The Un-Playing

Lily’s new imaginary friend, "Mr. Blank," was shy. He only came out when she was alone in her room, and only if she asked him three times. "Mr. Blank, Mr. Blank, Mr. Blank, will you play with me?"

At first, it was harmless. I’d hear her giggling, having full-blown conversations with the empty corner of her room. "He says he likes my drawings, Mommy!" she’d tell me, beaming. I wrote it off as a vibrant imagination.

Then the rules started to change.

"Mr. Blank says we have to play in the dark now," Lily informed me one evening, her small face serious. "He doesn't like the light."

I dismissed it, but that night, her nightlight was unplugged. I plugged it back in. The next morning, it was in the trash can. When I asked Lily about it, she just shrugged. "Mr. Blank said it was ugly."

The atmosphere in her room began to shift. It was always colder in there, a damp, clinging chill that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. Her toys, once scattered in joyful chaos, began to be arranged. Not neatly, but purposefully. Her dolls would be lined up facing the corner, their backs to the room. Her stuffed animals were piled in the center of the floor in a silent, motionless mound.

I started finding drawings taped to the wall. They were in Lily’s hand, but the subject matter was wrong. A tall, faceless figure with too-long arms, standing over a small, stick-figure girl. The figure was always colored in with a black crayon, pressed so hard it had torn the paper in places.

The final straw was the whispering. It wasn't Lily's voice. It was a dry, papery rustle, like pages turning in an old book. I’d hear it from her room late at night, a soft, insistent monologue. When I’d open the door, it would stop instantly. Lily would be "asleep," but her breathing was too even, too controlled. She was pretending.

Last night, I cracked. I stood outside her door, listening to that horrible, rasping whisper. I couldn't make out words, but the tone was wrong. It wasn't playful. It was instructional.

I burst in, flipping on the overhead light.

Lily was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide and glassy. She was staring at the corner. The air was frigid.

"Who are you talking to, Lily?" I demanded, my voice trembling.

She didn't look at me. "Mr. Blank. We're playing the new game."

"What new game?"

"He calls it 'Un-Playing,'" she said, her voice flat. "You have to put everything back where it came from. Everything."

"Where what came from, baby?"

She finally turned her head, and her eyes were empty of the child I knew. "He says I have to go back where I came from now. The game is over."

She lay down and pulled the covers over her head. The whispering had stopped. The room was silent.

I haven't slept. I'm sitting outside her door now, in the hallway. I can hear a new sound from inside her room. A soft, rhythmic scratching. It’s not coming from the door. It’s not coming from the window.

It’s coming from inside the walls. And it’s getting louder.

I think Mr. Blank is done playing with toys. I think he's trying to un-play my daughter. And I have no idea how to stop him.I haven't slept. I'm sitting outside her door now, in the hallway. I can hear a new sound from inside her room. A soft, rhythmic scratching. It’s not coming from the door. It’s not coming from the window.

It’s coming from inside the walls. And it’s getting louder.

I think Mr. Blank is done playing with toys. I think he's trying to un-play my daughter. And I have no idea how to stop him.