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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ezekiel_h_graves on 2024-10-29 01:42:20+00:00.

About a month ago, my five-year-old son Luke became obsessed with an old teddy bear. It was falling apart—one eye missing, stuffing leaking out—but he refused to let it go. He called it “Mr. Bear,” though he never named it before. My wife and I decided to throw it away while Luke slept.

The next morning, he woke up frantic. “Where’s Mr. Bear?” he screamed, terrified. It wasn’t just a normal tantrum. Luke was pale, shaking, like something terrible had happened. He kept saying, “I have to find him. He’ll be mad at me.”

That night, things escalated. Luke didn’t sleep. He started whispering to someone, pointing at the closet, saying, “He’s here.” I found him wide-eyed and sweating, clutching the bear’s old ribbon. I know I threw that bear away, but the ribbon was back, dirty and frayed, wrapped tight around his little hands.

I tried to take it, but Luke screamed, “Don’t! He’s watching!”

Later that night, I woke up to scratching. I thought it was the wind, but the sound was coming from under my bed. I leaned over, heart pounding, and saw a hand—long, pale fingers with jagged nails—reaching out from beneath the bed. Before I could move, it grabbed my ankle, ice-cold and sharp. I’ve never felt anything so cold in my life - at least not anything living.

I yanked free, pulling Luke into my arms. Clutching each other’s hands, we ran for the door, but as we reached it, something slammed against it from the other side—hard. The door rattled, deep breathing echoed through the room, and claws scraped against the wood. There was something so intense about the scratching, like whatever was doing it would stop at nothing until it broke through.

I turned to Luke, but he wasn’t scared anymore. His face was blank. “You shouldn’t have thrown him away,” he whispered.

The scratching stopped.

I finally opened the door, pulling Luke out of the room. We stayed in the living room that night. I didn’t sleep. The house was quiet, but I could still feel it—him—watching.

The next morning, Luke was different. He just sat in his room, holding the bear’s ribbon. His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’ll bring him back.”

And then I noticed it—dark, wet dirt, scattered across the floor, leading from the bed to the closet.

Luke looked up at me, his eyes dark, hollow. He squeezed the ribbon tightly in his fist.

“You can’t stop him,” he said, his voice cold. “Mr. Bear’s coming for you.”

I’m writing this from my study. The house is quiet now—too quiet. Luke hasn’t made a sound in hours, and I’m too scared to check on him. The ribbon, dirt, the hand… I can still feel the cold grip on my ankle. I’ve locked myself in here, hoping it’ll be enough, but deep down, I know it won’t be. The scratching has started again, faint at first, but it’s growing louder. I hear it coming from under the door, and I know what’s next. There’s no escape. I threw him away, and now he’s coming for me.