Unsettling Little Gifts

“I have gifts for you,” Selly had whispered, her voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. And then, when Emily had looked away for just a moment, a tiny, perfect feather, iridescent and impossibly soft, had appeared on the rug. Emily had gasped, delighted. Selly always brought such wonderful things.

Sally, however, didn’t think the stone was wonderful. She found it later that evening, sitting on Emily’s bedside table next to a scattering of glitter that hadn’t been there before. Emily was asleep, her face peaceful, but Sally’s own heart felt a little flutter of unease. The stone was heavy, too heavy for a child’s toy, and it pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth. The glitter, too, was odd. It wasn’t the chunky craft glitter Emily usually adored. This was finer, like dust, and it caught the dim light from the hallway in a way that made it seem to shimmer with an inner life.

“It’s just a pretty stone, Mom,” Emily had said earlier, her eyes wide and innocent, when Sally had asked about it. “Selly gave it to me. She said it will make my wishes come true.”

Sally had smiled, a little too brightly. “That’s lovely, honey. Selly sounds like a very generous friend.” But as she’d tucked Emily into bed, a tiny knot of worry had tightened in her stomach. Selly. The tall, dark friend who lived in the shadows. Emily talked about her more and more, always describing Selly’s quiet stillness, her preference for the dimmest corners of the house, her habit of staring out the windows, especially as the sun began to dip below the horizon.

The next morning, the unease deepened. Sally couldn’t find her favorite mug, the one with the chipped handle that she always used for her morning tea. She searched the kitchen cupboards, the dishwasher, even the living room, but it was gone. Later, as she was putting away Emily’s laundry, she found it. The mug sat on the top shelf of Emily’s closet, nestled amongst a pile of mismatched socks, looking utterly out of place.

“Emily, did you put my mug in your closet?” Sally asked, trying to keep her voice light.

Emily, who was busy drawing at the kitchen table, looked up, her brow furrowed in concentration. “No, Mommy. Maybe Selly moved it.”

Sally’s breath hitched. She looked at the drawing. It was Selly, a tall, dark figure with long, spindly arms reaching out. And in Selly’s hand, a tiny, dark mug.

That afternoon, the house seemed to hum with a strange energy. The floorboards creaked when no one was walking on them. A faint, rhythmic tapping echoed from the attic. Sally kept catching glimpses of movement in her peripheral vision, shadows that seemed to detach themselves from the walls and then melt away when she turned to look. Emily, too, was acting strangely. She’d started spending more time in her room, sitting in the darkest corner, silent and still, her eyes fixed on the window. When Sally tried to coax her out to play, Emily would whisper, “Selly doesn’t like the light, Mommy. We have to be quiet.”

The gifts continued. A single, perfect rose, its petals impossibly black, appeared on Emily’s pillow. A small, intricately carved wooden bird, its eyes like tiny chips of obsidian, lay on the doormat. Each gift was beautiful, in a dark, unsettling way. And with each gift, Emily seemed to grow a little more withdrawn, a little more like the shadowy Selly.

One evening, while Sally was making dinner, she heard a faint, metallic scraping sound from the living room. She peeked around the doorframe. Emily was sitting on the floor, her back to Sally, humming a low, tuneless melody. In front of her, scattered across the rug, were several of Sally’s antique silver spoons, their polished surfaces dulled and scratched. Emily was running a single, dark feather, one of Selly’s gifts, across their surfaces, leaving faint trails of darkness.

“Emily, what are you doing?” Sally’s voice was sharp with alarm.

Emily jumped, startled. She looked up, her eyes wide with a fear that Sally hadn’t seen before, but it was quickly replaced by something else, something harder, colder. “Selly said the spoons are for wishing,” she murmured, her voice raspy. “She said if we scratch them with her feather, our wishes will come true. Our real wishes.”

Sally’s blood ran cold. She looked at the scratched spoons, at the dark feather, and then at her daughter’s face, which for a fleeting moment, seemed to hold a reflection of Selly’s unnerving stillness. This wasn’t just imagination. This wasn’t just a game. The gifts weren’t benign. They were… taking something. Changing something. And Selly wasn’t a friend. Selly was something else entirely.

“Emily,” Sally said, her voice trembling but firm, kneeling beside her daughter. “Selly isn’t real. Not like your friends at school are real. She’s… she’s not good for you.”

Emily’s lower lip trembled. “But she gives me presents,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the dark feather. “And she makes me feel strong.”

Strong. The word echoed in Sally’s mind. Selly was making Emily feel strong, but it was a dark, hollow strength, a strength that was pushing Sally away. The house, too, felt different. The shadows seemed to cling to the corners, deeper and more menacing than before. The air felt heavy, charged with an unseen presence. The tapping from the attic had stopped, replaced by a low, guttural whisper that seemed to emanate from the very walls.

Sally knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she had to get Emily away from this. But as she reached out to take Emily’s hand, the front door slammed shut with a deafening bang, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. The windows, which had been clear just moments before, were now opaque, as if a thick layer of dust had settled upon them from the inside. Sally rushed to the door, pulling at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. It was locked, sealed shut. She ran to the windows, trying to peer through the strange film, but it was like looking through a dense fog. They were trapped. And as she turned back to Emily, she saw Selly, a tall, impossibly dark silhouette standing in the doorway of Emily’s room, her form seeming to absorb the light. This was no longer a game of pretend. This was a fight for survival.