Chapter 235: Hoppy’s Silent Revenge on His Father’s New Family — Part 3.

Holly’s voice, once the pride of the capital, ripped from her throat in a jagged, splintering shriek.

"GET AWAY!"

Holly screamed, her hands flying up to shield her face from the rotting visage of her sister. But the timing could not have been more cruel. The crowd, caught in a fever pitch of adoration, didn’t hear a scream of terror.

The mass of people, driven by a desperate need to be close to the "holy child," surged toward the plinth. The sheer force of the moving bodies became an unruly. In the chaos of the push, the small, cloaked figure of the Hoppy wraith was simply swallowed by the sea of people.

One moment she was there, her dead eyes burning into Holly’s soul, and the next, she vanished into the shadows between legs and capes as if she had never existed at all.

Holly cried, but her voice was lost in the roar of the crowd’s praise.

"No! No, stop! You’re crushing me!"

The people weren’t listening anymore. They were grabbing at her dress, reaching out to touch her, their hands rough and insistent. Holly was pushed and shoved against the cold wood of the statue, the very fans who had worshipped her moments ago now hurting her in their blind greed for her attention.

Her silk dress was stepped on and torn; her hair, the copper locks she shared with the girl she had bullied, was yanked by overeager hands.

Back at the merchant’s manor, the mother paced the floor, her heels clicking sharply against the polished wood like the ticking of a countdown. She wasn’t holding her husband’s hand or bringing him water to soothe his shock. Instead, she was hunched over the ledger books spread across her vanity, her face twisted in a mask of cold fury.

"This is ridiculous! The shop has been closed for six hours. Do you have any idea what this does to our reputation? People are talking! What would my father say, huh!?"

She turned her venomous gaze toward the bed, where her husband still lay in his petrified trance. To her, he was simply being dramatic—a weak man failing his duty. She stood and marched toward him, her hands like claws as she grabbed his shoulders and began shaking him violently.

"Answer me! Is this because of her? Is this some pathetic display of guilt over that... that f*cking brat? I told you she was nothing! She was a mistake from a life you outgrew!"

The merchant’s eyes didn’t flicker toward her. He couldn’t. In his vision, he could still see only Hoppy. His wife screamed, leaning in so close that her face was mere inches from his as she hissed:

"I saved you! I gave you this house! I gave you ’perfect’ children! And you’re going to throw it all away for a memory? You chose this life! You chose us! Now get up and act like the man I married, or so help me—"

In the neighboring bedroom, the youngest son was far removed from the cold fury of his mother and the silent catatonia of his father. He sat on the plush rug, surrounded by expensive wooden knights and painted monsters, oblivious to the rot seeping through the walls.

He picked up a small, hand-carved dragon, making it fly through the air. Suddenly, the toy jerked in his hand. It felt heavy—unnatural.

"Huh?"

He let go, but the dragon didn’t fall. It hovered in the air, spinning slowly. Around him, the room began to vibrate with a low, dissonant hum. One by one, his toys began to rise. The wooden knights, the marble blocks, even the heavy rocking horse lifted off the ground as if gravity had simply forgotten them.

The boy watched, eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and creeping dread, as his entire collection swirled toward the center of the room. They rose higher and higher, clattering against the ceiling beams.

Then, he saw her.

Clinging to the ceiling like a predatory insect, her limbs bent at impossible, jagged angles, was a girl. Her orange hair hung down like tangled vines, and her skin was the grey, peeling mess of like a Zombie. She was perched there, her fingers dug deep into the expensive plaster, staring down at him with glowing golden eyes.

"Do you want to play... little brother?"

The boy’s face drained of color. He tried to scramble toward the door, but the toys suddenly slammed against the ceiling in a deafening thud.

The figure on the ceiling unhinged her jaw, her mouth stretching into that horrific, bottomless void. She let out a piercing, high pitched wail that shattered the windows of the room and shook the very foundation of the manor.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

The boy screamed, a sound of pure, unbridled terror that cut right through his mother’s shouting in the other room. He collapsed to the floor, shielding his head as the wooden toys began to rain down around him like jagged hailstones. High above, the specter of Hoppy let out a chilling, distorted giggle.

The mother’s shouting died instantly as the piercing shriek of her son tore through the manor. Her face, previously twisted in rage toward her husband, paled as maternal instinct or perhaps the fear of losing her "perfect" heir took over.

"My son!"

She burst into the room and stopped dead. The nursery was a scene of wreckage. Her son was huddled in the center of the rug, sobbing hysterically, his fine clothes soaked where he had lost control of his bladder in pure terror. Surrounding him were the remains of his expensive toys, shattered into jagged splinters as if they had been crushed by invisible hands.

"Oh, my sweet boy! What happened? What did you do?"

She gasped, rushing to his side. She pulled him against her, trying to ignore the dampness of his pants.

"It’s okay, it’s okay my dear... it’s just a nightmare. Mama’s here, Mama’s—"

BANG.

The heavy door slammed shut with such force that the frame cracked. Before the mother could scream, every window in the room followed suit, the shutters snapping closed and the heavy velvet curtains drawing themselves tight by an unseen hand.

The midday sun was cut off instantly.