Date: 1995

  Era: Early 90s, United States

  Requestor: Sarah Williams, age 29

  Sarah Williams was once a girl of quiet dreams and soft colors, someone who painted the world not as it was, but as it should have been. Her art was delicate, deeply emotional, and praised across her small Ohio town. For a time, her name carried a whisper of promise in the local galleries.

  But beauty breeds jealousy, when fed, becomes cruelty.

  Rachel Turner had once been Sarah’s closest friend. She stood beside her in art school, shared her brushes and tears. But in the shadow of Sarah’s rising talent, Rachel’s envy curdled into something darker. She began subtly, undermining Sarah in conversations, sowing doubt among peers. She mimicked her style, whispered half-truths, and took credit where none was due.

  Then, she struck.

  The night before Sarah’s most important gallery debut, every single one of her paintings was destroyed. Torn canvas. Slashed frames. And worse, a false trail had been laid that pointed the blame at Sarah for the theft of another artist’s work. Security footage was missing. Witnesses were “sure” they’d seen her snooping. Within hours, her name was ruined.

  The community that once embraced her turned cold. Her gallery contacts vanished. Even those who once called her friend chose silence.

  And Rachel?

  Rachel flourished, claiming Sarah’s lost spot, bathing in the light that had once been meant for someone else.

  Sarah’s world crumbled.

  Nights passed in grief. Then anger. Then something else—something darker. One evening, alone and half-starved, she wandered the internet mindlessly, hoping to feel anything but numb. Her fingers clicked without purpose until they landed on a page that shouldn’t have existed.

  The screen was pitch black, save for the blood-red text at the center.

  Do you wish for revenge?

  There was a single button below it: YES.

  Her hand hovered for a second, trembling.

  Then she clicked.

  Everything went black.

  That night, Sarah dreamt of fire and frost. Of whispers crawling through her skin. She stood in a dim, endless room lined with pale plush toys that watched her with button eyes, all of them smiling just a bit too wide.

  Then the woman appeared.

  She looked like a child—long black hair, pale skin, eyes glowing like dying coals. She held a small plush fox in her arms, and when she spoke, her voice echoed from every direction, both soft and thunderous.

  “I know your pain,” she said. “Your betrayal. Your hatred.”

  Sarah couldn’t speak. She only nodded.

  “I can give you what you desire,” the woman whispered. “But revenge is never free.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Sarah’s heart thudded once. “What do you want in return?”

  The woman smiled, gently.

  “Just your soul.”

  And with that, the pact was made.

  The first week, Rachel’s paintings began to rot. A strange black mildew bloomed on the canvases, curling the edges into something hideous. Her brushes snapped in half while she worked, her paint turning to sludge. No matter how many times she cleaned her studio, the walls always seemed damp. Moldy.

  Then came the dreams.

  She dreamt of Sarah every night—only it wasn’t Sarah as she remembered. Her skin was cracked like broken porcelain. Her eyes were pits of fire. Ink dripped from her hands, leaving scorched fingerprints wherever she touched. Rachel ran through endless corridors in the dreams, chased by the distorted image of the girl she’d betrayed.

  She stopped sleeping. Her body began to wither. Her eyes darkened with sleepless panic. She whispered to herself, even when she thought she was alone. The shadows began to stretch too far. The mirrors held her reflection just a second too long.

  By the third week, she was a ghost of herself.

  The final night arrived without warning.

  Rachel awoke in her studio, though she didn’t remember falling asleep. The door was gone—just gone. The lights buzzed faintly, flickering, revealing the room coated in a fine layer of black ash. Plush toys sat in every corner. Bears. Rabbits. Dolls. All smiling. All watching.

  Then she saw the fox.

  A single plush fox sat atop her easel. Its button eyes burned red.

  She turned, heart thundering—and there stood the girl from the dream.

  Lily.

  No longer a child, not quite human. Her hair drifted like smoke. Her eyes glowed brighter than before. Fire pulsed faintly beneath her skin, like something trying to break free.

  “It’s time,” Lily said, her voice both kind and cold. “Justice has been served. Now the price must be paid.”

  Rachel backed into the wall, gasping. “Please—I didn’t mean—”

  A second voice interrupted.

  “Mistress. May I assist?”

  From the shadows stepped a man in a sleek black butler’s suit. Impossibly quiet. His hands gloved, posture perfect. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes sparkled with something… satisfied.

  It was Kenji. A man Rachel vaguely remembered from a gallery opening—quiet, forgettable.

  “You helped her?” Rachel whispered.

  Kenji tilted his head, almost amused.

  “I ensure the balance is maintained,” he said simply. “Every punishment is tailored. You deserve every moment of what’s coming.”

  Lily raised her hand. The ground beneath Rachel’s feet crumbled into shadow, and the plush toys moved—not fast, not jerking, but smoothly. Softly. Like they had always meant to do this.

  They walked on tiny feet, their stitched arms reaching upward.

  Rachel screamed.

  The toys surrounded her, their fabric warm and damp as they clung to her. Their smiles widened. Their eyes pulsed red. They did not tear. They are unmade. Her thoughts blurred. Her limbs weakened. Her voice cracked into silence.

  And then… she was gone.

  Not dead.

  Claimed.

  The Cold Room accepted another.

  Sarah awoke the next morning to sunlight. She breathed deeply and, for the first time in weeks, felt weightless. She returned to her canvas. Her brush moved with certainty. People began to whisper about her again, but now with awe and fear—her art carried something that stirred the soul and twisted the stomach. Something real.

  She never saw Rachel again.

  But sometimes, in dreams, she wandered the halls of that endless room. Plush toys lined the walls. And occasionally, she would see one—just one—with wide, terrified eyes stitched into its fabric. It never blinked.

  Kenji remained at Lily’s side, his duty unwavering. Every soul summoned, every price collected. He kept the room clean, the plushies in order. He never forgot their names.

  And Lily?

  She waits.

  Somewhere beyond screens and silence, her question still echoes.

  Do you wish for revenge?

  She always hears the ones who whisper yes.

  Case: Closed

  Status: Integrated into Cold Room Sector VII