Fredrick didn’t ask for this. He didn’t ask for any of this.
But when he stumbled upon the strangely empty room, tucked away in a corner of the house he didn’t know he’d been living in for years, he knew things had gone too far.
He had spent all morning cleaning the house, removing the lingering traces of the last few April Fools’ Days — those playful tricks that made him believe he still had control. That he wasn’t losing his grip. The house always seemed to turn against him in the end, but today felt different. The air was thick with the smell of something old, something rotting.
Timmy had been gone for weeks — two weeks, or three, Fredrick couldn’t remember. Time moved funny in the house. And the walls? They were alive, or at least they had been when he was younger. But now, they were still. Silent. Only the creaking of old floors and the occasional flicker of the lights let him know that he was not yet alone.
Fredrick found the note tucked under the door of that strange room, as if it had always been there. He had never noticed it before.
“I’m waiting. Just like last year. Fool.”
He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but the words hit him with a gut punch. Fool? Fool for what? He didn’t remember what had happened last year — or the year before. Maybe it was the same joke. The same trick.
But his hands trembled as he opened the door.
Inside, the room was dark. Darker than it should have been. No light, no window. Just a thick, almost choking presence that pressed in from all sides. The floorboards were uneven, and the air tasted metallic — like blood, but sourer. The only thing that stood in the center of the room was a single chair, unremarkable except for the deep, almost mesmerizing stain in the center of the seat.
Fredrick took a step forward.
His foot hit the floor with a dull thud, but as he did, he heard something. A whisper, low and guttural.
“You’ve forgotten.”
Fredrick froze.
The whisper wasn’t in his head. It was real. He turned around. No one was there. No one ever was.
He swallowed, his throat tight.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind him.
He didn’t panic. That would come later. This was how it always started — small, strange, but normal in the way that a hundred other strange things had felt normal over the years. A trick. A joke. Someone’s sick game.
It was April Fools’ Day, after all.
Timmy would show up soon. He always did. Maybe not immediately, but the boy was always around. Laughing, giggling, ready with a joke. He just didn’t know it yet.
Fredrick sat down in the chair. It was cold. The stain on the seat — the one that looked like it had seeped into the fabric and embedded itself into the grain — looked darker now, blacker, as though the room itself was feeding off him.
“You’re not who you think you are.”
The voice was louder this time, and it came from behind him, like it always did.
Fredrick turned sharply, but no one was there.
No one was ever there.
The walls seemed to pulse with a rhythm he couldn’t place. He stood up, took a step toward the door, but before he could reach for the handle, it swung open by itself.
And then, the voice again: “I’m waiting. Fool.”
This time, the words felt real, not like a trick. They dug deep into him, right where he had buried all the questions. Questions he couldn’t ask because he had already known the answer. He hadn’t been in this house for years. He had been waiting, just like the house. Just like the fool.
Fredrick didn’t understand. Didn’t know why he couldn’t remember anything anymore. Why the house had become something else entirely. Something alive. Something breathing. Something waiting.
The door to the hallway stood open, inviting him, as if the whole house was nothing but a giant, twisted mouth, ready to swallow him whole.
Fredrick walked toward it.
But before he could cross the threshold, he stopped.
There, in the darkness of the hallway, Timmy was standing. He was too still. Too quiet. And he was grinning — no, not grinning. Laughing. Laughing like he had been waiting for Fredrick to realize what he had forgotten.
Timmy didn’t speak.
Instead, he pointed to the door.
And Fredrick understood.
The door was the only way out.
It had always been.
He hadn’t been in this house, in this place, for years. He had been stuck here forever. But now, he remembered. The trick wasn’t on him. The joke had never been for him. He had been the fool for thinking he had been in control. He had always been the fool.
Timmy’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Fool,” he whispered.
Fredrick stepped through the door.
The house let him go.
Joshua Walker – The Last Bard is a poet and short story writer with over 147k followers on Bluesky. Known for his evocative, raw poetic style, Joshua’s work explores themes of vulnerability, darkness, and introspection. He has been published in numerous outlets, including The Fib Review, Solarpunk Magazine, Dandelion Scribes, and Paperboats. As “The Last Bard,” he bridges the gap between ancient poetic traditions and modern struggles, creating works that are both timeless and deeply human.
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