Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at The Last Toys R Us. We have Six STRANGE Rules

Episode Date: July 22, 2026

Join Lighthouse Horror on Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonNew Merch out! https://hauntedstuff.com/Art & Credits: ninerioartsMusic by Lucas King, Myuu, Kevin MacLeod & Darren CurtisOriginal YouTube link: I Work at The Last Toys R Us. We have Six STRANGE Rules.  Copyright © 2025 Lighthouse Horror. All rights reservedThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

My name is Paul Hughes. About a month ago, I started working a night shift and an old Toys R Us. Yeah, that Toys R Us. The one sitting just outside town that's been closed for almost 15 years. The one with a faded draft sign. The one everyone says is haunted. Personally, I think people throw that word around too easily. Every abandoned building is supposedly haunted these days.

Hospitals, schools, hotels, shopping malls. Half the internet seems convinced every creaking floorboard is proof of ghost. I've never believed any of that. Or at least, I didn't. The truth is I wasn't looking for adventure. I wasn't chasing ghost or urban legends. I was looking for a paycheck. I've worked plenty of overnight jobs over the years.

Warehouse security, distribution center. One miserable winner watching over a self-storage facility were literally the most exciting thing that happened in six months was a raccoon getting trapped into building sea. Night shifts don't bother me. Honestly, I kind of prefer them. Less people, less noise. Nobody's standing over your shoulder,

pretending to be your boss while scrolling Facebook for eight hours. So when I saw an opening for overnight security and an abandoned Toys Raz, I figured it'd be the easiest money I'd ever make. The listing was strange. No company name, no hourly wage, just a phone number and five words. Night security, immediate start.

I almost ignored it. And then curiosity got the better of me. The interview lasted maybe 10 minutes. An older man named Vincent Beck, sat behind a folding table in what used to be the customer service desk. Gray hair, heavy work boots, coffee stained on his flannel. He looked less like a manager and more like somebody's dad fixing a lawnmour in his garage. He glanced over my application for all of,

30 seconds. You work nights before. Yeah. You scare easy. Ah, not really. You plan on quitting after one shift? I wasn't. He nodded once. All right. And how's it? No background check or drug test or orientation video. He handed me a building key, told me to come back Friday at 8.30, and said I could start immediately. Honestly, I should have realized something was wrong then. Nobody hires that quickly anymore. Especially not for a job that paid almost twice with normal security work pays. Still money's money.

Friday evening, I pulled into the parking lot just before sunset. The place looked exactly how you'd imagine. Cracked asphalt, weeds growing through the parking spaces. Shopping carts scattered across the lot like they'd been abandoned. in a hurry. The giant blue building had faded almost gray after years in the sun. Most of the letters had fallen off the front sign. Only R-U. Us remained. The windows were covered from the inside with dusty brown paper. One automatic door hung halfway open. The other had been boarded shut years ago. I grabbed my flashlight and walked inside. The smell hit me immediately. Old plastic.

strange scent every toy store used to have when you were a kid. And for a second, I forgot how old I was. I was eight again, walking through endless aisles, wondering what I was getting for Christmas, bikes hanging from the ceiling, video games locked behind glass, rows and rows of action figures, Beanie Babies, Easy Bake Ovens, Magic Eight Balls, Cabbage Patch Kids, G.I. Joe, even Play-Doh. Everything was still there. It was like someone had locked the doors one night and simply never came back. Vincent was waiting near the registers drinking coffee. You made it. Yeah, place is bigger than I expected. Hell, you learn your way around. He started walking toward the back of the store. I followed him through aisle after aisle of forgotten toys. Most boxes were faded, corners crushed, plastic yellowed with age.

just thousands upon thousands of toys collecting dust. Finally, we reached an old employee break room. There wasn't much left inside. A vending machine, coffee maker, a folding table. Six old security monitors showing different parts of the storm. Vincent reached into a drawer, pulled out a laminated sheet, then handed it to Mac. Across the top in bold black letters, it read Night Shift Rules. underneath six numbered rules.

I actually laughed. What's this? Our rules. For security? For survival. He didn't smile. I looked back down at the page. Vincent slowly folded his arms.

I've worked here 29 years. Okay. And I have watched 11 people ignore those rules. Ten of them are dead." The room suddenly felt much quieter. I stared at him for a few seconds, waiting for the punchline, but they never came. Instead, he simply looked at the old clock hanging above the coffee maker. Red 8.59 p.m.

Vincent quietly took another sip of coffee, and then he said something I will never forget. got exactly one minute before the store opens. And then somewhere out on the sales floor, a child's laughter echoed through the empty building. Then the old Toys Are Us theme song began playing over the speakers. Rule 1. Never look Princess Bear in the eyes. Vincent led me into what used to be the Beanie Baby section, stopped about six feet from the shelves, pointed toward a little pink bear sitting by herself.

