Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Last Delivery

It was a quiet evening when Mark, a seasoned delivery driver for a small-town courier service, received an unusual request. The call came in just before sunset, crackling over the radio in a voice tinged with urgency. "We need a delivery to the old Harrington House. It's time-sensitive. Can you handle it?"

Mark paused. The Harrington House was a relic of the town's past, rumored to be haunted. It had sat empty for years, the windows broken, the paint peeling. Still, the promise of an extra paycheck coaxed him to accept. He gathered the package, a small, unmarked box wrapped in brown paper, and hopped into his truck.

As he drove down the winding road to the outskirts of town, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an eerie glow over the landscape. The air grew colder, and a thick fog rolled in, shrouding the trees like a ghostly veil. Mark turned on the headlights, illuminating the path ahead, but the beam of light seemed to dissipate into the fog, barely cutting through the thickening gloom.

When he arrived at the Harrington House, a shiver crawled up his spine. The mansion loomed before him, its silhouette dark against the twilight sky. Broken shutters hung askew, and the door creaked open slightly as if inviting him in. Swallowing hard, Mark stepped out of the truck, clutching the package tightly.

As he approached the front door, he heard whispers, faint and indistinct, echoing around him. He hesitated but then knocked, the sound echoing hollowly in the silence. No answer came, but the door creaked open wider, revealing a dimly lit hallway. A chill ran down his back as he peered inside, the shadows shifting ominously.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice wavering. "Delivery for...?" His words trailed off into the stillness.

With a deep breath, he stepped inside. The air was stale, heavy with dust and something else—something he couldn't quite place. He turned on his flashlight, the beam flickering against the faded wallpaper and the cobwebs that hung from the ceiling like ghostly fingers.

Moving deeper into the house, Mark felt a sense of dread wash over him. The whispers intensified, swirling around him, becoming more coherent. "Get out," they seemed to say. "Leave now."

Ignoring the voice of fear gnawing at him, he pressed on until he reached a grand staircase. A chill breeze swept down from the upper floor, and the whispers grew louder. "Leave... while you still can..."

Determined, Mark climbed the stairs, each step creaking ominously underfoot. He reached the landing and turned down a dark hallway, where the shadows loomed like sentinels. The whispers now felt urgent, pleading. "You shouldn't be here..."

Finally, he found a door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar. The faintest light seeped out, casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls. Mark pushed the door open, revealing a room filled with old furniture covered in white sheets, remnants of a long-lost life.

In the center of the room sat a small table, and on it lay an ornate box, similar to the one he carried. Hesitating, he placed the package he had brought on the table, glancing around nervously. The room felt alive, as if the air was charged with energy.

Just then, a soft sound made him jump—a quiet giggle, playful yet haunting. Mark turned, heart racing. "Hello?" he called again, but only silence answered. He took a step back, ready to leave, when the whispers erupted into frantic cries, filling the room with an overwhelming cacophony.

"GET OUT!"

The box on the table burst open, revealing an array of intricate, hand-carved dolls. Each one was unique, with hauntingly lifelike features and eyes that seemed to follow him. He stumbled backward, knocking over a chair that crashed to the ground.

The dolls began to twitch, their heads turning toward him. One by one, they lifted their arms as if beckoning him closer. Panic surged through him, and he turned to flee. But as he reached the door, it slammed shut with a force that shook the walls.

"NO!" he shouted, pounding on the door. "LET ME OUT!"

The whispers transformed into manic laughter, echoing around him. He backed away, his heart pounding in his chest, but the dolls were moving now, their wooden limbs creaking as they stepped off the table, their eyes glimmering in the low light.

"Join us..." they sang, their voices harmonizing into a twisted melody. "Forever... in our game..."

Mark's breath quickened as he realized he was trapped. He could feel their gaze, cold and predatory, lingering on him. They moved closer, their tiny feet making no sound as they surrounded him.

"Get away from me!" he shouted, swinging his arms wildly. But they were relentless, inching closer, their tiny hands reaching out for him.

Desperation clawed at his throat. Mark spotted a window on the far side of the room, a sliver of hope piercing through the fog of fear. He made a break for it, dodging the dolls as they lunged at him. With every ounce of strength, he hurled himself toward the window, crashing through the glass and tumbling to the ground below.

He landed hard on the grass, gasping for air. The night was eerily silent, the whispers gone, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. Mark scrambled to his feet, glancing back at the house. The window he had escaped from was now just a darkened void, the dolls nowhere to be seen.

He ran to his truck, his heart racing, and leapt inside. As he fumbled with the keys, he glanced back at the mansion one last time. In the window, he saw a shadowy figure standing, the outline of a doll, peering at him with a wicked grin.

Finally starting the engine, Mark sped away, the old house shrinking in the rearview mirror. The whispers faded, but a sense of unease clung to him, a dark reminder of what lay behind.

Days turned into weeks, but the experience haunted him. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had followed him home. Objects in his apartment seemed to shift when he wasn't looking, and he swore he could hear soft giggles echoing in the silence.

Then one night, as he lay in bed, he felt a weight settle on his chest. He opened his eyes to find a doll staring at him from the foot of his bed, its wooden face painted with a sinister smile. He tried to scream, but no sound came out.

"Join us..." it whispered, the voices of the others joining in a haunting melody.

Mark realized with a sinking heart that he had not escaped at all. The dolls had come for him, and there was no way to run. As the laughter surrounded him, he was pulled into darkness, becoming just another plaything in their twisted game.