Puddles at Midnight

In a bright, watercolor kitchen, Puddles the Puppy wagged his tail. Everything was vibrant—until

the clock struck twelve. The colors bled out like wet ink, turning the walls

a sickly, pulsing grey. Puddles didn't bark; his jaw unhinged, stretching down

to his chest, revealing rows of human teeth. "Is dinner ready?" a voice whispered,

but it didn't come from his mouth. It came from the oven. Suddenly,

the refrigerator door creaked open. Inside sat the neighbor, neatly folded like a paper doll,

his eyes replaced by oversized, shiny buttons. He waved a stiff, cardboard hand.

"Don't be late, Puddles," he giggled. Puddles turned to the camera, his stitched eyes