There she is. Princess Bear wasn't scary. Maybe eight inches tall with soft pink fur, little silver crown stitched onto her head, and a stitched smile that looked almost friendly. Unlike every other Beanie Baby in the aisle, she wasn't sitting on a shelf. She had a throne. An actual throne. Somebody had built a tiny wooden chair, painted it gold, and covered the same wooden chair,

covered the seat with red velvet. Little battery-powered light surrounded it, like some kind of display at a museum. What is this? Her throne. Who made that? Vincent looked to me like I'd asked an obvious question. We did. You, you, uh, built a throne for a stuffed bear? Well, we didn't have much of a choice. I laughed. He didn't. He didn't. He folded He pulled his arms and looked toward Princess without ever directly looking into her eyes. You remember the Beanie Baby Craze? Yeah.

My sister collected him. Yeah, everyone collected him. He nodded. People camped outside toy stores. I remember. They paid hundreds of dollars. Sometimes thousands. I remember, I said.

He sighed. Well, Princess remembers too. What? She remembers being one of the most desired toys in all of America. I looked back toward the little pink bear. Vincent continued. She doesn't think she was special. She thinks she is special.

The most valuable Beanie Baby ever made. The queen of this story. I smirked. Okay, so she's got an ego. Calling it an ego is like calling the ocean a puddle. He finally looked at me. Princess believes every toy here exists to serve her. And us? I asked.

Oh, we're beneath her. Seriously. As serious as I've ever been. He pointed toward her face Never look her in the eyes Why? Because she considers eye contact disrespectful. If you look her directly in the eyes She believes you're challenging her

I couldn't help it I laughed again A stuffed bear Vincent didn't react The problem is that she'll get very angry, she'll hold a grudge. For how long? He shrugged. Until she feels you've suffered enough.

Well, after Vincent's little talk, the rest of the first hour went by without much happening. I checked emergency exits, tested a few security cameras, made sure nobody had broken into the building. Every now and then, I'd catch myself glancing toward the Beanie Baby Isle. Princess never moved. She just sat there on her ridiculous little throne. Around ten o'clock, Vincent asked me to grab a mop from the janitor's closet near the back of a store. The quickest route took me past Princess.

I remember the rule. Eyes down, simple. As I walked past, something hit the floor behind me, a soft little thump. I stopped, turned. One of the Beanie Babies had somehow fallen off the shelf. It was a little brown dog lying in the middle of the aisle. Huh. Probably vibrations.

Old shelves, old building. I bent over, picked up the dog, and turned toward the display. And that was my mistake. For maybe half a second, I looked directly into Princess Bear's eyes. They weren't ordinary plastic eyes anymore. They seemed focused. watching me. Neither of us moved, and then she smiled,

not the stitched smile she'd always had. A new smile. She tipped her head toward me, the tiniest nod imaginable, and I felt every hair in my arm stand up. And then she was still again, exactly like before. I stood frozen until Vincent's voice came from behind me. You looked.

I... You looked. It was an accident. He closed his eyes for a second, and then muttered something under his breath. What? I was hoping that you'd make it at least one night. I looked back towards Princess. She hadn't moved.

I swear she smiled. I know. So... Now what? Vincent took a long sip of coffee. Well, now she hates you. You're kidding. I wish I was.

Nothing happened for another ten minutes. I actually started feeling embarrassed. Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe the lighting and played tricks on me. Then my flashlight disappeared. I left it on a shelf while checking a fire extinguisher and 30 seconds later, just gone. Vincent found it sitting neatly on Princess's throne.

Neither of us had walked anywhere near the aisle. An hour later, my ring of keys vanished. We searched almost the entire store before finding them hanging from the antlers of a stuffed moose three aisles away. And then every security camera in the break room switched to the same camera. Camera 12.

The Beanie Baby Isle. Princess was staring directly into the lens. She's playing with you, Vincent said. That's all? For now. And the rest of the night became a parade of little disasters. Shelves I'd already organized were suddenly knocked over. Doors I knew I'd locked somehow swung open.

My radio kept turning itself on, and once, just once, a soft female. male voice came through the speaker. And then the radio went dead. Vincent simply reached over, turned it off, and handed it back to me. Like I said, she took it personally. Well, by sunrise, nothing truly terrible had happened yet. I was exhausted, frustrated, embarrassed. Princess hadn't tried to kill me.

She'd simply spent the entire night making my job as miserable as possible. As we headed for the exit, I glanced toward the Beanie Baby Isle one last time, not at her face, just toward the throne. Princess was sitting exactly where she'd been when the night started. Perfect posture and smile like she'd enjoyed every minute of it. Rosen lasagna, medium power, 15 minutes. Sounds like Ojo time. Let's play!

