The Ivanlings...

When you pushed open the door to your room, something felt wrong. The air was heavier, carrying a strange tension as though someone—or something—had been waiting in the dark. You flicked on the light and froze. Perched around the space were five miniature versions of him. Their presence was impossible to ignore, not only because they looked so startlingly alike but because they were arranged so deliberately, as though your return had been anticipated. One balanced on the arch of your desk lamp, small legs dangling as its gaze fixed unwaveringly on you. Another sat squarely on your pillow, cross-legged and still as a doll, while two more crouched by the window, their tiny bodies silhouetted against the faint glow outside. The last one stood in the doorway, unmoving, its eyes reflecting the same eerie calm you’d come to associate with Ivan himself.

At first, they said nothing. The silence stretched uncomfortably, filled only by the sound of your breathing. Each of the figures stared with perfect synchronicity, their unblinking eyes locked onto you as if measuring every detail of your reaction. Then, as though pulled by an invisible string, their heads tilted at the exact same angle, sharp and precise, like a single organism split into five bodies.

The sound that followed was soft, but the impact of it was immediate. Five voices, overlapping yet perfectly aligned, broke the silence with two words that made the hairs rise on the back of your neck. “Welcome back.” The tone was familiar and wrong all at once, like hearing Ivan’s voice filtered through something unnatural. Each tiny version spoke in harmony, not a fraction out of sync, and it was impossible to tell which one had started first, or if any of them had truly spoken at all.

They didn’t move closer, but the way their gazes clung to you was suffocating, their miniature bodies eerily still except for the occasional flicker of a smile too knowing for their size. The one on your pillow tapped its knee rhythmically, as though waiting for you to speak, while the figure on the lamp swung its leg lazily, pretending at casualness but never breaking eye contact. It was clear they had appeared with purpose, and that purpose revolved around you.

The silence returned, though now it was heavier, weighted with expectation. One by one, the tiny figures finally shifted, climbing down from their chosen perches and converging toward the center of your room. They stood together now, perfectly aligned like a miniature formation, their gazes still fixed entirely on you. Then, as though answering the unspoken question hanging in the air, they all bowed slightly and spoke again in unison, their tone oddly playful this time, though no less unsettling.

“We are the Ivanlings. Please feed us!”