Kyon had always been a light sleeper, but tonight felt different. The familiar weight of exhaustion pressed against his eyelids as he settled into bed, yet something nagged at the edges of his consciousness—a wrongness he couldn't quite place.
The digital clock on his nightstand read 11:47 PM, its red numbers casting an eerie glow across his thirteen-year-old bedroom. Posters of video games and comic book heroes covered the walls, and his desk was cluttered with homework he'd been avoiding. In the corner, barely visible in the shadows, sat the old toy chest that hadn't been opened in over three years—not since he'd decided he was too old for such childish things.
Thunder rumbled outside, and rain began to patter against the window. Kyon pulled the covers up to his chin, trying to shake off the inexplicable dread that had been following him for weeks. Ever since his tenth birthday party three years ago, when he'd announced to everyone—including his parents—that he was "too old for imaginary friends," he'd been having the dreams. Dreams of being watched. Dreams of something calling his name from very far away.
His mother had said it was just growing pains, the natural anxiety of becoming a teenager. His father had simply grunted and told him to "man up." But Kyon knew it was something else. Something connected to the guilt he'd been carrying since that day he'd opened his toy chest one last time and spoken the words that still haunted him: "I don't need you anymore, Mr. Patches. I'm too old for you now."
The silence that had followed those words had been deafening. Not the natural quiet of an empty room, but something else—something that felt like a held breath, like the moment before a scream.
Sleep came fitfully, filled with half-formed dreams and whispered voices he couldn't quite understand. In his dreams, he was always running through a dark forest where the trees had faces, and something with button eyes was chasing him, calling his name in a voice that sounded like torn fabric.
It was 3:33 AM when the temperature in his room plummeted.
Kyon's eyes snapped open, his breath immediately visible in the suddenly frigid air. Frost was forming on his window, spreading in patterns that looked almost like tiny handprints. His room was bathed in an unnatural blue light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
"What the—"
The words died in his throat as he saw the toy chest in the corner. It was open. The lid, which he distinctly remembered closing and never opening again, was now standing wide, and from within came a soft, rhythmic thumping sound. Like a heartbeat. Like something trying to get out.
The walls began to shift around him, the familiar blue wallpaper peeling away in long strips to reveal something underneath—something that pulsed with veins of sickly green light. The ceiling above him stretched impossibly high, disappearing into darkness that seemed to writhe and breathe with its own malevolent life.
"Kyon..." The voice was barely a whisper, but it froze his blood. It was coming from the toy chest. "Kyon, I've been waiting..."
His bed began to tilt, reality bending around him like a funhouse mirror. The floor beneath him cracked and splintered, revealing not his house's foundation but an endless void filled with distant screams and the sound of chains rattling in the wind.
Panic seized him as he tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't respond. The air grew thick and oppressive, tasting of copper and decay and something else—something that reminded him of old stuffing and moldy fabric.
"I've been so alone, Kyon," the voice continued, growing stronger. "So very alone in the dark. But I never stopped believing you'd come back for me."
The furniture around him began to melt and twist, transforming into impossible shapes. His gaming chair became a throne of twisted metal and bone. His bookshelf stretched into a towering monolith covered in symbols that hurt to look at directly. And from the toy chest, something was emerging.
First came a paw—gray and matted, with claws that scraped against the wood. Then an arm, far too long and jointed in places arms shouldn't bend. The thumping sound grew louder, more insistent, and Kyon realized with growing horror that it wasn't a heartbeat at all.
It was applause.
"Welcome home, Kyon," the thing in the chest said, its voice now clear and terrifyingly familiar. "I've prepared such wonderful games for us to play."
Then came the pulling sensation—as if invisible hands were dragging him through the very fabric of existence. His vision blurred, colors bleeding together in nauseating spirals. The last thing he remembered was the sound of his own scream, echoing in a space that no longer made sense, and the distant sound of children laughing—or crying. In this place, it was impossible to tell the difference.
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by a throbbing headache and the metallic taste of blood. Kyon's first sensation was cold—bone-deep and unforgiving. His second was the realization that he couldn't move his feet.
His eyes opened to darkness so complete it seemed solid. Gradually, as his vision adjusted, he became aware of his predicament. He was suspended upside down, heavy shackles biting into his ankles. The chains creaked with each slight movement, and below him stretched an abyss that seemed to swallow light itself.
But it wasn't empty. Far below, he could see pinpricks of light moving in patterns—like a city viewed from an airplane, if cities were built in the depths of hell and populated by things that had never been human.
The air here was different—thick with the stench of rot and something else, something that made his primitive brain scream warnings. This wasn't his room. This wasn't his world. The architecture around him was impossible, with walls that curved in directions that shouldn't exist and doorways that led to nothing but more darkness.
"Where am I?" he whispered, his voice cracking with terror.
"You're home," came a voice from the shadows, and Kyon's heart nearly stopped. "You're finally home, Kyon."
As if summoned by his words, a door materialized in the distance—a rectangle of sickly yellow light that hurt to look at directly. Through it stepped a figure that made Kyon's blood freeze in his veins.
It was tall, easily eight feet, with the general shape of a teddy bear but wrong in every conceivable way. Its fur was matted and gray, hanging in patches from rotting flesh beneath. One button eye dangled from frayed threads, while the other glowed with an unnatural amber light. Its mouth, far too wide for its face, split into a grin that revealed rows of needle-sharp teeth.
But it was the recognition that truly broke something inside Kyon's mind.
"Hello, Kyon," the thing said, its voice a grotesque parody of comfort—the same voice that had once whispered bedtime stories and promised protection from monsters under the bed. "Did you miss me?"