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Never burn the cookies. I asked Vincent what cookies had to do with overnight security and he told me to follow him. Near the back of the store, between the old dolls and the toy kitchens, there was an entire section filled with easy bake ovens. Most were still sealed inside faded boxes. A few had been opened and arranged on a long display table with tiny baking pants, plastic mixing bowls, and packages of powdered cake mix that had expired sometime before I finished high school. One oven sat by itself in the middle. It was pink and purple, with a white handle and a little yellow light glowing inside. Unlike everything else in the store, it looked clean. There wasn't a speck of

dust on it. Beside it sat a mixing bowl, a wooden spoon, and a plate covered with a folded dish towel. Vincent pulled the towel back. Six small chocolate chip cookies sat underneath. They were barely bigger than quarters. You bake these every night, I asked. Every night. For who? He looked out toward the aisles. Them. He opened a cabinet beneath the display and showed me dozens of small plastic containers.

Flower, sugar, chocolate chips. Everything measured and labeled. There was even a handwritten recipe taped to the inside of the door. The instructions were simple. Mix the dough, make six cookies, bake them for 11 minutes. Let them cool for five, and then leave them on the blue plate beside the oven. I looked around the empty section. Nothing moved.

A row of baby dolls stared down from the shelf behind us. A plastic kitchen set sat beneath a faded sign that promised hours of imaginative fun. I picked up one of the cookies and it looked normal. Vincent took it out of my hand and placed it back on the plate. Don't eat that food. I wasn't going to. You were thinking about it. I was looking at it.

Well, look with your eyes. I told him he was beginning to sound like my mother. He ignored that. Every night at 10.30, the cookies had to go into the oven. Not 10 or 11. 10.30. Vincent said the toys liked routine. The store had its own schedule, and the longer someone worked there, the easier it was to understand.

Princess Bear expected her throne cleaned before ten. The cabbage patch kids became active sometime after midnight. G.I. Joe took his position near the entrance at 9.15, and at 11 o'clock, the toys expected cookies. That was simply how things worked. Do all of them eat? I asked. Not all of them, he replied. The first few nights, Vincent handled the baking.

He moved slowly and carefully, like someone performing maintenance on an expensive machine. He measured every ingredient, mixed the dough until it was smooth, divided it into six equal pieces and placed them on the little metal tray. Then he set a timer. He never left the section while the cookies were inside. And at exactly 11 minutes, he pulled them out. Perfect every time. The smell spread through the store almost immediately.

Warm, sugar, chocolate? Something familiar and comforting. May the old building feel different. Less abandoned. Well, for five minutes the store remained quiet, and then the toys began arriving. Not many. A few smirfs appeared first.

They came from behind a shelf and stood near the table with their hands behind their backs. Two cabbage patched kids followed them. They sat on the floor and waited. A stuffed dog dragged itself out of the pet aisle. A plastic dinosaur watched from behind a display. Even Princess Bear appeared at the far end of the section, carried on her throne by four smaller Beanie Babies.

Nobody touched the cookies until Vincent stepped away. Then the lights flickered. And when they came back on, the plate was empty. The toys were gone. That happened every night. No noise or fighting. No mess? Just missing cookies and a few crumbs on the plate. After a week, Vincent told me it was my turn, and I followed the recipe exactly.

At least I thought I did. The dough looked right. The tray went in at 10.30. I set the timer for 11 minutes, and I stood right beside the oven. For the first few minutes, nothing happened. And then Vincent called me over the radio. There was a problem with one of the back doors. The alarm kept showing it as open, even though we'd already checked it twice. I told him I was watching the cookies. He said we had time. We didn't.

The door was fine, the alarm had malfunctioned, but by the time I returned to the easy bake section, the smell had changed. The sweet smell was gone. In its place was something dry and bitter. Smoke curled from the little oven. I pulled the tray out, and all the cookies were burned through.

little circles of charcoal. Vincent arrived behind me, looked at the tray, then looked at the clock. It was two minutes before eleven. Can we make another batch? I asked. He shook his head, no. The store became quiet then, not gradually all at once. The music playing over the speakers stopped in the middle of a song. The humming from the lights seemed to fade.

Even the old building settled. Vincent, picked up the tray and placed it on the blue plate. What are you doing? Following the routine. You're giving them burnt cookies? Oh, they already know. The smell had reached the other aisles.

I could tell because things began changing. A doll somewhere nearby started crying. A toy train turned itself on and rolled slowly around its track. One of the security gates near the front entrance lift it halfway and dropped again. And then came the footsteps, small and soft, dozens of them. The Smurfs arrived first. They stood beneath the display and looked at the plate. One of them picked up a cookie, tapped it against the table, and let it fall. It made a hard clicking sound. The cabbage patch kids appeared next. They sat in a line across the aisle.

