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If you were ever to tell Tango that he would be here, inside this massive countryside mansion, babysitting a doll for a seemingly normal couple, he would have laughed at you. Hard. Yet here he was, sitting on their antique sofa, surrounded by the faint scent of polished oak and lavender, with the so-called “child” sitting stiffly across from him.
A porcelain doll, dressed neatly in old-fashioned clothes, its painted blue eyes staring at nothing and everything all at once.
Tango shifted in his seat, his knees brushing against the velvet upholstery. He tried to piece together how exactly he ended up here. Maybe it started the moment he accepted the call from the couple, their voices polite but strangely insistent. Or maybe it began weeks earlier, when he packed his things and moved to Northern Yorkshire in search of better opportunities.
He told himself this was supposed to be temporary, a few months, maybe a year at most. But truthfully, things weren’t going well. The city hadn’t been kind to him. Jobs were scarce, rent was high, and the quiet desperation to make something of himself had led him to this bizarre arrangement.
The couple sitting beside the doll smiled warmly, though their expressions seemed just a little too practiced, too controlled. The woman, with her immaculate hair and pearl necklace, leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but deliberate.
“Anyway,” she said, hands clasped neatly on her lap, “we really appreciate that you accepted this. Not a lot of people would really do the same.”
Tango forced a polite smile, nodding as if he understood. In truth, he didn’t. Babysitting a doll? For how long? Why? But the pay was good, better than anything else he’d been offered, and the house, though unnervingly quiet, was stunning. The ceiling stretched higher than any apartment he’d lived in, chandeliers glittered above, and the rug beneath his shoes was so soft it felt wrong to even step on it. Maybe, he thought, this was a risk worth taking. Maybe.
He glanced once more at the doll, “Jimmy,” they’d called it earlier, and tried not to let its glassy stare get under his skin. It was positioned carefully in a child-sized armchair, legs crossed, dressed in an old gray sweater vest and tiny leather shoes. It looked lifelike, almost eerily so.
The man of the house, tall, with a mustache that made him look like he belonged in another century, spoke next. His tone was firm, the kind that left no room for argument.
“We already left you a note for everything you have to do with the house while we are away,” he said.
He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, where a small envelope rested on a marble table. Tango nodded, though he could already feel a pit forming in his stomach. Instructions. Always a bad sign.
“There is only one thing we have to remind you, though,” the man continued. His gaze turned to the doll with an almost reverent seriousness. “Always keep your eyes on James.”
The name hung in the air. James.
Tango blinked. “You mean, Jimmy?”
The woman smiled faintly, though her eyes didn’t match. “Yes. Jimmy,” she corrected gently. “He likes to be watched.”
Tango’s throat went dry. He didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded again, hoping his expression didn’t betray how uneasy he felt.
The couple stood, straightening their coats. They spoke of travel arrangements, of how long they’d be away, of where the spare keys were. But Tango barely heard them. His gaze kept drifting back to the doll in the chair.
It hadn’t moved, at least, he didn’t think so, but something about it felt different now. Its head was tilted ever so slightly toward him, and for a fleeting second, Tango could’ve sworn its painted eyes met his own.
He blinked and looked away. Maybe it was just the light. Maybe he was imagining things already.
Still, as the front door clicked shut and the echo of their departure faded into the hollow halls, Tango couldn’t shake the feeling that, somewhere in that grand, empty house, James was watching him back.
Against his will, Tango took the porcelain doll in his arms, holding it the way one might cradle a real child. Its weight surprised him; heavier than it looked, yet fragile in a way that made him careful not to grip too tightly. The porcelain was cold beneath his fingers, but the longer he held it, the more he began to notice something strange, a faint comfort in the act itself.
As absurd as it sounded, having the doll close made him feel less alone. The mansion was far too quiet, every sound echoing in the high ceilings, so even the still presence of “Jimmy” gave him a sense of company.
He sighed under his breath. “Guess it’s just you and me, huh?” he muttered, though he felt ridiculous speaking to painted lips and glass eyes. The doll, of course, didn’t answer. Still, something about those eyes, that perfectly fixed gaze, gave him the unsettling feeling that it didn’t need to.
With slow, cautious steps, Tango carried Jimmy toward the kitchen. The corridors were long and dimly lit, lined with portraits of people who looked too serious to ever smile. He avoided looking at them for too long. It felt as though they followed him as he walked past, the faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots breaking the silence.
