The Puppy’s Playmate

Mara and her boyfriend, Jason, had just moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of Silverpine. The place was a fixer-upper, but rent was cheap, and they could finally have their own space. They were young, nineteen and twenty-one, and their lives were a messy collage of part-time jobs, late-night takeout, and the constant, comforting presence of their six-month-old puppy, Biscuit. The farmhouse itself was drafty and creaked with age, but they’d painted the living room a cheerful yellow and hung fairy lights, trying to make it feel like home.

Their actual bedroom was a disaster zone, gutted for renovation, so they’d set up their mattress in the living room. It was cozy, in a way, with Biscuit curled at their feet, the TV glowing, and the sounds of crickets filtering through the window screens. One night, they were watching a silly cartoon, laughing at the crude humor, when a sound cut through the noise. It was a giggle – high-pitched, feminine, and distinctly not coming from the TV. It came from the corner of the room, near the pantry, where the shadows pooled.

They both froze. Jason muted the show. The giggle came again, clearer this time, as if the source had moved closer. Biscuit’s ears perked up, and he turned his head, staring at the same empty corner, tail wagging tentatively. The giggle turned into a full, playful laugh, the kind you’d hear from a toddler hiding behind a curtain. Jason whispered, ‘Did you hear that?’ Mara’s blood turned to ice. They both looked at the pantry door, which was slightly ajar. Jason, trying to be brave, said, ‘Maybe it’s the neighbors’ kid outside.’ But they both knew the nearest house was half a mile away.

Jason stood up, his face pale, and walked to the front window, peering out into the moonlit yard. Nothing. As he turned back, the laugh sounded again, right behind him. He whipped around, but there was nothing there. Biscuit was now on his haunches, pawing at the air, as if playfully batting at an invisible string. The laugh morphed into a singsong, ‘Come play! Come play!’ Jason stumbled back to the mattress, pulling Mara close. They sat there, trembling, as the sounds continued for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, the laughter faded into a soft hum, and then silence. They barely slept, and when they did, they had nightmares of a faceless child running through the cornfields.

The next night, they fell into an exhausted sleep early, around nine. Upstairs, Mara’s brother-in-law, Tom, and his girlfriend, Elsie, were watching a movie in their converted attic bedroom. Their own dog, a lumbering Great Dane named Goliath, was lying on the floor. Suddenly, Goliath lifted his head, ears alert. He let out a low whine, then a bark. Tom shushed him, but the dog wouldn’t stop. The barking grew frantic, and Goliath began pacing, his tail tucked between his legs. Tom got up to see what was wrong, and as he reached the top of the stairs, he froze. From the living room below, he heard the unmistakable sound of a child giggling.

Tom turned to Elsie, who was clutching a pillow. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked. She nodded, eyes wide. They crept down the stairs, Goliath trembling at their heels. The living room was dark except for the faint glow of a nightlight. Mara and Jason were fast asleep on the mattress, tangled in each other’s arms. Biscuit was sitting upright in the middle of the floor, staring at the ceiling, his head tilting side to side as if following something crawling on the beams. Then, Goliath let out a deep, mournful howl, and the giggling stopped abruptly. The room felt suffocatingly silent.

Tom and Elsie stood there, frozen, when they heard a rustling sound from the closet. The door creaked open a few inches, and a small, indistinct shape darted out, making a beeline for the kitchen. Tom flicked on the lights, but whatever it was had vanished. The only evidence was Biscuit, who trotted after the apparition, his tail wagging, into the dark kitchen. They heard a playful yip, then silence. They ran to the kitchen, but it was empty, except for Biscuit sitting by the back door, staring out into the night.

After that night, the phenomena escalated. They would find their furniture rearranged, small objects missing, and hear scurrying sounds in the walls. But the most unnerving was the laughter. It became a constant companion, always at the edge of hearing. One evening, Mara was alone in the living room, folding laundry. Jason had stepped out to get groceries. The TV was on, but she heard, over the noise, a clear little voice: ‘You’re not my mommy.’ Mara’s heart seized. She looked around, but saw nothing. The voice repeated, ‘You’re not my mommy. Where is my mommy?’ Mara whispered, ‘Who are you?’ The voice drew closer, now right behind her ear, ‘I’m the girl who lives in the walls. Will you play with me?’

Mara spun around, but she was alone. She felt a cold hand grab her ankle. She screamed and ran out of the house, standing on the porch, gasping for breath. Jason returned to find her in tears, and they decided they couldn’t stay there. They packed their things and left that night, taking Biscuit and Goliath with them. As they drove away, Mara looked back at the farmhouse, a dark silhouette against the stars. In the upstairs window, she swore she saw a small child holding a hand up, waving goodbye. She turned away, her skin crawling. And for a moment, she could have sworn she heard a faint giggle through the car window, blending with the wind.

Months later, they moved into a new apartment in the city, a sterile, modern place. They tried to put the farmhouse behind them. But sometimes, in the dead of night, Biscuit would still perk up his ears and stare at a corner of the room, his tail wagging tentatively. And Mara would lie awake, listening to the hum of the city, half-expecting to hear that child’s laugh. One night, she woke to find Jason standing over the bed, staring at the wall. ‘Jason?’ she said. He didn’t respond. He was pointing at a small drawing scrawled in crayon on the wall. It was a stick figure of a child holding hands with a larger figure, and beneath it, in wobbly handwriting, the words: ‘I found you.’