The alarm wasn't supposed to go off yet. Little Timmy had set it for 7 AM, but the shrill beeping echoed through his bedroom at a quarter to six, jolting him out of a deep sleep. He sat up in his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his heart racing. He squinted through the darkness, trying to discern if the shadows dancing on his walls were figments of his imagination or something more sinister. The cold, clammy sweat that had formed on his forehead grew colder as the beeping grew louder. With trembling hands, Timmy reached over to his bedside table, his fingers finally landing on the alarm clock. He fumbled with the buttons, trying to silence the noise, but his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. The digital display read 5:45 AM. As the last piercing note faded away, an eerie silence filled the room. Timmy took a deep, shaky breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had never been so grateful for the comforting warmth of his bedroom, despite the creaks and groans of the old house that had always given him the creeps at night. He decided to use the extra time to start the day early, tiptoeing out of his room and down the hallway to the bathroom. The flickering lights cast ghastly shadows on the peeling wallpaper, making him feel as though he were navigating through a haunted maze. As he brushed his teeth, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. Timmy's mother, a night-shift nurse, had always told him that lack of sleep could play tricks on the mind. He dismissed his fears as a simple case of his imagination running wild and returned to his room to get dressed. His favorite T-shirt and a pair of jeans laid neatly folded on his chair, but something was off. The fabric looked...wrong. The T-shirt was too bright, almost neon, and the jeans had an odd, plasticky sheen to them. He shrugged it off and got dressed anyway, telling himself it was just the poor lighting. As he descended the stairs, the house remained eerily quiet. Usually, he could hear the comforting sounds of his mother bustling around the kitchen, but today, it was as still as a tomb. The digital clock in the living room blinked the same time as his alarm clock – 5:45 AM. Something was definitely not right. He peeked into the kitchen, expecting to find his mother making breakfast, but she wasn't there. Instead, the room was empty and cold, the refrigerator humming a solitary tune in the silence. He shivered and went to the pantry to grab a bowl of cereal. The shelves were bare except for a single, dusty box of cereal with a brand he had never seen before. The cartoon character on the front stared at him with unblinking eyes that seemed to follow his every movement. Timmy's unease grew with each passing second. He decided to check his mother's bedroom. As he approached her door, he heard a faint, muffled sound, like a distant whisper. He paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. The whisper grew louder, clearer. It was his mother's voice, but it was strained, as though she were in pain. He threw open the door to find the room in complete disarray. The bed was unmade, and his mother's clothes were scattered on the floor. But she was nowhere to be seen. Panic set in. He called out for her, his voice cracking with fear. "Mom?" The whisper grew into a cacophony of voices, surrounding him, echoing through the house. The floorboards beneath his feet creaked, and the walls seemed to close in. He backed away from the door, his eyes darting around the hallway. The whispers grew into a chant, a chant that grew louder and more insistent. "Timmy...Timmy...Timmy..." He sprinted down the stairs and into the living room, searching for a phone to call for help. The phone line was dead. The TV, which had been off, flickered to life, displaying static. The screen grew dark, and the whispers grew louder, more sinister. "Timmy...Timmy...Timmy..." The furniture began to shift and twist before his very eyes, the couch stretching and contorting into a monstrous shape. Timmy stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet. He looked up just in time to see the lamp beside him stretch its wire neck and snap it's bulbous head towards him, the light flickering like an angry eye. He screamed and dashed towards the front door, his heart hammering in his chest. The doorknob was ice-cold, and when he turned it, the door would not budge. He threw his weight against it, feeling the wood bend slightly, but it remained firmly shut. The whispers grew louder, filling his head, becoming a deafening roar. "Timmy...Timmy...Timmy..." In desperation, he turned to the window, only to find it boarded shut from the outside. A chill ran down his spine. The room grew colder, the air thick with the scent of decay. He backed away, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The TV screen flickered again, and the static parted to reveal a distorted image of his mother, her face a twisted mask of despair. Her eyes pleaded with him, her mouth moving in a silent scream. He watched in horror as she began to fade away, her hand reaching out to him, desperately trying to connect. The whispers grew to a fever pitch, and Timmy felt himself being pushed backward by an unseen force. His back slammed against the wall, and he slid down to the floor, his eyes wide with terror. The room grew darker, the whispers louder, until they were all he could hear. And then, as suddenly as it had all begun, everything went quiet. The house was still once more. Timmy's heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he realized he had been holding his breath. He cautiously climbed to his feet, the cold sweat now soaking his shirt. He had to get out of here. He stumbled into the kitchen and saw the back door, a sliver of hope in the darkness. He flung it open and sprinted into the backyard. The cool, damp grass felt like heaven under his bare feet, and he gulped in lungfuls of fresh air, trying to clear his head. The whispers grew faint, but they didn't go away. They followed him, a relentless, taunting presence that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. He had to find his mother. He had to find a way to make this stop. The neighbor's house was only a few steps away. He pounded on their door, tears streaming down his cheeks. The door swung open to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, their expressions a mix of surprise and concern. "Timmy, what's wrong?" Mrs. Jenkins asked, her voice filled with genuine concern. "It's my mom," he sobbed, "Something's happened to her. Something's in the house!" Mr. Jenkins looked over his shoulder, his expression hardening. "Let's go check it out." They rushed back to Timmy's house, the whispers growing louder with every step. When they reached the front door, Mr. Jenkins tried the knob. It opened easily, and the three of them stepped inside. The house looked exactly as it had before Timmy's terrifying ordeal – warm, welcoming, and utterly normal. His mother was in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. She looked up, surprised to see Timmy and the Jenkins standing there, wide-eyed and out of breath. "Timmy, why on earth are you outside without shoes?" she asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice. Timmy looked around, bewildered. "But...but the whispers..." Mrs. Jenkins knelt down and took his hand, her eyes filled with understanding. "It's alright, sweetheart. Sometimes our minds play tricks on us when we're scared or tired. Why don't you go get some more sleep?" Timmy nodded, feeling foolish. He climbed the stairs and crawled back into bed, his heart still racing. As he lay there, the whispers grew faint once more, until they were nothing but a distant memory. But as he finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, he heard them, softer now, a gentle lullaby that sent shivers down his spine. "Timmy...Timmy...Timmy..."

Timmy

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The alarm wasn't supposed to go off yet.

QueenoftheETs

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Timmy

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