiped the sweat off my face, my hands trembling from the tension, and slowly switched on my flashlight. I had to confirm it.

The beam cut through the darkness, shaky and narrow. And there it was—nothing. No figures. No movement. No eyes staring back. Just empty space.

But the sheer possibility that I might turn on the light and see something—someone—standing there...

That thought was paralyzing. It filled that moment with a terror so sharp I could barely breathe. I stood there for several minutes, heart pounding, trying to steady myself and I kept walking.

I stepped into the kitchen. The floor was littered with shattered plates and broken glass. Cups lay in jagged pieces, scattered like remnants of a violent moment frozen in time. Cobwebs clung to every corner, every cabinet handle, every forgotten shelf.

But the place had only been abandoned for a few months. That’s what made the cobwebs feel... wrong. Like something had been waiting. Watching.

In the center of the room stood a large wooden table. That, too, felt out of place.

It was spotless. Brand new.

Laid out on top of it— A torn Disney tablecloth. That’s when my unease twisted into something worse. The cloth was frayed and ripped, but not in a way that seemed natural.

And the characters on it… they were wrong.

Mickey Mouse had no ears.

Goofy was missing his signature black snout.

Donald Duck was missing a leg—his eyes completely blacked out.

The longer I looked, the less they felt like fictional characters. They looked like mutilated versions of things I once loved.

Suddenly, I remembered—I had a camera. I raised it, almost mechanically, and took a picture.

The flash exploded in the room.

Too bright.

Too sudden.

For a split second, the distortions on the tablecloth seemed to move. Or maybe it was just my eyes adjusting.

But the light revealed every twisted detail. Every torn smile and mangled cartoon face.

My stomach turned. I clutched my gut.

I thought I was going to throw up.

My brain was giving me mixed signals.

One second, it screamed at me to run—to get out of this house as fast as my legs could carry me.

The next, it whispered for me to keep going, to explore more, to find answers.

That’s just how my brain works. It’s a mess of contradictions. Maybe, deep down, it wanted to punish me—for being stupid enough to come here in the first place.

Either way, curiosity has a price. I just didn’t know how high it would be. But like I always say: If you start something, finish it.

So I went back to the living room.

This time, I turned right.

Ahead of me stretched the hallway.

Easily the worst part of this entire rotting house. The paint was peeling like dead skin, the ceiling was cracked and sagging, and pieces of plaster hung like they could collapse at any second.

Then—my eyes locked onto something.

A bedroom.

I raised my flashlight and aimed it inside. To my surprise… the room looked brand new. The bed was neatly made, the walls painted a soft, calming blue—It looked like a child’s room. A little boy’s room, to be exact.

And that’s when it hit me.

Pinocchio.

The very thing I’d been looking for. I rushed toward it and picked it up. The first thing that caught my attention were the eyes.

They looked... far too real.

Not like doll eyes.

Not glassy. Not lifeless. These had depth.

And then I noticed something else.

From its eyes—and from its nose—a thick, yellow fluid was slowly oozing down.

Exactly like the same yellow substance I saw dripping from the severed doll heads on the shelves earlier. And once again, my brain kicked into gear.

The question I had been avoiding came crashing back: Could this all be connected?

The murdered man.

The dismembered dolls.

This?

It wasn’t blood. I knew that much. But what the hell was it?

And then… I did something strange. I wiped a bit of the yellow goo with my finger— And brought it up to my nose.

I smelled it. It wasn’t just bad—it was suffocating. My nose curled, my eyes watered, and for a moment I swore I was breathing in raw sewage. What in God’s name was inside those dolls to make them reek like that?

I didn’t want to be in that house anymore. I had seen enough. All I wanted was to grab the cursed doll and get out. I snatched it up and shoved it into my bag. Heavier than I expected, but not unbearable. I’m in control, I told myself. I got what I came for. Now I just need to leave.

I stepped out into the hallway, relief trickling through me—until it drained away just as quickly. My blood froze.

One of the severed heads on the shelf… moved.

Why the hell did it move?

I couldn’t help staring. The head twitched again—faster this time—jerking with unnatural spasms. Then a foul, yellow fluid began to seep from the doll, spraying in thick spurts across the walls. It splattered my face, burning my skin, forcing me to stagger back.

“What the hell is going on?!” I screamed.

That’s when my bag lurched violently, yanking itself from my shoulders. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. I turned toward it—and froze.

A hand was pushing out of the bag.

My heartbeat thundered like a war drum. The doll. The doll was forcing its way out.

Its glassy eyes locked on me as yellow fluid gushed from its mouth and eye sockets, puddling on the floor, dripping everywhere. Then, in a voice sweet and childlike—eerily familiar—it whispered: “Welcome to Disney’s house!”

It didn’t move toward me. It just stood there. Smiling. Repeating it again and again.“Welcome to Disney’s house. Welcome to Disney’s house…”

Terror consumed me. I bolted, sprinting through the halls, the doll’s final words chasing me out the door: “Welcome… home”

I didn’t stop running until I reached home. I slammed the door shut, collapsed against the floor, gasping, shaking. Was it real? Or just some twisted hallucination?

Then I remembered. My camera.

I pulled it from my jacket, hands trembling, and scrolled through the photos. And there—among the pictures I knew I had taken—was one I never shot.

A man being strangled by the doll. The yellow fluid pouring from its face, drowning him, covering the floor, spilling from the mouths of every other doll in the room.

I stared for what felt like forever, my mind refusing to accept what my eyes showed me. I didn’t take that picture. I couldn’t have. Who—what—did?

I hurled the camera to the floor. It shattered. I didn’t care. Let them all call me insane. I wanted nothing to do with that doll. Nothing to do with that house.

I dropped onto my couch, trying to steady my breath. But then I felt it—something wet. Something dripping.

I looked at my shoulder.

Yellow. Liquid. Oozing.

I nearly fainted. I swear when I left that house, my body was clean. No trace of it. So why was it on me now?

Maybe it’s all behind me. Maybe.

But deep down, I know it isn’t.