The bell above the door didn't ring.
It never did—not for the ones who wandered in, and especially not for the ones who weren't sure why they came. It was the sort of shop you didn't remember seeing from the sidewalk, and certainly wouldn't find on a map. But on this particular afternoon, under a low sky and the scent of coming rain, the door swung open anyway.
A woman stepped inside, holding the hand of a boy no older than six.
"Just a quick look," she muttered, mostly to herself. Her voice was tight around the edges. The boy didn't answer. He was already tugging gently toward a narrow aisle of shelves stacked with pale dolls, antique buttons, and clock hands that pointed nowhere.
Behind the counter sat a man.
He was dressed in a velvet waistcoat, two shades too rich for the dusty lighting, and a long black coat with stitched cuffs that peeked out at the wrist. A small porcelain teacup hovered near his lips, though no steam rose from it. One monocle glinted dimly under the flicker of a swinging bulb.
"Welcome," he said, in a voice like a smirk drawn out of a teapot. "Augustus Grimm. Curator of sorts. You're just in time."
"For what?" the mother asked.
"For him," Augustus said, nodding toward the boy, who had paused before a squat, velvet-lined pedestal near the back of the room. Upon it rested a burnt, oversized children's book. Its cover was blackened at the corners and embroidered in red thread that spelled out no readable title.
"Don't touch that, Jamie," the mother warned.
But Jamie didn't hear. Or didn't listen.
He reached for the book. The moment his fingers brushed the spine, it sprang open on its own. Pages fluttered rapidly—whsshhh!—and stopped on a two-page spread depicting a child in bed, wide-eyed, staring at a cracked closet door.
"Oh," Augustus said with delighted surprise. "This one."
He stepped from behind the counter, silent despite his boots, and knelt beside the pedestal.
"Would you like a story?" he asked the boy.
Jamie looked up. Then back down at the book. Then nodded.
The mother opened her mouth to object, but Augustus was already flipping the page.
"The interesting thing about this one," he said lightly, "is that it was found in a house fire. The nursery survived, oddly enough. But the parents didn't."
He turned the page again. A pop-up figure of a child in bed snapped upward. The closet door beside it jutted open on a paper hinge, revealing two tiny, black, oval eyes drawn in glittering ink.
Jamie flinched. Augustus chuckled.
"Let's see, let's see… ah, yes. This one's in verse."
The mother shifted uncomfortably. "We really should—"
"Just the first page," Augustus said without looking up. "After all, it's already open."
He cleared his throat.
---
The moon was full. The house was still.
My room was dark. The air was chill.
The shadows pooled along the floor.
And something knocked inside the door.
Not loud, not sharp, but soft and slow—
A sound you're not supposed to know.
I pulled the blanket to my chin
And prayed the night would not begin.
I tried to sleep. I shut my eyes.
But darkness whispers, truth and lies.
And in the corner, tall and black,
The closet door hung slightly slack.
It used to shut. I knew it did.
But now it hung just like a lid
Left loose atop some rotting thing—
A box that groaned, a mouth, a ring.
I watched. I stared. I didn't blink.
Too scared to breathe. Too scared to think.
The silence swelled. The shadows spread.
And something stirred beside my bed.
I should have slept. I should have known.
But fear had carved me down to bone.
And so I watched—and so it came.
And now I know its shape. Its name.
I learned the rules, but far too late:
You must not look. You must not wait.
You must pretend you do not see.
You must not face what should not be.
The thing inside will only creep
If it believes that you're asleep.
But if you wake—or cry, or run—
It knows its song has just begun.
And then it came. The door swung wide.
It slipped across the floor and smiled.
It sang a note I couldn't place—
And touched my cheek with quiet grace.
It hummed again—a tune I knew.
A twisted thread from something true.
"Child," it said, "you'll hum my tune."
Its voice was dusk. Its breath was ruin.
I couldn't scream. I couldn't speak.
It pressed its hand against my cheek—
And poured itself behind my eyes.
It fit beneath my skin disguise.
It blinked. It breathed. It sat up straight.
It used my voice. It sealed my fate.
---
Now every night, the closet's closed.
The hallway light is warm and glows.
My toys are clean. My floor is neat.
And I walk softly on my feet.
But mother says I sleep too still.
She says my hands are always chill.
She says I hum a lullaby—
The kind that makes the baby cry.
She says my voice sounds not quite right.
She says it hums throughout the night.
She says I knock just once or twice…
And smile, with teeth as cold as ice.
---
The page turned itself once more.
The boy said nothing.
Augustus closed the book slowly, resting his hand atop its burnt cover. He looked down at Jamie, then up at the mother, who stood a full two steps farther back than she had before.
"That was… very intense," she said.
Augustus smiled.
"Yes. It's quite good, isn't it?" He gently patted the cover. "They never do finish the last line, you know. Not in this copy."
The mother cleared her throat. "I think we'll go."
Jamie still hadn't moved.
Augustus nodded.
"As you wish. Do come again."
They left without the book.
The door didn't ring behind them.
But the pages fluttered open on their own… and waited.