The Midnight Devil

It was an ordinary day when Jamie’s mother brought home the doll. She had found it at a flea market, a dusty, forgotten thing with its stitched mouth twisted into a crooked smile. Jamie had no friends to speak of, and the loneliness was beginning to show. His mother thought it might comfort him, a new toy to fill the silence in the house.

“I got you someone to keep you company, Jamie,” she said with a warm smile. "His name is Mr. Grim."

Jamie was hesitant at first, staring at the doll’s strange, lifeless eyes. They were black buttons, sewn too tightly into its pale fabric face. But as the evening wore on, Jamie found himself talking to the doll, even playing games. He didn't feel so alone anymore.

But midnight brought a different side of Mr. Grim.

That first night, Jamie’s mother awoke to the sound of faint laughter, soft and twisted, coming from downstairs. She thought she was dreaming, until the laughter turned into a thudding sound, like small feet running across the floor.

She crept down the stairs, her heart thumping louder with each step. The house was dim, the shadows long, and in the faint glow of the hallway light, she saw something that made her blood run cold.

There, standing in the center of the living room, was Mr. Grim. His black button eyes gleamed in the dark, and his stitched smile seemed wider, more menacing. Before she could react, the doll turned its head toward her, the neck twisting with a sickening crack.

She gasped, stumbling back. But as quickly as the terror set in, it was gone. The doll lay limp on the floor, as though nothing had happened. She convinced herself it was just a trick of the light, a figment of her imagination. But the unease lingered.

The next day, Jamie found Mr. Grim in his usual place on the chair in his room, his smile as crooked as ever. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

But that night, things grew worse.

Jamie’s father woke to the sound of scratching—slow, deliberate scrapes against the bedroom door. He opened it, only to find the hallway empty. Yet, there was something unnerving about the silence that followed, as though the house itself was holding its breath.

He stepped into the hallway, and the lights flickered. In the moment of darkness, he felt something small brush against his leg. He turned, but there was nothing there. And then, he heard it—footsteps, scurrying behind him, impossibly fast.

When the lights came back on, he saw it. Mr. Grim, standing at the top of the stairs, staring at him with those soulless black eyes.

The doll laughed.

It was a low, guttural sound, far too deep for something so small. And then, the doll ran—straight at him. It moved with an unnatural speed, its tiny feet slapping against the wood floor as it chased him down the hall. Jamie’s father slammed the door behind him, heart racing. But as soon as he did, the laughter stopped. The house fell into a dead, oppressive silence.

The next morning, Jamie’s father found Mr. Grim sitting innocently on Jamie’s bed, as though nothing had happened.

But the family couldn’t ignore the strange occurrences any longer. Objects began to move on their own—chairs dragged across the floor in the dead of night, the television flickered on and off by itself, and whispers filled the house, mocking and cruel.

The worst of it was Jamie. The boy had started to change. He became distant, his eyes dark and sunken. He told his parents about the things Mr. Grim whispered to him, the terrible things the doll wanted him to do. At first, they didn’t believe him. But the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.

It was on the third night that everything reached its breaking point.

At exactly midnight, the house shook with a violent thud. The doors slammed shut, the lights flickered wildly, and the air turned icy cold. Jamie’s mother rushed to his room, only to find it empty. The bed was overturned, the window wide open.

And standing in the middle of the chaos was Mr. Grim.

This time, the doll wasn’t still. It moved, its head jerking toward her with a snap. The smile on its face seemed to tear at the stitches, widening into a grotesque grin. Its tiny hands twitched, fingers flexing like claws.

“You should have never brought me here,” it rasped, the voice a twisted parody of something human. "Now, I belong to him."

The doll lunged, its small form unnatural in its movements. She screamed, grabbing a lamp and hurling it at the doll, but Mr. Grim darted out of the way with impossible speed, laughing maniacally as it danced around the room, knocking things off shelves, tearing at curtains, creating utter chaos.

Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The doll dropped lifelessly to the floor, but the damage was done. Jamie was gone.

The police searched for days, but there was no trace of the boy. And yet, every night, at exactly midnight, the house echoed with the sounds of footsteps, laughter, and the voice of Mr. Grim, whispering dark promises into the shadows.

No one could explain what had happened, but Jamie’s mother knew. She could feel it, deep in her bones—that the doll wasn’t just a toy. It was a vessel, something far older, far darker than they had ever imagined.

Mr. Grim still sits in Jamie’s room, waiting. His black button eyes gleam in the moonlight, his stitched smile ever-widening, as if mocking the family’s despair.

And at midnight, the house comes alive with his wicked tricks once more.