Chapter 1: A Friend for the Lonely

Chapter 1: A Friend for the Lonely

The silence in the house was a heavy blanket, one David had never gotten used to. Three years. Three years since Savannah’s laughter had been stolen by the screech of tires and the brutal indifference of twisted metal. Now, the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator, the distant drone of a lawnmower, and the frantic clicking of his own keyboard.

He stared at the blueprints on his screen, the elegant lines and precise measurements blurring into a meaningless scrawl. Architecture had once been his passion, a way to build order from chaos. Now, it was just a job, something he did from his cluttered home office to keep the lights on and food on the table for Maisyn.

His gaze drifted to the frayed, woven bracelet on his wrist. Savannah had made it for him on their last anniversary, a simple thing of blue and grey thread. It was the only part of her he could still touch. He rubbed his thumb over the worn fibers, a familiar ritual that did little to soothe the gnawing anxiety in his gut.

The anxiety had a name: Maisyn.

His daughter, his seven-year-old world, was becoming as quiet as the house. Her bright, bubbly energy had slowly deflated since the accident, leaving a placid, distant child in its place. Her teachers said she was well-behaved, if a little dreamy. David knew it was more than that. He saw the loneliness in her eyes, a reflection of his own, and it terrified him. He was a problem-solver, a designer of stable structures, yet he couldn't figure out how to rebuild his own daughter’s heart.

The office door creaked open. Maisyn stood there, a sheet of drawing paper in her hand. Her long, dark hair, so like her mother’s, framed a face that was unnervingly serene.

“Hey, sweet pea,” David said, forcing a smile. “What’ve you got there?”

She padded silently to his desk and held up the drawing. It was a child’s typical work—a lopsided house, a bright yellow sun in the corner. But in the center of the page stood a figure that made the hairs on David’s arms prickle. It was impossibly tall and thin, a stark black stick-man that dominated the paper. And it was covered, from its round, featureless head to its spindly feet, in dozens of sharp, angry lines, like a porcupine made of needles.

“That’s an… interesting guy,” David managed, his voice carefully neutral. “Who is he?”

“Mr. Pins,” Maisyn said, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she were identifying a cat. “He’s my new friend.”

Relief washed over David so intensely it made him dizzy. An imaginary friend. Of course. It was normal. Healthy, even. It was a sign of her imagination firing back up, of her finding a way to cope. He could have wept.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, his smile genuine now. “Mr. Pins. That’s a funny name. Why do you call him that?”

“Because he’s made of them,” Maisyn explained patiently, tapping a finger on one of the spiky protrusions. “He says they’re for holding things together, so they don’t fall apart and get lonely.”

An odd metaphor, but a poignant one. David’s heart ached. “Well, I’m glad you have a new friend, Maisyn.”

Over the next week, Mr. Pins became a third, invisible member of their household. An extra, empty placemat appeared at the dinner table. Maisyn would leave a space on the couch for him when they watched cartoons. She would whisper into the air, then nod seriously, as if receiving a profound piece of advice. David played along, grateful for the change. Maisyn was talking more, smiling more. The vacant look in her eyes was being replaced by a focused, if strange, intensity.

The relief, however, began to fray at the edges.

“Mr. Pins doesn’t like loud noises,” she’d say, her small hand reaching out to lower the volume on the TV.

“Mr. Pins thinks you worry too much, Daddy,” she’d murmur, watching him pace the kitchen while on a stressful work call.

It was the little details that were starting to unnerve him. The way she described her friend was always the same: tall, thin, and quiet. He didn’t have a face, she explained one evening over bowls of macaroni and cheese, but you could always tell he was smiling. He helped people who were lonely, finding them so they wouldn’t have to be sad by themselves anymore.

“He collects them,” she’d said, pushing a noodle around her plate.

“Collects what, sweetie?”

“The lonely people. He keeps them safe.”

David had swallowed hard, the cheesy pasta suddenly thick and cloying in his throat. It was just a child’s imagination, he told himself. A child processing her grief through a slightly morbid fantasy. It was fine. Everything was fine.

The turning point came on a Tuesday night. He had just finished tucking Maisyn into bed, the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo a small comfort in his turbulent world. He’d read her a story about a lost rabbit who finds its way home, a story he’d read a hundred times before.

She looked up at him from her pillow, her eyes wide and eerily calm in the soft glow of her nightlight.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, sweet pea?”

“Mr. Pins has a question for you.”

David perched on the edge of her bed, smoothing her comforter. “Okay. What’s the question?”

Maisyn’s expression didn’t change. There was no childish hesitation, no playful spark. She delivered the line with a chilling finality, as if she were a messenger relaying a royal decree.

“He wants to watch you sleep.”

David froze. The blood in his veins seemed to turn to ice water. “What?” he whispered.

“He says he’s seen lots of kids sleep, but he’s never seen a grown-up sleep before. He’s curious,” she explained. “He wants to come into your room tonight and watch. Is that okay?”

The fragile peace of the last week shattered into a million pieces. This wasn’t a coping mechanism. This wasn’t a harmless fantasy. An image flashed in his mind: the tall, spiky figure from her drawing, standing in the corner of his bedroom, its featureless face aimed at him in the dark. A silent, smiling observer.

“No,” David said, his voice sharper than he intended. “No, Maisyn, that’s not okay. Your… your friend stays in your room. That’s the rule.”

For the first time, a flicker of something crossed Maisyn’s face. It wasn’t sadness. It was disappointment. Annoyance.

“He won’t like that,” she said softly. “He’s very patient, but he doesn’t like being told no.”

With a shaking hand, David kissed her forehead. Her skin felt cool. “Goodnight, Maisyn.” He backed out of the room, pulling the door until it was almost closed, leaving only a thin sliver of light from the hallway. He felt her eyes on him until the very last second.

Sleep, of course, was impossible.

He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his ears straining against the heavy silence. Every creak of the old house was a footstep. Every shadow in the corner of his eye was a looming figure. He felt absurd, a grown man terrified of his daughter’s imaginary friend. But the dread was a physical thing, a cold knot in his stomach. He thought of Savannah, of how much he missed her steady presence beside him. She would have known what to do.

He must have dozed off, because he awoke with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was dark, the digital clock on his nightstand glowing 3:17 AM. Nothing was there. He was alone. He let out a shaky breath, running a hand over his face. He was being ridiculous, letting his grief and stress get the better of him.

He swung his legs out of bed, deciding a glass of water was what he needed. His bare foot touched the wooden floor, and then something else.

Something small, and sharp.

He hissed, pulling his foot back. He fumbled for the lamp on his nightstand, flooding the room with soft, yellow light. He looked down.

There on the floor, glinting under the lamplight, was a pin.

It wasn't a safety pin, or a sewing needle. It was a hat pin, long and slender, with a simple, black pearl-like head. It was old-fashioned, something his grandmother might have owned. They didn't have anything like it in the house.

David stared at it, his breath caught in his throat. It lay there on the polished floorboards, a tiny, impossible object. A piece of a child’s drawing made real. A calling card, left in the dark. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that he had not been alone in the room. Mr. Pins had paid him a visit after all.