a boy kidnapped by. a man who tickles boys story f
a boy kidnapped by. a man who tickles boys story from his pov
The last thing I remember is the smell of cotton candy and the dizzying height of the Ferris wheel. Then, darkness. I woke up strapped to a chair, the rough burlap scratching my skin. Panic clawed at my throat, but the room was silent, save for a rhythmic ticking that seemed to pulse in my ears.
It was small, sparsely furnished. A single bare bulb swung above me, casting long, dancing shadows. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with… toys? Not just any toys, but meticulously arranged collections: tiny, antique cars, porcelain dolls with unnervingly vacant eyes, and a disturbing number of brightly colored, fluffy tickle sticks. My stomach lurched.
Then he came. Tall, thin, with eyes that held a chilling mixture of amusement and something else… something predatory. He wore a pristine white coat, the kind doctors wear, and his smile was too wide, too fixed.
“Hello, Thomas,” he said, his voice a low, smooth purr. “I’ve been expecting you.”
He didn’t touch me, not yet. He spent hours talking, rambling about his “work,” about the “scientific study of laughter,” about how different tickles elicited different responses. He showed me notebooks filled with meticulous drawings, charts and graphs analyzing… tickling. It was insane, horrifying, and strangely methodical.
The mystery wasn’t just my kidnapping; it was him. Who was this man? Why me? He called me Thomas, but my name is Alex. He seemed obsessed with my reaction to his… “experiments,” which were always just a hair’s breadth away from genuine pain. He’d tickle me with a feather, then a slightly stiffer brush, his gaze never leaving my face, searching for some hidden data.
Days bled into nights. He meticulously documented my reactions, my heart rate, my laughter, even my tears. He studied me like a specimen. But amidst the horror, I noticed inconsistencies. Small, almost invisible details.
First, the toys. They weren’t just arranged; they were coded. The colors, the positioning, the specific toys on each shelf – it was a sequence, a pattern. I spent hours, half-delirious with fear, trying to decipher it.
Then, the ticking. It wasn’t just a clock; it was Morse code. I tapped out the sequence on the chair’s armrest, translating it painstakingly. It was a series of numbers and letters. A location? A name?
The breakthrough came during a “session.” He’d used a new tickle stick – a long, thin one with a tiny camera embedded in the end. He explained he was testing the effect of “visual stimulation” – but the camera, the way he positioned it, was subtly different. It was pointed towards the wall, not at me.
The camera’s lens reflected a section of the wall I’d never really noticed, obscured in shadow. A small, almost invisible scratch on the paint. Underneath, a faintly etched number.
Combining this number with the Morse code, I had an address. It was a local university research facility. The “doctor” was Dr. Alistair Finch, a respected researcher in… child psychology. His “studies” were funded by a secretive organization, and the pattern on the shelves – it was a series of coded research notes.
The next time he left the room, I managed to loosen the straps. My escape was terrifying, my only clue the address I’d painstakingly deciphered. The police were incredulous at first, but when they raided the university, they found the evidence I’d painstakingly gathered. Dr. Finch was arrested, along with several others involved in his horrific “experiments.”
They never fully understood the depths of his obsession. They called it a psychological disorder. But I knew better. He wasn’t just studying laughter; he was hunting for something more sinister, something hidden behind the veil of his “scientific” facade, and I, Alex, had been his latest prey. The mystery was solved, but the fear would linger, a constant reminder of the terrifying game he played, and the chilling puzzle he almost succeeded in solving.
