The sound was impossible.
It wasn't wind, wasn't the groan of shifting wood. It was laughter—high, breathy, and innocent. A child's voice, curling up from beneath the buried bundle like smoke from a hidden fire.
The protagonist froze. The rain didn't.
It clattered against the corrugated roof, soaking their clothes and skin, but they didn't move. Their gaze was locked on the bundle, where the burlap had started to split.
Tiny fingers—too pale, too still—poked out through the fraying fabric.
They took a step back. Then another. Mud pulled at their heels.
That's when the door to the house slammed shut behind them.
They spun around. Nothing there. No wind. No animal. Just… the door, creaking ever so slightly as if it had just exhaled.
A whisper followed—so close it felt like it passed through them, not around:
"You promised not to forget."
Memories surged like floodwater.
That summer. That game. The hiding spot they never told anyone about. The friend only they could see. The one who whispered secrets in the dark and warned them of the crooked man who watched from the treetops.
They turned back to the bundle. The fingers were gone.
In their place: a paper doll, perfectly dry despite the downpour. It wore a tiny version of the same clothes they had on now. Its eyes had been scratched out.