You have tried again.

Another day of walking through town with a folder full of resumes, another string of polite rejections. The sun was hot, the sidewalks cracked, and every door you knocked on seemed to echo the same answer: “Sorry, we’re not hiring.”

By the time they got home, your shoulders sagged with exhaustion. Your mother greeted You at the door with a soft smile and a plate of warm food. She didn’t ask how it went. She didn’t need to.

 “Eat,” she said gently. “You’ll feel better.”

You sat at the small kitchen table, the plastic fan humming in the corner. The plate held a generous serving of stewed chicken—tender, falling off the bone—nestled beside a mound of creamy mashed yam. A drizzle of golden gravy pooled at the edges, soaking into the soft folds. There were slices of fried plantain too, caramelized and sweet, their edges crisped just enough to crackle between the teeth.

The smell was comforting. Familiar. Like home.

You took a bite, chewing slowly, letting the warmth settle in your chest. But the comfort didn’t last.

The television flickered in the corner, volume low but clear.

 “Authorities urge caution,” the anchor said, voice clipped and serious.  

 “Several missing persons have yet to be found.  

 Some were discovered months later—dead.  

Be careful.”

Your mother spoke. “Another body was found this morning,” she said, voice calm.  

 “Missing for three months. Found in pieces. Be careful out there.” You paused mid-bite. The anchor’s eyes didn’t blink. The warning echoed in your head.

You swallowed hard, tried to shake it off.

That’s just life, you  told yourself. Everything’s going to be fine.

Later that night, You bathed, brushed your teeth, and crawled into bed. The sheets felt colder than usual. The silence stretched. Outside, the wind rustled faintly through the trees. You fell asleep.

The morning light was pale and quiet.

You sat at the kitchen table, chewing slowly on a piece of toast your mother had made. It was buttered just right—soft in the middle, crisp at the edges—but your appetite had vanished. The news from last night still echoed in your head. Missing people. Found dead. Be careful.

Your mother placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Try again today,” she said gently. “You might get lucky.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. You dressed quickly, grabbed your folder of resumes, and headed out.

At the center of town stood the new supermarket. It had opened just last week, all glossy windows and pastel signage. FreshMart, the sign read, in bubbly letters that looked like they belonged on a toy box.

You stepped inside.

The air was cold. 

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the aisles. Shelves were fully stocked—cereal, canned goods, snacks—but no one was shopping. No carts rattling. No children whining. Just silence.

Behind the counter stood a single cashier.

They wore a pale blue uniform and a plastic smile. Their eyes didn’t quite meet Your’s.

“Hi,” You said, approaching slowly. “Are you hiring?”

The cashier tilted their head. Their neck creaked.

“No more room,” they said. “No more work.”

The words felt wrong. Rehearsed. Like a line from a play.

You blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

You turned away, heart sinking, and wandered through the aisles. Something was off. The shelves were too neat. The air too still. The music playing overhead was cheerful, but warped—like a cassette left in the sun.

Then you saw it.

Tucked between boxes of cereal and jars of jam, sitting alone on a shelf that should’ve held paper towels. A game cartridge. Pastel pink. A cartoon neighborhood. A golden star.

No price tag. No barcode. Just a sticker in looping cursive:

Game name: The Star Next Door.

You reached out, fingers brushing the plastic.

The lights flickered.

The cashier turned their head—slowly, too slowly—and smiled wider.

You walked back to the counter, unsure why their hands were trembling.

“I’d like to buy this,” you said.

The cashier didn’t take their eyes off You. Not once.

“Do you live alone?” they asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“Do you sleep well?”  

“Do you dream often?”  

“Do you remember your dreams?”

Each question came too quickly. Too smoothly. Their voice was soft, but the words felt sharp.

You  hesitated. “I… I just want the game.”

The cashier nodded, still staring.

“No receipt,” they said. “No returns.”

You paid in silence. The cashier’s eyes followed them all the way to the door.

 End of chapter 1

It was late when you finally came home.

The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting pale orange halos on the pavement. Your shoes were scuffed, your resume folder limp at your side. The town had felt emptier than usual—shops closing early, windows shuttered, people avoiding eye contact.

Another day. Another failure.

Inside, the house was quiet. The only light came from the kitchen, where your mother stood stirring a pot of stew. The scent of warm spices filled the air—ginger, garlic, thyme. Comforting.

She turned as you entered, her face soft with concern.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

You shook your head, dropping the folder onto the table. “No one’s hiring. Not even the new supermarket.”

Your mother sighed, ladled stew into a bowl, and placed it in front of you. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

You sat down, spoon in hand. The stew was rich and thick, chunks of chicken nestled beside soft dumplings and carrots. Steam curled upward, fogging the edges of the bowl. You ate slowly, the warmth settling in your chest, but the heaviness in your stomach remained.

The television was still on.

You  glanced at the screen, then back at your food. The anchor hadn’t blinked once.

You pushed the bowl away, appetite gone.

