The Mayhem of Barnaby

I still remember the smell of Nana’s house—cinnamon, old lace, and the faint, metallic scent of something I couldn't quite name. It was the summer of 2004. I was eleven, and my cousin Stephen was fifteen. 

We spent our days in a world of our own making. Nana’s high-backed velvet chair wasn't furniture; it was a Chronos-class time machine. 

We were explorers, jumping between centuries, building pillow forts to protect ourselves from future-warriors. However, the future wasn't where the danger was hiding. It was in the attic.

We found the trunk behind a stack of moth-eaten quilts. It was heavy, dark wood, smelling of damp earth. Inside, wrapped in a black trench coat, was a ventriloquist dummy. He was an African American, just like us, with jet-black hair and a tiny, perfectly knotted tie. He looked… sophisticated…and wrong.

"Why would Nana have this?" Stephen whispered,

I reached into the dummy’s pocket and pulled out a small, yellowed business card. On the front, it said Barnaby.

"Is that your name?" I asked, feeling a chill,

 I flipped the card over. There was a string of words—an ancient, rhythmic incantation. Without thinking, we read it together. Our voices synced up, the syllables vibrating in our chests.

The dummy’s eyes—glassy and brown—snapped open.

"Thank you for waking me," Barnaby rasped, His jaw clicking with every word, "Twelve years is a long time to sleep. I’m ready to cause some mayhem."

We didn't wait for a second sentence. We scrambled out of that attic, lungs burning, and crashed into Nana in the hallway. When we stammered out the story, the color drained from her face.

"Tell me he’s still in the trunk," she whispered, her voice trembling,

We ran back, but the trunk was empty. The window was shattered outward, glass glittering on the roof like jagged diamonds. 

Nana slumped against the doorframe. She told us then that Barnaby wasn’t a toy. He was a vessel of malevolence, a gift from a dark practitioner who had lost a bitter feud with our family.

"He grows stronger with every life that he takes," she warned,

We spent hours in her old Buick, scouring the neighborhood, but the streets were empty. It was only when we pulled back into the driveway that the trap was sprung. 

Stephen’s mom was there to pick him up. Through the living room window, I saw him—Barnaby. He was standing on the mantel, waving with a stiff, wooden hand and a grin that split his face too wide.

Then, came the roar. A gas line hissed and ignited. The explosion threw us back; the front of the house disintegrated in a plume of orange fire. Stephen’s mom survived, but she was unconscious, her body broken.

The hospital was a nightmare. By the time we arrived, trailing the ambulance, the halls were silent—save for the sound of dripping. 

Blood was smeared across the linoleum. The few survivors we found spoke of a "shadow in a trench coat" that moved faster than sight.

That’s when Nana’s phone buzzed. A voice like dry leaves blowing over a grave came through the speaker.  It was Barnaby, and he said,

 "I hitched a ride under the ambulance. Come to room 304, or the woman dies."

We burst into the room to find Barnaby perched on the edge of the bed, a silver scalpel pressed against my aunt’s throat.

 "The more I kill," he giggled, "the more powerful I become!"

Stephen and I lunged. I screamed to distract Barnaby while Nana swung a heavy medical monitor, knocking the dummy to the floor. 

Stephen pinned Barnaby’s wooden limbs down, his knuckles white. I grabbed the scalpel. I didn't hesitate. I drove the blade into the dummy’s chest, twisting until the wood splintered and the unnatural light in his eyes flickered.

"I’ll be back when the two of you are all grown up," Barnaby hissed, his voice fading into a wet whistle, "You’ll both be sorry one day."

Barnaby went still. Stephen and I hugged each other. We may’ve been  shaking; but we were convinced that the nightmare was over.

Twelve years passed. The year was 2016. Stephen had graduated college; I was just about to start. We were sitting in a cafe, talking about my freshman orientation, when both of our phones rang simultaneously.

The caller ID was blank. We both answered.

"Hello?" we both said 

"Twelve years," the voice rasped—the same clicking jaw, the same dry-leaf tone, "Time to have some fun again, boys. Just like old times."

I looked at Stephen. His face was a mask of pure terror. The time machine had finally caught up with us.

The End.