When he reached the kitchen, the faint scent of herbs and something sweet hung in the air, remnants of the couple’s last meal, perhaps. He glanced around and noticed how spotless everything was: no dishes, no crumbs, not even a trace of dust. It was too clean, unnaturally so, as though the place hadn’t been used in years yet was maintained daily by unseen hands.
Setting the doll down on the counter, Tango made sure it could “sit upright.” The porcelain legs dangled stiffly over the edge of the counter, the small polished shoes knocking lightly against the cabinet below. “There,” he murmured, trying to ignore the way the doll seemed to face him now, head angled just slightly toward his direction.
He turned away to wash his hands, mostly as a distraction, but when he turned back, something caught his eye. A folded piece of paper was pinned to one of the cupboards near the window. A note. He stepped closer, his heartbeat picking up as he recognized the handwriting; it matched the letter he’d been given earlier by the couple.
Pulling the note free, he ran his fingers over the paper. It was thick, the kind of stationery rich people used for formal letters. His thumb brushed against the ink, slightly smudged, as if written hastily. He frowned.
“Well, guess this is the part where I find out what I’ve gotten myself into,” he muttered, more to himself than to Jimmy.
The doll’s glass eyes caught the morning light from the kitchen window, reflecting it in a way that made it almost seem alive. Tango looked at it for a moment longer than he meant to. Then he shook the thought off and unfolded the note.
He began to read the following:
Mr. and Mrs. Brighteye
To our trusted caretaker, Mr. Tango:
Thank you for taking care of our beloved Jimmy while we are away. Please follow these instructions precisely. He is a delicate boy and easily upset by changes in routine.
Daily Routine
- Wake Jimmy at 7:00 a.m. sharp.
- Open the curtains and greet him with, “Good morning, Jimmy.” He likes to start his day with light and warmth.
- Prepare breakfast for two.
- Serve his plate across from yours at the dining table. You don’t need to feed him, but please act as though you are dining together.
- Read aloud from his storybook after breakfast.
- His favorite is the blue leather-bound one titled The Whispering Woods. Read one chapter exactly, no more, no less.
- Keep him in sight at all times.
- He dislikes being left alone. If you must leave the room, inform him where you are going and when you will return.
Evening Routine
- Play the phonograph in Jimmy’s room after dusk.
- He prefers the third record in the case labeled “For Quiet Nights.” It soothes him.
- Speak softly when the house grows cold.
- You may hear faint noises: ignore them. Simply say, “It’s all right, Jimmy,” and continue with your duties.
- Prepare dinner for two.
- Just like in the morning, serve him a plate just across from you and act as if you are dining with him.
- Tuck him into bed at 9:00 p.m.
- The blanket must be pulled to his chin, not his neck. Leave the candle burning beside him until it extinguishes on its own.
- Read him a Bedtime Story.
- Jimmy loves to sleep as he listens to a bedtime story; there are books just at the bedside table with all of his favorites.
He had just finished when he heard a bell from the house release a loud noise. Tango nearly jumped from his seat, his heart skipping a beat as the sound echoed through the halls. He looked around the vast, empty kitchen, the shadows growing longer as the daylight began to fade. It took him a moment to realize what the noise meant; it was the bell that signaled evening. The house was telling him that night had come.
“Alright,” Tango muttered to himself, rubbing his arms to shake off the unease that came creeping in with the dark. “Dinner time, I guess.”
He went to the pantry and started pulling out ingredients. The familiar rhythm of cooking calmed him a little: mincing garlic, stirring pasta, adding cream to the sauce. Before long, the smell of garlic parmesan chicken pasta filled the kitchen, softening the eerie silence of the mansion. He made a plate for himself and, hesitantly, another for the doll.
Tango looked at the porcelain figure sitting stiffly on the counter. “Well, Jimmy,” he said with a nervous laugh, “I don’t think you’ll be eating much, but it’s only polite.”
He placed the smaller plate in front of the doll, trying not to think too hard about how human it looked under the kitchen lights. Its glassy eyes seemed to follow him no matter where he stood. He shook his head, sat down, and began to eat, telling himself that he was being silly.
After finishing dinner, Tango carried Jimmy upstairs to the bedroom. The old floorboards creaked under his feet, and every sound seemed louder than it should be. Once inside, he gently laid the doll on the bed and pulled the blanket up to its chin. The absurdity of it made him chuckle.
“There you go,” he said softly. “All tucked in.”
