Content Warning
Content on this page may be triggering to some. This story includes gun violence.
My parents had been searching for a new house for some time, and they had finally discovered what they were looking for. The building used to be a daycare for disabled children, abandoned for unknown reasons, and purportedly haunted. I had entered an old play room, creepy signs and toys were scattered across the space. “I’ll be deaf soon, but then I’ll hear new voices!” read one of the many hand-written signs, a childlike drawing of a person being struck by a vehicle drawn in crayon on the paper.
My parents had decided this to be my room, and I had entered it to begin assembling my bed. A friend was accompanying me, helping me clean and setup the room to my liking. A toy sat across the room from us, a small cowboy seemingly made from cardboard, holding their gun straight out as if in a draw with a bandit. My friend laid in the bed, playfully twisting and turning when suddenly—BANG—the bullet passed effortlessly through their skull, fired from the toy.
One conclusion could be drawn from this, I assumed. Turning around while the toy is pointed at you must cause it to shoot you. With this newfound information I set out to the living room, using the toy to shoot everyone who happened to be in my path. Eventually I happened upon the real estate agent who had sold the property to my parents, using the toy to shoot them.
Upon being shot the agent did not die, but instead became bumbling idiot version of himself—now wielding their own pistol. It was at this moment the realization hit me like a brick; these people are not dying, their brains are being reverted to the state of a toddler. I attempted to run out of the house, struggling to unlock the door, but it was too late. The estate agent lifted the pistol, pointing at me, and shot.