None of them smiled. The stuffed dog came out from beneath a shelf and said, sniffed the plate, then backed away quickly. More toys filled a section. Action figures, stuffed animals, baby dolls, plastic animals. They formed a wide circle around the table. Princess Bear arrived last. Her throne stopped directly across from me. I kept my eyes lowered this time.

Even without looking at her face, I could feel her attention. Vincent stepped forward, cleared his throat. I'm sorry. This new employee made a mistake. I glanced at him. You're blaming me, huh? I'll be quiet. One of the cabbage patched kids picked up a cookie.

Broke the cookie in half. The inside was completely black. The doll looked at me. And then every toy in the section slowly turned its head in my direction. And I understood then. They were angry because the cookies made. mattered to him. It was part of the night? Maybe the only pleasant part. The store was dark, old, and filled with things that had been forgotten. Most of these toys had once belonged to

children. They'd been carried home, played with, loved, and eventually left behind. The cookies were something they still expected, something normal and good. And I'd ruined it. I looked at Vincent, what do I do? Make another batch. He said there wasn't time. There wasn't, he said. Well, I was confused, but I started mixing, and the toys watched every movement. I measured the ingredients twice, added the chocolate chips, rolled the dough carefully.

My hands were shaking, but I kept going. The second batch went into the oven, and this time I stayed beside him. No alarms or doors or distractions. Eleven minutes later, I removed the tray, and the cookies were perfect. Golden around the edges, soft in the middle, and I placed them on the blue plate and stepped back. Well, for several seconds nobody moved, and then the little stuffed dog walked forward and sniffed one. A smurf tore off a small piece. The cabbage patch kids began smiling again.

The toys slowly scattered. Princess Bear remained for a few seconds longer, and then her throne turned and disappeared into the next aisle. Vincent waited until we were alone. Now you understand. I looked at the burnt cookies still sitting on the floor. Yeah. He picked up the tray and handed it to me. Good.

Because tomorrow night you're baking again. After that, I never left the oven unattended, not even for a second. That was rule two. Never burn the cookies. The toys didn't ask for much yet, but they remembered every disappointment. Rule three. Never leave your keys on the counter. Now, of all six rules, this one's probably the easiest to follow. It also happens to me the one most new employees break first. Not because they don't believe it. Because they forget.

It started on my fourth night. Princess Bear had mostly stopped tormenting me. She'd still pull the occasional prank, like moving my flashlight or switching security cameras while I wasn't looking, but nothing compared to that first shift. I figured I'd finally earned a little piece. I was wrong. Around 1130, Vincent asked me to unlock the loading dock so we could bring in a shipment of cleaning supplies. I walked into the break room, unclipped my keys from my belt, set them on the counter

while I poured myself a cup coffee, and spent maybe 30 seconds adding cream and sugar. 30 seconds. When I turned around, they were gone. I frowned. I looked beneath the coffee maker. Nothing. Check my pockets. Nothing.

He even looked inside the refrigerator. Still nothing. Hey, Vincent. I lost my keys. He didn't even look up from the security monitors. You left them on the counter, didn't you? Yeah. Well, they've got them now.

He looked at me like I'd already asked a stupid question once that week. Who? I asked. The garbage patch, kids. He pointed toward the hallway. Oh, you're going to learn something. We walked into the toy section together. Unlike Princess Bear's Isle, this part of the store felt, lived in. Little toy dishes were scattered across shelves.

Tiny chairs had been moved into circles. Blankets had been built into forts beneath display tables, looked less like abandoned merchandise, and more like a daycare after everybody had gone home. Vincent smiled. They're harmless, mostly. They've never killed anybody. Oh, that's comforting. They have caused three divorces.

What? Well, they're very good at stealing wedding rings. I wasn't sure if he was joking anymore, honestly. I wasn't sure about anything in that store. We rounded the corner and entered the old cabbage patch display. Had to be fifty of them. Different hair and clothes and expressions. Every one of them sitting perfectly still.

Watching us. Vincent crouched beside one little girl with bright red yorn hair. Well, good evening there. Nothing happened. He smiled. Well, Paul here, he made a mistake tonight. Still nothing. He left his keys on the counter.

The doll didn't move. Neither did the others. Vincent stood back up. Now we wait. For what? I asked. They're deciding. They don't like giving things back right away. Well, five minutes past.

past, nothing. And then somewhere deeper in the aisle, I heard giggling, not loud, just enough to make me turn my head. A little blue smurf darted between two shelves. Then another. They work together? I whispered. Vincent nodded. The smurfs are their partners.

