THE CURSED TOY MONKEY 🐵

 

I should’ve thrown it away. Should’ve burned it. But here I am, still holding it.

Let me rewind a bit. This thing started way before last week, but I guess the madness didn’t really hit me until I took it home.

It was just a doll—plastic, painted in that old-school way, like the kind you'd see on a dusty shelf at your grandparents' house. Those eyes… they *glared* at me the second I saw it. The moment my hand brushed against its cold porcelain face, I felt it. A jolt of something dark. You could almost hear it whisper. *Take me home.*

I’m not a superstitious man, but when I saw the damn thing in that back alley shop—right next to that temple I’d never noticed before—I had this stupid urge to buy it. For what? To give it to my daughter? Nah. Something else, something more primal told me it was mine now.

That night, I threw it on the shelf in my bedroom. Like any normal idiot, I didn’t think about it again. But the first night I tried to sleep, that’s when the whispering started.

At first, it was just soft—barely a sound. The second night, it grew louder. I tried ignoring it. Tried convincing myself I was losing it. But no. The whispers were getting clearer. And then, *the laughing*.

It was the doll. I knew it.

I thought maybe I was just drunk or hallucinating. Maybe something from my past was screwing with my head. But no. The next day, I noticed something else. My reflection in the mirror—it wasn’t me anymore.

When I looked into my eyes, I didn’t see the tired man I knew. Instead, there was *something else*. Something hungry. So, I locked the doll in the closet. Figured, "If it’s out of sight, out of mind."

That night, I felt it. A weight on my chest. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I felt the thing—its tiny hands creeping up my throat, its cold fingers tightening around my neck. It *laughed*, like it was playing a game.

When I woke up, I was covered in blood. My throat felt like it had been shredded. But there were no marks. Nothing physical.

The *thing* was alive.

It was then I knew—I had to kill it. No, not just get rid of it, but burn it, tear it apart. But every time I tried, something worse happened. The more I pushed it away, the closer it got.

I could hear it breathing now, even when I wasn't near it. It followed me around the house. The walls started cracking. Doors slammed shut by themselves. The air grew thick, like it had its own heartbeat.

Then, the last straw: My daughter.

She’s eight. She came to me one night, her eyes wide, trembling, holding the monkey doll. “Papa,” she whispered, “why does he want to play with me?” She was shaking, clutching the doll to her chest.

I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. The thing *wanted* her. I knew it. My stomach churned.

I couldn’t let it get her. I couldn’t let it take her away from me. So, I finally made up my mind.

I picked the doll up. I set it on the table. It was silent now. Too silent.

But I didn’t notice the shadow growing in the corner of the room.

I grabbed a knife, ready to carve the thing open, when I heard the screeching sound of a thousand voices—so loud it made my ears bleed. And there, standing in front of me—*it was no longer a doll*.

It was *real*.

It had legs now, arms, a twisted, rotting face. The monkey’s grin stretched impossibly wide. Its eyes were *alive*—*dead*—*hungry*.

And it laughed. It *laughed* in a voice that wasn’t its own.

"You think you can kill me?" it taunted.

I don’t know how I survived the next few moments. The walls caved in. The floor split open. Everything around me screamed. I grabbed the knife and plunged it into the thing’s chest.

But it didn’t die.

Instead, *I* felt the pain.

Every cut, every twist of the knife, was like I was cutting into my own skin. I felt the blood spill—not from it, but from me. My blood. My soul.

And as I bled out, gasping for air, it whispered, one last time:

“Now, *I* am free.”

That was yesterday.

Now, I sit here, staring at the wall. The doll’s in the corner of the room, watching me. But it’s not a doll anymore. It never was.

I should’ve burned it.

But it’s too late now. It’s already in my head.

And soon, it’ll be in yours too.