The Last March of Mr. Pickles

When I was six, we lived in a cramped flat above a derelict bakery on the edge of town. The stairs creaked with every step, and at night, the old ovens would groan as they settled, sounding like a hungry animal stirring in its den. My sister Lila and I shared a room, our mattresses pushed against opposite walls, and between us lay a faded rug with a recurring pattern of dancing mice that seemed to move in my peripheral vision. I never liked that rug.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. The moon was a pale grey disc behind the grimy window, casting just enough light to make out shapes. I was counting the mice on the rug for the hundredth time when I saw it: Mr. Pickles, my tattered, one-eared teddy bear, was floating. He hung in the air, about two feet off the floor, his glass eyes catching a sliver of moonlight. He was facing the door, and then, impossibly, he started to walk, his little plush legs moving as if a child were guiding him, but there was no child. The door was closed, but it swung open with a slow, drawn-out creak, and Mr. Pickles walked out into the hallway.

I wanted to call for Lila, but my throat was dry. I watched him navigate the top of the stairs, his little body bobbing with each step, and then he descended, one stair at a time, each thump a soft heartbeat in the silence. From my bed, I could see the bottom of the staircase through the open door, and I saw him reach the landing and pause, as if waiting for something. Then he turned, and began to climb back up.

Each step brought him closer, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. He reached the top, turned right, and walked past our door, down the narrow hall to the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the fridge door open, a long, low suck of air, and then the clatter of a glass jar knocking against a shelf. Then silence. Then the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps on the linoleum, heading back towards our room.

I pulled the covers over my head, my heart hammering so loud I thought it would give me away. The footsteps stopped at our door. I peeked out from under the blanket, and there he was, standing at the threshold, holding a small, empty jar that had once held pickles. He raised the jar, tilted it as if to show me it was empty, and then dropped it. It didn’t shatter; it landed with a soft thud and rolled towards my bed, stopping at the edge of the rug.

The next morning, I found Mr. Pickles in the corner, his one eye hanging by a thread. I told my mother, but she laughed it off, saying I had a nightmare. But I knew what I saw. And every night since, I keep my eyes on the door, waiting for Mr. Pickles to march again, hoping that this time, he’ll bring back something more than an empty jar.