It was a small town, the kind where everyone knew everyone, where the nights settled into a quiet hush, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl or the hum of insects. Our house was a double-wide trailer on the outskirts, a place that felt more like a relic than a home. My mom, dad, two sisters, and I had been living there for a little over a year when everything started to change — when the shadows in the corners grew darker, and the air inside felt thicker, heavier.
It all began innocently enough, or so we thought. A couple of weeks before the nightmare began, my best friend, Tommy, and I decided to play with a Ouija board in our living room on a rainy Saturday afternoon. We weren’t serious, just kids messing around, asking silly questions. The planchette moved with a sudden jerk, spelling out strange words we didn’t understand. We laughed it off, dismissing it as a trick of the wind or our own nerves.
But then came the toy.
That night, my little sister Emily found a shiny, plastic candy apple in her room. It was a toy, a cheap thing with a bright red, glossy shell and a stubby stick handle. It looked so real, almost tempting enough to bite into, but it was just plastic. She squealed with delight, clutching it close as she showed it to everyone.
That’s when things started to go wrong.
That night, the toy candy apple began to move on its own. It rolled across the floor, jingling softly — a sound that was almost musical but unsettling, like tiny bells echoing in an empty house. It glided from room to room, never falling, always upright, always moving with purpose. We watched, eyes wide with amazement, then with unease. My sister giggled and chased after it, but after a while, she got bored and left it on the living room rug.
The next day, it was still there, untouched but not forgotten. It was strange but not alarming. Kids do weird things. Maybe our house was just old and the floorboards creaked or the toy had a loose wheel. Still, the weirdness lingered.
That night, I was trying to sleep when I heard a faint jingling from my room. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the toy candy apple on the floor, but instead, I saw something else. Something darker.
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the moon filtering through the window. And there, in the corner, was a figure — a girl. She looked to be about my age, maybe a little younger. Her clothes were tattered, her long black hair shrouded her face, and her eyes — oh God, her eyes — were black as the void, bottomless pits that seemed to swallow the little remaining light in the room. She was pushing the toy candy apple with her tiny hands, rolling it back and forth like she was playing a game.
It was a ghost, I knew that. A demon girl. Her smile was wide, unnatural, stretching almost from ear to ear, and her laugh was faint but chilling, echoing in my mind like a distant bell tolling the end of everything.
I froze, heart pounding so loudly I was sure she could hear it. Her smile grew wider, and she looked right at me — at least, I thought she did. Her face was blank, but her eyes blinked slowly, mockingly. She pushed the candy apple again, and it jingled softly, the sound now echoing inside my head.
I wanted to scream but couldn’t. I just lay there, trembling, wishing she would go away, wishing I could wake up from this nightmare. But I knew, deep down, this was no nightmare.
The days that followed were even worse.
My mother’s mood shifted like the seasons — cold and distant one moment, frantic and tearful the next. She would stare at nothing, her eyes glassy, her face slack. She muttered to herself in a language I didn’t understand. Her hands trembled, and sometimes she would just stare at the wall, or at the toy apple, which now sat on the coffee table, silent but ominous.
One night, I saw her standing in the kitchen, staring at the candy apple with a strange, vacant expression. Her reflection in the window seemed distorted, as if the glass itself was warping her into something unrecognizable. She whispered, “It’s coming,” over and over, her voice hollow and distant.
I tried to tell my dad, but he brushed it off, saying she was stressed or tired. But I knew better. Something was wrong. Something was wrong with her, with us.
And the toy apple.
It was always there, rolling around the house, jingling at odd hours. Sometimes it would be in the hallway, sometimes in my sisters’ bedrooms, always moving with purpose, always silent except for its tiny bells. It felt like it was watching us, waiting for something.
One night, I woke to find the candy apple rolling across my bedspread. I reached out to grab it, but as my fingers touched the plastic, I felt a sudden coldness seep into my bones. The air grew heavy, oppressive, filled with a scent I couldn’t place — metallic, like blood, but sweet, like rotten fruit.
Then I saw her.
The girl was there again, pushing the toy with her small, trembling hands. This time, she was closer. Her face was a pale mask, her eyes black and shining, her smile a razor’s edge. She looked at me, and I knew she was hungry — hungry for something I couldn’t understand.
Her laugh echoed in my mind, cruel and mocking. She leaned toward me, her mouth opening wide, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth. I wanted to scream, to run, but I was paralyzed. She pushed the candy apple closer, her fingers brushing mine, and I felt a surge of icy dread.
The house around us seemed to twist and warp. Walls creaked and groaned like they were alive, breathing in the darkness. Shadows danced across the ceiling, forming shapes that looked like faces — faces crying out for help.
My mother’s condition worsened. She was barely herself, muttering about voices, about things she couldn’t see but felt. She would stare at the candy apple, whispering to it, whispering to her own reflection. Her eyes were hollow, her face gaunt. It was as if the demon girl had taken her soul, or maybe she had been possessed all along.
One night, my father decided we had to leave. We packed up what we could, hurriedly, before whatever was in that house could take us all. As we drove away, I looked back at the double-wide, its windows dark and empty, the shadows inside still flickering.
But even after we moved out, I swear I can still hear that toy candy apple.
Sometimes, late at night, I wake up and hear the faint jingling, like tiny bells ringing in the distance. I still see that girl’s black eyes, and I feel her presence — watching, waiting.
I know she’s still there, in the shadows of that house, pushing her cursed toy around in eternity.
And sometimes, I wonder if she’s waiting for me to come back.
**The End.**