The Collector

The old man lived alone in a house too large for one, a decaying Victorian at the end of a forgotten street. No one knew his name, but they called him The Collector. His windows were always shuttered, yet at night, a dim glow seeped through the cracks, casting long, restless shadows. Children dared each other to peek through the slats, but those who did swore they saw strange shapes—figures standing still, lined up like dolls in the flickering candlelight.

One evening, a boy named Simon crept up to the house, emboldened by a dare. As he pressed his eye against the wooden slats, he saw a room filled with mannequins—or at least, that’s what he thought. Their eyes looked too real, their mouths slightly parted as if caught mid-scream. Then he noticed one of them—a girl from his school who had gone missing weeks ago. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her eyes darting to meet his. Before he could react, a cold hand clamped over his mouth, and the world went dark.

The next morning, Simon’s parents found his bed empty, his window flung open. The town searched for weeks, but there was no trace of him. The Collector’s house remained silent, undisturbed, until another child dared to look inside. This time, there were two new figures among the others, their faces frozen in terror, their eyes desperately pleading.

The Collector never left his house, and no one dared confront him. But on quiet nights, when the wind whispered through the trees, the children swore they could hear muffled cries from inside, fading into silence before anyone else could listen. And if you looked through the slats—if you were foolish enough—you might just see someone you know, standing still, waiting for help that would never come.