Chapter 338

Charlie never knew what it was like to be dead. But he figured it must have felt something like being stuck in the dark for too long, like when you close your eyes too tight, and the blackness eats you up.

He wasn't supposed to be here, not in this mess. Not as a teddy bear. Not stuffed into this damn thing, the fabric rough against his tiny, stiff fingers. He had been a little boy—just seven—when the car took him. His brother, Sam, was twelve. He thought Sam was supposed to get his things, but this was too much. This thing.

The bear. The one Sam slept with every night, hugging it close like he could fix the world by holding it tight. It was worn out, its fur faded from years of use, and its eyes—a dull black—glistened like something was watching him from inside them. A far-off kind of stare, but not kind.

When Charlie opened his eyes, it wasn't a full view of the world. The seams on the bear's face covered his vision, the stuffing pushed against his chest, his legs, his head. There was nothing but this soft prison.

He couldn't move, not like he used to. Not even as a ghost. It was like the whole world was smothered around him, and Sam's sad little face—so broken, just like the bear—was all Charlie could see.

Sam didn't know. Of course, he didn't know. He still carried that teddy bear around everywhere, treating it like it had some sort of life to it. He held it close, but when he hugged it now, it felt wrong, like something cold inside the fabric that Charlie couldn't shake off. He didn't know that Charlie was still there, trapped in the thing.

At night, Charlie could hear Sam crying. His brother hadn't been the same since the accident. It wasn't just the tears that were unbearable—it was the silence in between. The kind of silence that settled over the house, thick like something was wrong, but no one could say what.

And then came the nights when Charlie heard something else. Something that wasn't Sam. He could feel it too—like someone else was in the room with them, just outside the reach of the dim light from the hallway. The eyes inside the teddy bear seemed to follow him.

Sam never noticed, but Charlie could feel it—sharp and bitter, gnawing at him. Like a hand pressing down on his throat. He couldn't scream, couldn't cry out for help. He was stuck, wedged inside this stupid, frayed thing.

But it was more than just the bear. It was the darkness. It had crept inside, swallowed him whole. Every night felt colder, like the world was getting smaller, darker, until there was only the emptiness of being trapped.

When Charlie tried to move, it was like trying to crawl through thick, wet sand. He could feel his arms—his limbs—pressed tight inside, the stuffing giving him no room to breathe, no room to stretch. Sam would hug the bear, and for just a moment, it felt like being held again. But then the crushing pressure came, and Charlie was forced back into the dark. He could feel the soft fibers of the bear's fur against his cheeks, but it wasn't comfort. It was smothering him. The world felt heavy, like something was waiting.

One night, after Sam had fallen asleep, Charlie managed to shift, just a little. He could feel the bear's head tilt, as though something had noticed him moving. But when Charlie tried to break free, it was worse.

The dark thing inside the bear stirred. A presence that wasn't Sam. It was like the bear was more than just fabric and thread. It was a thing with hunger, with malice.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be stuck.

Charlie could remember the sun, the feel of grass beneath his feet, his mother's warm arms. He remembered running, laughing with Sam. Before. Before the crash. Before everything turned to this twisted nightmare.

He remembered Sam crying, holding him, not understanding what had happened, not knowing that Charlie was gone. Sam had never been good at letting things go. That teddy bear had always been his, and now it was Charlie's grave.

The bear wasn't just a bear anymore.

Charlie could feel it when Sam held it too tight. The bear would creak, like the wood of an old house settling. It wasn't normal, but Sam didn't seem to notice. He just held it close, pressing it into his chest like the bear was the last part of Charlie that mattered. But it wasn't.

Each night, the thing inside the bear would grow. It crawled through the threads, from one seam to another, tugging at Charlie's mind. Every time Sam hugged it, the presence would tighten, closer and closer to him, making the walls of the bear press harder against his bones. Charlie could feel it then—the thing that was in the bear with him. It was cold. It was angry. It was hungry.

One night, Sam tossed the bear aside as he cried, not even bothering to put it on the bed beside him. The silence that followed was thicker than usual. Charlie felt his body, limp and heavy, pressed against the cold sheets, barely able to breathe.

He didn't know how long he'd been trapped inside the stuffed thing, but it didn't matter. Sam would never listen. Would never understand.

Charlie could hear the sound of footsteps in the hall. Slow. Deliberate. Not Sam's. He had grown used to the sounds of Sam crying in his sleep, but these steps were different. They weren't human. They weren't right.

And then, just as the steps came closer, the door cracked open. Charlie felt a jolt inside the bear, the fabric shifting as something pressed against it. The smell of stale air, damp and fetid, filled the tiny space. He could feel something cold brush against his cheek, like fingers—soft, but not in a way that made him feel safe. It wasn't Sam. It wasn't human.

The thing in the shadows moved closer.

Sam must've heard the sound of it too. He gasped, a choked, strangled sound that sent a cold thrill down Charlie's spine. Sam's voice cracked as he spoke. "Who's there? Who's there with me?"

Charlie could feel the bear's eyes tighten. Not the eyes of the bear he had once known. But something deeper. Something that no longer belonged in the world of children's toys.

The thing pressed closer to the bear, its dark presence swallowing up the light. The room felt smaller now, suffocating, as the bear shifted with each passing second.

Charlie couldn't see what was there, but he could feel it crawling in the dark. He could feel it crawling through the seams, the twisted fabric, wrapping around his chest.

The bear's grip tightened.

Sam's cries grew louder, but Charlie couldn't do anything to help. Not this time. Sam reached for the bear again, holding it tight. Too tight.

The pressure around Charlie's chest tightened, the stuffing pressing harder against him. Something inside the bear was shifting, moving. Sam didn't know it, but the thing inside the bear—inside Charlie—was not a thing to be held. It was a thing that fed. It fed on the quiet, on the dark, on the misery of being trapped.

And it wasn't letting go.

Sam clutched the bear to his chest, his sobs loud, desperate, begging for the world to make sense again. But it couldn't. The thing inside wasn't letting go. And soon, Sam would learn—like Charlie had—that the bear wasn't the only thing keeping him close.

It was the last thing he'd ever know.