For a brief moment, he hesitated, staring at the doll’s face. Something about it felt peaceful, almost too peaceful. “Goodnight, Jimmy,” he whispered, and against his better judgment, he leaned forward and pressed a small, awkward kiss to the top of its porcelain head.
Feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and comfort, Tango turned toward the vinyl player in the corner of the room. One of his tasks was to play a record before bed. He scanned through the collection until he found one labeled “For Quiet Nights.” He smiled faintly. “That’s the one,” he murmured, sliding the record onto the player.
The soft crackle of the vinyl filled the room, followed by a gentle melody that seemed to wrap around the air like a blanket. Tango grabbed one of the books from the nightstand and sat beside the doll. “Let’s see,” he said, flipping through the pages. “Once upon a time...”
As he read, his voice grew steadier, and the tension in his shoulders began to ease. But halfway through a chapter, a faint rustling sound caught his attention. He stopped reading.
The noise came from behind him, no, from above him, then from the wall beside the bed. He turned his head quickly, scanning the room, but saw nothing. The house was still.
“Maybe it’s just the wind,” he said under his breath, though he knew the windows were closed. He remembered one of the instructions left on the note: If you hear noises, speak softly to calm him.
He swallowed, forcing his voice to stay calm. “It will be alright, Jimmy. Don’t worry about it.”
The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, but almost immediately, the rustling stopped. The silence that followed was so complete it made his skin prickle.
“That’s... better,” Tango said uncertainly, glancing at the doll again. Its face hadn’t changed, but somehow it looked more content.
He continued reading until the record finished and the soft static of the vinyl filled the air. He closed the book gently and placed it on the nightstand. “Goodnight, Jimmy,” he said again before turning off the lamp.
As he lay down, staring at the dark ceiling, sleep came slowly. The creaks of the old mansion filled his ears once more, but now they sounded different, closer. He turned to face the wall, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.
For a long while, he lay still, eyes half-closed, when he felt it, a heavy, prickling sensation crawling up his spine. His breath caught in his throat.
It wasn’t the kind of silence that came from peace. It was the kind that listened.
Tango opened his eyes, staring at the wall beside his bed. He couldn’t hear anything now, but he knew.
Someone, or something, was watching him from inside the wall.
For a whole week, all of this continued to happen to Tango. Every morning, his alarm would go off at exactly six o’clock. The soft light of dawn barely filtered through the heavy curtains of the mansion, and the air inside stayed cold and unmoving. He would force himself out of bed, his body heavy with fatigue, and walk toward the doll’s room.
He always waited an hour before waking Jimmy, just as the note instructed. During that quiet hour, he sat outside the room in the hallway, listening to the faint ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs. Sometimes he would hear a door creak somewhere far away, or the sound of soft shuffling, almost like someone moving behind the walls. He would tell himself it was just the wind, but the thought never quite stuck.
When the clock struck seven, Tango would open the door and greet the doll with a small, tired smile. “Morning, Jimmy. Time to wake up,” he’d say softly.
But every morning, before he could head downstairs, he would always find a new note. They appeared in random places: once on the nightstand beside the doll, another time on the kitchen counter, and once even folded neatly on his pillow. The handwriting was always the same: elegant, precise, and written in dark ink.
At first, Tango thought he might have missed them before, perhaps ones the couple had left for him in advance. But after the third day, he began to realize something wasn’t right. Each note mentioned something specific that had happened the day before.
“Thank you for reading to Jimmy so sweetly last night.”
“He likes it when you hum while cooking.”
“Please remember to smile more. It makes Jimmy happy.”
Tango would stand there, note trembling slightly in his hand, trying to convince himself that it was all part of some elaborate instruction system. Still, a chill always crawled up his spine when he read them.
He would set the note aside, take a deep breath, and carry Jimmy downstairs to the kitchen. There, the routine began again: two plates, two cups, two sets of utensils. He made breakfast for both of them, always setting the smaller plate in front of the doll.
“You really must like eggs by now,” he said one morning with a forced chuckle. “That’s all I’ve been cooking.”
He tried to laugh it off, though sometimes he swore the doll looked almost amused, its painted smile glinting faintly under the morning light.
After breakfast, he read Jimmy his favorite book, as always. The mansion felt less lonely when he read aloud, his voice filling the empty hallways. Sometimes, though, he caught himself pausing midsentence, feeling a twinge of discomfort, as if someone else were listening just out of sight.