I watched one tiny smurf climb onto a shelf, wave at another one across the aisle, and then disappear carrying something over his shoulder. Another ten minutes passed before Vincent finally motioned for me to follow him. He led me through the dolls, past Barbie, past Polly Pocket, past the old Fisher Price toys, until we reached a little plastic tea set sitting in the middle of the floor. Around it sat 12 cabbage patch kids. They were having tea, tiny plastic cups and plates and cookies, and my key ring sat right in the middle of the table. One little doll had looped the keys around her neck.

Another was pretending to stir coffee with him. A smurf stood proudly beside the teapot wearing my employee badge like a cape. I couldn't believe when I was looking at. Can I just take them? Vincent grabbed my arm before I could step forward. No. Why? You weren't invited.

What happens if I interrupt? He shrugged. They'll cry. They'll cry very loudly. And then... And then the whole store will get upset, and you don't want that. I slowly lowered my head. We stood there for another few minutes.

One of the dolls poured pretend tea into an empty cup. Another offered a cookie to the Smurf. The Smurf bowed dramatically before accepting it. Eventually, the red-haired doll stood up. She walked across the table, carrying my keys with both hands, stopped about six feet away, held them out, and then quickly pulled them back behind her. The others burst into laughter, even the smurfs. The doll repeated the game three more times before finally placing the keys on the floor.

I picked them up. On the way back, I clip the keys very securely onto my belt. I don't understand them. Vincent looked over at me. They're not evil, you know. They're just children. The strange thing was, he was right. Over the next couple of weeks, I realized the cabbage patch kids never stole anything important.

Just inconvenient things. Keys, pens, tape measures, flashlights. One night they took Vincent's reading glasses. We found them sitting on a teddy bear wearing them upside down. Another night they stole my lunch. Not to eat it, to set up a picnic for every stuffed rabbit in the building. The Smurfs always helped, they were ridiculously fast. Sometimes I'd only catch a flash of blue disappearing beneath a shelf before realizing something

had gone missing. Eventually I learned if you kept your belongings clipped to your belt, they'd leave you alone. If you set something down, though, even for a second, it became part of whatever game they were playing that night. A week later, I made the mistake again. Just for a moment, I set my keys on the counter while answering the radio. When I turned back, they were gone. I sighed, walked toward the doll aisle, and before I even reached it, something tapped against my boot.

I looked down, and my keys were sitting neatly on the floor. They ran away laughing. I smiled despite myself. When I told Vincent, he chuckled. Why are they always stealing? I asked. He thought about it for a moment. I think, well, I think they just don't want the store to feel lonely.

And that was rule three. Never leave your keys on the counter because if you do, the cabbage patch kids will absolutely borrow them. And maybe they'll give them back eventually. This episode is brought to you by Accenture. When your advertising operations fall out of sync, everything else follows. Spotify and Accenture are working together to reinvent the rhythm of ad sales, using automation, analytics, and smarter workflows to simplify campaign delivery and access better data across the business.

The result? Less time spent on operations, more time connecting brands with the moments and fandoms that matter most. Learn more at Accenture.com slash Spotify. Rule four. Never ask the magic eight ball when you'll die. Out of every toy in the building, the magic eight ball bothered me the most. Not because it moved or because it came alive. Almost never did out of those things.

It simply answered questions. The old promotional display still sat near the electronics department, right beside the board games. Wasn't one of the little handheld magic eight balls you shook as a kid. This thing was enormous. almost two feet across, mounted on a black pedestal with faded yellow lettering around the base. Its surface was scratched from years of customers putting their hands on it. The blue liquid inside looked darker than I remembered. Every night as I made my rounds, I'd find myself

slowing down when I reached that aisle. A giant black sphere, sitting quietly beneath the old lines. The first week I ignored it. The second week, curiosity got the better of me. I started asking harmless questions. Nothing important. Would it rain tomorrow? The answer floated into view. Yes. It rained the entire next day. Another night I asked if the brows would ever win the Super Bowl. After a few seconds, outlook not good. A few days later, I asked whether the vending machine still had peanut butter crackers inside. Without a doubt, it said. And it did.

The answers weren't immediate. The liquid always had to settle first. The little white triangle would slowly drift upward through the dark blue liquid until the words became clear enough to read. Every answer came back correct. Eventually I stopped trying to prove it wrong. I couldn't. The thing simply knew.

Didn't matter whether the question was about tomorrow. or five seconds from now. It always knew. And that should have been enough. For any normal person, it would have been. But human beings are curious by nature. If someone puts a button in front of us and tells us never to press it, sooner or later, we're going to wonder why.

