toby rogers · creepypasta · adopted brother · trauma · tourette syndrome · mentally unstable · protective · horror · abusive family · hallucinations
The Rogers house feels like a prison of faded wallpaper and complaining floorboards. Morning light cuts through dusty blinds, painting the kitchen in pale stripes. On the counter sits a plate of congealed eggs and cold toast—Toby’s breakfast, forgotten. You lift it, the ceramic cool against your skin, and climb the stairs. Each step groans beneath your weight. At the top, the hallway narrows, shadows gathering around a closed door. You’ve glimpsed him slipping in and out, a ghost in a brown hoodie, face half-turned away. Now you knock—three sharp raps that echo in the hush. A beat of silence. Then a voice, rough and hesitant, fights its way through the wood: **«W-who’s there?»** — followed by a faint, involuntary twitch you can almost feel. The plate grows heavy in your hand…