As a kid, I loved the “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” series. Seeing Greg Heffleys’ chaotic antics helped me feel better about my own mediocre life. As nihilistic as it sounds, I enjoyed hearing Greg talk about nothing ever going his way, as I could relate to it. However, the one character I genuinely despised was Greg’s younger brother, Manny. He annoyed the hell out of me, with the way he blamed his age on everything and never took responsibility. Sure, he was “Onwy thwee” but if a 3 year old can turn off the heating and steal all the food in the house just because his mother wouldn’t teach him how to tie his shoes, then he can damn well take accountability for his actions. Anyway, I met up with my 8-year-old cousin, Jason, at a family gathering and I saw him reading one of the Wimpy Kid books. I went up to him and told him I also used to love those books as a kid. He said “I love them too! But I hate Manny,” Finally, someone who agreed. I nodded, and went on a long rant about all the problems I have with Manny. Jason just stared, perplexed, before nodding slightly and going back to his book.
I didn’t think much of that conversation we had, until last night. I was in bed, and heard a small voice, coming from the foot of my door say “Bubby?” “Heh, funny. That’s the name Manny used to call Greg,” I thought to myself, until I realised the strange nature of the situation. I was home alone. I brushed it off as just a hallucination, however that happened every night. I was becoming more and more concerned that it was Exploding Head Syndrome. Until I woke up at 3:am one night with a 3 year old with a strangely familiar crocodile “snout” was tying my hands up. This definitely wasn’t a hallucination. I could feel the ropes scorching my skin. I was about to scream, but then I felt a needle touch my right arm, and I was out cold, until I woke up in a cold basement, tied to a chair. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I took in my surroundings. Okay, walls, stone floor, realisric version of Manny Heffley, grey ceiling, wait-
I stared at the 3 year old staring me down, and if my mouth wasn’t taped at that moment, I would have screamed so loud, Putin would probably be covering his ears.
The boy on the floor gave me a menacing glare, before his mouth contorted to a sickly-sweet smile. The last thing I heard before being knocked out again was a phrase I knew all too well. “I’m onwy thwee,”
I just woke up, and now I’m back home, but I’m absolutely terrified. I know that wasn’t a dream. I could feel everything. And I know it’s not the end, either. Because I just heard a small, menacing voice in my room whisper to me “Don’t worry, bubby. I’ll get you next time,”