Mr Slushy

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Back in my days at the orphanage, I was often set apart from the other children. Not by choice, but because of what the caretakers called my unusual behavior. I was headstrong, restless, and too aggressive for most of the kids to tolerate. While they played in groups, I drifted to the edges of the farmland the orphanage sat on, always searching for something beyond the ordinary games of tag or hide-and-seek.

The orphanage itself was vast. It stood in the middle of a wide stretch of farmland, its nearest town just a three-minute walk away, though to us it felt like a world distant. The land smelled of soil and grass, and the farmhouse buildings creaked under the weight of age. In a place like that, imagination thrived especially for children like me.

I invented entire worlds in my head. Some days I had an army of toy-sized soldiers who marched in tight formations to conquer villages I constructed from sticks and stones. Other days, a talking horse with a ridiculous blue hat became my companion. And, when the loneliness weighed too heavily, I dreamed of a wealthy family that would one day arrive at the orphanage gates to take me home.

The other children occasionally joined my make-believe worlds. For a while, they seemed captivated waging imaginary wars or joining me on daring adventures. But they eventually tired of my intensity. My stories went too far, my rules too strict, my worlds too wild. So I ended up alone more often than not, immersed in an imagination that no one else cared to share. It was during one of those lonely games that he appeared.

I had just finished setting up another elaborate scenario in the yard when I heard a voice behind me. It was strange. Childlike yet heavy, as though two tones spoke at once. I turned, expecting another child sneaking up on me, but instead I found a figure no taller than my chest.

It was blue. A short, stocky thing with the rough outline of a gnome but none of the charm. Its eyes were large and watery, its smile wide and uneven. I rushed toward it, at first thinking it must be some kind of toy. One of those wind-up dolls from the Chinese store in town. But when it blinked, shifted its feet, and spoke, I knew it wasn’t mechanical.

“You can see me,”

It said, almost surprised. I froze, uncertain. But fear didn’t grip me. Children rarely fear what their minds don’t recognize. Instead, curiosity consumed me.

“I can show you to the others,”

I said, already imagining the awe on their faces when they saw my new discovery. The creature shook its head sharply.

“No. If anyone else sees me, I’ll disappear. Do you want me gone?”

I didn’t. So I nodded and promised to keep him secret. For reasons known only to my younger self, I named him Mr. Slushy.

In the weeks that followed, Mr. Slushy became my closest companion. We played every day, sneaking out to the woods when the caretakers weren’t looking. At first, his games were harmless. We started with hide-and-seek, where his small body could vanish into impossible places. He always won. Then we invented new games, each stranger than the last.

The one I remember most was the pinching statue game. One of us would cover our eyes and stand still, while the other tried to pinch within seven to ten seconds. It was fun at first. A contest of stealth and anticipation. But Mr. Slushy twisted it.

“It’s more exciting with sharper stakes,”

He said one evening, holding up a rusty nail he’d scavenged. From then on, his pinches weren’t playful. They cut, they stabbed, they hurt. I protested, but he only laughed, insisting pain made the game real.

“You’re brave, aren’t you?”

He’d say whenever I wanted to quit. My hands bore scratches, my arms bled, but I kept playing. The fear of losing him outweighed the fear of getting hurt.

Then one night, long after the others had gone to bed, Mr. Slushy woke me. His cold little hands shook my shoulder until my eyes fluttered open.

“Come,”

He whispered. He led me up to the attic, then to a window that overlooked the orphanage yard. The night was thick, the moon hidden by clouds. From up there, the ground was nothing but shadow.

“Remember how you always brag you’re brave?”

He asked, his voice carrying a taunting lilt.

“Prove it. I put a trampoline down there. Jump, and you’ll bounce back. You’ll laugh, I promise.”

I pressed my forehead to the glass, searching, but the dark was impenetrable. No trampoline, no safety only dirt and stone waiting far below.

“No,”

I whispered. Mr. Slushy’s face shifted. His smile collapsed, his eyes narrowed.

“You’re no fun,”

He hissed.

“You’re not good enough. If you keep being like this, I won’t take you to the fun side.”

He pointed out the window, toward a narrow footpath that wound away from the farm and disappeared into trees. It was the one path we were forbidden to follow. The caretakers said it led nowhere safe. But the way Mr. Slushy said it made it sound like paradise. Still, I shook my head. The promise of fun couldn’t lure me from the dread in my gut.

Night after night, he returned with the same demand.

“Jump. The trampoline is bigger now. You’ll love it.”

Each time, I refused. Each refusal twisted him further. He grew colder, sharper, less like a friend and more like something waiting to pounce. And then, one morning, everything changed. A family arrived at the orphanage. They were kind, their smiles genuine, their touch warm. After all my imagined stories of being chosen, it finally happened. They wanted me.

As we drove away in their car, I glanced back at the orphanage. My eyes lingered on the top-floor window—the same one Mr. Slushy had led me to. And there he stood. Not crying. Not waving goodbye like a friend. Instead, he raised one of the sharp objects from our statue game—a jagged piece of metal—and waved it slowly, his grin stretched impossibly wide.

Nineteen years passed. Life pulled me forward. I grew, built myself a home, and finally felt free of the shadows of childhood. Yet the memory of Mr. Slushy never truly left me. When I returned to the orphanage, it was out of goodwill. I wanted to donate, to see the children, to walk those old grounds again. Some of the kids I grew up with had also returned, now adults like me. We laughed, shared stories, remembered the games, the punishments, the mischief.

But when I stepped outside for air, my eyes wandered to the far edge of the farmland. There, boarded up with wooden planks, was the path. The one Mr. Slushy had called the fun side. Drawn by a force I can’t explain, I walked over. The boards were old, brittle. I pulled at them until they gave way. The path stretched ahead, overgrown but unmistakable. I followed.

It didn’t take long before I reached the end. And there it was—the truth of the fun side.

An old cemetery. Small headstones, worn smooth by rain and time, marked the graves. Children’s names etched faintly into stone. Dozens of them. Some I remembered—kids who had vanished from the orphanage without explanation, their absences whispered away by the caretakers as adoptions or relocations.

But standing there, staring at those graves, I knew better. Mr. Slushy hadn’t been my friend. He had been something else entirely—something that lured lonely children with games, dares, and promises of fun. How many had listened to him? How many had jumped? How many had followed him down that path?

I turned back toward the orphanage, my chest tight, my mind reeling. But in the corner of my vision, just beyond the last headstone, I saw movement. A small blue figure. Short. Grinning. And in his hand, he still clutched a piece of rusted metal. He waved.