Good evening, I'm Alabaster Catz and it's time for another tale to tell in the dark. Welcome to the show. I hope you don't mind my presence in the room. I assure you tonight you have nothing to fear, except perhaps an old memory. And luckily for you, that is exactly what we were going to relive. From time to time, it's good to remember our past lives, but some memories should remain forgotten. And for the poor soul in this story, nothing could be truer. Unfortunately, that soul is me. So for tonight's tale, we relive one of my childhood memories and of the nightmare that haunted me. And should you think that this is solely a work of fiction then allow me to clarify the matter here and now. It's not. That said, now would be a good time to grab a drink, dim the lights, and take one last look over your shoulder. The show's about to begin. Tonight's tale is a piece written by yours truly. It recalls a memory from my childhood, and of the nightmare with whom I shared my toys. To for Steven, a chilling Tale by Alabaster Catz. When I was four years old, I lived with my mother and sister in a house that no longer exists. It wasn't a particularly large house, but the attic had been converted into a second floor, which added two small bedrooms and a bathroom between them. Naturally, these became my room and my sister's room. Divided only by a short stretch of carpet, my sister and I would leave our doors open so we could whisper to one another after bedtime. However, that all changed when things started disappearing. After moving in, things got busy, my mother worked. My sister started grade school, and I was home alone with the babysitter. Needless to say, in a household where a single mother is outnumbered by her kids, things tended to go missing. An eyelash curler, a Strawberry Shortcake hairbrush, a He-Man action figure. It was just an accepted part of the household. Things would go missing, only to turn up with a day later on the kitchen table. We never thought much of it. My mother assumed that it was the babysitter. My sister assumed that it was my mother. And I assumed that it was magic. Whatever the case, it happened so frequently that it became part of daily life. Something unimportant would go missing. Someone would ask where it was. And someone else would say, "Did you check the kitchen table?" This continued for months without issue. Then one day, something important disappeared. I remember it was on a weekday because my mother was at work and my sister was at school. I was playing in my room when I decided to take out my favorite toy. It was a blue Formula One race car with a checkered spoiler and fast spinning wheels. Out of all of my possessions, this was the most cherished one. It was the one thing I didn't break and the only thing I never lost. But on that day, when I looked inside my tin lunchbox, it was gone. After school, my sister came home to find her favorite Snoopy doll was missing two. And later that evening, my mother couldn't find her best perfume. Now, one could argue that the babysitter had taken them. But these things weren't valuable to anyone other than us. They were personal items. The toy my father gave me, the doll my grandmother gave to my sister, and the perfume that reminded my mother of better days. Needless to say, my mother just passed it off as misplaced items. But I was old enough to know when I had lost something or if someone had taken it from me. So that night, when I went to bed, I went to bed angry. Unfortunately, I didn't know something else was angry too. After dinner, my sister and I washed up and climbed into bed. Normally, that would have been the end of the night, but after begging her mother to sing us a lullaby, she began to sing from the downstairs dining room while toiling away on her sewing machine. However, long after her songs had ended, and her sewing machine had stopped. I dreamt of a little boy standing in the corner of my room. He stood away from the window so that his face was hidden from the moonlight. But I could tell he had short hair and wore a collared shirt. He never said a word or moved from this corner. But for some reason, I could tell that he was angry. The next day I woke up and found my sister standing in the doorway. She looked concerned and asked me if I was okay. I didn't know what she was talking about until I went to the bathroom and saw deep scratches on my face. That's when my sister told me she heard me talking to someone in my room last night. Someone named Steven. The day passed like any other day, my sister went to school, my mother went to work, and I stayed home with the babysitter. Only that day, I didn't play with my toys. I was scared and thought if I did, Steven would get mad and visit me again. I had the feeling that he didn't like the fact that I wasn't sharing my toys. So in an effort to make him happy, I came up with a solution. I opened my tin lunchbox, took out my race cars and began