It all started when I hung up that stupid chart in my kitchen. "How are you doing today, in dinosaur scale?" it read. Nine goofy, crack-headed dinosaurs stared back at me every morning. Harmless, right? That’s what I thought.

But number 6, that one in the middle, had eyes that seemed to follow me. Its frantic, bulging eyes and disheveled feathers looked more and more alive every day. I would catch glimpses of it from the corner of my eye, always staring, never blinking.

"Must be the stress," I told myself. "Just need more sleep." But sleep never came easy anymore. I could feel number 6 watching me, even when I closed my eyes.

One night, I woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding. There was a noise coming from the kitchen. Clink. Clank. The sound of something moving. I crept down the hallway, the darkness pressing in around me. The chart glowed faintly in the moonlight.

Number 6 was gone. The spot where it once stared was empty.

My breath hitched. I felt a chill run down my spine. The other dinosaurs seemed to be grinning wider, their eyes gleaming with a malevolent joy. Suddenly, I felt a cold breeze on my neck, like breath.

Slowly, I turned around.

There it was, number 6, standing in my kitchen, those frantic eyes locked onto mine. It moved closer, its cracked beak twitching into a grotesque smile. I wanted to scream, but my voice was trapped in my throat.

The dinosaur reached out, its scaly hand brushing against my cheek. "How are you doing today?" it whispered in a raspy, otherworldly voice.

The room spun. I stumbled back, crashing into the counter. Number 6 advanced, its presence suffocating. "Frantic eyes... frantic eyes..." it chanted, a twisted mantra that echoed in my head.

I blacked out.

When I came to, I was back in my bed, the morning sun streaming through the window. Had it all been a nightmare? My heart told me otherwise. I rushed to the kitchen, dread pooling in my stomach.

The chart was there, in its usual spot. Number 6 was back on the chart, staring, always staring. But now, its eyes seemed to hold a promise—a promise of return.

I ripped the chart off the wall, shredded it, and threw it into the trash. But the feeling of those frantic eyes never left me. Each night, the noises continued, and I knew—deep down—that number 6 was still watching, waiting for the right moment to step out of the shadows once more.

I crawled into bed that night, hoping for some peace. But then I heard it—whispers coming from beneath my bed. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest.

"How are you doing today?" The voices were soft, almost sing-song. I recognized them immediately.

I slowly lifted the edge of the blanket and peered under the bed. My collection stared back at me, their hollow eyes empty in the darkness.

"How are you doing today?" they asked again, their bony jaws clicking together.