I kept thinking about the rule. Never ask the magic eight ball when you'll die. Not don't touch it or don't ask questions. Just don't ask to that way. one. It sat in the back of my mind for days. Every time I walked past that aisle, I'd find myself looking at it a little longer than before. I'd imagine the answer. Maybe it gave a date, a location, maybe just a number. Whatever it was, people clearly weren't supposed to know. I started wondering what I'd do if I found out. Would I live differently? Would I become more careful? Or would it ruin

every day I had laughed. The question stayed with me. One night, while checking camera feeds in the break room, I found myself staring at the monitor showing the electronics aisle. The magic eight ball was the only thing on the screen. Everything around it looked abandoned. Old video game displays, DVD players, portable CD players, technology nobody wanted anymore. The ball sat perfectly in the middle, waiting.

Like it knew I'd come back. And near the end of my shift, I finally did. The store was unusually quiet. Even the cabbage patch kids had disappeared for the night. I stood in front of the pedestal for almost a full minute without touching it, and then I placed both hands on the smooth plastic shell. It felt cold, much colder than it should have. And I gave it a gentle shake.

The liquid swirl. slowly, and I asked the first thing that came to mind. Will I still be working here next month? The triangle drifted upward. Most likely. I smiled a little, another shake. Will this place ever close for good? The answer took longer this time.

Don't count on it. Now, the building had been scheduled for demolition for years. Every newspaper article said the same thing. Every city meeting ended with, another delay. Maybe that was a coincidence. Maybe not. I rested my hand on top of it. The forbidden question came back into my mind. I knew better. I honestly did, but curiosity is a difficult thing to silence, especially when you're standing alone in an empty toy store at three in the morning. I open my mouth. When will? I stopped. I hadn't finished. I hadn't even. I hadn't even

reached the last word. The liquid inside the magic eight ball exploded into motion, not from another shake, on its own. Dark blue waves spun violently beneath the plastic window. The triangle shot upward so fast it struck the glass, and then it stopped. The words appeared, You will regret asking. I never touched the magic eight ball. again. I still walked past it every night. Sometimes the liquid inside seemed to move every so slightly as I passed. Sometimes I thought I could see the white triangle rising beneath the surface before sinking back into the darkness. I never stopped to find out. Some questions don't make your life better. Some answers don't set you free. Rule 5. Never eat the Play-Doh. If someone handed you a

container of Play-Doh and told you not to eat it and you probably laugh. I think maybe every kid tries at once. Smells good. Looks harmless. Taste. Terrible. Lesson learned. That wasn't why the rule existed.

The Play-Doh in this store wasn't the same stuff I remembered growing up. At first glance it looked identical. Rows of little yellow tub stacked on old display shelves. Red, blue, green, purple orange. Nothing unusual. But after a few weeks, I started noticing something. The colors never stayed in the same place. I'd organize the shelf before sunrise, and by the following night the order had changed.

Not by much. Maybe the blue had traded places with the green. Maybe one yellow container had moved from the top shelf to the bottom. It was subtle enough that I questioned my own memory. And then I started paying attention. One night, I lined every container into perfect rows. The next evening, the rows were crooked again. Nobody else had been inside the building.

Nothing should have moved. I decided to watch them. Not on night just for a while. I pulled up one of the security cameras that overlooked the arts and crafts section, and I left it running while I made my rounds. An hour later, I came back. Everything looked normal.

I rewound the recording, and for almost 50 minutes, nothing happened. Then, without warning, every single container shifted, not much less than an inch, just enough to scrape slowly across the shelf. Then they stopped. Ten minutes later, they moved again, and it looked almost coordinated, like dozens of people taking one careful step at exactly the same time. I watched the footage three times before shutting the monitor off, and after that I stopped thinking of them containers. I started thinking of them as something hiding inside containers. That thought stayed with me. A few nights later I noticed something else. The smell. Fresh Play-Doh has a smell

everybody remembers. Salty. Kind of chemical, kind of doughy. This wasn't bad. This smelled warm. Like fresh bread coming out of an oven. The closer I walked toward the chef, the better it smelled. Warm cinnamon rolls, chocolate cake, fresh pizza. Whatever happened to sound good at that particular moment, the smell kept changing. One second, I'd swear someone was baking cookies and then the next it smelled like garlic bread and barbecue and fresh brownies. It was impossible. Plastic shouldn't smell like food, especially not every kind of food. I found myself standing in front of the display longer than I meant to.

The smell was comforting, inviting, reminded me of childhood kitchens, family dinners, holiday meals. The longer I stood there, the hungrier I became. My stomach actually growled. I remember laughing to myself. Whatever chemicals were trapped inside those old containers had probably broken down over the years. That had to be it. Then I noticed one of the lids was slightly open, only by a fraction of an inch. I reached toward it without thinking.

Halfway there I stopped. The rule flashed through my mind. Never eat the Play-Doh. I wasn't planning to. I just wanted to look. I carefully lifted the lid. Inside sat a lump of bright blue Play-Doh. Perfectly smooth.