dividing them up. One for me. Two for Steven. That night, I had lined Stevens race cars on top of my dresser. When my mother came in to kiss me goodnight, she asked me why I hadn't put them away to which I replied, "Those are for Steven." The next day, I woke up relieved that I didn't dream of Steven. I looked over at the dresser to see if my race cars were still there, and to my surprise, found my Formula One racer placed in line with all the others. Convinced I had found a way to keep Steven happy, I decided to continue dividing my race cars each night. One for me, two for Steven. Things went back to normal for a few weeks until one night Steven visited me again. He still didn't speak or move, but I knew he was angry with me. The toys were still on the dresser, but draped on top of them was one of my collared shirts. When I woke the next morning, I had dried blood on my face from a nosebleed I couldn't remember. Scared I began to put on the collared shirt when my mother came in to stop me."Don't put that on," she said."You'll get blood all over it. Go wash your face and put on a T shirt. Your father's on his way." I did what I was told as my mother packed my clothes for a weekend with my father. But when his car pulled up, I started to cry. I told her,"Mommy, I can't wear this shirt. Steven doesn't like it." Unfortunately, she wasn't in a listening mood, so with a kiss to my head she sent me out to his car. Two days later, I came home to find that my race cars weren't on the dresser. They were scattered all over the floor. That night, Steven visited me again. Only this time he wasn't in the corner. He was standing next to my bed. The next morning I woke with blood on my sheets and more scratches on my face. When my mother asked what happened. I told her that it was Steven. She didn't believe me though, and tried to explain that Steven was just my imaginary friend. For almost two years I continued divvying my toys and avoiding wearing certain t-shirts while living in that house. Some nights it worked. But most nights, I would dream of Steven and wake up with scratches on my face. After a while my mother took me to the doctor to see what was going on. The doctor concluded I was having Night Terrors and that the wounds were self inflicted. My mother, however, began to suspect that it was something else. That night Steven paid me another visit. He was furious I had gone to the doctor. I tried to tell him that it wasn't my fault, but as usual, he didn't speak and he didn't move. From that night on I began to wake up with bruises all over my body. Giving up my toys and avoiding certain clothes no longer kept Steven happy. He was visiting me every night. And every time he did, I woke up with more injuries. Soon after, for reasons my mother avoided telling us, we moved out of that house and my sister and I went to go live with my father. A couple years later, we learned that the house had burned down and was left as a vacant lot. To this day. My parents still think that Stephen was my imaginary friend. But my sister knows different. She remembers hearing me cry out in my sleep and the nights she came running to my room only to find that my door had been closed. Now, decades later, I no longer play with toys or worry about the clothes I wear. Today I have my own family and I've come to cherish more important things than my blue Formula One racecar. And even though I occasionally have nightmares, they're never about Steven. Then about a week ago, I got a phone call from my sister. We began to reminisce and I asked her if she remembered the old house. She said she did but was curious as to why I brought it up. I didn't have an answer. For some reason, I was just thinking about it. A day later, she sent me a text, no message just to link. When I clicked o it, I was taken to a real estat website where a new house ha been built where the old one used to be. And like the old house, this one also had an attic that was converted to two bedrooms and a bathroom. Shrugging it off is coincidence, I messaged her back with an "lo" and didn't think about it agai. Then last night, just befo e bedtime, I went to my daughter s room and found her playing wi h her favorite blocks. She w s sorting them into two pile. When I asked her what she w s doing, she simply replied,
Girl:One for me, two for Steven.
Alabaster Catz:That concludes our show for the evening. Thank you for joining us, and I appreciate you listening to me as I rattle my chains. Next time, we'll slip into the sad and the strange as a dark romance blooms and withers with name. If you'd like for your tory to be read on the show, or imply wish to pass me a message hrough the veil, you can reach e at alabastercatz.com. Also, f you liked what you heard onight, subscribe to the labaster Catz podcast for some ore borrowed time. Once again, hank you for joining us. I'm labaster Catz. And remember, he best stories are the ones we ell in the dark.