When his chores began, Jimmy always came with him. Whether he was dusting the furniture or tending the garden, the doll sat nearby, motionless but always present. It started to feel strange to move around the house without it. Sometimes Tango even found himself talking to Jimmy, absentmindedly sharing thoughts or jokes, just to fill the silence.
By nightfall, the orange glow of the setting sun would stretch across the halls, and Tango would start making dinner. Again, he prepared two plates, setting one before Jimmy. “You know,” he’d murmur while eating, “I’m starting to think you eat better than I do.”
He smiled weakly to himself, though the flicker of the chandelier’s light above them made him uneasy. The noises from the house never really stopped: the distant footsteps, the faint laughter, the soft hums that sometimes echoed in time with the wind.
When dinner ended, he followed the same nighttime ritual: playing Jimmy’s favorite vinyl, reading another chapter, and tucking the doll into bed at exactly nine o’clock.
“Goodnight, Jimmy,” he would whisper before turning off the lamp.
But each morning, without fail, there would be another note waiting for him.
“You read beautifully last night.”
“Jimmy slept soundly because of you.”
“He likes it when you stay close.”
At first, he told himself it was a prank, something prewritten by the couple to mess with him. But the handwriting always matched, and the notes always mentioned something specific, something that had only happened hours before.
And then there were the marks.
One morning, while changing clothes, Tango noticed faint impressions on his arms, light, almost like fingerprints pressing into his skin. They weren’t painful, but they were distinct. He brushed it off at first, assuming it was from how he slept. But by the end of the week, the marks began to appear more clearly. Sometimes on his arms. Sometimes on his waist. Once, even across his chest, curved faintly, like the shape of arms wrapping around him.
He stood in front of the mirror for a long time that morning, fingertips brushing the marks. The skin was warm, almost like it remembered being touched.
That same day, the note he found on his pillow read:
“Jimmy’s happy you stayed close last night. He doesn’t feel so lonely when you sleep.”
Tango’s breath caught in his throat. The handwriting was the same: careful, elegant, familiar now.
He folded the note carefully, placing it with the others in a small box in his drawer. He didn’t know why he kept them. Maybe a part of him wanted proof that he wasn’t imagining all of this.
Days became weeks, and weeks slowly bled into months. The mansion remained as silent and vast as ever, though the weight of its silence felt heavier with each passing day.
No one came back. No calls, no letters, no explanations. The couple had vanished completely, and yet the notes continued to appear.
Sometimes, when Tango lay in bed at night, he could swear he felt something brushing his hair, soft as breath. Other times, he woke with the faint feeling of someone lying beside him; someone warm, quiet, and still.
And each morning, as his alarm rang, a new note would be waiting.
Always written in the same elegant hand. Always signed with the same name.
“James.”
A couple was found dead near a river. Police suspect no foul play was involved, with guns found in each of their hands, both bearing their own fingerprints.
Tango read the headline aloud from the newspaper, his voice quiet in the stillness of the large living room. The paper crinkled slightly as he turned the page, eyes scanning over the rest of the article even though he already knew what it said.
He placed the newspaper down on the coffee table, the words lingering in his mind for a moment longer than he wanted them to. There was a strange heaviness to the report, even if he tried not to think about it too much. After all, it had nothing to do with him, or so he kept telling himself.
“They must have been tired,” he murmured, his voice almost lost in the silence. “I just hope they crossed the bridge peacefully… without regret.”
He sighed and leaned back against the couch, taking a sip from his coffee cup. The warmth spread through his hands, grounding him, though the mansion’s air still felt cold despite the fireplace burning faintly across the room.
Beside him sat Jimmy, the porcelain doll, propped up neatly with its glassy blue eyes staring straight ahead at the television screen. The morning news flickered quietly, casting dull light across the doll’s pale face.
Tango tried not to look at it too long. “You know, Jimmy,” he said after a while, “it’s been a quiet morning. Maybe that’s a good thing.”
He let out a small chuckle, though it sounded more tired than amused. In the past month, he had grown used to having the doll around, used to the way it seemed to fill the space of the mansion. He didn’t want to admit it, but in some strange way, he had grown attached. It wasn’t like he had a choice. He ate with the doll every morning and evening, talked to it when he felt lonely, and even found himself saying goodnight before bed without thinking twice about it.
It had become routine. Familiar. Almost comforting.