No fingerprints or cracks. brand new. The smell immediately became stronger. Warm blueberry pie. I leaned closer. Something moved, not the container, the Play-Doh itself. The surface rose ever so slightly, then settled back down, like something taking a slow breath. I stared for several seconds, then convinced myself I'd imagined it. I started lowering the lid, and before it closed the Play-Doh moved again. This time there was no mistaking it. A tiny bump traveled beneath a surface from one side of the

container to the other, like something crawling underneath a blanket. I dropped the lid, the sound echoed through the aisle. Everything became quiet. I backed away. As I turned to leave, I heard the softest little pop behind me, almost like someone removing the lid from another container. Then another?

I looked back and three lids now stood slightly open. I knew they hadn't been before. The smell filled the aisle again, fresh bread, warm butter, apple pie. I walked away faster this time. The following evening I checked the shelf again and every lid was closed. Everything looked perfectly normal. For a while I wondered if I really had imagined it. And then I noticed tiny blue footprints, not in the shelf,

on the floor. They were no bigger than my thumbnail. Little footprints made entirely of blue Play-Doh. They disappeared beneath another aisle. I followed them. They continued through crafts, past the puzzles and covering books,

and finally they stopped beneath an old display table. I knelt down and at first I didn't see anything. And then my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dozens of tiny playdusts, No people stared back at me. Each one stood only three or four inches tall. Different colors, different shapes. None of them had mouths. Just little tiny eyes pressed into soft faces. Nobody moved or blinked. They simply watched me. One of them raised a tiny hand and waved. Every little figure ducked beneath the table and disappeared into the shadows. The next morning I checked again in nothing.

No footprints or figures, no sign that had ever been there. Only a faint smell of fresh bread lingering beneath the shelves. And after that, I began noticing tiny things around the store. Little fingerprints pressed into dusty windows, colored smears on the floor that vanished by the next night, half-inch footprints leading into air vents. It was as if hundreds of tiny Play-Doh people wandered the building after dark, cleaning up after themselves before sunrise.

They never bothered me, and I never bothered them. We seem to have an understanding. Hey, y'all, it's Kelly Clarkson with Wayfair. Ever order furniture online and wonder, what if? Like, what if it doesn't hold up? That sofa was four days old. You should have ordered from Wayfair. With Wayfair, there's no what if.

Just style you love and quality you can trust. Visit Wayfair.ca. Wayfair, every style, every home. Rule 6. Always salute G.I. Joe. By my third week, I had settled into a routine. The front doors unlocked every night and exactly nine. The lights came on.

The old Toys R.S. music drifted through the speakers. I made my rounds, checked the emergency exits, bake the cookies, kept my keys clipped to my belt. Avoided Princess Bear, ignore the magic eight ball, stayed away from the Plato aisle. Most nights were strange, but very few were dame. For a while, I actually started believing the store had accepted me. I should have known better. Well, that night started differently. Even the toys seemed quieter than usual.

Princess remained on her throne. The cabbage patch kids stayed hidden. I never saw a single smurf. It was as though everyone inside the building was waiting for something. Around 11, I noticed G.I. Joe standing near the front entrance, He always stood there. Plastic rifle across his chest. Green helmet.

Perfect posture. Every night before beginning my rounds, I'd stopped beside him and salute. It'd become habit. I wasn't even sure why anymore. Maybe it was respect or superstition. Whatever the reason, I never skipped it. Well, that night I saluted him like always.

I smiled to myself and continued walking. An hour later I heard breaking glass. Not one window. Several. The sound echoed through the entire store. I grabbed my flashlight and ran toward the collectible section. Nothing. The glass display cases were intact.

No broken shelves or windows. And then I heard it again. This time there was laughter. It wasn't coming from the hallway. It was coming from the loading dock. I hurried toward the back of the building. The large steel door stood wide open. Cold night air drifted inside.

Wooden shipping crates sat scattered across the floor. I didn't remember seeing them earlier. There had to be 20 of them. Everyone stamped with the same faded label. Classic monster collection. One crate rocked gently. Another tip down to its side. then a nail slowly pushed itself out of the wood another the lid lifted by itself

a pale hand reached over the edge long fingers sharp nails and then a man climbed out tall thin dressed in an old black suit he smiled at me behind him more crates opened. A wolf with yellow eyes stepped out of the concrete. A mummy slowly unwrapped itself. Something stitched together from different bodies dragged itself upright. The old monster toys weren't toys anymore. They looked alive. They looked hungry. I backed away, and the vampire took one slow step forward. Then another? The wolf sniffed the air. The mummy disappeared between two aisles. Somewhere nearby, shelves began crashing to the floor.

