When I left Graywick, I thought the story was over.
The highway out of town had been covered in ash the day I arrived, but now it was strangely clean, as if the storm of memory had swept everything away but the road I needed. The boy—Elias—didn't follow. Neither did the doll. They stayed behind in the theatre, where stories were still breathing.
But Graywick never truly lets you go.
The moment I crossed the town limits, my car radio crackled to life. Static at first. Then a whisper:
> "Take a bow…"
I slammed the button off.
I didn't look back.
---
I tried to return to my life.
Home. Apartment. Freelance gigs.
I uploaded one video from my trip—the only file that hadn't corrupted. It wasn't the footage of the doll, or the whispering choir, or the final scream that shattered the stage.
It was a single still frame.
Of the empty theatre.
Chairs facing forward.
Curtains slightly parted.
No audience.
No actors.
Just… waiting.
I posted it online with the caption: "Found this old place. Anyone heard of Graywick?"
Within hours, I had over 10,000 views.
Within days, it was on horror forums.
Within a week… people began messaging me.
> "I saw her in my dreams."
> "I live two towns over. That theatre wasn't supposed to exist."
> "I remember that place. I think my sister danced there once. She disappeared."
> "Your video changed. I swear I saw a puppet blink in the third row."
I didn't respond.
But I watched.
---
One night, two weeks later, I woke to clapping.
Slow. Measured.
Coming from inside my apartment.
I turned on every light.
Nothing.
But my living room mirror had fogged… and written across it, clear and deliberate:
> "You told the story well."
---
That was the first time I dreamed in velvet.
In the dream, I stood on a stage with blood beneath the floorboards. The crowd was masked. My hands were sewn to a script I didn't remember writing.
A spotlight fell on a girl in the front row.
She didn't have a face.
Just a name tag:
> "Final Rehearsal Pending"
I woke to my mouth half open and a stitch poking from my lip.
Real thread.
---
I tried to move on.
But that's not how stories work.
Especially the kind born in Graywick.
Especially the ones the Devil tells.
Soon, I noticed strange reviews on my video:
> "The theatre called me."
> "I'm going."
> "She's not done yet."
I clicked on their profiles.
One had deleted their account.
One posted a video of a trip to the ruins of a place no GPS could find.
One uploaded a blurry clip of a doll walking.
The video ended with a whispered name:
> "Marybeth…"
---
I received a package.
No sender.
Inside: a playbill.
The cover read: DEVIL'S BEDTIME STORIES
Inside, it listed names.
Mine was next.
> "ACT II: A Town Built From Applause – Performed by…"
It had my full name.
Handwritten in red.
---
I began researching similar towns.
Forgotten places. Burned theatres. Ghost stages. Places where people vanished after attending one last show.
I found them.
Dozens.
All across the country.
Every story was different.
But every story ended the same:
> "They clapped… and never stopped."
---
Graywick wasn't a place.
It was a script.
One being rewritten every time someone remembered it.
Every time someone applauded.
Because what is applause but a ritual?
An offering of belief.
And when the Devil tells bedtime stories, he doesn't want you to sleep.
He wants you to clap.
So he knows you're listening.
---
The next time I heard the applause, I didn't turn on the lights.
I sat.
I listened.
And in the stillness, I whispered:
> "I'm not afraid."
A lie.
But one worth telling.
Because stories feed on fear.
And Graywick was always hungry.