It was the summer of 2003, and I was house-sitting the Bluebell Inn, a faded Victorian B&B on the edge of Lost Creek, Vermont. The inn had been closed for years, but the owner—a woman named Mrs. Ellison—asked me to stay there, just to keep an eye on things. Every night, I found a fresh crayon drawing on the floor of the child's bedroom, left by no one I could see. A stick figure of a child holding hands with a taller, faceless figure. The child's face was always the same—a wide, desperate smile, but the eyes were two black circles, like holes. The taller figure grew closer each night, its arm wrapping tighter around the child. I searched the attic, the basement, the secret rooms behind the walls—but the only thing I found was a locked trunk in the basement, filled with drawings, all of them the same. And in the last one, the child was alone, reaching out toward a white space that was once the taller figure. I never saw the child. But on my last night, I woke to find a drawing on my pillow—a crayon scribble of a single eye, watching from the dark. I left Vermont the next morning. I still dream about that eye. This episode of Imaginary is a lonely, quiet horror about the things left behind, about the children who still wait, and about the door you should never open.

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