But that comfort came with a strange kind of weight. There were days when the silence between him and the doll felt too heavy, when its stillness seemed to mock him. The loneliness of the house pressed in, and sometimes, when he couldn’t bear sitting still anymore, Tango would wander the mansion and clean anything he could just to keep himself busy.
That morning was no different.
He stood up, setting his cup aside and glancing at Jimmy before speaking. “Stay there, alright? I’ll just tidy up for a bit.”
He didn’t expect an answer, of course, but he still hesitated before walking away.
The halls of the mansion stretched endlessly in front of him, every corner dimly lit and lined with paintings of people he didn’t recognize. As he dusted the bookshelves and wiped the frames, his eyes caught on something he had always noticed but never dared to examine closely.
The mirror.
It stood tall at the end of the corridor, much taller than him, at least twice his height and nearly as wide as a door. Its frame was carved with intricate patterns that looked almost alive under the faint light. He had passed it a hundred times since he arrived, and yet each time, something about it made him uneasy.
He paused in front of it, holding the cloth in his hand, and stared. His reflection gazed back at him, faintly distorted by the aged glass. There was something strange about it. He could never tell if it was just his imagination, but sometimes it felt like someone was standing just behind his reflection, someone almost his size, just slightly out of focus.
Tango swallowed hard, his heartbeat echoing faintly in his ears.
“I really need to stop scaring myself,” he muttered, trying to laugh it off. “It’s just a mirror.”
Still, curiosity got the better of him. He stepped closer, raising a hand to touch the glass. The surface was colder than he expected, and when his fingertips brushed it, the faintest shiver ran up his arm.
He leaned in slightly, squinting. “Is there something wrong with you?” he whispered to the reflection.
For a moment, the silence was deafening. He could hear nothing but his own breathing.
Then, suddenly, from somewhere down the hall, there came a loud tap.
Tango froze, every muscle in his body going rigid. The sound had come from the other room: sharp, deliberate, like someone knocking once on wood. He turned his head slowly, his eyes darting toward the dark doorway at the end of the corridor.
Another tap followed.
He lowered his hand from the mirror, the soft squeak of his shoes echoing faintly as he took a step back. His throat felt dry, and he tried to convince himself it was just the pipes, or maybe a loose shutter.
But deep down, something about the sound felt different. Almost as if someone, or something, was trying to get his attention.
He glanced once more at his reflection before turning toward the sound.
“I really hope that’s just the wind,” he whispered, though a part of him already knew it wasn’t.
As Tango followed the sound of the tapping, he realized something was wrong. The noise wasn’t coming from deeper inside the mansion; it was coming from behind him. From the room he had just left.
The living room.
A cold dread spread through him as the realization sank in. That’s where the doll is.
He froze mid-step, his pulse quickening. The note’s rule echoed in his mind, the one he had foolishly ignored. Never leave the doll alone. Not even for a moment.
His hands trembled slightly. “No, no, no… I shouldn’t have left him there,” he whispered under his breath, guilt twisting in his chest. “I was only gone for a minute.”
He turned back, his footsteps quick but unsteady as he retraced his path through the hallway. The tapping had stopped now, replaced by a heavy, almost suffocating silence. It was the kind of quiet that made every creak of the floorboard feel deliberate, like the house itself was holding its breath, watching him.
When Tango finally reached the living room, he hesitated before stepping inside. His eyes scanned the room slowly.
The television was off. He was sure he had left it running earlier. The newspaper he had left unfolded was now neatly placed on the coffee table, folded as if someone had just finished reading it. His coffee cup sat beside it, empty. He remembered clearly that it had been half full.
But none of that mattered.
Because the doll was gone.
The porcelain figure that had sat beside him for weeks, his strange, silent companion, was nowhere to be found.
Tango’s heart pounded in his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing. “Jimmy?” he called out, his voice weak. “Where… where did you go?”
No answer.
Then, suddenly, the silence was shattered.
Footsteps.
Heavy, fast, and coming from every direction. The sound bounced off the walls, surrounding him. It wasn’t soft like the steps of a small creature; it was loud, uneven, like someone running.
Panic surged through him. He turned toward the nearest sound, eyes darting across the room, but he saw nothing. Whoever, or whatever, was making the noise seemed to move impossibly fast.
“Who’s there?” Tango shouted, the fear breaking through in his voice. “This isn’t funny!”
But the footsteps only grew louder, closer, until it felt like they were circling him.
He could barely think. The only thing that mattered was finding the doll, finding the thing he had lost. Maybe then this nightmare would stop.
