There was something deeply unsettling about the Garfield plush Jon found at the flea market.
It was a rainy Saturday morning when Jon Arbuckle stumbled across the small, unmarked stall tucked into the farthest corner of the vendor lot. The seller, a hunched old man with leathery skin and clouded eyes, didn’t say a word—he just pointed to the old, dusty Garfield plush resting on a rotting table.
It looked like the classic cartoon cat: bright orange with black stripes, wide eyes, and that familiar lazy grin. But something about it felt…off. Its fur was matted, its smile slightly too wide, and its eyes? They weren’t embroidered like most plush toys. They were glass. Realistic. Watching.
“How much?” Jon asked.
The old man tilted his head and croaked, “Take it. He’s waiting for you.”
A chill ran through Jon, but he was a collector. Oddities, especially rare cartoon memorabilia, were his thing. He picked up the plush and walked away. The rain seemed to fall harder after that.
Back home, Jon placed the Garfield plush on a shelf in his living room, next to a Scooby-Doo bobblehead and a vintage Snoopy clock. At first, nothing unusual happened. But that night, strange things began.
It started with whispers.
Jon was jolted awake at 3:14 a.m. by the sound of someone saying his name. Soft, drawn-out. Almost purring. He stumbled out of bed, thinking it was his neighbor playing a prank. But the apartment was silent. Outside, the street was empty.
The next morning, he found the Garfield plush sitting on the kitchen counter.
He frowned. “Did I move you?”
Jon was sure he hadn’t.
He returned the plush to the shelf.
The next night, it was in the hallway.
Then, it was at the foot of his bed.
He started having dreams. In them, Garfield wasn’t a lazy, lasagna-loving cat. He was something else. Something hungry. The dreams were vivid: Jon would be trapped in his apartment, and Garfield would stalk him, his glass eyes glowing red, his smile splitting his face wide open.
The dreams always ended the same way—Jon screaming as Garfield lunged at him, maw wide, filled with rows of sharp, human-like teeth.
One night, after another nightmare, Jon awoke to find claw marks on his bedroom door. Deep. Fresh.
His hands shook as he checked the locks. Everything was secure. But there they were—gouges in the wood. Not scratches from a key. Not marks from a knife. Claws.
The plush sat on the living room floor, its head tilted.
That night, Jon tried to get rid of it.
He took it outside and threw it into a dumpster down the block. He even watched a garbage truck carry it away the next morning. He felt relief for the first time in days.
But that night, it was back. On his bed.
Waiting.
Jon screamed. He ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and stabbed the plush repeatedly. Stuffing flew. But when he stopped, the eyes were still intact. Watching. Smiling.
Desperate, Jon turned to the internet. Forums. Reddit. Paranormal threads. He posted photos. Asked questions.
A user named “HeWhoKnows” replied: “You brought him home. The Market is a trap. He feeds on fear and routine. You let him in. Now he’s hungry.”
Jon’s phone died.
When it turned back on, his wallpaper had changed—to a photo of Garfield. Not the plush, but a grotesque version of the cartoon. Blood dripping from his mouth. Words scrawled in red beneath it: “I hate Mondays, Jon.”
Over the next few days, Jon’s apartment became a prison. Every time he tried to leave, he’d find himself right back inside. Windows showed endless night. His clocks stopped. The only thing that worked was the old Snoopy clock, ticking louder and louder.
Garfield was always nearby now. Sometimes in the mirror. Sometimes under the couch. Sometimes right behind him.
Jon stopped eating. He stopped sleeping. He started to forget things. His name. His job. Reality began to bend.
One morning—or night, it was hard to tell—Jon opened the door to his bathroom and found a corridor instead. Long. Endless. Lit with a flickering orange glow.
And at the far end, Garfield stood.
Massive. His smile stretched from ear to ear. His limbs too long. His fur matted with something dark. His glass eyes now glowing.
Jon walked toward him. He didn’t know why. Maybe he thought it would end this way. Maybe it had always been meant to.
The police found Jon’s apartment empty two weeks later. The neighbors had reported the smell.
Inside, the walls were covered in drawings. Garfield’s face, in hundreds of forms. Some happy. Some monstrous. All terrifying.
There was no sign of Jon.
Except for the plush, sitting on the couch.
Smiling.
Waiting.
They say the Garfield plush appears at different flea markets now. Always at a forgotten stall. Always when it rains.
And if you take him home…
He’ll wait.
Until you’re ready to feed him.
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