Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction contains dark themes, psychological horror, that may be triggering or unsettling to some readers. Reader discretion is advised. All characters and events depicted are purely fictional any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Enjoy 😊

I have a very... special friend. Ever since he started going on dates, he would come back with some sort of souvenir.

At first, it was sweet. He’d bring back a flower, a pendant, a salt shaker, chopsticks, little trinkets. And whenever I asked, "Why do you always take a souvenir from every date you've been on?" he’d always reply the same way:

"It's a reminder of the good time I had. A little reminder of how unique and special each date was."

I thought it was cute, endearing, even. He kept all the souvenirs in a small shoebox under his bed. I used to love watching him place a new trinket inside while he told me stories about the night.

But over time... it started to feel a little off.

One night, he came back from a date reeking of iron and something else I couldn’t quite place. When I asked how it went, he scurried off to his room with a quick, “Good.”

I let it go, maybe it had just been an intense night. But as time went on, he grew more secretive. He started hiding the box. He stopped telling stories.

I didn’t think much of it back then.

Looking back, I should’ve realized something was wrong.

The night I found out what he was really up to... I remember it like it was yesterday. It was late, and I was looking for my phone charger. Figuring he might’ve borrowed it, roommates and all, I stepped into his room.

The curtains were shut, casting a strange, heavy atmosphere across the room. His bed was neatly made, too neat, like no one had touched the sheets.

I poked around, searching for my charger, until I came across the box. It was hidden beneath some clothes on the top shelf of his closet. I tried to resist the urge to look inside, but curiosity got the best of me.

I pulled the box down and placed it on his desk. It was heavier than I remembered, and it smelled. A rancid, sour stench like rotting food... and something else I still can’t name.

I opened the box.

Instant regret.

Inside were not just random souvenirs anymore. There was a lock of hair. A finger with a ring. An eye. A hand.

I gagged, pinching my nose shut, and slammed the lid closed.

But as I turned to put it back, he was there.

Standing in the doorway.

His eyes locked on me.

He was tall, and the way the shadows clung to his face made him look inhuman. His grin ,twisted and wide, told me everything.

I knew, then, I was going to be his next kill.

That was a few months ago.

But I didn’t die.

Instead, he kept me. Like one of his souvenirs.

He locked me in a basement beneath our house, windowless, silent, damp. I was no longer his friend. I was his keepsake. His favorite reminder.

He would come down at night, always humming. Always smiling. He talked to me like we were still friends, told me about his new dates, what he brought back from them, what they screamed before they stopped moving.

He said I made him feel “grounded.” Said I was different. Said I was worth preserving.

I lost count of the days. Of the nights. Of how many times I begged.

Then, one stormy night, the door to the basement creaked open... and he didn’t come in. I waited, heart pounding, until I realized: he had forgotten to lock it.

Now I’m running, bleeding, bruised, barefoot through the woods. The cold air bites into my cuts, branches whip my skin, but I don’t stop.

Because I know he’s out there. Hunting me.

Because I know the kind of man who collects souvenirs...

never lets his favorite one go.