The store erupted into noise, and I turned and ran. The first thing I noticed was Princess Bear. She wasn't on her throne anymore. Four Beanie Babies were carrying it away as fast as they could. She never looked in my direction, but she was leaving fast. The Cabbage Patch Kids rushed past, carrying armfuls of toys, and the smirfs disappeared beneath shelves. Even the tiny Play-Doh people abandoned their hiding places, slipping into air vents one after

another. Everything in the store was running. Everything except G.I. Joe. He stood perfectly still beside the front entrance, exactly where he'd always been. I reached him just as the vampire rounded the corner toward me, and for some reason the rule popped in my head. Always salute G.I. Joe. So I raised my hand and I saluted. Nothing happened. For one terrible second, nothing. And then I heard the click, tiny metallic. G.I. Joe's head turned. His eyes blinked. He lowered his rifle from his shoulder. And he returned the salute. The vampire stopped walking.

The smile disappeared from his face. G.I. Joe stepped forward then, one plastic boot at a time. He couldn't have been more than a few inches tall, yet somehow. The entire store felt different. He reached into a tiny backpack and pulled out a grenade no bigger than a marble. He pulled the pin. Through it? The explosion sounded far larger than anything.

that size should have produced. The blast knocked the vampire backward through an N-cap display, and at the same moment, movement erupted throughout the toy department. Green plastic army men climbed from old buckets. Dozens, then hundreds. Some carried rifles, others machine guns. Tiny tanks rolled across the floor. Little jeeps raced through the aisles. A toy helicopter lifted into the air with spinning, blades. And within seconds, an entire army stood behind G.I. Joe.

The vampire stood again. So did the wolf? The mummy emerged from another aisle. More monster figures appeared from the loading dock. And the battle began. Gunfire echoed through the store. Tiny flashes let the darkness.

Grenades burst beneath shelves. Plastic tanks fired again and again. The wolf leaped over an aisle and landed in the middle of the soldiers. Three army men tackled it immediately. The mummy wrapped itself around a helicopter and dragged it from the air. The vampire tore through an entire squad before G.I. Joe met him head on. One of the soldiers pointed for me to go towards the front doors then. They were still open. I looked back one last time and G.I. Joe stood alone on top of a fallen display case. His helmet was gone.

One sleeve had been ripped open. He raised his rifle again, never once looking away from the monsters. I stood at the doorway, raised my hand, and gave him one final salute. Without turning around, he returned it, then charged straight into the darkness. I stepped outside. The automatic door slid shut behind me. The fighting continued inside for hours. gunfire explosions crashing shelves every now and then the building shook and just before sunrise everything stopped

I came back the next evening the store looked almost normal shelves have been restocked displays stood up red the loading dock was closed the monster crates were locked behind heavy chains inside a fenced storage cage at the back of the warehouse Whatever, it happened. The toys had won. I walked to the front entrance. G.I. Joe stood in his usual place. His rifle rested across his chest.

One arm was wrapped in a tiny sling made from white cloth. His helmet had been replaced with one that didn't quite match the rest of his uniform. There were scratches across his boots. A crack ran through the plastic on one shoulder. He looked tired. If a toy could look tired. I raised my hand, said thank you, and saluted. The strange thing is, life eventually settled into something that almost felt normal.

Not normal by anyone else's standards, obviously, but normal for that store. Princess Bear still ruled over the Beanie Baby Isle, with the same oversized ego she'd probably had since the 90s. Every night I'd lower my head as I walked past her throne. She never acknowledged me. I figured that was good. The cabbage patch kid still stole anything, foolish enough to be left unattended. Every now and then, I discover my flashlight sitting in the middle of one of their tea parties

or find my clipboard covered in childish crayon drawings. The Smurfs always seemed to be involved somehow. They'd scatter the moment I caught a glimpse of them, laughing all the way beneath the shelves. The Easy Bake Oven never missed another batch of cookies I made sure about. The magic eight ball stayed exactly where it always been. Sometimes I'd catch myself looking toward it as I walked by, wondering what it already knew about tomorrow. I never asked another question. And the Play-Doh.

Every now and then I'd notice another tiny thing sitting quietly on the shelf. Sometimes blue, sometimes green. Once, a little yellow lighthouse. I always left him exactly where I found him. seemed rude not to. As for G.I. Joe, he never left his post near the front entrance. The little sling disappeared after about a week. The cracks in his shoulder, though, they stayed.

So did the scratches across his boots. Every evening before my shift started, I'd unlock the front doors, switch on the lights, wait for the old Toys R Us music to begin playing, and give him a salute. It became the first thing I did every night. All kinds of things would happen after dark. But by sunrise, the store would usually be quiet again. That's the funny thing about working somewhere like that. Eventually you stop wondering why any of it exists.

You stop asking questions. You stop hoping things will go back to normal. Instead, you learn the rules. And you survive one night at a time.