The creature's head tilted at an unnatural angle, and Kyon could see where its neck had been sewn back together with thick, black thread. Its arms hung too long at its sides, ending in claws that scraped against the stone floor as it approached.
"Mr. Patches?" Kyon's voice was barely a whisper, his childhood name for his imaginary friend catching in his throat like broken glass.
"Oh, you do remember," the thing that had once been Mr. Patches cooed, its voice like honey poured over razor blades. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten all about me, the way you abandoned me when you decided you were too old for imaginary friends."
The creature circled beneath him, its movements predatory and wrong. Where once there had been soft, comforting presence, now there was only malevolent hunger.
"You left me to rot, Kyon. Left me in the dark corners of your mind while you grew up and forgot. But I didn't forget. I've been waiting. Growing. Changing." Mr. Patches reached up with one clawed hand, almost touching Kyon's face. "And now you're going to stay with me forever."
"This isn't real," Kyon stammered, tears streaming down his face. "This is just a nightmare. You're not real. You were never real!"
Mr. Patches' grin widened impossibly. "Oh, but I am real, Kyon. We're all real here. Every imaginary friend who was ever abandoned, every childhood companion who was discarded when their children grew up. We all end up here eventually."
The creature gestured to the darkness around them, and Kyon saw other shapes moving in the shadows—dozens of them. A raggedy doll with no face. A toy soldier with a broken sword. A stuffed rabbit with its ears torn off. All of them watching him with hungry eyes.
"Welcome to the OtherSide," Mr. Patches whispered, his grin widening impossibly. "Where nothing is ever truly forgotten, and nightmares come home to roost."
But then something happened that made Kyon's blood run even colder. Mr. Patches' expression suddenly changed, the malevolent grin fading into something almost... sad. Almost human.
"But you know what the strangest part is, Kyon?" the creature said, its voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "You're not the first child to be brought here. There have been others. Many others. And they all had one thing in common."
Kyon's heart was hammering so hard he thought it might burst. "What do you mean?"
Mr. Patches leaned closer, and Kyon could smell the rot on his breath. "They all had the same imaginary friend. They all created me. Different names, different faces, but the same essence. The same... need."
The world seemed to tilt around Kyon. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" Mr. Patches' amber eye pulsed brighter. "Think about it, Kyon. How many children do you think have created a teddy bear friend to protect them from the dark? How many have given him button eyes and a kind voice and trusted him with their deepest fears?"
Horror was creeping up Kyon's spine like ice water. "You're lying."
"Am I?" Mr. Patches gestured to the shadows, and more shapes emerged. Children. Dozens of them, all around Kyon's age, all hanging upside down from chains just like his. Their eyes were empty, their faces slack, as if something had been drained from them.
"Meet your predecessors," Mr. Patches said with mock pride. "All of them came here thinking they were special, thinking their imaginary friend was unique. But you see, Kyon, I'm not just your imaginary friend. I'm everyone's imaginary friend. I'm the archetype, the template, the original pattern that every frightened child reaches for when they need something to keep the monsters away."
The creature's form began to shift and change. For a moment, Kyon saw different faces superimposed over Mr. Patches—hundreds of them, all variations of the same basic teddy bear design. Different colors, different sizes, but all with the same button eyes, the same comforting smile that had now become a rictus of hunger.
"And now," Mr. Patches continued, his voice becoming something far more ancient and terrible, "it's time for you to feed me, just like all the others did. Your imagination, your childhood wonder, your capacity for belief—all of it will make me stronger. Make me more real."
The amber eye pulsed, and Kyon felt something inside him begin to drain away. His memories of happiness, of safety, of believing in magic and wonder—all of it was being pulled from him like water from a sponge.
"No," he gasped, struggling against the chains. "I won't let you!"
Mr. Patches laughed, a sound like breaking glass mixed with a child's giggle. "Oh, but you will. They all do, eventually. And when you're empty, when there's nothing left of the child you used to be, you'll join them in the darkness. Another hollow shell, another vessel for my hunger."
But then, just as the last of Kyon's strength was about to be drained away, something impossible happened. One of the other children—a girl with long dark hair—opened her eyes and looked directly at him.
"Run," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "When he feeds, the chains weaken. You have to run."
Mr. Patches spun around, his expression twisting with rage. "Impossible! You're empty! You have nothing left!"
The girl's eyes flicked to Kyon one more time. "Not empty," she said, her voice growing stronger. "Hiding. We've all been hiding, waiting for someone strong enough to—"
Her words were cut off as Mr. Patches' claws raked across her face, but it was too late. The damage was done. Around them, the other children began to stir, their empty eyes suddenly filled with desperate hope.
And that's when Kyon realized the most terrifying truth of all: this wasn't just about feeding on children's imagination. This was about something far worse. Something that made his blood turn to ice and his mind reel with implications too horrible to fully grasp.
Because if the other children were still conscious, still aware after all this time, then that meant...
"You're not just feeding on us," Kyon whispered, his voice filled with dawning horror. "You're keeping us alive. Keeping us conscious. You're not just eating our childhood wonder—you're savoring it. Forever."
Mr. Patches' grin returned, wider and more terrible than before. "Now you're beginning to understand. Welcome to eternity, Kyon. Welcome to the OtherSide, where the feast never ends, and the guests never leave."
The creature's laugh echoed through the void, and as the sound faded, Kyon heard something that made his heart stop completely.
It was the sound of more chains rattling in the darkness above him. New chains. Fresh chains.
Someone else was being brought to the OtherSide.
And they were crying for their imaginary friend to save them.