Okay, in order for my to tell this story I need to give you some backstory:So, when I was a kid, we would go to my grandpa’s house a lot. He was one of the few family members that lived in town, and since he was closer than some of my other relatives, we would visit him a lot more than others.
My grandpa’s always been a big hoarder. I mean, you can’t even walk through his garage it’s that full. And all the rooms are lined with boxes, stacks of paper, you get the picture.
But another thing he likes to hoard is toys. He has a ton of those TY toys from the 70’s that you’d get in your McDonald’s happy meal from when my dad and aunt were kids. And of course, he’d give us some of those for Christmas every year.
He’d line the top of his couch with these toys, to the point where you couldn’t even sit on it. And he had this big armoire with some pictures of us that were WAY too dated and other knick knacks he’d collected from his travels across the country.
And of course, at the top of his shelf, was a Furby.
I used to think it was kinda cute, with its big eyes and fluffy fur, but my parents would hardly let me touch it because they didn’t want it to turn on.
When I’d ask why, they’d just tell me because it was annoying and didn’t have an off switch.
That should’ve been my first red flag. A toy that talked and listened to you but didn’t turned off. Kinda creepy, right? But, of course, I was 7 and I didn’t really care.
So anyways, one day my parents were helping my grandpa make dinner and my siblings were in the other room. Meanwhile I, sat in the living room.
Now, grandpa’s TV doesn’t really work, you can only put VCR tapes in it because of how dated it was. And of course he lived alone after my grandma died, so he didn’t have anyone to tell him to get a new one. So I was super bored.
Instead of playing with the toys already on the couch, I decided that I wanted to be rebellious just like any 7-year-old does. Since my parents didn’t want me to play with the Furby, I thought that was the best thing to do.
I stood on the couch, reaching my arm up to the top shelf and grabbing the Furby. I felt like a little evil genius, playing with the Furby since my parents didn’t really want me to.
I played with it for a little bit, amazed at all the phrases it’d say. It was mostly gibberish, of course. Since when I look it up now it says they’d speak Furbish.
But some of the phrases WEREN’T gibberish. I only remember a few of the things it said to me that day, but one sounded like, “Kill” and I thought for sure once it said “Die” but I don’t know if that was just the Furbish sounding weird.
But there’s one phrase that I remember distinctly: “I know where you live,” at the time, I didn’t really think much of it, although that phrase has stayed in my mind even years later. It said “I know where you live,”. That’s not something a toy should say.
That was when my parents told me it was time for supper, and so I went into the kitchen.
—
When we came back a few weeks later, I looked up at the armoire and noticed that the Furby was no longer on the top shelf.
When I asked my grandpa where it went, he said he didn’t know.
I know that seems like a red flag to you guys, but my grandpa had very bad memory and forgot to do or that he’d done things a lot. Heck, sometimes he even forgot our names.
So my grandpa forgetting he’d done something wasn’t that big of a surprise. So I thought nothing of it. I was just sad the Furby wasn’t there.
—
But this story isn’t done yet. A few years after I played with the Furby, we moved states. We were now like 8 hours away from grandpa and some other relatives, but closer to some others now.
The first night we moved, the mover trucks hadn’t come yet, so the only thing I had was a few boxes of necessary things. You know, clothes, toiletries, etc. So we didn’t have toys or anything her yet.
I was 10 now, so I had started to realize how creepy that Furby had been, but hadn’t thought of it in years.
So when I heard a little Furby voice sing, “I’m back,” as I lay on the inflatable mattress on the floor, I shot wide awake.
I immediately turned on the light, looking in the empty room for where the noise came from. I looked for a solid hour until my mom came up into my room, upset that I was walking around at 11 at night.
—
I forgot about that day for a while, until we went back to my hometown just recently, actually. It has been 5 years.
And when we went to grandpa’s house and I glanced up at his armoire and saw the Furby sitting there, staring at me with those wide eyes, I almost had a heart attack.
—
This experience has haunted me for the past few months now, since it ended just recently. But the events in this story have taken place years apart.
I can’t explain why the Furby disappeared and came back, but before it returned I heard it talking in my new room?
I still live in that room, the one where I heard the Furby. And some other creepy things have happened but wouldn’t be long enough to put as this entry, so the Furby one seemed to fit this one.
Now, I despise Furbies and understand why my parents didn’t want me to play with them. I mean, they literally look like the spawn or Satan.
But this is no joke. I get goosebumps and my heart rate is super fast writing this right now, because it’s haunted me over the years.
I know what I heard, and I know what I saw. And I can’t explain it.
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