The Collector

Table of Contents

The house sat like a corpse at the end of Marlowe Street, draped in shadows even at noon. It was a sprawling Victorian relic, once grand in its day, now peeling and hunched under the weight of time. Its turrets leaned slightly, its roof shingles curled like brittle fingernails, and vines crept up the sides as if nature itself was trying to smother it. The shutters were always closed, nailed shut so no light could escape except at night. Then, faint candlelight bled through the cracks, spilling in thin yellow ribbons across the warped siding.

No one knew the man’s real name. The few who’d caught a glimpse of him—gaunt frame, hollow cheeks, hair white as cobwebs—just called him The Collector. It was a name whispered like a warning, a grim acknowledgment that he was more than just an old hermit.

Children dared each other to go near his property, to press their faces against the slats and see what was inside. Most didn’t make it past the rotting fence, too unnerved by the way the house seemed to watch them. But those who claimed they had peeked swore they saw strange shapes in the flickering candlelight. Not furniture, not clutter but human figures. Some were bent at odd angles, others stood rigid, side by side like soldiers. The stories varied, but all agreed on one thing: the figures didn’t move… but they also didn’t look fake.

Simon Holbrook was twelve, a wiry boy with too much curiosity for his own good. He’d heard the stories for years, dismissed most as the kind of playground rumors that fed on boredom. But when Ryan and Marcus, two of the older boy, cornered him after school, their smirks dripping with challenge, Simon felt the sting of pride.

“You’re not scared of some old guy, are you?”

Ryan taunted.

“Bet you wouldn’t last ten seconds looking through his window,”

Marcus added, jingling a pocketful of coins like an offer of prize money. Simon’s jaw tightened. He told himself it would be easy. Just walk up, peek, and walk away. He’d prove them wrong and maybe earn a little respect. That night, under a pale slice of moon, he slipped out his bedroom window and made his way to Marlowe Street.

The air felt colder there, as though the house sucked the warmth from the world around it. The porch groaned under his weight, and the scent of mildew stung his nose. The shutters loomed in front of him, their paint curling into gray flakes. Slowly, Simon bent down, found a gap between two slats, and pressed his eye to it.

At first, he thought he was looking at mannequins. There were at least a dozen, arranged in rows along the walls. But as his vision adjusted to the candlelight, he noticed details that made his stomach turn: skin that gleamed with sweat, lips parted ever so slightly, and—God—eyes that moved. Some blinked, slow and deliberate. Some darted toward the door as if expecting someone to enter.

Then he saw her. Emily Carter. She’d been in his math class last year before she vanished one rainy afternoon. Her hair was tangled and damp, her dress stained, but there was no mistaking her. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths. And her eyes—wide, frantic—locked onto his.

Simon staggered back, his mouth opening to shout, but a cold, dry hand clamped over his face. The smell of earth and rot filled his nostrils. He kicked, thrashed, tried to bite, but the grip only tightened. The last thing he saw before darkness closed in was the flicker of candlelight and a tall, thin shadow moving toward the window.

Morning came with the brittle chill of autumn. Simon’s parents found his bed empty, the sheets still warm. His window stood open, the curtains fluttering like pale ghosts. They searched the neighborhood first, calling his name until their voices broke, before alerting the police.

The whole town joined in. Search parties combed the woods, drained the shallow creek behind the old train tracks, and questioned every neighbor. But the Victorian at the end of Marlowe Street remained untouched. The police claimed they had no probable cause—just rumors, they said, and the house was private property.

Weeks passed. Missing posters faded on telephone poles, their edges curling in the damp air. Simon’s mother stopped answering the phone. His father stopped speaking altogether. Life in the town trudged forward, but at night, when the wind rattled the bare branches, people swore they could hear muffled sobbing drifting down from that end of the street.

And then came Anna Mercer. She was eight, fearless in the way only the very young can be. One crisp November evening, she accepted a dare from her older brother to sneak a look through the infamous shutters. She tiptoed across the Collector’s lawn, heart thumping, and pressed her face to the same gap Simon had used.

The room looked the same as always—dim, flickering, crowded with figures. But this time, there were two that stood out. Both young, both unfamiliar to her but instantly unsettling. The boy’s dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes glassy yet still alive. The girl beside him was older, maybe fourteen, her cheeks wet with silent tears. Their faces were twisted in the same expression: desperate, pleading.

Anna stumbled back, her voice catching in her throat. She turned to run—but something rustled in the shadows by the porch. She caught the barest glimpse of movement, of something tall and angular unfolding itself from the darkness. She didn’t wait to see more. She sprinted all the way home, refusing to speak of what she’d seen for weeks.

The Collector himself was a mystery. No one knew where he came from. He never shopped in town, never spoke to anyone, and was never seen in daylight. Yet his presence was felt—subtle, but inescapable. Gardens near his property wilted faster. Pets sometimes vanished. Mail left on his porch disappeared without a sound.

Older residents recalled vague stories of the house’s previous owner, a reclusive man who died suddenly decades ago, leaving the place abandoned until he arrived. Some swore the Collector wasn’t just one man, but a title passed down, each new “owner” inheriting the same grisly hobby.

But no one dared to find out for sure. Adults dismissed the children’s claims, though their voices sometimes trembled when they spoke of him. And the police—whether from fear, bribery, or bureaucracy—never crossed that threshold.

On certain winter nights, when the wind cut through the streets like knives, the candles in the Collector’s windows burned brighter, casting warped silhouettes across the frost. Neighbors shut their curtains tighter, pretending not to notice.

And the children… well, the children still dared each other. Still crept up to the slats with pounding hearts, still swore they saw movement in that shadowed room. Some claimed the figures tried to speak, their lips barely moving. Some said they saw tears glistening in the candlelight. And some—though never for long—swore they recognized a friend, a classmate, a cousin.

The Collector never aged, at least not in any visible way. His gait remained slow but deliberate, his clothes always the same dark coat that brushed the tops of his shoes. Sometimes he would stand on the porch in the dead of night, motionless for hours, as though listening to something only he could hear.

And so the house remains, sagging under the weight of its secrets. The shutters stay closed, the locks stay bolted from the inside, and the figures inside—however many there are now—remain perfectly still.

Unless, of course, you’re foolish enough to look for yourself. Then, maybe, one will meet your gaze. Maybe one will plead with you silently, their eyes begging you to run for help. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll feel a cold hand slide over your mouth before you can make a sound.

And if that happens, you’ll join the collection. Waiting. Forever.