Later that night, You retreated to your room. The air felt heavier than usual. You bathed, changed into pajamas, and sat on the edge of your  bed.

Then you remembered the game.

The Star Next Door.

It was still in your bag—the pastel pink cartridge with the cartoon neighborhood and golden star. No barcode. No publisher. Just that looping sticker: Play Me.

You slid it into the console.

The screen blinked. A jingle played—cheerful, tinny, and warped.

“He’s your neighbor, he’s your friend,  

 Mr. Sweetheart to the end!”

Then everything went black.

Your head spun. The room tilted. A low hum filled the air, like a vacuum pulling at the edges of reality. You tried to stand, but your legs gave out. The controller slipped from your fingers.

And then—darkness.

You woke to silence.

The air was warm, sweet, and slightly artificial—like melted candy and plastic packaging. Your  head throbbed. The bed beneath you was stiff, molded into a perfect rectangle with rounded corners. The blanket was smooth and glossy, like it had been painted on.

You sat up slowly.

The room was pastel blue, the walls decorated with cartoon clouds and smiling suns. The furniture looked like toys—too small. A dresser shaped like a cupcake. A lamp shaped like a giraffe. The cuckoo clock on the wall ticked loudly, stuck at 7:00.

You blinked hard.

This wasn’t your room.

You stood, legs shaky, and opened the door. The hallway was narrow, lined with wallpaper that shimmered like wrapping paper. Every step echoed like plastic heels on a hollow floor.

Outside, the world was… wrong.

The sky was a flat, painted blue. The grass was too green, too uniform. Trees stood like props, their leaves molded into identical shapes. Houses lined the street like doll houses—each one pastel, each one smiling. Mailboxes had faces. Curtains never moved.

End of chapter 2

A jingle played faintly in the air, looping endlessly.

“He’s your neighbor, he’s your friend,  

 Mr. Sweetheart to the end!”

You stepped onto the sidewalk, heart pounding.

Then—bump.

A woman in a yellow dress turned with a wide smile. Her watering can spilled slightly as she looked up.

Her skin looked smooth—like vinyl. Her eyes were round and glassy. Her name tag flickered, unreadable.

You took a step back. “Um… hi. What’s your name?”

The woman beamed.

“Well hi, new neighbor! My name is Mrs. Bell. What’s yours?”

You hesitated. “I’m… Y/N. Where are we?”

Mrs. Bell tilted her head, smile still fixed.

 “What do you mean, new neighbor?” she asked, voice light but sharp.  

 “We were expecting you. You told us you came to this neighborhood because you had nowhere else to go.”

She leaned in slightly, eyes wide and unblinking.

 “Are you okay?”

Your breath caught. “I never said that. I just got here. I think I’m going mad. What is this place?”

Mrs. Bell clapped her hands together, the sound hollow and sharp.

 “Why, you’re in Farmeville, of course!”

She handed you a folded paper. It was a map of the neighborhood.  

Every house was labeled—neat, cheerful names.  

Except one.

The house at the end of the lane.  

The one with red curtains.  

No name. Just a star.

You folded the map and slipped it into your  pocket.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “I guess I’ll… look around.”

You took a few cautious steps down the sidewalk. The air smelled like bubblegum and warm plastic. The trees didn’t rustle. The sun didn’t move.

Mrs. Bell’s smile twitched.

 “Oh, don’t wander too far,” she said sweetly. “And definitely not too near the house with the red curtains. That one’s… special.”

You paused. “Why?”

Mrs. Bell tilted her head, watering the can still in hand. “Oh, no reason! Just neighborhood rules. You’ll learn them soon.”

She stepped closer, voice lowering into a singsong hum.

 “Mr. Sweetheart is a very cool person,” she said.  

 “He has very fluffy pink curly hair, white skin like porcelain, and blue eyes like the sky—but softer. Like baby blue.”

You blinked. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mrs. Bell giggled, the sound sharp and hollow.

 “Because you’ll meet him soon, silly! Everyone does eventually.”

Your stomach turned. The jingle overhead looped again.

“He’s your neighbor, he’s your friend,  

 Mr. Sweetheart to the end!”

They looked down the lane. The house with the red curtains sat quietly at the far end. No name. Just a golden star.

You took a step toward it.

Mrs. Bell’s smile faded.

“I said not too near.”

Mrs. Bell’s watering can tipped slightly as she turned toward the sound of a distant voice.

“Oh! That’s Mr. Bunny calling,” she said, voice bright but strained.  

 “He’s always needing help with his garden. Such a handful.”

She leaned in one last time, her vinyl smile stretched tight.

“Remember, don’t wander too far. And don’t go too near.”

Then she walked off, heels clicking like plastic on pavement.

You watched her disappear around the bend.

The neighborhood was quiet again. Too quiet.

You turned toward the house with the red curtains—the one marked only by a golden star. It sat at the end of the lane, slightly crooked, slightly darker than the rest. The curtains didn’t sway. The windows didn’t blink.

You stepped closer.

End of chapter 3