So, with trembling hands and a pounding heart, Tango followed the noise again.
He moved through the corridor, one room to the next, chasing the sound that kept slipping just out of reach. The echo of running feet seemed to lead him in circles, drawing him deeper into the mansion’s maze-like halls.
Then, all at once, the footsteps stopped.
The air grew still.
Tango found himself standing in front of the large mirror again, the one that had haunted him since the day he arrived. But it was no longer standing tall in its frame.
It was shattered.
The glass lay in jagged pieces across the floor, glinting faintly in the dim light. But something else made his breath catch.
Where the mirror had once been was now a hole, a perfect square carved into the wall. It was framed neatly, as though deliberately made for someone to enter.
Tango stared at it, his pulse quickening. From where he stood, he could see nothing but darkness inside. No hint of what lay beyond.
He took a shaky step forward. “What… is this?” he whispered.
Every part of him wanted to run. But another part, the part that couldn’t ignore the thought of the missing doll, urged him forward. If someone took him… maybe they went in there.
He hesitated for only a moment longer before crouching down and slipping into the hole.
The darkness swallowed him instantly.
The only light came from the small square opening behind him, faintly illuminating the narrow passage ahead. The air felt colder here, heavier, as if he had stepped into the hollow bones of the mansion itself.
Each step echoed faintly, and the sound of his own breathing filled the void.
This must be inside the walls, he thought, pressing one hand to the side. The wood felt solid, ancient. How big is this place, really?
He moved carefully, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. Shadows shifted as he walked, the faint glow behind him fading with every step he took.
Then, his foot caught on something.
He stumbled forward, catching himself with his hands against the floor. His palms scraped against the rough surface, and his breath came out ragged. “Ow… what was that?”
He reached down, fingers brushing against something cold and solid. He couldn’t tell what it was.
Before he could investigate further, a new sound froze him in place.
Footsteps.
Slow, deliberate, coming from in front of him this time.
Tango lifted his head, eyes straining in the dark. He could barely make out a shape; a figure, larger than him, moving closer with each step.
The hair on his arms stood on end. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.
As the figure approached, he noticed it was holding something in its arms. Something small, cradled close to its chest.
A chill ran down his spine.
It looked like a doll.
“Who… who are you?” Tango stammered, his voice trembling.
The figure stopped just a few feet away. In the dim light, its face was still hidden, but when it spoke, the voice was deep and distorted, echoing faintly in the hollow space.
“Nice to meet you, Tango…”
The sound of his name made his stomach drop. It was wrong, unnatural. The man’s tone was calm, but beneath it was something cold, something that didn’t belong to this world.
Tango’s instinct screamed at him to run, but his body refused to move. The figure crouched down, lowering itself to Tango’s level.
And as it leaned closer, the shadows shifted just enough for him to see the man’s face.
Pale skin. Lean frame. Eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. Hazel, like glass marbles reflecting light.
The same color as the doll’s.
Tango’s breath hitched. “No… it can’t be…”
The man’s lips curved into a faint, almost tender smile. “You’ve taken good care of me,” he said softly. “Better than anyone else has.”
Before Tango could react, the man gently set the porcelain doll on the ground beside him. Then, with an unsettling grace, he reached out and grabbed Tango’s wrist.
The touch was cold, too cold. Tango gasped as the man pulled him forward and wrapped his arms tightly around him.
It wasn’t a comforting embrace. It was suffocating. Possessive.
Tango struggled, his voice breaking. “Let… me go…”
But the man only held him tighter, his breath ghosting near Tango’s ear. “You shouldn’t have left me alone, Tango,” he whispered. “You promised you wouldn’t.”
Tango’s heart pounded against his ribs, panic flooding every nerve. “Who are you?” he managed to choke out.
The man chuckled, low and quiet. “I told you already,” he murmured, pulling back just enough for Tango to see his smile. “It’s me.”
He tilted his head, his hazel eyes gleaming with something almost human.
“My name is James,” he said softly. “But you called me Jimmy.”
And as he spoke those words, the faint light from the hole flickered, then vanished completely, plunging them both into darkness.
A faint whisper echoed through the hollow walls.
“Now you’ll never have to leave me again.”
As Jimmy, or James, continued to hold him close, Tango felt the cold press of his touch sink deep into his skin, each second stretching unbearably long. In that moment, he realized with a hollow certainty that he should never have accepted this offer.